THE PLAYS OF ARTHUR W. PINERO

Paper cover, 1s 6d; cloth, 2s 6d each

THE TIMES

THE PROFLIGATE

THE CABINET MINISTER

THE HOBBY-HORSE

LADY BOUNTIFUL

THE MAGISTRATE

DANDY DICK

SWEET LAVENDER

THE SCHOOLMISTRESS

THE WEAKER SEX

THE AMAZONS

[A]THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY

THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH

THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT

THE PRINCESS AND THE BUTTERFLY

TRELAWNY OF THE “WELLS”

[B]THE GAY LORD QUEX

IRIS

LETTY

A WIFE WITHOUT A SMILE

HIS HOUSE IN ORDER

THE THUNDERBOLT

MID-CHANNEL

PRESERVING MR. PANMURE

THE “MIND THE PAINT” GIRL

THE PINERO BIRTHDAY BOOK

Selected and Arranged by MYRA HAMILTON
With a Portrait, cloth extra, price 2s 6d.

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN

The Profligate
A PLAY
In Four Acts

By ARTHUR W. PINERO

“It is a good and soothfast saw;

Half-roasted never will be raw;

No dough is dried once more to meal,

No crock new-shapen by the wheel;

You can’t turn curds to milk again,

Nor Now, by wishing back to Then;

And having tasted stolen honey,

You can’t buy innocence for money.”

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN

First Printed, 1891
New Impressions, 1902, 1909, 1914

All applications respecting amateur performances
of this play must be made to Mr. Pinero’s Agents,
Samuel French Limited, 26 Southampton Street,
Strand, London, W.C.

Copyright

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

It is now more than four years since “The Profligate” was written, and in the interval we have seen many conflicting influences at work upon the theatre, many signs of progress; but in June 1887, although the dramatic atmosphere was full of agitation and uncertainty, and the clamorous plaints of the pessimists were loud, the bolt of Norwegian naturalism had not yet fallen upon our stage, Ibsen was still, as far as England was concerned, an exotic of the library. Mr. Pinero, however, appears to have been an unswerving optimist in the face of spreading pessimism; he evidently felt that the air was clearing, that the period was approaching when the British dramatist might begin to assert his artistic independence, and at least attempt to write plays which should, by means of simple and reasonable dramatic deduction, record actual experience flowing in the natural irregular rhythm of life, which should at the same time embody lofty ideals of conduct and of character. So he wrote “The Profligate,” wrote it as he explained, to fit no particular theatrical company, fettered the free development of his ideas by no exigencies of managerial expediency.

As soon as the play was completed he sought the opinion of one whose attitude towards the drama has always been marked by keen artistic sympathy and generous devotion—that delightful comedian, that masterly manager, John Hare. Mr. Hare’s opinion of “The Profligate” found expression in very practical form. He was at that time on the eve of becoming theatrically homeless, but explaining to the author his plans for the future, he begged Mr. Pinero to keep his play for him until such time as he should be in a position to produce it, a request to which Mr. Pinero gladly acceded.

Two years elapsed, during which period the battle of the isms had proceeded apace, realism clashing with conventionalism, naturalism with romanticism. And the time now seemed ripe to gauge the practical progress of the modern dramatic movement, as we may call it, to test how far theatrical audiences were really prepared to accept serious drama without “comic relief.” The opportunity was at hand, the new Garrick Theatre was completed, and Mr. John Hare produced “The Profligate.”

It must be admitted, however, that in doing this a question of managerial policy prompted a concession to popular taste or custom which Mr. Pinero had never anticipated in the composition of “The Profligate.” He had ended his play with the suicide of the penitent profligate at the very moment that the wife is coming to him with pity and forgiveness in her heart, resolved to share his life again, to bear with him the burden of his past as well as his future—a grimly ironical trick of fate which the author considered to be the legitimate and logical conclusion of this domestic tragedy.

