SCENE II.
Dull daylight falls upon a wide and desolate expanse. This has the appearance of a desert—unbroken and arid. The horizon is low and heavy with cloud, and is defined by a tossing sea-line against which no sail appears. In the distance are cliffs, fissured by dark cuts, but these are far away, and the foreground is flat like sand or ashes, or it might be corrugated like slag. There is no vegetation visible, and no sign of organized life.
Enter Dr. Thorne. (He paces the sands, mournfully gazing about him at the lonely scenery. He murmurs, then raises his voice rhythmically, like one who quotes from an uncertain memory.)
Dr. Thorne.
“A life as hollow as the echo in a cave
Hid in the heart of an unpeopled world.”
Where did I get that? Oh, I remember. I had not thought of it for years. That woman used to quote it to me. She was the most consistent infidel I ever knew. She shied at nothing; took the consequences, both living and dying.... A shocking death, though! I suppose the boy is all right with Mrs. Fayth and that little chum of his. If it hadn’t been for that discussion with Harvey I shouldn’t have left him. Wishing seems to be doing, in this singular state of existence. A man makes a simple astronomical inquiry about a planet, and forthwith he is in the planet. Remarkable! (Breaks off; continues.) How magnificent Helen was about that affair. If she had doubted me—but she never did. She was superb.
Enter an Evil Spirit. Her garments
are of flame color. Her hair has the
same tint. On her forehead blazes a
single scarlet star. Her appearance
is queenly and confident. As she reveals
her face, it is seen to be that of
the woman whose wraith has followed
Dr. Thorne at intervals ever since
the hour of his death. Her robe,
which is opaque, reveals her bare
arms and feet, but covers her shoulders
and bosom with a certain modesty,
which is felt at once to be not
wholly natural to the woman. Each
footprint that she makes upon the
sand is marked by a small jet of
flame, which flares after she has
passed, and dies down quickly. Dr.
Thorne stares at the woman in evident
and not well-pleased perplexity.
The Woman (speaks). So? Am I forgotten on first principles? It is some years since we had the pleasure of meeting.
Dr. Thorne (coldly). I begin to recognize you, Madam.
Cleo. You did not know it, but I have given you several other opportunities to do so since you died.
Dr. Thorne. I should think that quite possible—and characteristic.
Cleo (wincing). Your tongue has not lost its edge! I’m afraid they have not made a hopeful convert of you in yonder pious country.... Confess, you’re bored past endurance with the whole thing? (She draws a little nearer to him, but is so adroit as not to touch him. She gives him only her eyes, and these embrace him outright.)
Dr. Thorne (regarding her steadily). Did I ever choose you for a confidante? (He steps back.)
Cleo (persistently). Come, don’t be cross! Tell me, then, why have you fled the first circles of celestial society—to mope out here alone? Oh, you can’t deceive me. I understand—I always understood you better than any other woman living. (In a low tone.) Your whole nature is in antagonism with the very basis of existence in the state you’re plunged into. What’s death? Nothing but a footstep. You’ve taken it. But you’re the man you were.... Pouf! That’s death. (Snaps her fingers.) I’d wager a waltz and a kiss that you are ennuyé to madness over there.... Admit it? (Tenderly.) Admit it! (Imperiously.)
Dr. Thorne (uneasily). I don’t profess to be thoroughly acclimated. But I assure you I did not come here to sulk. On the contrary, I was absorbingly interested in a scientific discussion with a distinguished man. It was an astronomical point. I came here to verify it. I return at once. (Moves away.)
Cleo. Don’t be in such a blatant hurry! It’s not polite. (Pouting.) I’ve studied a little astronomy myself of late.... Come! I can converse about planets—if you will. Was it Neptune or Venus you undertook to investigate?
Dr. Thorne (not without interest). I contended that it was Neptune—before I came.
Cleo. And now?
Dr. Thorne (gloomily gazing at her). I am inclined to think it is Venus.
(Dr. Thorne does not smile.)
Cleo (abruptly). Esmerald Thorne, do you know what has happened? You are in an uninhabited world—with me. You are in a dead world, burnt to ashes, burnt to slag and lava by its own fires. You are alone in it—alone with me.... (In a changed voice.) And I meant you should be. Oh, I’ve dreamed of this for years. I’ve held my breath for it, perished for it.... Now, here we are—we two outcasts from the religious idea—we who always rebelled against it, by the very bone and tissue of our being.... We two (tenderly) alone, at last. (She advances towards him, and for the first time touches him, gently laying her hand upon his shoulder.)
Dr. Thorne (not rudely, but positively, removes her hand, stepping back quickly, so that her arm falls heavily by her side). Woman! Woman, what are you? A spirit damned, or a spirit deluded?... I confess I never knew. And I don’t know any better now.
Cleo (more modestly lifts his hand to her cheek; speaks gently). Do you know any better now?
Dr. Thorne (withdrawing his hand). My wife always said you were half angel, half the other thing. She pitied you, I think. I confess I never did, very much.
Cleo (wretchedly). I never asked for the pity of Helen Thorne!
Dr. Thorne (firmly). You might well receive it, Madam. It would not harm you any.
Cleo (suddenly). Oh, everybody knew you were an irreproachable husband. A blameless physician, of course. But we have changed all that. You are quite free now—as free as I am, for that matter....
Dr. Thorne (nobly). Yes; I am free, as you say. I am free to mourn my wife, and love her ... and await her presence ... which has a value to me that I do not ... I cannot discuss—with you.
