ACT IV
Scene.—Same as Acts I. and II.
Same day as Act III.
[Upon the curtain rising, Miss Woodward is discovered at the desk. A luncheon gong is immediately heard. Miss Woodward looks up and listens for a moment, then shrugs her shoulders and resumes her work. She opens a drawer of the desk, glances at its contents, and then writes.]
Miss Woodward.
[Writing.] Drawer four. Reviews favourable of “Harvey Masterton.” In top corner, tied in bundle, reviews unfavourable. [She closes and locks that drawer and unlocks another, into which she looks. Writing.] Drawer five. Proof sheets of new novel corrected to page 180. At back, accounts with publishers. [The luncheon gong is struck again. She opens another drawer, looks into it for a moment, turns over its contents, then shrugs her shoulders and writes.] A variety of photographs of Mrs. Parbury and two packets of letters marked “Private.” How touching! [She closes the drawer with a bang, and opens another.]
Enter Evans, L.
Evans.
[C.] Excuse me, Miss, but have you heard the luncheon gong?
Miss Woodward.
Yes, thank you.
Evans.
It’s been struck twice, specially for you, Miss.
Miss Woodward.
Who told you to strike it the second time?
Evans.
Mr. Parbury, Miss.
Miss Woodward.
And who sent you now?
Evans.
Mrs. Parbury asked me to tell you they’re at lunch. They’re the only words that’s been spoken since they sat down. It’s rather trying to the nerves, Miss, waiting on people that only open their mouths to eat.
Miss Woodward.
You will please say that I don’t wish any lunch.
Evans.
Yes, Miss.
Miss Woodward.
Has Emma packed my things?
Evans.
She’s packing them now, Miss.
Miss Woodward.
[Glancing at an A.B.C. which is on the desk.] Will you please order a cab for me at—let me see—[consulting the book]—four-twenty—say at half-past three.
Evans.
Yes, Miss. Excuse me, Miss, but we’re all very sorry you’re going—particularly cook. Cook’s very strong in her attachments.
Miss Woodward.
[Looking into a drawer.] It’s very kind of cook.
Evans.
Cook’s words was, “This’ll be a dull ’ouse when the little sunbeam’s gone.”
Miss Woodward.
That will do, Evans.
Evans.
Excuse me, Miss, it was meant kindly. We was all on your side in this embroglo.
[A pause. Miss Woodward is obstinately silent, and goes on working.
Evans.
Can’t I get you something, Miss?
Miss Woodward.
Yes; ask cook to kindly make me a sandwich, and I’ll have a glass of beer.
Evans.
Sandwich of mutton or ’am, Miss?
Miss Woodward.
Ham, please. [Exit Evans, L.] It’s sure to be cold mutton to-night. [She writes.] Old manuscripts. [Closes drawer.] There, that’s all in order for him. [Rises.] I know there are some books of mine here. I may as well have them. [Goes towards book-shelves, but stops when she comes to the occasional table on which is the photo of Mr. Parbury. She stretches out her hand and takes the photograph gingerly. Then she looks round to see if she is observed, with to herself an affectation of fear.] Poor thing! Was it outraged by a kiss! What a shame! But it’s all right now! [Puts it back with care.] No one shall hurt it. It’s perfectly safe—perfectly safe. [She goes to book-shelf.] Keats—mine. [Takes a volume.] Matthew Arnold—mine.
Enter Evans with sandwiches, beer, &c., on a small tray, which he places on the desk.
Jane Eyre—mine. I think that’s all. [Brings the books down and places them on desk.] Thank you, Evans.
[She sits.
Evans.
Cook thought you would care for that piece of cake, Miss.
Miss Woodward.
I would. Thank cook for me.
Evans.
Yes, Miss. [He goes to door.] There’s still a hominous silence at the lunch-table, Miss.
Miss Woodward.
[Taking a sandwich.] That’s all right, Evans. [Exit Evans, L.] After all, one must have food. [She takes a respectable bite out of a sandwich.] And who could over-estimate the consolations of literature? [Opens a book and reads.]
