ACT II.
Scene: same as in Act I.
Enter Mr. Smailey and Servant.
Mr. S. (very gently). Will you have the goodness to tell Mrs. Van Brugh that Mr. Smailey is here to see her, by appointment?
Serv. Mr. Smailey, sir? Yes, sir. (Going.)
Enter Mr. Fitz Partington.
Fitz. (stopping Servant). And his solicitor.
Mr. S. (with mild sternness). You have followed me again, sir?
Fitz. Followed you again, sir; according to contract.
Mr. S. There is no contract between us that entitles you to dog my footsteps as though you were hunting down a thief.
Fitz. Hunting down a thief? Oh, yes. To enable me to assist you in blighting the character of the best and loveliest woman that ever shed a light upon a private detective’s thorny path, I am to have the free run of your house and papers; I am to accompany you wherever you go, and you are to introduce me everywhere as your solicitor.
Mr. S. Sir, you are not in the least like a solicitor. You are a ridiculously dressed person. You are like nothing in the world but what you are—a private detective. I desire to press hardly on no fellow-creature, but you are a spy! that base and utterably abject thing—a spy!
Fitz. Mr. Smailey, when you complain that you find my society irksome, you have my profoundest sympathy; I find it so myself. When you revile my profession, my sentiments are entirely in accord, for I have the very poorest opinion of it. But when you imply that I don’t look the character I undertake to represent, why then, sir, you touch the private detective on the most sensitive part of his moral anatomy. I’m not a blameless character, but if I undertook to personate the Archbishop of Canterbury I believe I should look the part, and my conversation would be found to be in keeping with the character.
Mr. S. Pray, silence; oh, pray, pray, silence. You shock me inexpressibly. It is most painful to me to have to resort to your assistance. My son, my dear son, has engaged himself to marry Mrs. Van Brugh’s daughter. I have lately had reason to believe that there is something discreditable in Mrs. Van Brugh’s marriage relations, though I do not know its precise nature. You tell me that you have a certain clew to this flaw, though you decline to tell me what it is until your proofs are matured. Well, sir, the Smaileys are a very old and very famous family. Caius Smaileius came over with Julius Cæsar; his descendants have borne an untarnished scutcheon for eighteen hundred years. In its interest I am bound to employ you, and upon your own most exacting terms, though I can not think of your contemptible calling without a feeling of the most profound abhorrence.
Fitz. Sir, I am heartily ashamed of it.
Mr. S. You are a professional impostor; a hired lie.
Fitz. It is too true. I not only lie myself, but I am the cause of lying in others.
Mr. S. For the lies that have to be told in accounting for you I hold you entirely responsible. I wish that to be understood. I wash my hands of them altogether, and, when I think of the deep, deliberate, and utterly indefensible falsehoods that I have had to utter on your behalf, I tremble for your future—I tremble for your future.
Fitz. Unselfish man.
Mr. S. As for the preposterous terms you have dictated——
Fitz. Terms! I have insured to myself the unbroken enjoyment of your desirable society for six weeks, and believe me, when I say that if I had been acquainted with the inexpressible charms of the most fascinating woman that ever shed a light upon the private detective’s thorny path, I wouldn’t have undertaken the job, no, not even for a lifetime of your society!
Enter Mrs. Van Brugh.
Mrs. V. B. Good morning, Mr. Smailey. I am sorry to have kept you waiting. (Aside) That absurd little man with him again. (Aloud) Good morning, Mr.——
Fitz. Fitz Partington.
Mrs. V. B. Fitz Partington, of course.
Fitz. (aside). She might remember my name. I can’t conceive any circumstances under which I could forget hers!
Mr. S. Mr. Fitz Partington is entirely in my confidence. I brought him, because I believed that his familiarity with legal forms might assist us in our interview. You can speak without reserve before Mr. Fitz Partington. (Aside to Fitz.) A lie, sir! Another lie, from first to last!
Mrs. V. B. I suppose the facts will come before Mr. Fitz Partington when they are decided on. The steps by which they are arrived at will only bore him. I’m sure Mr. Partington won’t be angry with me, when I ask him to amuse himself in the next room until preliminaries are arranged.
Fitz. Mrs. Van Brugh, I have made it a part of my moral code to step without hesitation into any apartment you may think fit to indicate.[Exit.