But authors propose, and the “gods” dispose. Mr. Hare, as he frankly admitted in a letter to the papers, felt somewhat timorous of braving the popular prejudice in favour of theatrical happiness in the last act of new plays, and he suggested to Mr. Pinero that, as a matter of expediency, it would be well to alter his dénouement, so as to bring about a reconciliation between the reformed profligate and his innocent wife. Mr. Pinero fell in with the managerial views, determining at the same time that, while he allowed the hero of his story to live on with promise of future happiness upon the stage, when the play came to be printed the terrible finality of the tragedy should be restored exactly as it was first written.

Now, therefore, that it has become feasible to place “The Profligate” in the hands of the reader, the author’s intention is adhered to, and the play appears in its original form. As a matter of record, however, and for the benefit of those readers who may possibly be interested in comparing the two versions, I think it advisable to append below that portion of the acted text which differs from the play as it is now published, especially since the matter has excited some critical discussion.

The Fourth Act, as generally performed, is entitled “On the Threshold,” and the departure from the original occurs on p. 122, when Dunstan Renshaw is about to drink the poison. From that point it runs thus:—

Dunstan.

[He is raising the glass to his lips when he recoils with a cry of horror.] Ah! stop, stop! This is the deepest sin of all my life—blacker than that sin for which I suffer! No, I’ll not! I’ll not! [He dashes the glass to the ground.] God, take my wretched life when You will, but till You lay Your hand upon me, I will live on! Help me! Give me strength to live on! Help me! Oh, help me!

[He falls on his knees, and buries his face in his hands. Leslie enters softly, carrying a lamp which she places on the sideboard; she then goes to Dunstan.

Leslie.

Dunstan! Dunstan!

Dunstan.

[Looking wildly at her.] You! You!

Leslie.

I have remembered. When we stood together at our prayerless marriage, my heart made promises my lips were not allowed to utter. I will not part from you, Dunstan.

Dunstan.

Not—part—from me?

Leslie.

No.

Dunstan.

I don’t understand you. You—will—not—relent? You cannot forget what I am!

Leslie.

No. But the burden of the sin you have committed I will bear upon my shoulders, and the little good that is in me shall enter into your heart. We will start life anew—always seeking for the best that we can do, always trying to repair the worst that we have done. [Stretching out her hand to him.] Dunstan! [He approaches her as in a dream.] Don’t fear me! I will be your wife, not your judge. Let us from this moment begin the new life you spoke of.

Dunstan.

[He tremblingly touches her hand as she bursts into tears.] Wife! Ah, God bless you! God bless you, and forgive me!

[He kneels at her side, she bows her head down to his.

Leslie.

Oh, my husband!

This ending found many advocates, even Mr. Clement Scott and Mr. William Archer, who may be regarded as representing the opposite poles of dramatic criticism, agreeing in their decision that this was the only logical conclusion. “There can be but one end to such a play,” wrote Mr. Scott, “and Mr. Pinero has chosen the right one. To make this wretched man whose sin has found him out a wanderer and an outcast is bad enough; to make him a suicide would be worse.” Yet there were others who thought differently.

Wednesday, the 24th of April, 1889, saw the opening of the Garrick Theatre and the production of “The Profligate,” the programme of which occasion is here appended.

Programme.

OPENING OF THE GARRICK THEATRE.

THIS EVENING, WEDNESDAY, APRIL 24th, 1889.
WILL BE ACTED
FOR THE FIRST TIME
THE PROFLIGATE
A New and Original Play in Four Acts.

BY
A. W. PINERO.

“It is a good and soothfast saw;

Half-roasted never will be raw;

No dough is dried once more to meal,

No crock new-shapen by the wheel;

You can’t turn curds to milk again,

Nor Now, by wishing, back to Then;

And having tasted stolen honey,

You can’t buy innocence for money.”

ACT I.

“THIS MAN AND THIS WOMAN.”

London; Furnival’s Inn;
Mr. Murray’s Room at Messrs. Cheal & Murray’s.

ACT II.

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

Florence; On the Road to Fiesole; The Loggia of the Villa Colobiano.

ACT III.

THE END OF THE HONEYMOON.

The same place.

ACT IV.

ON THE THRESHOLD.

