ACT II.
Scene.—Ned Chetwynd’s. Doors R. and L. French window opening on garden, at back. Tom’s picture of the two knights hangs on wall, R. Piano, desk, screen, sofa, photographs, &c., &c. The entrance marked, L., should be low down stage. Fireplace, L. Ned discovered writing at desk, L. Lucy reading, R.
Lucy. Nearly done, Ned?
Ned. Good gracious, no. I’ve only just begun.
Lucy. Isn’t it time you dressed? The Dozeys will be here directly. I told them we should dine early.
Ned. Bother the Dozeys!
Lucy. I couldn’t help asking them. Indeed, they asked themselves. (rises, crosses to C.)
Ned. Lucy, how can I write while you keep chattering? I particularly want to finish what I’m doing. I want to send it to Alma by to-night’s post.
Lucy. Alma!
Ned. What’s the matter?
Lucy. I wish you wouldn’t call Mrs. Blake “Alma.” I don’t like it!
Ned. I don’t think you like her.
Lucy. I like her very well; but at the same time I think you see too much of her.
Ned. What nonsense! We’re in the same set; I can’t help seeing a good deal of her.
Lucy. That’s true enough—in some of her dresses.
Ned. Come, come. That’s only on the stage. She has to dress according to her part. She’s not responsible for its clothing.
Lucy. (turning to Ned) The stage is an excuse for a great deal.
Ned. You mean, it’s an excuse for very little. Where had I got to? You’ve quite put me out.
Lucy. What are you writing that’s so very particular?
Ned. Only a letter.
Lucy. A letter. (crosses to Ned)
Ned. But it’s most important.
Lucy. (aside) A letter to Mrs. Blake. (leans over his shoulder; he covers the sheet with the blotting-paper)
Ned. Lucy, I wish you wouldn’t look over my shoulder. You don’t know how it fidgets me. I can’t write a line.
Lucy. I’d better go upstairs, then I shan’t interrupt you.
Ned. Thank you; there’s a dear. I’m sorry to be so disagreeable, but I must finish this.
Lucy. Dinner at seven.
Ned. All right. (Exit Lucy, R.) Now I can go ahead like a steam engine. (writes) “Fool that I was, I thought that it would last for ever. Nothing can now remove the barrier between us. With my own hand I have destroyed my happiness.” That’s warm enough, I think. I’m making an infernal scoundrel of my namesake, but no matter. (reads) “With my own hand”—I wonder if that’s right. Could he have destroyed his happiness with anybody else’s hand? With my hand I have—no—he couldn’t have done it with his foot.
Re-enter Lucy, R., and down R.C.
Lucy. Ned, here’s Mr. Potter.
Enter Tom, R.
Ned. (rises) Hallo, Tom! (shakes hands)
Tom. Hard at work?
Ned. Yes—spoiling more paper. I’m an annuity to the local stationer.
Tom. Well, perhaps in your old age the local butterman will be an annuity to you.
Ned. Gad, I shall want one at the pace I’m going.
Tom. Sir Humphrey not come round yet?
Ned. No, we’re still outcasts.
Lucy. But he makes us an allowance.
Ned. Yes. He hasn’t forgiven us, but he makes us an allowance. That’s the governor all over.
Tom. And I suppose you spend a good deal more than he allows you? (Lucy sits, R.)
Ned. Yes, that’s me all over.
Tom. Well, I won’t preach.
Ned. For mercy’s sake! The doctor’s coming to dinner; he’ll preach quite enough.
Lucy. To do him justice, Ned, he doesn’t talk at dinner.
Ned. To do the dinner justice, he does not.
Lucy. Won’t you stay, Mr. Potter?
Ned. Do. I shan’t work any more to-day.
Tom. Thank you. I don’t dine as a rule, but I’ll make an exception.
Ned. That’s right. You can keep Lucy company while I go and dress. I shan’t be very long. (Exit, L.)
Lucy. See where we’ve hung your wedding present. (indicating the picture, R.)
Tom. Yes—I was looking at my knights—thinking how like Sir Humphrey is to them. Do you know, he’s never seen me since the day I left his house? I’ve tried to get at him a dozen times, but he won’t give me a chance of explaining myself. He sees one side of the shield and won’t look at the other.
Lucy. I know he was very much annoyed with you.
Tom. You must have thought my conduct very strange.
Lucy. I did. (sits, R.)
Tom. I owe you an explanation as well as Sir Humphrey. You remember my telling you my married life was a failure?
Lucy. Though you adored your wife.