“Is the calm thine of stoic souls who weigh
Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore,
But in disdainful silence turn away,
Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more?”
Yes, Mr. Arnold, it is.
[Takes another bite of a sandwich.
Enter Mrs. Parbury, L.
Mrs. Parbury.
Why won’t you come to lunch, Miss Woodward. But oh, I see you’re having something here.
Miss Woodward.
[For a moment slightly confused.] I—I—[Drinks some of her beer]—I have a railway journey before me.
[She rises.
Mrs. Parbury.
All the more reason you should come and lunch properly.
Miss Woodward.
You are very kind, but I am in no mood for merriment.
Mrs. Parbury.
Merriment!
Miss Woodward.
Aren’t you all merry? I’m so sorry. I thought it would be all right now that I’m going away.
Mrs. Parbury.
I’m afraid that won’t make any difference. You speak as though you thought you had a grievance against me.
Miss Woodward.
Oh no; I suppose it’s the other way about.
Mrs. Parbury.
Perhaps it ought to be, but somehow I don’t feel it acutely. I feel only a dull pain. It’s a terrible thing, Miss Woodward, for a young married woman to suddenly realise that her happiness is gone. I feel that I have aged many years in the last few hours.
Miss Woodward.
So do I. I’m sadder, but healthier.
[Finishes the beer.
Mrs. Parbury.
It’s so much worse for me.
Miss Woodward.
Oh, of course our own troubles are always the worst. That is what has been called “The vanity of grief.”
Mrs. Parbury.
Well, Miss Woodward, I’ll say good-bye. I bear you no ill-will now—really I don’t; and I shall always be glad to hear that you are doing well, although naturally under the circumstances I can hold out no hopes of your coming back here.
Miss Woodward.
[In amazement.] You, Mrs. Parbury, hold out hopes of my returning here! Do you think there is enough money in the Bank of England to induce me to do that?
Mrs. Parbury.
I didn’t mean it unkindly. I was only trying to say a nice womanly thing, and to show you that I didn’t blame you so much for falling in love with my husband.
Miss Woodward.
I never did.
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh, Miss Woodward, you know I saw you here. [Pointing to Parbury’s photograph.] It was the greatest shock of my life.
Miss Woodward.
You mean I kissed his photograph?
Mrs. Parbury.
You know you did.
Miss Woodward.
[With a little laugh.] I suppose I did.
Mrs. Parbury.
Then how can you say——
Miss Woodward.
[Gravely.] It was a motherly kiss.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Turning away.] It seems impossible to talk with you. I used to think you a serious-minded person.
Miss Woodward.
Please don’t go, Mrs. Parbury, I’m quite serious. I’d like to explain. I think I owe it to you.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Turning.] Well?
Miss Woodward.
You will let me be quite frank?
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh, I shall like it.
Mrs. Parbury.
I’ll take the risk. [Comes down L., sits on sofa.] Go on, please.
Miss Woodward.
The interest which I began to take in Mr. Parbury sprang in a way from what has been called the maternal instinct.
Mrs. Parbury.
If you go through the world exercising your maternal instinct on other women’s husbands, Miss Woodward, you’ll end badly.
Miss Woodward.
I don’t propose doing so. I’m going home to try it on my sisters.
Mrs. Parbury.
If you had known anything of life, you would have seen that I had sufficient of the maternal instinct for the needs of my husband.
Miss Woodward.
I’m very, very sorry; please don’t be angry, but I didn’t think it found the right expression. It was very impudent of me, I know.
Mrs. Parbury.
Very.
Miss Woodward.
It seemed to me that you smoothed his hair when he’d rather it was rough, and roughed it when he’d rather it was smooth. [Demurely.] I think that expresses what I mean. I have a beastly sly way of noticing everything, and I began to feel sorry for Mr. Parbury. And being quite as egotistical as most girls, I began to think I should have made him a better wife than you.