Mrs. V. B. Now, Mr. Smailey, about these settlements. I will tell you at once what I propose to do. My income is, as you know, a very large one—much larger than any one would suppose who judges from the quietness of my mode of life. I am an odd woman, and I spend my money in my own way. I have very many claims upon it, and, although I wish to deal handsomely with my darling Eve, I must not disappoint those who have counted upon me for some years past. To come to the point, I propose to settle my Buckinghamshire farm upon her, on the usual terms of a marriage settlement. I don’t know the technical expression—but on the usual terms.
Mr. S. The Buckinghamshire farm, yes. Thank you. I forget whether that is the leasehold or the freehold farm, for you have two.
Mrs. V. B. You mustn’t ask me. Your solicitor knows. It’s worth £500 a year, and that, I suppose, is the main point.
Mr. S. Not altogether; the difference in value may be prodigious. Have you a copy of the will?
Mrs. V. B. No. I never saw the will.
Mr. S. Never saw the will? I think I have a copy of it at home—with your permission, I will go and fetch it, and the matter can be decided at once.
Mrs. V. B. Do, by all means. I only know that my property is all my own, and that I can do what I like with it; and I assure you, Mr. Smailey, I avail myself of the privilege.
Mr. S. You do indeed. And that reminds me, Mrs. Van Brugh, that I am anxious to speak to you on another topic—a topic of a singularly painful character. I will endeavor, Mrs. Van Brugh, to approach it as delicately as possible.
Mrs. V. B. Indeed! (Alarmed.) You rouse my curiosity, Mr. Smailey. Does it—does it refer in any way to myself?
Mr. S. Directly to yourself.
Mrs. V. B. (much alarmed). May I ask in what way?
Mr. S. As I said before, it is a most difficult subject to approach, and I would willingly spare you. Give me a moment to think how I can best put it to you.
Mrs. V. B. Pray have no hesitation in telling me what it is. (With half-disguised emotion.) Does it—does it refer in any way to my—to my past life, for instance? (With affected cheerfulness.)
Mr. S. It does refer to incidents in your past life. To many incidents in general, and to one incident in particular.
Mrs. V. B. For Heaven’s sake, sir, be explicit. Speak out, I implore you. (With suppressed agitation.)
Mr. S. You seem strangely agitated, Mrs. Van Brugh.
Mrs. V. B. No, no; I am ill and nervous to-day. Your manner is rather alarming. (With affected cheerfulness.) You know I’m a very bad hand at guessing riddles, Mr. Smailey. Come, what is it? I give it up. (He hesitates.) Why have you any hesitation in telling me?
Mr. S. Because it involves a particularly delicate moral point. (She is much agitated.) God bless me, you seem very much alarmed.
Mrs. V. B. (with determination). Mr. Smailey, once and for all, I insist upon knowing what it is.
Mr. S. Well, then, to be quite plain with you, it is currently reported in the village that you have taken a miserable woman from the streets and established her in the character of a respectable workwoman within a hundred yards of this spot. (Mrs. Van Brugh, whose agitation and alarm have been intense, is greatly relieved.) Moreover, I have been informed that you have, for some years past, been in the habit of searching out women of bad character who profess penitence, with the view of enabling them to earn their living in the society of blameless Christians.
Mrs. V. B. I have.
Mr. S. I tell you at once that I am loath to believe this thing.
Mrs. V. B. (with indignant surprise). Why are you loath to believe this thing?
Mr. S. Why? (Rises.) Because its audacity, its want of principle, and, above all, its unspeakable indelicacy, shock me beyond the power of expression.
Mrs. V. B. Mr. Smailey, is it possible that you are speaking deliberately? Think of any blameless woman whom you love and honor, and who is loved and honored of all. Think of the shivering outcast whose presence is contamination, whose touch is horror unspeakable, whose very existence is an unholy stain on God’s earth. Woman—loved, honored, courted by all. Woman—shunned, loathed, and unutterably despised, but still—Woman. I do not plead for those whose advantages of example and education render their fall ten thousand times more culpable. Let others speak for such as they. (With a broken voice.)—It may be that something is to be said, even for them. I plead for those who have had the world against them from the first—who with blunted weapons and untutored hands have fought society single-handed, and fallen in the unequal fight. God help them!
Mr. S. Mrs. Van Brugh, I have no desire to press hardly on any fellow-creature, but society, the grand arbiter in these matters, has decided that a woman who has once forfeited her moral position shall never regain it.
Mrs. V. B. Even though her repentance be sincere and beyond doubt?
Mr. S. Even so.
Mrs. V. B. Even though she fell unprotected, unadvised, perishing with want and chilled with despair?