London; The Old White Hart Hotel, Holborn;
Mr. Murray’s Sitting-Room.

TIME—THE PRESENT DAY.

The Incidental Song with Guitar Accompaniment, sung by Mr. Avon Saxon, has been kindly composed by
SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN.

THE NEW SCENERY PAINTED BY MR. HARFORD.

Probably few who were present on this occasion will need to be reminded of the impression made upon the audience by the new play, or of the plaudits with which it was greeted. The success that attended the initial representation was echoed for the most part in the chorus of criticism. On all sides the new play was greeted with warm words of welcome, even when these words were qualified by serious critical strictures; the pessimists regarded it at least as an oasis in the desert of our modern drama, while the optimists hailed it as the herald of a bright new era of English dramatic literature. The various voices of criticism were, in fact, unanimous for once in regarding this as an artistic event of quite unusual importance, even while they were raised to question certain psychological and ethical elements of the play in relation to actual human experience.

It does not come within my province here to discuss the several points of controversy, the various critical objections urged against the play, but merely to recall them as a matter of theatrical history. So be it remembered that the central motive of the story was condemned as being fantastically strained, for the simple reason that at this end of the nineteenth century the mental condition of Leslie Brudenell was inconceivable, the position therefore being untenable from the point of view of real life. It was further urged that any right-minded young wife would have submissively accepted the situation in the true wisdom of modern cynicism, or that Dunstan Renshaw would have turned round upon her and with brutal frankness revealed to her that her disillusioning was only the common experience of all wives, and that she must bow to the inevitable and make no fuss. It was laid down as law moreover that, as a leopard cannot change its spots, so can no man who has once lived evilly be influenced to a better, a purer life; that profligate once, profligate he must remain for evermore. Then Hugh Murray, the serious-minded, lofty-natured lawyer, who can never restrain his tongue when he sees wrong-doing, but can be nobly, piteously silent when he must bury his love deep down in his lonely life until it nearly breaks the heart of him—he was found by certain critics to be impossibly unreal and even comic. It was discovered, too, that the office of Messrs. Cheal and Murray was in Furnival’s Inn, Fairyland—that such proceedings as were witnessed in that office could never have been possible in Holborn.

Those who made all these discoveries charged “The Profligate” on this score or that with being untrue to nature or false to art. Yet Mr. Pinero, in essaying to deal dramatically with a moral problem in a manner which, while neither cynical nor commonplace, should still be in touch with human sympathy and possible experience, appears to have deliberately set himself to conceive a group of characters, natural yet not ordinary, which should embody his ideals, and with a sufficient sense of actuality evolve the tragic recoil of sin, the dramatic pathos of innocence in contact with the irony of life, the exquisite influence of purity. Whether Mr. Pinero succeeded in carrying out his idea or not, even the severest of his critics could not deny this play respectful consideration. “A real play at last,” cried one; “a faulty play with one faultless act,” was another’s summing-up after his first enthusiasm had cooled in the refrigerator of time; while yet a third recorded that “no original English play produced on our stage for many a day has stirred its audience so deeply at the time of its representation, or has sent them home with so much to think over, to discuss and to remember.”

“The Profligate” was performed eighty-six consecutive times at the Garrick Theatre with considerable success, and, as I believe some impression to the contrary prevails, I may be pardoned for adding, with results very satisfactory to Mr. Hare’s treasury. The season coming to an end on July 27, the Garrick closed, and Mr. Hare took “The Profligate” on a brief provincial tour. At the Prince of Wales’s Theatre, Birmingham, on September 2, it was received with extraordinary enthusiasm, the local critics poured forth eulogy upon eulogy, and for the next five nights the house was crammed. From Birmingham the play went to Manchester, where it was produced at the Theatre Royal, on September 9, and performed there nine times. But the Manchester critics, though respectful in their attitude, were sparing in their praise. They complained that Mr. Pinero was neither Dumas nor Augior, compared him with Georges Ohnet, and found fault with his metaphors. And the playgoers of Cottonopolis were depressed, and bestowed such scant favour upon the play that Mr. Hare determined to occupy the last three nights of his engagement with a mirthful adaptation of “Les Surprises du Divorce,” and the Manchester folk then attended the theatre in their numbers, and laughed, and were happy again.