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh.
[Rises.
Miss Woodward.
Perhaps in the remotest corner of my heart I think so still.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Indignant.] Well?
Miss Woodward.
But I never loved him—never in the least degree.
[Mrs. Parbury, during the foregoing, has listened with anger gathering in her face, but at the end, after an apparent momentary struggle with herself, she bursts into laughter.
Miss Woodward.
I’m glad you’re not angry.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Still laughing.] It’s impossible to be angry. And so because you thought his wife bored him, you gave his photograph a nice motherly kiss. That was very sweet of you, I’m sure.
Miss Woodward.
It was well meant, Mrs. Parbury; and you must always remember that I didn’t know you were looking.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Laughing, sits on sofa.] Why do you make me laugh when you must know that my heart is breaking—that I have lost my happiness for ever. [Pause. She begins to laugh again. Rises.] And I thought you a designing hussy, when you are only a very quaint and harmless girl.
[Laughs.
Enter Gunning, L.; keeps the door open.
Gunning.
I’m afraid I’m in the way.
Mrs. Parbury.
Not at all. We have said all we had to say to each other. Oh, how that girl has made me laugh!
[Exit Mrs. Parbury, L., laughing. Gunning shuts the door.
Miss Woodward.
Good-bye, Mr. Gunning.
[Gathering her books together.
Gunning.
I want a little talk with you.
Miss Woodward.
I’m sorry I can’t give you the time,
Gunning.
Oh yes, you will, Miss Woodward.
Miss Woodward.
Indeed? I admit my position is a lowly one, but that doesn’t lessen your presumption.
[Goes towards the door.
Gunning.
[With conviction.] You won’t go.
Miss Woodward.
But I will.
Gunning.
My dear Miss Woodward, believe me, you will not.
Miss Woodward.
You don’t propose using force, I suppose?
Gunning.
No; I think you would like me to, but unfortunately this is not our house, and one must observe the convenances.
Miss Woodward.
[Going to door, L.] Good-bye, Mr. Gunning.
Gunning.
Moral force will detain you.
Miss Woodward.
What moral force, pray?
[Turning.
Gunning.
Curiosity. You know you are dying to know what I have to say.
Miss Woodward.
Indeed I am not.
Gunning.
Oh yes, you are. And further, a certain womanly graciousness will prevent your going. You are saying to yourself, “Mr. Gunning has evinced a genuine interest in me. It would be cattish of me to refuse him a few minutes’ talk.”
Miss Woodward.
[Slowly comes to sofa and puts her books down.] I certainly don’t wish to be cattish.
Gunning.
Of course not.
Miss Woodward.
[Sits on sofa.] And anyway I want to eat my piece of cake. Will you pass it, please? [He passes the plate.] Thank you. I hope you won’t mind my eating.
Gunning.
Not at all. I like it.
Miss Woodward.
Not that I fear it would make any difference if you did.
Gunning.
No, certainly not. Go on being natural, please. [Pause. He watches her nibbling the cake.] Shall I ring for a fresh piece?
Miss Woodward.
No, thank you. I’m used to this piece now. [She glances up at him.] You needn’t be disconcerted, Mr. Gunning.
Gunning.
I’m not a bit.
Miss Woodward.
You look it a little.
Gunning.
Do I?
Miss Woodward.
And you know you didn’t detain me here to watch me eating cake.
Gunning.
No, although you do it very nicely. I want to ask you what you think of me.
[Leaning on back of chair, R.C.
Miss Woodward.
I haven’t thought of you.
Gunning.
Well, I’d like you to begin.
Miss Woodward.
I’m afraid I haven’t time now.
Gunning.
It might be to your interest, though I don’t say positively that it would be.
Miss Woodward.
Explain.
[Turns to him.
Gunning.
I think I ought first to tell you something about myself.
Miss Woodward.
[In mock alarm.] Not the story of your life, surely. My cab will be here soon.