Mr. S. Even so. For such a woman there is no excuse—for such a woman there is no pardon.
Mrs. V. B. You mean no pardon on earth?
Mr. S. Of course I mean no pardon on earth. What can I have to do with pardon elsewhere?
Mrs. V. B. Nothing. Mr. Smailey, when you have procured the will, I shall be ready to see you; but before you go let me tell you that I am inexpressibly shocked and pained at the terrible theory you have advanced. (He endeavors to speak.) Oh, understand me, I do not charge you with exceptional heartlessness. You represent the opinions of society, and society is fortunate in its mouthpiece. Heaven teaches that there is a pardon for every penitent. Earth teaches that there is one sin for which there is no pardon—when the sinner is a woman!
(Ruth has entered. She is quietly and decently dressed, and carries a parcel of needlework in her hand.)
Mr. S. (aside). Mrs. Van Brugh, pray be quiet; we are observed.
Mrs. V. B. By the subject of our conversation.[Exit Mrs. Van Brugh.
Ruth. I beg pardon—I thought the lady was alone. (Going.)
Mr. S. Stop, woman. (She turns and advances.) Don’t—don’t approach me—we have nothing in common. Listen at a distance. Mrs. Van Brugh has thought proper to place you on a pedestal that levels you, socially, with respectable Christians. In so doing, I consider that she has insulted respectable Christians. She thinks proper to suffer you to enter my presence. In so doing I consider that she has insulted me. I desire you to understand that when a woman of your stamp enters the presence of a Christian gentleman, she——
Ruth. (who has been looking at him in wonder during this speech). Smailey! That’s never you! (Mr. S. falls back in his chair.)
Ruth. Ay, Smailey, it’s Ruth Tredgett.
Mr. S. (very confused). I did not know whom I was speaking to.
Ruth. But you knowed what you was speakin’ to, Jonas Smailey. Go on. I’m kinder curous to hear what you’ve got to say about a woman o’ my stamp. I’m kinder curous to hear wot Jonas Smailey’s got to say about his own work.
Mr. S. We meet in a strange way after so many years.
Ruth. Yes; we do meet in a strange way. Seems to me it’s suthin’ of a topsy-turvy way. But it’s a topsy-turvy world, ain’t it?
Mr. S. (recovering himself with bland dignity). I have no desire to press hardly on any fellow-creature——
Ruth. (quietly). Come, that’s kind, anyhow.
Mr. S. Perhaps, after all, you were not entirely to blame.
Ruth. Well, p’raps not.
Mr. S. Perhaps I myself was not altogether without reproach in the matter. But in my case allowance should, in common charity, be made for follies that arise from extreme youth and—and inexperience. I was barely forty then.
Ruth. And I was just sixteen. Well, I forgive you, along o’ your youth, as I hope to be forgiven along o’ my childhood.
Mr. S. (rises). The tone you adopt is in the worst possible taste. The misguided lady who has taken upon herself, most wickedly, to foist you upon society, has committed a fraud, which——
Ruth. Stop there, Smailey! You’re getting on dangerous ground. Best leave that lady alone. She’s a bit chipped off heaven—she’s good right through. She’s—she’s—I’m slow at findin’ words that mean goodness. My words run mostly the other way, wus luck. If I had to tell o’ you, Smailey, they’d come handy and strong. I can’t find words that mean her!
Mr. S. I have no wish to be hard on you, but it is a fraud, and——
Ruth. Fraud? Fraud’s a bad word to come from you, Smailey. I’d ha’ thought you’d ha’ fought shy o’ that word, for the rest o’ your days.
Mr. S. (taken aback). I don’t know what you refer to.
Ruth. I’m referrin’ to Martha Vane of Melbourne. What, yer recklect Martha Vane, do yer?
Mr. S. Martha Vane! Yes, I remember Vane. Pooh! There is nothing to connect me with that matter.
Ruth. Nothing? I’ve writin’ of yours which is fourteen year, if it’s a day.
Mr. S. And do you mean to say that you would be guilty of such inhumanity—such devilish inhumanity (I use the word “devilish” in its religious sense) as to bring up an act of youthful folly—guilt if you will—against me now that I have achieved wealth, reputation, and social position?
Ruth. No, you’re safe, Smailey. Bring it up agin yer now? Why, you may have repented, who knows? You was a bad lot, sure enough, but that’s twenty years agone, and you may ha’ repented.
