Scene 4
Leonard (outside).
Are you dressed?
Clara.
Why so tender, so thoughtful? I’m not a princess.
Leonard (coming in).
I didn’t think you were alone. As I went past, I thought I saw Barbara from next-door at the window.
Clara.
That’s why, then, is it?
Leonard.
You are always cross. A fellow can stay away for a fortnight; it can have rained and shone again ten times over; but each time I see you, there’s always the same old cloud on your face.
Clara.
It used to be so different.
Leonard.
Yes, indeed! If you’d always looked as you do now, we’d never have been good friends.
Clara.
What does it matter?
Leonard.
Oh, you feel as free of me as that, do you? It suits me all right. So (meaningly) that toothache of yours the other day was a false alarm?
Clara.
Oh, Leonard, you’d no right to do it!
Leonard.
No right to bind what is dearest to me—yourself—by the last bond of all? And just when I stood in danger of losing it! Do you think I didn’t see you exchanging quiet glances with the secretary? That was a nice holiday for me! I take you to a dance and——
Clara.
You never stop worrying me. I looked at him, of course. Why should I deny it? but only because of the moustache he’s grown at college. It——(she breaks off).
Leonard.
Suits him so well, eh? That’s what you mean. Oh, you women! You like the mark of the soldier even in the silliest caricature. The little round-faced fop—I hate him! I don’t conceal it; he’s stood in my way with you long enough;—with that forest of hair in the middle of his face, he looks like a white rabbit trying to hide in a thicket.
Clara.
I haven’t praised him yet. You don’t need to start running him down.
Leonard.
You still seem to take a warm interest in him.
Clara.
We played together as children, and after that—you know all about it.
Leonard.
Oh yes, I know. That’s just the trouble.
Clara.
Well, surely it was natural for me, seeing him again for the first time after so long, to look at him and wonder at——
Leonard.
Why did you blush then, when he looked at you?
Clara.
I thought he was looking to see if the wart on my left cheek had got any bigger. You know I always think that when anybody stares at me, and it makes me blush. The wart seems to grow, whenever it’s looked at!
Leonard.
That may be. But it troubled me, and I said to myself: “I’ll test her this very night. If she really wants to be my wife, she knows that she’s running no risks. If she says No——”
Clara.
Oh, you spoke a wicked, wicked word, when I pushed you away, and jumped up from the seat. The moon that had shone, for my help, right into the arbour, wrapped herself cunningly in the wet clouds. I tried to hurry away, but something held me back. At first I thought it was you, but it was the rose-tree, whose thorns had caught my dress like teeth. You reviled me, until I could no longer trust my own heart. You stood before me, like one demanding a debt. And I——O God!
Leonard.
I can’t regret it. I know that it was the only way of keeping you. Your old love had opened its eyes and I could not close them fast enough.
Clara.
When I got home, I found my mother ill, dangerously ill. Smitten down suddenly, as if by an unseen hand. Father had wanted to send for me, but she wouldn’t let him, because of spoiling my pleasure. Imagine how I felt, when I heard that! I kept out of the way. I didn’t dare to touch her; I trembled. She thought it was just a child’s concern, and motioned me to go to her. When I went up to her slowly, she pulled me down and kissed my desecrated mouth. I gave way altogether, I wanted to confess to her. I wanted to tell her what I thought and felt: “I’m to blame for your lying there like that.” I did so, too, but tears and sobs choked my words; she took father’s hand and said, looking at me so happily—“What a tender heart!”
Leonard.
She’s well again now. I came to congratulate her, and—what do you think?
Clara.
And what?
Leonard.
To ask your father for your hand in marriage!
Clara.
Ah!
Leonard.
Isn’t that all right?
Clara.
Right? It would be the death of me, if I were not soon your wife. But you don’t know my father. He doesn’t know why we’re in a hurry. He can’t know, and we can’t tell him. And he’s told me a hundred times that he will only give me, as he puts it, to a man who has both love in his heart and bread in his cupboard. He will say, “Wait a year or two, my son,” and then what will you answer?
Leonard.
Why, you little silly, that difficulty’s all over. I’ve got the job, I’m cashier now.
Clara.
You’re cashier? And what about the other candidate, the parson’s nephew?
Leonard.
He came drunk into the exam., bowed to the stove instead of to the mayor, and knocked three cups off the table when he sat down. You know how hot-tempered the old boy is. “Sir!” he began, but he bit his lips and controlled himself, although his eyes flashed through his spectacles like two snakes ready to spring, and all his face was working. Then came the arithmetic and ha! ha! my opponent used a system of tables he had invented himself, and got quite original results. “He’s all astray,” said the mayor, and held out his hand to me with a glance that told me the job was mine. I put it reverently to my lips, although it stank of tobacco, and here’s the appointment, signed and sealed.
Clara.
That’s a——
Leonard.
Surprise, eh? Well, it’s not altogether an accident. Why do you think I never turned up here for a whole fortnight?
Clara.
How do I know. I should think because we quarrelled on that last Sunday.
Leonard.
I was cunning enough to bring that little quarrel about on purpose, so that I might stay away without causing you too much surprise.
Clara.
I don’t understand you.
Leonard.
I dare say not. I made use of the time in paying court to that little hump-backed niece of the mayor’s, who has so much weight with him. She’s his right hand, just as the bailiff’s his left. Don’t misunderstand me! I didn’t say pleasant things to her directly, except for a compliment on her hair, which is red, as you know. I only said a few things, that pleased her, about you.
Clara.
About me?
Leonard.
Yes, why should I keep it back? It was all done with the best intentions. You talk as if I had never been in earnest about you, as if—— Enough! That affair lasted till I’d got this in my hand, and she’ll know which way I meant it, the credulous little man-mad fool, when she hears the banns read in church.
Clara.
Leonard!
Leonard.
Child! Child! Just you be as harmless as a dove, and I’ll be as wise as a serpent. Then we shall fulfil the words of the Gospel, for man and wife are but one. (He laughs.) And it wasn’t altogether an accident either, that young Herrmann was drunk at the most important moment of his life. I’m sure you never heard that he went in for boozing!
Clara.
Not a word.
Leonard.
That made it all the easier. Three glasses did it. Two chums of mine went up to him and clapped him on the back. “Can we congratulate you?” “Not yet.” “Oh, but it’s all settled beforehand. Your uncle——” And then—“drink, pretty creature, drink!” When I was on my way here this morning, he was standing by the river looking gloomily over the parapet of the bridge. I grinned and nodded, and asked him whether he’d dropped anything into the water. “Yes,” said he, without looking up, “and perhaps it’s as well for me to jump in after it.”
Clara.
You wretch! Get out of my sight!
Leonard.
Yes? (Pretending to go.)
Clara.
O my God, and I am chained to this man!
Leonard.
Don’t be childish. Just one word more in confidence. Has your father still got that two hundred pounds with the apothecary?
Clara.
I know nothing about it.
Leonard.
You know nothing about so important a matter?
Clara.
Here comes father.
Leonard.
You understand, the apothecary is supposed to be going bankrupt. That’s why I asked.
Clara.
I must go into the kitchen. (Goes.)
Leonard (alone).
In that case there’s nothing to be got here. I can well believe it, for, if an extra letter happened to get on old Anthony’s gravestone by mistake, his ghost would walk till it was scratched out. That’s the sort of man he is. He’d think it dishonest to own more of the alphabet than was due to him.