A triumph, however, was in store for “The Profligate” at Liverpool. On September 23, and during the rest of the week, it was given at the Shakespeare Theatre, and press and public alike greeted Mr. Pinero’s play with acclaim. Then Mr. Hare returned to town with his company, and reopened the Garrick with “The Profligate” on Wednesday, October 2. Again was criticism busy with the play, and the praise of some had cooled, and the praise of others had warmed, but the original “run” of the play had been interrupted in the midst of its prosperity, Mr. Hare had resigned his part to an actor of less influence and distinction, and after forty-five more performances it was thought politic to withdraw the play. The notable fact remains, however, that while theatrical audiences were still being encouraged to expect “comic relief” and melodramatic sensation, a serious English drama, which made no concession to either, had been performed one hundred and fifty-three times within a few months, with profit to author and to manager.

But although “The Profligate” had been withdrawn from the boards of the theatre, its influence was still active. It commanded a hearing beyond the footlights, even on the platform of the Literary and Scientific Institute. Mr. Pinero was invited by the committee of the Birkbeck Institution to read his play there, and this he did on the evening of May 16th, 1890, with such marked success that he has since been invited to repeat the reading at many of the leading institutions in the provinces.

But the theatrical career of “The Profligate” was to take a wider range. The voice of the British dramatist was to be heard in the land of the foreigner; but it spoke in the necessarily mimetic tones of adaptation, and the tongue was Dutch. “The Profligate,” bearing the title of “De Losbol,” was produced in Amsterdam on November 30, 1889, under the personal supervision of Mr. J. T. Grein, at the Municipal Theatre, which has since been burnt down. Only a partial success is to be recorded, the play having enjoyed but a brief career, as it did also at the Hague, where the production took place at the Royal Theatre. The Dutch critics were for the most part patronising and lukewarm, patronising because the play was English, lukewarm because the author had not treated his theme after the cynical and pessimistic methods of certain modern French writers. But one of the most prominent critics of Holland was fain to admit, in the Algemeen Handelsblad of Amsterdam, that “viewed from an English standpoint, ‘The Profligate’ may certainly be called a remarkable drama,” and that “it is a legitimate play with a properly worked-out plot, although it contains a good deal of coincidence, and shows a want of spirit in the dialogue.”

“The Profligate” is next heard of in Germany, where “The Magistrate” and “Sweet Lavender” already enjoyed popularity; but there the voice of the author was almost lost in the falsetto tones of the adapter. Dr. Oscar Blumenthal, a well-known German littérateur and the popular director of the Lessing Theatre in Berlin, undertook to introduce Mr. Pinero’s play to German playgoers. But Dr. Blumenthal has won reputation as a wit and a humorist, and any work from his pen must make his audience laugh before everything; so he appears to have adopted very drastic measures in preparing “The Profligate” for the German theatre. He has in fact transformed a serious drama of English life into a frivolous comedy of Parisian manners; innocence is turned into intrigue, the betrayed maiden becomes the scheming adventuress, the play terminates with a laugh, and it is called “Falsche Heilige”—which may be translated as “False Saints.” But the result is popular success.

The first performance took place on Friday, February 13, of the present year, at the Stadttheater, Hamburg, and a perfect triumph was achieved, adapter and actors were called before the curtain no less than twenty times, and the press unanimously belauded the “author”—Dr. Blumenthal. Performances then followed with equal success at Altona, Stettin, Graz, München, Dresden, Hildesheim, and Lübeck, and on Saturday, August 29, 1891, “Falsche Heilige” was produced in the German capital at Dr. Blumenthal’s own Lessing Theatre. The reception by Berlin playgoers and critics was as enthusiastic as it had been elsewhere, and the glory of the adapter was everywhere. And this is to spread still further, for the play is to visit all the other important theatrical towns of Germany.