Gunning.
You told me yours last night?
Miss Woodward.
You asked me to. I haven’t asked you.
Gunning.
You needn’t reproach me for taking an interest in you.
Miss Woodward.
I don’t; but you make such a fuss about it, as if it were a sort of miracle.
Gunning.
[Crossly takes plate from her lap and cake from her hand; puts them on table, R.] Oh well, I suppose I oughtn’t to detain you, Miss Woodward. You are evidently anxious to get back to your twelve sisters and the hat and frock you told me about.
Miss Woodward.
[Rises.] You needn’t throw the family poverty in my face, although it serves me right for giving my confidence to a comparative stranger.
Gunning.
Miss Woodward, I humbly beg your pardon.
Miss Woodward.
Although the home may be grubby, I daresay we are as happy as you. We believe in things, anyway—you don’t.
Gunning.
Don’t judge me by a hasty remark. Besides, I had an alternative to suggest.
Miss Woodward.
You? You don’t want a secretary, do you?
Gunning.
I—I wanted to tell you in a different way, but you won’t let me. I want you as my wife.
Miss Woodward.
Your wife, Mr. Gunning?
Gunning.
It may appear sudden and cold-blooded—but your cab is coming.
Miss Woodward.
You’ve taken my breath away. How exciting it is when it does come. I really don’t know what to say. I know there is a usual thing. It isn’t “To what am I indebted for this honour,” is it?
Gunning.
I don’t know. I’ve never asked a girl before.
Miss Woodward.
We don’t know each other in the least.
Gunning.
That’s where we would start with a big advantage. We’d have all the pleasure of finding each other out. Anyway, you are not displeased.
Miss Woodward.
Oh no; either way I score. If I say yes, I suppose I’ll make a good match.
Gunning.
Pretty good.
Miss Woodward.
And if I say no, I shall at least be able to boast of a proposal.
Gunning.
That’s so.
Miss Woodward.
Not that there’s much satisfaction in that to a practical mind.
Gunning.
No? [Goes to her.] Try the other.
Miss Woodward.
But we don’t love each other.
Gunning.
Another big advantage. Love is the rock upon which so many well-intentioned young persons split. They engage to marry each other while the intelligence is perverted, the reason unbalanced, and the judgment obscured by an overpowering sentiment. They enter into a solemn life-binding contract in a highly emotional and altogether unnormal moral condition. The disastrous results of such folly we see examples of daily. We will escape that snare. [He comes close to her.] Of course if the sentiment should subsequently come, if that particular kind of emotion should by chance supervene, we’ll deal with it as best we may.
Miss Woodward.
[Sits on arm of sofa.] Still there must be something in love-making. I remember my sister and the curate seemed to have a very good time. We all thought them fussy, but I know they liked it.
Gunning.
I made love to you in the garden this morning.
Miss Woodward.
Did you? I thought it was pity, and resented it
Gunning.
You refused me a rose, and gave one——
Miss Woodward.
I refused you because I thought you pitied me, and gave one to Mr. Parbury because I pitied him.
Gunning.
I’d like you to pity me.
Miss Woodward.
I should if I said yes. [Leaves him.] But I mean to say no.
Gunning.
[Following her.] You are afraid.
Miss Woodward.
Of what?
Gunning.
Of what people call my “nasty sneering way,” for instance.
Miss Woodward.
[Confidently.] Oh, I could deal with that all right.
Gunning.
I’m sure you could. [Goes near to her.] Say yes, Hyacinth.
Enter Evans, L.
Evans.
Your cab is here, Miss.
Gunning.
[To Miss Woodward, in low voice.] Send it away. [She hesitates.] Do.
Miss Woodward.
Thank you, Evans. Let it wait.
[Gunning moves away to C. with a satisfied smile.
Evans.
Yes, Miss.
[Exit L.
Miss Woodward.