Tom. You mustn’t think she didn’t care for me, at first, but she was lively, high-spirited, demonstrative. (fetches chair from back and sits beside Lucy) And you know what sort of a fellow I am. Heavy as one of Dozey’s sermons. Women like pretty speeches, compliments. I can’t make pretty speeches, and I can’t pay compliments; but there are lots of men about who can. I wasn’t jealous, for a man can’t very well be jealous of a lap dog—and still less of half-a-dozen lap dogs at a time; but I lost my opinion of her (rises) and at last—— (leans on back of chair)
Lucy. You told her so.
Tom. I didn’t say very much; and what I said she didn’t seem to heed. When I had spoken I went out. Coming back presently I found a letter lying on her desk telling me she preferred another man, and asking me to leave her. I took her at her word. (crosses to C.)
Lucy. You left her without seeing her again?
Tom. She asked me not to see her, and where was the use? I had just spoken to her, and this was the result. I came to England, and the next I heard of her was the announcement of her death. (crosses to sofa)
Lucy. Abroad?
Tom. In Melbourne. At first the sight of the old name brought back old memories, and I forgave her. I got out the few remnants the past leaves to men—the few pale letters and the faded photograph that grows a little dimmer every day—when my eyes fell on that last note I found upon her desk. I huddled up the scraps and went my way. I took up art as a profession—changed my name in deference to my family, who look on art as a mild form of felony—and time went on. I pulled the old things out again, and found that I could look at them unmoved. I even thought of marrying again, when, as I stood talking to you that last day at Sir Humphrey’s, there flashed on me a figure and a face so like my wife’s, it was like seeing her. And with the sight of her came back the love. (crosses to C.)
Lucy. (rises) It wasn’t dead, then?
Tom. Does love ever die? Dark mists of prejudice may wrap it round, and it may set in clouds, but every now and then the clouds are rolled away and there shines out on us once more the image of the woman we have loved.
Lucy. (crosses to Tom) Was Mrs. Blake so like her?
Tom. So like I dare not meet her. I could only go. I wasn’t in the mood for explanations, and when I was, Sir Humphrey wasn’t in the mood to listen to them.
Lucy. And you’ve seen neither of them since?
Tom. Yes. I saw Mrs. Blake upon the stage some weeks ago, and in her I recognised, beyond all doubt, my wife.
Lucy. Your wife—Mrs. Blake! (crosses to Tom) Oh, Mr. Potter, tell Ned! do tell Ned! you’ll do me such a service.
Tom. How? I don’t understand.
Lucy. Don’t ask me to explain, but tell him! If you will, you’ll make me happier than I’ve been for months. (turns)
Tom. You are unhappy?
Lucy. I didn’t mean to say a word about it, but what you’ve told me startled the truth out. I’ve been unhappy for weeks and weeks. I know Ned’s in difficulties, and his estrangement from Sir Humphrey weighs upon his mind. I am the cause of it, and it’s only natural his feelings should have changed; but that makes it no easier to bear. I am a drag upon him, a dishonour! I’m sure he loved me when he married me, but he’s so different now. Oh, Mr. Potter, it may be as you say, love never dies; but love may be so tried, and torn, and strained, that all the happiness goes out of it. (sits on chair, C.)
Tom. (crosses to Lucy) Surely, yours hasn’t been so tried?
Lucy. Not mine—but Ned’s. I always seem to be in his way now. He’s so much occupied—so taken up with other things—he never has a word or look for me. He’s out so much; and when he’s at home he’s always writing or else thinking—I am nobody—and Mrs. Blake—your wife—is everybody; only he doesn’t know she is your wife! If he did, it might make a difference. (rises)
Tom. This may be your fancy. I can quite understand, you’re sensitive, and perhaps misconstrue very simple things. You see, Ned’s an author; (Lucy sits) and authors make uninteresting husbands. (crosses to L.) I won’t say they always neglect their wives, but their wives always think so. (crosses to Lucy) Then again, Mrs. Blake—as my wife calls herself——
Lucy. Alma, Ned calls her!
Tom. Well—she’s on the stage and might be of great use to him. It’s only natural he should make friends with her.
Lucy. But he thinks she’s a widow. If he knew she had a husband—and above all, (rises) that you were her husband—I should feel more comfortable.
Tom. Tell him yourself, then. You have my permission. Have the thing out and make an end of it; but for heaven’s sake, don’t brood!
Lucy. How can I speak to him?
Tom. Speak anyhow—the worse, the better! There are two sides to everything. Why, like those foolish knights, commit yourself to one? At least, have a look at both before you make your choice.
Re-enter Ned, L.
Ned. Quarter past six. The Dozeys not come yet?
Lucy. I don’t expect them before seven.
Ned. What a blessing!
Tom. You dine at seven? Then, I’ve no time to lose. I have a dress coat somewhere. I must look it up.