Mr. S. I have; I’m an altered person—I—I—will make it well worth your while to give me up that writing you refer to. I will pay you very handsomely for it.
Ruth. Pay! no; I ain’t on that lay. I’m square now. I’m a ’spectable woman. I only takes money wot I earns. It comes slow, but it comes comfortable.
Mr. S. Your sentiments do you credit. I confess I did not look for such delicacy of feeling in you; it exalts one’s idea of human nature. I am thankful for any thing that exalts one’s idea of human nature. Thank you, Tredgett. Give me these papers.
Ruth. No; I’m ’spectable, but I ain’t a fool. I’ll keep ’em, case I want ’em.
Mr. S. As you please. Remember, Tredgett, I am a person of influence here, and a county magistrate——
Ruth. What, d’you sit at quarter sessions?
Mr. S. Certainly.
Ruth. And sentence poor prigs?
Mr. S. Yes. Why do you ask?
Ruth. Nothing; go on—it’s all topsy-turvy!
Mr. S. I shall be happy if I can serve you in any way. I shall always be glad to hear that you are doing well, and I feel certain that the admirable lady who has so kindly taken you in hand will have no reason to regret her charity. It is easy to fall, and hard to rise again—Heaven bless those who extend a helping hand. I am very glad indeed that we have met. I’ve no wish to press hardly on any fellow-creature.[Exit.
Ruth. Jonas Smailey! Smailey here! Things come about queerly. I seed him last at t’other end o’ the world, and to meet him here! Who’s that? (Fitz Partington has entered unobserved on tiptoe, and tapped her on the shoulder.)
Fitz. Come here. (Taking out note-book.) Your name’s Ruth Tredgett?
Ruth. (surprised). Ay.
Fitz. What are you?
Ruth. A ’spectable woman. Wot are you?
Fitz. A detective.
Ruth. (falling back horrified). Wot’s it for?
Fitz. Nothing. You ain’t wanted, but your address is.
Ruth. I’m living at Barker’s in the village.
Fitz. Present occupation?
Ruth. Needlewoman.
Fitz. Late occupation?
Ruth. Tramp. There’s nothin’ agin me?
Fitz. Nothing against you, every thing for you; even this half-crown.
Ruth. I don’t like p’leece money. I never took none yet, I ain’t a goin’ to begin now. I wish yer good day. I don’t like p’leece money.[Exit.
Fitz. I’m not a policeman, I’m a private detective; but we won’t split hairs. (Pockets coin.) I thought Smailey was my man, now I’m sure of it. Ha! ha! Now, Smailey has a game. The question is, what is it? He says it’s his scutcheon, but that is Walker, because his father was a wig-maker. However, it’s quite clear that, whatever his game may be, it is my duty to put that inestimable woman on her guard.
Enter Mrs. Van Brugh.
Mrs. V. B. Has not Mr. Smailey returned?
Fitz. No, ma’am, he has not. (He shows traces of emotion.)
Mrs. V. B. Mr. Fitz Partington, is any thing the matter?
Fitz. Ma’am, you have come upon me in a moment of professional conscientiousness. Avail yourself of it, for such moments are rare and fleeting. Beware of Smailey.
Mrs. V. B. What in the world do you mean?
Fitz. I mean that he is endeavoring to prove that—that you were not legally married to Captain Van Brugh.
Mrs. V. B. (intensely agitated). Mr. Fitz Partington, you can not be aware of the full import of your words. What can be Mr. Smailey’s motive for making these preposterous inquiries?
Fitz. That’s just what I want to get at. In a general way it’s sure to be something dirty. Perhaps he thinks that the property you inherit from Captain Van Brugh isn’t legally yours, and, therefore, can’t be settled by you on your daughter.
Mrs. V. B. But I inherited very little indeed from Captain Van Brugh. The bulk of my property was left me by my godfather.
Fitz. Then I’m wrong. But does Smailey know this?
Mrs. V. B. Know it! Why, of course he knows it. He’s my godfather’s nephew, and next-of-kin.
Fitz. What! His next-of-kin? Next-of-kin is a fruitful expression. I see a whole plantation of motives cropping out of “next-of-kin.” Have you a copy of the will?
Mrs. V. B. No. But Mr. Smailey has—indeed he has gone to fetch it.
Fitz. Can you tell me the terms of the legacy?
Mrs. V. B. No, not precisely. I have never seen the will. My solicitor has told me its purport in general terms.
Fitz. Are you referred to in that will by your married or maiden name?