This summarises so far the Continental career of “The Profligate,” but in all probability it will penetrate much further. As a modern instance of the vagaries of adaptation, the following German criticism of “The Profligate” in its Teutonic dress may be found amusing, in connection with the English text of the play:—

“The German author may be indebted to the English original of ‘Falsche Heilige’ for the plan of the piece, and the material for the several acts, but in the entire modelling, in its general character, and in all its merits, it is the play of Blumenthal. It is insinuating and amusing, persuading by fluent, elegant, refined diction, and especially by the sparkling firework witticisms of Blumenthal, which rise like rockets in every scene, while the dramatic aplomb is preserved throughout the grand scene in the third act, which did not fail to impress, as the author intended. Blumenthal has shifted the action of the story into the salons of aristocratic Parisian society, and the strongly perfumed atmosphere of the bons-vivants and the grisettes of Paris, where comfort-loving fathers and guardians compare their marriage-hunting daughters or wards to ‘freckles,’ which (as the German Hugh Murray says) ‘scarcely got rid of, make their reappearance.’ The ornaments of the Boulevards are the main characters of the play, but the author (Blumenthal) nowhere disgusts a sensitive listener. He tones down the conversation of the circle, and accentuates its fascinating features, utilising it as a frame for setting his brilliant coruscating jokes. He places contrastingly by the side of the frivolous Don Juan the sentimentally virtuous Paul Benoit, and by the side of the cunning and false Magdalen the innocent child Jeanne de Lunac. The piece is full of rich veins of light and cheerful amusement.”

The Australian career of “The Profligate” has been both experimental and successful. Mr. Charles Cartwright and Miss Olga Nethersole produced the play at the Bijou Theatre in Melbourne on Tuesday, June 9, of the present year, and for the first time it was acted in the original version, as now printed. The play ended with Dunstan Renshaw’s suicide, a dénouement which the Melbourne critics accepted as “more powerfully dramatic” than the reconciliation, but the impression produced upon the public was considered too painful, and on the following Thursday evening the ending of the Garrick version was substituted for the original, and “gave greater satisfaction to the public.” Consequently, this is how the play was presented on Tuesday, August 4, 1891, at the Garrick Theatre in Sydney, where it achieved very considerable success, and aroused critical enthusiasm, while it was even then urged that the substitution of the “happy ending,” though managerially politic, was calculated to “detract from the actual merits of the play.”

Malcolm C. Salaman.

London, November 1891.

The Profligate

Dunstan Renshaw & Lord Dangars have been wild, and Dunstan is to marry Leslie Brudenell, an innocent school girl. Knowing what Dunstan’s past has been Hugh Murray won’t come to the wedding. Janet Preece, a girl ruined & deserted by Dunstan enters & Murray says he will help find her wronger.

Dunstan returned & in love with Leslie, go to Italy for their honeymoon. The Michael Angelo sketches at their villa draw tourists, among whom are Mrs Stonehay & her daughter, Irene, engaged to Lord Dangars, and a school friend of Leslie. Leslie tries to prevent the match. Dunstan goes to Rome for furnishings & meets Lord Dangars. In the meantime Janet Preece comes to the villa, weak & weary. She confesses she has been ruined & can not marry Wilfred, Leslie’s brother. Leslie persuades her to tell Mrs. Stonehay how Lord Dangars ruined her. Thinking he was the one but when the indictment comes to Leslie’s horror Dunstan is found guilty. She sends him away.

Janet Preece goes for Australia, & leaves Wilfred, Hugh Murray tries to look after Leslie, and Dunstan returns to her. Thinking she will spurn him he takes poison. Leslie comes to him, forgiving calling “Husband!”

THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY

Wilfrid Brudenell

Leslie, his sister

Dunstan Renshaw

Janet Preece

Mr. Cheal

Hugh Murray

Mr. Ephgraves

Lord Dangars

Mrs. Stonehay

Irene, her daughter

Weaver

Priscilla

THE FIRST ACT

“THIS MAN AND THIS WOMAN”

THE SECOND ACT

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES

THE THIRD ACT

THE END OF THE HONEYMOON

THE FOURTH ACT

THE BEGINNING OF A NEW LIFE

THE PROFLIGATE

THE FIRST ACT.
THIS MAN AND THIS WOMAN.