Ned. Can you get back in time?
Tom. I’ll take the short cut through the garden.
Ned. Don’t be long, (Exit Tom through window and off, R.; sits down at table; picks up sheet of paper) there’s a good fellow.
Lucy. Ned! Ned! (pause) Can’t I speak to you a minute?
Ned. Can’t you speak to me? (crosses to Lucy, R.) What a question! Am I the Grand Turk—not to be approached?
Lucy. But I mean seriously.
Ned. What have you to be serious about? Doesn’t your new dress fit?
Lucy. It isn’t about dress. It’s about——
Enter Servant, R.
Serv. Mrs. Blake. (Lucy turns and goes down, R.)
Alma runs in, R. Exit Servant, R.
Alma. (running to Ned and wringing both his hands) Oh, Ned, you dear. I’m so happy. I could kiss you!
Ned. Don’t be shy. Lucy doesn’t mind.
Alma. (turns) How are you, love? Excuse me for not seeing you. I’m so excited. I’ve quite lost my head. I’ve such news for you.
Ned. Well?
Alma. Sir Humphrey’s coming to see you!
Ned. My father!
Alma. I’ve brought him round at last. But hasn’t it been hard work? I’ve been manœuvring for the last three months. I didn’t know there was a man alive I couldn’t twist round my finger in three days.
Ned. He’s coming here to-night?
Alma. So am I. I’ve arranged to bring him—that is, I’ve arranged he’s to bring me. Dick’s new piece is a frost. I thought it would be, and threw up my part. So I’m at liberty, and we’re both coming for the evening.
Ned. Lucy—(Lucy goes up)—you’d better order some more dinner. There’ll be the Dozeys—Potter——
Alma. Mr. Potter coming! Oh, I’m so glad!
Lucy. (aside) They’ll meet! (at back, R.)
Alma. I feel quite curious to see Mr. Potter. You know I just missed him at Sir Humphrey’s; and as a rule the people we miss in this world are so much more interesting than the people we meet.
Ned. Then, there’s my father and Alma—(Lucy looks at Ned) Mrs. Blake.
Lucy. (crosses to door, R.) That makes only seven.
Ned. But don’t forget the doctor’s one of them.
Lucy. I’d better see the cook. (Exit, R.)
Ned. How good it is of you to have arranged all this! You’ve taken a load off my mind already. I couldn’t bear being on bad terms with the governor.
Alma. I’m as pleased as you are. And that’s not all. I’ve more good news for you. Sparkle’s new piece is such a failure, Dick’ll have to change the bill immediately; and I shouldn’t wonder if I place your play.
Ned. The one I’m doing now?
Alma. Isn’t it done?
Ned. (crosses to table, returns with letter) Another week will finish it. I’m re-writing that compromising letter. You said the first one wasn’t strong enough.
Alma. Not half. When you compromise your hero, compromise him. The public like imperial measure. Let ’em have it.
Ned. Well, I think this is warm enough. (give sheet to Alma)
Alma. (reads) “Willow Bank, Surbiton.”
Ned. No, no. (takes the sheet of paper)
Alma. “Willow Bank, Surbiton.” It says so.
Ned. That’s this house. I jotted my ideas down on a sheet of our notepaper to submit to you before I altered the manuscript. This is the letter I propose. “My own dearest Alma”——
Alma. Stop. Is there an Alma in this play?
Ned. The heroine. I told you, I call all my heroines “Alma.”
Alma. Te, te, te. Go on.
Ned. “At last I have a moment to myself to scribble a hasty answer to your note. Of course I will be there.”
Alma. Where’s that?
Ned. The place appointed. It’s an assignation.
Alma. Oh! Have they got to assignations?
Ned. Yes. I’m giving ’em imperial measure this time.
Alma. Don’t forget the Chamberlain.
Ned. “I will make some excuse to get away. Oh, why have I to make excuses?”——
Re-enter Servant, R.
Serv. Mr. Dodson Dick.
Enter Dick, R. Exit Servant, R. Ned puts the letter back.
Ned. (crosses to Dick) This is an unexpected honour. (Alma crosses to L.)
Dick. (puts hat on piano) Just found your MS. Thought I would bring it you myself—avoid mistakes. Capital comedy—won’t do at all. (gives Ned MS.)
Ned. Why, you’ve not opened it!
Dick. No need to open it—won’t do at all.
Alma. Good evening, Mr. Dick.
Dick. (crosses to Alma) Hallo! You here? Seen the notices? (Ned crosses R.)
Alma. Of the new piece?
Ned. The one you thought so highly of?
Dick. Did I think highly of it?
Alma. Didn’t you say the booking after the first night would be a caution?