Cleo (rebuffed, but gentle and sad). I beg your pardon, Dr. Thorne.
Dr. Thorne (takes a few steps nearer her). And I yours ... if I have wronged you.
Cleo (softly). You feel so sure of her, then? Helen is so attractive! These spiritual women always are—up to a certain point.... Life is a long wait, brutally tedious. You know as well as I do how many—Now, there is Dr. Gazell. A very consolable widower.
Dr. Thorne (proudly). Oh, that was a blunt stroke. Gazell? If Gazell were a dog by which my wife might track her way to me through the mystery of death ... she might have some use for him ... hardly otherwise. I gave you credit for some wit, Cleo.
Cleo. I own the illustration was defective. But there are a plenty better. There are gentler men than you. For my part, I don’t mind your attacks of the devil. I never did. I’d take your cruelty to have your tenderness—any day. But Mrs. Thorne is sensitive to kindness. She likes the even disposition, the patient, model man. After all, there are a good many of them.
Dr. Thorne (lifting his head). I am not afraid.
Cleo (turning away). And you? She is a young woman. It may be years....
Dr. Thorne (coldly). You will have to excuse me. I left some one.... I may be missed. I have ties which even you would respect, Madam. I must return whence I came. (He moves away.)
(Cleo hides her face in her hands; is heard to weep.)
Dr. Thorne (steps back). Do you want my pity?
Cleo (murmurs). Alone—in a desert world—we two—at last. Oh, you don’t know the alphabet of happiness! You have everything to learn ... from me. And we shall never be like this again!
Dr. Thorne (frankly). I hope not.
Cleo (suddenly starting, paces the ashes; throws her arms above her head). I always said you had a Nero in you.... Oh, I understood you—I! But you.... It never occurred to you, I suppose, that you died on my very day? I had been dead three years that night.
Dr. Thorne (more gently). What did you do it for, Cleo? You know I warned you about that habit. You know I took the laudanum away from you.
Cleo. But you could not cork up the Limited Express—could you?
Dr. Thorne. It was a dreadful death! Tell me, how do you fare? Where do you live? Do you suffer? What is your lot?
Cleo (with sudden reserve, and not without dignity) We suicides have our own fate. We bear it. We do not reveal it.
Dr. Thorne (uncomfortably). Well—I must bid you good-morning.
Cleo (savagely). At least, I gained something—if I lose all. Of course, it never dawned on you that this was all my scheme?
Dr. Thorne (in dismay). Your scheme?
Cleo (past control, raves). Oh, I had watched my chance for years. I knew you—your mad moods, your black temper.... Yourself slew yourself, Esmerald Thorne. Your own weakness gave me my opportunity. I waited for my moment. I sat in the buggy beside you.... I sometimes did that when your evil had you. (I couldn’t get there when you were good, you know.) I tried to take the reins. I tried to get the whip—I could not do it. I meant to hit the horse—my arm was held. (There are always so many of these holy busybodies about—angels and messengers of sanctity—to interfere with one!) Oh, then I sprang out—over the wheel into the street. You didn’t see me, but Donna did. When she shied I clung to her bit. And then she bolted.... It was a very simple thing.
(Dr. Thorne recoiling slowly, an expression of cold horror chills his features.)
Cleo (still raving). Yes, I’ve murdered you—if you will—and Mary Fayth besides. And I’ve broken Helen’s heart. Do you suppose that counts? Who counts? Nobody on earth, or in heaven, or in hell. I’ve got you away from your wife.... And in earth, or in heaven, or in hell, I’ll have you yet....
Dr. Thorne (throwing out his hands; holds her off with evidences of unbearable repulsion; speaks with difficulty). And I pitied you a moment since. Now I cannot scorn you. It is too fine a word.
Cleo (more calmly). I can abide my time.
Enter Laddie, running rapidly.
Laddie. Papa, Papa! Oh, I missed you, Papa!
Cleo (starting). I did not know the child was dead! (Looks disconcerted.)
Dr. Thorne (catches the child, and holds him to his heart; speaks). No. You only knew you left him fatherless. (With much agitation, continues.) How did you get here, Laddie? How did you find the way? Papa hadn’t forgotten his little boy. I was coming right back to you, my son.
Laddie (mysteriously; looking about). A man with wings brought me. We flowed over.... He is waiting out there to take us back. (Observing Cleo, Laddie slips down to the ground, and backs up against his father’s knees; points at the woman.) Papa, I don’t like that lady.
Dr. Thorne (cruelly). My son, I cannot deny that I respect your taste. (Clasps the boy to his heart again; then puts him down once more, and, with a fine motion, holds the child at arm’s-length between himself and the woman.)
Cleo (averting her face). I perceive the importance of the obstacle. I admit ... that to love a man who is the father of another woman’s child—
Dr. Thorne (interrupting). And who loves the mother of his child—
(Cleo sobs.)
Dr. Thorne. Come, Laddie. (He does not glance at the woman again.)
[Exeunt Dr. Thorne and Laddie.
Cleo (yearning after him; stretches out her arms, but does not follow; calls mournfully). Oh, if you would come back a minute—only a minute!... In heaven, or earth, or hell, I’d never ask anything of you again. A minute, a minute!
(Dr. Thorne does not return, and does not reply. Cleo is left alone in the dead world. She falls flat upon the slag and ashes.)
End of Scene II.