Mrs. V. B. Oh, by my maiden name.
Fitz. You are sure of that?
Mrs. V. B. Quite sure. At least, I feel quite sure. I can’t be absolutely certain, but—oh, yes; I am sure of it.
Fitz. What was the date of the will?
Mrs. V. B. 1856.
Fitz. What was the year of your marriage?
Mrs. V. B. (after a pause). 1856.
Fitz. My dear Mrs. Van Brugh, this is most important. The news of your marriage might or might not have reached the testator in Australia. If there is any flaw in your marriage, and if you are described in that will as Captain Van Brugh’s wife, every penny you possess will revert to Smailey. Now, Smailey is a scoundrel.
Mrs. V. B. Mr. Fitz Partington, pray explain yourself.
Fitz. In the full conviction that what I am going to say will be treated as confidential, I will explain myself. I’m after Smailey. Smailey will soon be wanted.
Mrs. V. B. This is scarcely an explanation.
Fitz. Scarcely an explanation. Twenty years ago, when in Australia, Smailey forged a burial-certificate to get some trust-funds into his possession. The job was given to our house to investigate, only six weeks ago. Two days after, who should come to us for a detective to inquire into your affairs but Smailey, so we put the two jobs together, and I’m doing ’em both.
Mrs. V. B. But how is it that a gentleman in your profession——
Fitz. A gentleman! Mrs. Van Brugh, for reasons that will go down with me to the tomb, I am humbly and hopelessly anxious to stand high in your good opinion. Appreciate my disinterestedness, when I voluntarily tell you that which will blight me in your estimation for ever. You think I’m an eminent solicitor. I ain’t; I’m the insignificant minion of a Private Inquiry Office.
Mrs. V. B. But you were introduced to me as a solicitor.
Fitz. It is a tantalizing feature of my contemptible calling, that I am continually being introduced as somebody I should particularly like to be. In the course of the last twelve months, I’ve been a Spanish Hidalgo, a Colonel of Hussars, an Ashantee Nobleman, and a Bishop of the Greek Church. What was the date of your marriage?
Mrs. V. B. Some time in February, ’56 (with hesitation).
Fitz. Day?
Mrs. V. B. The—the 30th.
Fitz. The 30th? Try again. Never more than twenty-nine days in February—seldom that.
Mrs. V. B. I forget the exact date.
Fitz. Where were you married, and by whom?
Mrs. V. B. By—by (after some hesitation)—Sir, by your own admission you are a mere spy. How am I to know that you are not asking these questions with a view to using them against me?
Fitz. (much hurt). Ma’am, may you never know the depth of the wound you have inflicted. It will canker, ma’am, but don’t be alarmed, it shall not inconvenience you, for I will remove it from your sight. When we meet again, you will find me in the assumed character of a person who has not had his best feelings harrowed up for a considerable time. It will be a difficult assumption, ma’am, but I will do my best to sustain the fiction.[Exit.
Mrs. V. B. At last! at last my punishment is at hand. And Eve—great heavens, what will become of her? Eve—who loves and honors me—Eve, my child! I mustn’t think of that. It will madden me. I shall want all my head for what is to come! If news of this—marriage of mine (with a bitter laugh) had reached my godfather, he would have described me in his will as Captain Van Brugh’s wife, and then I am lost, and Eve is lost. Oh, why don’t that man come. This suspense is terrible. At last! He’s here!
Enter Eve and Fred with Dr. Athelney.
Eve. Mr. Smailey has returned with the will. Frederick has been explaining to me the difference between freehold and leasehold, and you don’t know how anxious I am to know which it is.
Fred. Eve, Eve, this is very mercenary.
Enter Smailey.
Mr. S. Mrs. Van Brugh, I am most happy to tell you that it is every thing that could be wished. My dear Mrs. Van Brugh, the Buckinghamshire farm is freehold. Here is the clause which refers to it: (Reads very deliberately.) After giving you Westland Park, the Blackfriars estate, and the two reversions, the testator goes on to say, “And I further will and bequeathe all that messuage known as Goldacre Farm, together with all out-houses, ways, watercourses, trees, commonable rights, easements and appurtenances, and all the estate and rights of the said Richard Goldacre in and to the same, unto and to the use of the said Catherine Ellen, wife of Richard Van Brugh, Esq., a captain in the Royal Navy, her heirs and assigns forever.”
(Mrs. Van Brugh falls senseless into a chair, her daughter bending over her.)