Dick. So it is. Two stalls.
Ned. I heard it wasn’t a success.
Dick. (producing a sheaf of newspaper cuttings) Morning News: “It is not often that we have to chronicle so signal a fiasco.” Daily Post: “Seldom of late years has a first night audience been so emphatic in its condemnation.” Evening Mail: “The play is absolutely destitute of merit.” Sunday Slogger: “A striking instance of the ineptitude, incompetence, and imbecility of our native playwrights.” What do you think of that?
Ned. I’m very sorry for poor Sparkle’s sake. (Alma crosses to sofa)
Dick. Hang Sparkle! I’m sorry for my own sake. Very annoying. I particularly wanted this to be a go.
Alma. Because I wasn’t in it. (leaning on back of sofa)
Dick. Miss Blake has a notion we can’t do without her.
Ned. It appears you can’t.
Dick. All the more reason she should think we can. I don’t know what the public see in her. Miss Blake’s always Miss Blake.
Alma. That’s what they like, my dear.
Dick. I don’t care what the part is!
Alma. Nor do they.
Dick. Well, if they want you they shall have you. Now, look here. (to Ned) I’ll make you a proposition. If you’ll let Sparkle look over your comedy, write up Blake’s part, re-cast the plot, and smarten up the dialogue, I’ll bring the piece out under Sparkle’s name, pay him the fees, and—and your fortune’s made. (Alma comes down, C.)
Ned. Let Sparkle hack about my piece? Sparkle, who’s just made this fiasco?
Dick. Sparkle has such a name.
Alma. Yes—for fiascos.
Dick. Never mind what it’s for—he has a name.
Ned. No, Mr. Dick, no!
Dick. You refuse?
Ned. Decidedly. (goes up to L.C., sits at table)
Dick. (taking stage, R.) And yet they say we managers don’t give young men a chance.
Alma. (crosses to C.) Mr. Dick, Mr. Chetwynd has another comedy.
Dick. Won’t do at all!
Alma. But I say it will do. I’ve read it.
Dick. I haven’t read it, and I say it won’t. Sparkle’s the man for comedies. I’ll go to Sparkle. He’ll write me a bran new one in a week, and it won’t want rehearsing, because it’ll be the old stuff all over again.
Alma. If he does I don’t play in it.
Dick. Oh, yes, you do.
Alma. I say I don’t.
Dick. (crosses to Alma) No play no pay. We’ve an agreement.
Alma. (crosses to Dick) We’ll have a disagreement. Mark my words, I play in Mr. Chetwynd’s piece or I don’t play at all.
Dick. What’s it about?
Alma. Never mind what it’s about. You’d better leave the whole thing in my hands. You know I shall have my own way in the end; so you may just as well let me have it at the beginning.
Dick. Settle it how you like. I must be off. (goes up, R.)
Alma. So must I, Ned. It’s time for me to bring Sir Humphrey. (crosses to L. Dick takes hat, puts it on)
Ned. (to Dick) Won’t you take the manuscript?
Dick. What for?
Ned. To read.
Dick. I don’t read plays, sir; I produce ’em.
Ned. But if you did read them——
Dick. Then I shouldn’t produce ’em.
Alma. I’ve read it, Mr. Dick, and it’ll do for me.
Dick. Do for me, too, I expect. All you’ve read is your part.
Alma. My part’s the play.
Dick. I thought as much. Good evening. (Exit, R.)
Alma. Ned, it might please Sir Humphrey if you met him. Won’t you come with me? (going up, C.)
Re-enter Lucy, R.
Ned. Go with you? With pleasure.
Lucy. Going out, Ned?
Alma. Only to meet Sir Humphrey.
Ned. I shan’t be twenty minutes. You don’t mind?
Lucy. Oh, no.
Ned. Come along, Alma! (Exit through window; off, R.)
Alma. See you again presently. (Exit through window; off, R.)