Good-bye, Mr. Gunning. If you were entirely different from what you are, I think I could have liked you; or if I were entirely different from what I am, I think I might have married you. But you are hopelessly modern and cold-blooded, and I am only an old-fashioned, healthy English girl, and a healthy English girl doesn’t want to make experiments, she wants to be loved.
[Suddenly Gunning throws his arm round her, and bends forward to kiss her. She quickly raises her clenched hand as if to strike him in the face. He looks her in the eyes without flinching.
Gunning.
Perhaps she wants a master.
Miss Woodward.
[Softly.] Perhaps.
[Her hand slowly drops; he kisses her.
Colonel.
[Outside L.] No, my dear; I can’t wait any longer.
Gunning.
[In a low voice to Miss Woodward.] The garden. Will you come and find me a rose?
Miss Woodward.
Yes.
Enter Colonel Armitage, L., Mrs. Parbury, and Mr. Parbury.
[Miss Woodward and Gunning exeunt quickly to garden, R.
[Mrs. Parbury comes down L. and sits on sofa. Parbury goes R. and sits, Armitage remains C. They are all silent and uneasy. A considerable pause, during which they are occupied with avoiding each other’s eyes.
Colonel.
A cheerful day.
Mr. Parbury.
Yes.
Mrs. Parbury.
Very.
[Another uneasy pause.
Colonel.
Well, I must be going.
Mr. Parbury.
Don’t go.
Mrs. Parbury.
Please stay, father.
[Another pause.
Colonel.
[With much irritation.] Well, you see I’m staying.
Mrs. Parbury.
Thank you.
Mr. Parbury.
Thank you, Colonel.
Colonel.
But I should like to know what the devil for?
Mrs. Parbury.
Father!
Mr. Parbury.
Colonel!
Colonel.
I really think I have cause to be angry. A more depressing function than your luncheon party to-day I’ve never experienced. I think I have a right to a little cheerfulness in my middle age. I’m sure I’ve earned it. I’ve had a great deal to put up with in my life.
Mr. Parbury.
No doubt, no doubt.
Colonel.
Of course I have always accepted my full share of the blame. That I have felt to be only right and manly. [Pause. He looks at Clement.] As for my late dear wife, her heart was rarely deaf to a proper expression of regret. The memory of her I feel to be a blessing to this day. [He blows his nose sympathetically.] One thing I can tell you, Mabel, that when your dear mother and I made it up—well, we did make it up. I am not without some very agreeable recollections—most agreeable. [Pause. He comes to Mrs. Parbury.] I trust you won’t require me tonight, my dear. I have to attend a Masonic Banquet.
Mrs. Parbury.
No, father; I shan’t want you.
Colonel.
Then good-bye. [Aside to her.] Be true to your own good heart. Your dear mother was—sometimes. [He kisses her, and then goes to Parbury.] Good-bye, Clement. [Aside to him.] Bear up; I’ve been there myself. [He goes—aside at door.] Rather tactful, I think—rather tactful.
[Exit L.
[There is a constrained silence. Mrs. Parbury is particularly uneasy. After a moment Parbury rises, lights a cigarette, and stands at mantelpiece.
Mrs. Parbury.
Am I in the way, dear? Do you want to work?
Parbury.
No. [Rises, goes up R.] To-day must be a holiday.
Mrs. Parbury.
Holidays are meant to be happy days.
Parbury.
I suppose so.
Mrs. Parbury.
Our happy days have gone. I suppose they will never come back.
[Very sadly.
Parbury.
It would be wiser to look for new ones than to weep over the old ones.
Mrs. Parbury.
I’ll not cry, dear; I promise you that. [Pause. Suddenly rises and turns to him.] Clement, can’t we start again?
Parbury.
Perhaps. But we must consider first where we now are and the direction in which we should go.
Mrs. Parbury.
Perhaps in your heart you are blaming me more than I deserve—I mean about Miss Woodward.
Parbury.
You chose to keep the motives of your conduct a secret from me.
Mrs. Parbury.
I may have been wrong. I saw her kiss your photograph.