Lucy. (following them; then back to R.C.) See you again! When shall I see the last of you? “Mrs. Blake,” “Alma” morning, noon, and night. (sits on chair, R.) Oh, what a wicked girl I am! how selfish! how ill-natured! No wonder Ned is tired of me. No wonder he likes other company. It’s not his fault—it’s mine. I’ll write and tell him so. (rises; crosses to table, L., sits) I’ll sit down in his chair—steal some of his paper—and write with his pen! What’s this—on the blotting pad? “Alma—dearest Alma.” This is what he was writing—that was so important. “Dearest Alma!” That’s why he wouldn’t let me look at it. Here is the letter—a half written letter. “Willow Bank, Surbiton. My own dearest Alma.” (starts up) I won’t read it. (retreating) I’ve no right. I daren’t. (pause) I have a right! I will! (darts forward and reads resolutely; sits) “My own dearest Alma,—At last I have a moment to myself, to scribble a hasty answer to your note. Of course I will be there. I will make some excuse to get away. Oh, why have I to make excuses? Why have I a wife? She is a mere child, for whom I had a passing fancy. Fool that I was, I thought that it would last for ever. Nothing can now remove the barrier between us. With my own hand I have destroyed my happiness.” (drops the sheet; turns; presses her hands against her temples; then tears off her wedding ring and flings it from her) I will remove the barrier between them. I will leave his house! (clasping her hands) Oh, Ned, my husband—he’s not mine, he’s hers! I have no husband! Oh, Ned, Ned! come back to me! don’t leave me desolate! (staggers, and is about to fall. Re-enter Tom, dressed, through window, just in time to catch her in his arms)
Tom. (holding her) Mrs. Chetwynd! Lucy!
Re-enter Servant, R.
Serv. Dr. and Mrs. Dozey. (seeing Lucy, runs to her assistance)
Enter Dr. and Mrs. Dozey, R.
Tom. You’d better take Mrs. Chetwynd to her room. She’s ill. (Servant leads Lucy out, L., Tom follows to door, L.)
Dr. and Mrs. D. (looking at one another) Hem!
Tom. The heat, I daresay.
Both. Hem!
Tom. It’s lucky I was there or she’d have fallen. I’d better find Ned and tell him.
Both. Hem!
Tom. Have you both colds?
Dr. Have you a cold, Diana?
Mrs. D. No.
Dr. Nor I.
Both. Hem!
Tom. Only two clerical sore throats? Beg pardon. (Exit through window; off, L.)
Dr. and Mrs. Dozey stand looking at one another.
Dr. I fear our advent was inopportune.
Mrs. D. Then you observed——
Dr. Nothing. I have mislaid my glasses.
Mrs. D. What nonsense, Dionysius! there they are!
Dr. There are epochs in existence when it is the duty of a charitable person to have mislaid his glasses.
Mrs. D. Charity is a very excellent thing in its way. At the same time one can’t always shut one’s eyes. I’m sure I close mine as often as anybody; but I can’t help observing what goes on.
Dr. Did not Sir Humphrey lead us to infer that Mr. Potter once proposed for Mrs. Chetwynd?
Mrs. D. But had backed out of it.
Dr. The situation is extremely painful.
Mrs. D. When one’s asked out to dinner and one finds one’s hostess reclining in the arms of one of the guests——
Dr. The incident is calculated to impair the appetite and cast a gloom around the prandial board.
Mrs. D. Ill, forsooth! and the heat! But what can be expected of a scene-shifter?
Dr. Painter, my dear, scene painter.
Mrs. D. Painter. It’s all the same.
Dr. And of the lady’s parentage!
Mrs. D. Ah, me! (sits on sofa and dozes off)
Dr. (crosses to Mrs. Dozey) Herein, Diana, is much food for thought. Here is a sermon he who runs may read. Here is a subject which naturally resolves itself into six sections. Firstly—— (Mrs. Dozey snores) Asleep again!
Alma. (outside) Follow your leader. I’ll show you the way.
Dr. Mrs. Blake’s voice. On second thoughts I will not awaken Diana. (crosses, R.)
Re-enter Alma through window from R.
Alma. Doctor! how are you! I’ve not seen you for a century. (shakes hands)
Dr. It were more accurate to say a month.
Alma. A month, a month, a month!
Dr. Even in trifles it is well to be exact.
Alma. I asked you how you were?
Dr. Truly, I ought not to repine. The portal sometimes creaketh, but it hangs—it hangs.
Alma. (aside) It ought to!
Re-enter Ned through window, with Sir Humphrey on his arm, down C.
Dr. Bless my soul—if I may be permitted so strong an expression——
Alma. You may—you may. It’s quite a relief to hear a little bad language.
Dr. Is that you, Sir Humphrey?
Sir H. Yes, doctor. I’ve made friends with Ned again. I said I wouldn’t, but there are some words it’s better to break than to keep. A son may afford to quarrel with his father, but a father cannot afford to quarrel with his son, especially when he’s the only one.
Ned. I was to blame.
Sir H. We won’t go into that. Perhaps there were faults on both sides. I was a selfish, obstinate old man, who thought of nothing but his own plans and his own ambitions. (taking Alma’s hand) It was you, Mrs. Blake, who taught me that my son, whatever he may do, is still my son, and that my daughter is my daughter, be she who she may. Where is your wife, Ned?
Dr. Hem! Mrs. Chetwynd is indisposed.
Ned. Lucy ill! What’s the matter?