Parbury.
[Starts slightly.] Why didn’t you tell me? [Pause.] Why didn’t you tell me?
Mrs. Parbury.
I thought—I thought it would be wiser not to.
Parbury.
What have I ever done to earn so low an estimate of my character from you—that I am not to be trusted with the knowledge that a foolish girl had kissed my photograph.
Mrs. Parbury.
Nothing, dear; nothing. But I was jealous—furious. I am sorry. [She is half-turned from him. He smiles very kindly, and half makes a step forward as if to take her in his arms, then restrains himself.] [Drooping.] You are very, very angry with me?
Parbury.
I am very, very pained.
Mrs. Parbury.
Can’t you forgive?
Parbury.
Yes, that is forgiven.
Mrs. Parbury.
You say you forgive, but you don’t make me feel it. [Slight pause. He is obviously tempted to come to her, but does not.] Won’t you forget too, and let us go back together?
Parbury.
No, we can never go back.
Mrs. Parbury.
Love counts for something, Clement.
Parbury.
[Comes to her.] Does love without respect count for very much? Would you like to go back to the old way—the way of petty tyranny—the way of the cowardly, unnecessary tear—the way of gaining your own ends at all costs—the way of being a spoilt child, instead of a thoughtful and considerate woman—the way of my own contemptible weakness?
Mrs. Parbury.
I never looked upon it in that light. I thought I was happy then.
Parbury.
Because you never dreamed that my love was beginning to wear badly.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Startled.] Clement! . . . Oh? [Goes to him.] Good God!
Parbury.
I don’t want ever to think or speak of it again; but to-day I must, for if we are honest with each other, we may be able in time to save ourselves from that most pitiable and hideous of all states of existence—what is called “a cat and dog life.” Have you never seen it—that domestic flower with the rotten heart? The thin outside petals of courtesy, of hollow words of endearment before others, mask the ugly truth from the casual and unobservant; but the intimate friends know, and the prying eyes of the spiteful are undeceived. That man and woman who appear in public wearing the veneered ghost of a smile, are walking in hell. Think of their private lives—the slow death of love; the hearts poisoned with bitterness; the ever-growing rancour; the bandied insolences; the swift thoughts, black as murder; the final dull monotony of aching hatred. Do you think such cases rare? Every rank of society has its examples. Do you think such a couple have deliberately sought their hell? Oh no; they may have started as fairly as we did. Their love has not been slain by a blow, it has been pecked to a cupboard skeleton by littlenesses—little jealousies, little selfishnesses, little insults, little tyrannies, little intolerances.
Mrs. Parbury.
Clement, you terrify me. [C.R.] Oh, I am ashamed—ashamed. You have made me shudder at the old way. Dear, if I have lost a particle of your love, I’ll win it back. You will show me the new way, won’t you?
Parbury.
The new way for us is the old way for the wise. It is a pleasant way strewn with flowers, the flowers of self-abnegation—of sweet reasonableness—of patient tolerance—of enduring trustfulness. Walking in that way we seek diligently for the happiness, not of ourselves, but of each other. Rising in the morning we say, not, I will find happiness to-day, but I will give happiness to-day. In that way lie peace, the fulfilment of our better selves, the full golden harvest of love.
[As he speaks these words with deep sympathy, standing a little away from her, she gradually draws nearer to him.
Mrs. Parbury.
I will walk in that way with you, Clement. [She stoops, and taking one of his hands kisses it. Pause.]
[He stoops and raises her, and takes her in his arms.
Enter Miss Woodward and Gunning. Gunning wears a rose in his coat.
Gunning.
Really—I beg your pardon.
Mrs. Parbury.
Don’t trouble about us any more. We’re reconciled. [She remains in her husband’s arms.]
[Gunning turns smilingly to Miss Woodward and takes her hand.
Miss Woodward.
[Smiling back upon Gunning.] Don’t trouble about us any more. We’re engaged.
Curtain.