Dr. I only know that she is in her room.
Ned. I’ll go and tell her you are here, father. (crosses to L.) That’ll bring her down, I warrant. (Exit, L.)
Alma. You’ll get on ever so much better by yourselves. I’ll take the doctor for a little walk. Come along, doctor. You can talk; I’ll listen. I make a splendid congregation when I choose.
Dr. I should be charmed, but Mrs. Dozey——
Alma. Well, you see her condition!
Sir H. I didn’t see Mrs. Dozey. (approaching her)
Dr. (crosses to Sir Humphrey quickly) Not so loud! Let sleeping dogs—hem! Wake not the slumberer.
Alma putting her arm through Dr. Dozey’s, they both go off, C.R.
Sir H. (following) What sprightliness! What commonsense! (comes down, R.) What kindliness! My life has been a different thing since I have known her. (sits, R., thoughtfully) One of the Duchesses of St. Albans was an actress. One of the Countesses of Derby was an actress. There are precedents—excellent precedents. Lady Chetwynd—Lady Chetwynd.
Mrs. D. (wakes suddenly) It’s a most extraordinary thing. I can’t get a wink of sleep! other people have no difficulty—why have I? How is it, Dionysius?
Sir H. Your husband isn’t here.
Mrs. D. Sir Humphrey! (rises)
Sir H. You’re surprised to see me?
Mrs. D. Where’s Dionysius? (crosses to Sir Humphrey)
Sir H. Don’t be so concerned. He’s only gone for a walk with Mrs. Blake.
Mrs. D. With that play-actress?
Sir H. My dear Mrs. Dozey, there is nothing discreditable in the profession of the stage.
Mrs. D. That woman’s setting her cap at Dionysius!
Sir H. I hadn’t noticed that she wore a cap.
Mrs. D. It’d be more becoming if she did, widow as she is. But there! I have my doubts about her being a widow at all.
Sir H. (rising) Mrs. Dozey!
Mrs. D. A bright face is like charity, it covers a multitude of sins.
Sir H. And a sour face is sometimes like the sins, it has no charity to cover it.
Mrs. D. I quite agree with you. (up stage, aside) What does he mean by that? (Exit through window, off R.)
Sir H. How prejudiced people are! What is birth after all? An accident—the merest accident! And isn’t my birth good enough for both of us? My life is very lonely—very lonely.
Re-enter Alma through window, from R.
Alma. Oh! such a jolly row! I’ve left them at it—hammer and tongs—tongues especially.
Sir H. Mrs. Dozey’s of a jealous disposition. A worthy woman but——
Alma. Rather inclined to go to sleep.
Sir H. Well, after five-and-twenty years of Dozey——
Alma. I don’t wonder at it.
Sir H. All women can’t have Mrs. Blake’s vivacity.
Alma. Sir Humphrey! no more compliments to-day. You said just now I was the means of reconciling you to Ned—of teaching you that your son was always your son—that forgiveness was better than resentment. You can’t pay me a greater compliment than that. It was more than I deserved. (takes chair; both sit)
Sir H. No compliment can be too great to pay to you.
Alma. Take care, Sir Humphrey! You know what they say is the greatest a man can offer a woman!
Sir H. The one I ask to be allowed to offer now. I am in earnest, Mrs. Blake. I haven’t known you long; but there are women whom men learn to love more quickly than to recognise the rest. I have lived sixteen years of lonely life, because I have never met the woman worthy to succeed the mother of my son. It is no slight to her to offer you her place. I ask you to accept it without shame, because I feel that I could set you side by side without indignity to either. I could not love you more, nor could I love you less, than she who was the light and gladness of my life. (takes Alma’s hand)
Alma. Please say no more!
Sir H. Haven’t I said enough? (lets hand go)
Alma. Too much, Sir Humphrey. I mean more than I have any right to hear. (rises, crosses to C.) I cannot marry you.
Sir H. (half to himself) I am refused! (as if impossible to believe it)
Alma. The honour you have done me is too great to trifle with. I didn’t care about the truth being known; but you have earned the right to know it. I have a husband! (long pause)
Sir H. (with difficulty) Living?
Alma. I have no reason to suppose he’s dead. (crosses to Sir Humphrey) Believe me when I say I should never have represented myself to be a widow—I should never have entered your house—if I had dreamt it would lead to this. You do believe me? (offers hand)
Sir H. (shakes hands) Yes.
Alma. It was from no light motive I professed to be what I am not. It was because I wished to strip the memory of my husband from my heart as he has stripped his presence from my life.
Sir H. He left you?
Alma. Do you care to know? (sits R.) If you can listen to me I should like to tell you. I was a giddy girl when I was young—one who thought nothing of the past and little of the future. My husband was a serious sort of man—absorbed in his pursuit. I thought I was neglected, and—well, it’s a humiliating thing to say, but I must say it—the attention I didn’t get from him I accepted from others. I didn’t doubt he loved me, but he didn’t show it; and I determined that he should. At last I forced him to speak. He wasn’t angry—he used no hard words—but he—he frightened me. I pretended not to care; but I was cured.
Sir H. (who has grown more and more interested) Go on.
Alma. With one man I had gone too far to withdraw easily. I was obliged to write to him. It was rather a long letter. When I had written the first sheet I put it in my desk and went on with the next. In the middle of it I was called away on some household matter, and when I returned that second sheet was gone.
Sir H. Your husband——
Alma. Had gone also.
Sir H. Strange! Very strange! Can you remember what you wrote on it?
Alma. Nothing he was entitled to resent. But from that day to this I haven’t heard of him. I left Melbourne.
Sir H. Melbourne?
Alma. I was determined to start life afresh and put an end to old associations. I even went so far as to announce my death.
Sir H. You advertised your death?
Alma. It was a wicked thing to do, but I did it. I took the name of Blake, and went on the stage.
Sir H. This is much more than strange. If you could find your husband——
Alma. I’ve no wish to find him!
Sir H. But if it turned out there was some mistake—that he misunderstood you?
Alma. There can be no mistake. No! I have done with him for ever. I could never forgive him.
Sir H. Then you don’t love him?
Alma. Yes, I do. That’s why. (rises) And now you know my history, forgive me and let me go.
Sir H. (rises) You mustn’t go, Mrs. Blake. I can, perhaps, be of service to you. As for forgiveness, I have nothing to forgive. It isn’t women’s fault men fall in love with them; and men must bear their fate.
Re-enter Ned, L.
Ned. (crosses to Alma) I can’t make out what’s the matter with Lucy, but she won’t come down. She’s upset about something.
Alma. Shall I go up to her? (crosses to L.)
Ned. I wish you would. You’ll find out what’s the matter, I’ll be bound. Where’s Dozey?
Alma. (at door, L.) Gone for a stroll, that’s all.
Ned. I hope he won’t be long. It’s nearly seven now.
Alma. Don’t alarm yourself. A clergyman is never late for dinner. (Exit, L. Sir Humphrey sits R. Ned crosses to L.)
Mrs. D. (outside) It’s no use talking, Dionysius!
Enter Dr. and Mrs. Dozey, through window.
Ned. Here they come.
Mrs. D. I won’t have it. This is the second time I’ve had to speak about it.
Dr. Listen to reason!
Mrs. D. I won’t listen to reason. I won’t listen to anything. It’s obvious to everybody. (to Sir Humphrey) Even Sir Humphrey must have observed it.
Sir H. Observed what, Mrs. Dozey?
Mrs. D. Why, Mrs. Blake’s attentions to the Doctor!
Doctor winks solemnly at Sir Humphrey, who smiles.
Sir H. I’d not noticed them.
Mrs. D. Ah! she’s so sly about it. Ah, well, well! I suppose a ballet-dancer knows no better.
Ned. Mrs. Blake doesn’t dance! (crosses, sits at desk)
Dr. There is a difference between an actress and a coryphée.
Mrs. D. (sharply) What do you know of coryphées?
Dr. (starts) I saw one once, my dear.
Mrs. D. I thought you were never inside a theatre?
Dr. It was not at a theatre; it was at a hall.
Ned. What were you doing there?
Mrs. D. Explain yourself.
Dr. As it is the duty of the physician to acquaint himself with the diseases of the flesh, so it is the duty of the pastor to acquaint himself with the afflictions of the spirit. (goes, L.)
Re-enter Alma, L.
Alma. (crosses; aside to Ned) Lucy won’t see me, and she’s not coming down.
Ned. Not coming down?
Alma. Something’s the matter with your wife—ah! (catching sight of the ring sets her foot on it)
Ned. (rises) What is it?
Alma. Get rid of these people. (Ned crosses to Doctor, L.)
Mrs. D. Sir Humphrey, this explains something that’s puzzled me for years.
Sir H. What’s that, Mrs. Dozey?
Mrs. D. Why Dionysius always brings a black tie with him when he comes to London. (Sir Humphrey rises, goes up R.C. with Mrs. Dozey.)
Dr. (to Ned) Sherry and bitters? Excellent idea.
Ned. Come with me, doctor. Father, take Mrs. Dozey.
Dr. Bitters impart a zest to appetite and give a tone to the digestive organs.
Exeunt Sir Humphrey, Mrs. Dozey, Dr. Dozey, and Ned, R. Check lights and limes.
Alma. What does this mean? (picks up the ring) Her wedding ring. It isn’t as bright as when I saw it first; but what of that? Six months of marriage take the shine out of a good many wedding-rings. What was it doing there? It couldn’t have dropped off by accident. No—it’s too small for that—it must have been tight. Perhaps it was too tight. That’s it! (crosses to R.C.) That’s it, you may depend. Now, let me think. Under what circumstances does a woman take to throwing rings about? In Sparkle’s comedies they do it in a temper. Clever man—but human nature’s scarcely Sparkle’s forte. Stop! I once threw away my wedding-ring. What for? If I could think—I know! I know! It was the only time in my life I was jealous of Tom! That’s what’s the matter! (crosses to C.) Mrs. Chetwynd’s jealous. Now what has Ned been doing? Whom’s she jealous of? I must find out. She had it on just now—when Ned went out with me. She must have found out something since. Now, what did I do when my husband was out? I looked in all his pockets and I rummaged through all his papers. (looks round) There are no pockets here, but there are any number of papers. (goes to desk) Let me have a look. I’ll find it in three tries. (pouncing on the letter, sits) “My own dearest Alma.” Found at one! The letter in the play! of course! of course! it’s me she’s jealous of! It must be me. (rises, takes letter and reads) “At last I have a moment to myself, to scribble a hasty answer to your note.” (reads on with her back turned to door, L. Re-enter Lucy, L., in out-door costume, very cautiously creeps in, sees Alma, and starts violently, then stands motionless. The stage has by this time grown rather dim, as if it were getting dusk. Check lights, check to half down. Lights gradually fade away and go out) “Why have I a wife? She is a mere child for whom I had a passing fancy.”
Lucy. (under her breath) She’s reading the letter!
Alma. “Nothing can now remove the barrier between us. With my own hand I have destroyed my happiness.” Oh, no, you haven’t, Ned! I’ll make you happy yet. Now I understand the state of affairs I know what to do. (puts letter on table) The barrier must be broken down—smashed—blown to atoms! Oh, dear, I feel so happy! (turns; slips behind a screen) Ned! dear old Ned! Where are you? (runs out, R.)
Lucy. (emerging) Yes, they shall both be happy. (surveying the room) Good-bye, everything. (crosses to piano) Piano that he gave me. Old music that he used to like. I shall never dare to sing you any more. (crosses to cabinet, addressing photograph of Sir Humphrey) Good-bye, my only father, who would never own me. I’m not your daughter now. (crosses to cabinet, L., brings photograph of Ned to table, L.) Good-bye, Ned, my husband! You won’t see me any more. Don’t look at me in that way. If you don’t love me, say good-bye to me. (sits at table. Re-enter Servant, R., with lamp, which she puts on cabinet, R.; the noise attracts Lucy’s attention; softly) Wilson?
Serv. (starts slightly) You here, m’m?
Lucy. (rises) I’m going out.
Serv. Going out, Mrs. Chetwynd?
Lucy. Don’t say anything; but give this note to Mr. Chetwynd. (gives note) Good-bye, Wilson.
Serv. Good-bye?
Lucy. I mean good night. (Exit through window off, L. Servant closes window, draws curtains, exit, L.)
Re-enter Alma and Ned, R.
Alma. Yes, it’s as plain as the nose on my face. It’s me she’s jealous of.
Ned. Jealous of you? Ridiculous!
Alma. I don’t see anything ridiculous about it.
Ned. The idea of anybody being jealous of you!
Alma. You ask Wilson and you’ll find I’m right. (Ned rings bell)
Re-enter Sir Humphrey; Dr. and Mrs. Dozey, R.
Sir H. You always are right, Mrs. Blake. What should we do without you?
Re-enter Servant, L., with letter.
Ned. Wilson, where’s Mrs. Chetwynd?
Serv. She’s gone out, sir.
All. Out?
Dr. At this hour?
Mrs. D. I thought she wasn’t well?
Serv. She left a note for you, sir. (gives note to Ned. Exit, L. Ned opens note, holds it out to Alma)
Sir H. What does she say?
Alma. Only two words—“Good-bye.”
Re-enter Tom, C., from L., unobserved.
Mrs. D. It’s an elopement!
Dr. Our worst fears are realised.
Ned. (springing up) What do you mean?
Dr. I will make no assertion—hazard no conjecture. I will ask, simply, where is Mr. Potter?
Tom. Here! (all turn)
Alma. (recognising him) Tom!
Mrs. D. You know Mr. Potter?
Tom. Alma!
Sir H. (as if to himself) She is his wife! (sits, R.)
End of Act II.