The scene is the junior partner’s room in the offices of Messrs. Cheal and Murray, solicitors, Furnival’s Inn, Holborn. There is a gloomy air about the place, with its heavy, old-fashioned furniture, its oak-panelled walls and dirty white mantelpiece, and its accumulation of black tin deed-boxes.

Hugh Murray, a pale, thoughtful, resolute-looking man of about thirty, plainly dressed, is writing intently at a pedestal-table. He pays no heed to a knock at the door, which is followed by the entrance of Mr. Ephgraves, an elderly, sober-looking clerk, who places a slip of paper before him.

Hugh Murray.

Lord Dangars.

Ephgraves.

Yes.

Hugh Murray.

Mr. Cheal always sees Lord Dangars.

Ephgraves.

Yes, sir, but Mr. Cheal is so put about by this morning’s very unusual business that he doesn’t wish to see anybody till after the wedding.

Hugh Murray.

Very well.

Ephgraves.

[Handing a bundle of legal documents to Hugh.] “Dangars v. Dangars.” Oh, excuse me, but Mr. Renshaw has sent in some little nosegays with a request that they should be worn to-day. [Sniffing the flower in his buttonhole.] As the wedding takes place from the office, as it were, I considered it would be a permissible compliment to our client, the bride——

Hugh Murray.

Quite so—very kind of Mr. Renshaw.

Ephgraves.

I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but I see you’re not wearing yours.

Hugh Murray.

Oh, this is from Mr. Renshaw?

Ephgraves.

Yes.

Hugh Murray.

We are keeping Lord Dangars waiting.

[Ephgraves goes into the clerk’s office, as Hugh takes a flower from a glass on the table.]

I can’t wear it—I can’t wear it, at her wedding.

[Ephgraves ushers in Lord Dangars, a dissipated-looking man of about forty, dressed in the height of fashion.]

Lord Dangars.

Good morning, Mr. Murray.

Hugh Murray.

Good morning. Pray sit down.

Lord Dangars.

I don’t want to bother you, you know, but my servant, who has been reading the newspapers for me since my damned—I beg your pardon—since my divorce business has been before the public, says that we were in Court again yesterday.

Hugh Murray.

Oh, yes. The Decree Nisi has been made absolute on the application of the petitioner.

Lord Dangars.

The Petitioner. Let me see—they call me the Respondent, don’t they?

Hugh Murray.

They do—[under his breath] amongst other things.

Lord Dangars.

It’s a deuced odd circumstance that I have been nearly everything in divorce cases, but never a petitioner. Decree Nisi made absolute, eh? That means I am quite free, doesn’t it?

Hugh Murray.

Certainly.

Lord Dangars.

And eligible?

Hugh Murray.

I beg pardon?

Lord Dangars.

I can marry again?

Hugh Murray.

You could marry again if you thought proper.

Lord Dangars.

You wouldn’t call it improper?

Hugh Murray.

If you ask me that as your solicitor I answer No. Otherwise I have what are perhaps peculiar notions as to the eligibility of a man who marries.

Lord Dangars.

Oh, have you! Well, I don’t see that a man’s eligibility requires any further qualification than that of his being single. You differ?

Hugh Murray.

May I speak honestly, Lord Dangars?

Lord Dangars.

Do. I admire anything of that sort. I think your partner told me you were a Scotchman and new to London. I like to encounter a man in his honest stage.

Hugh Murray.

Thank you. Then you will allow me to maintain that the man who marries a good woman knowing that his past life is not as spotless as hers grievously wrongs his wife and fools himself.

Lord Dangars.

As for wronging her, that’s an abstract question of sentiment. But I don’t see how the man is a fool.

Hugh Murray.

A man is a fool to bind himself to one who sooner or later must learn what little need there is to respect her husband.

Lord Dangars.

Why, my dear Mr. Murray, you’re actually putting men on a level with ladies. Ladies, I admit, are like nations—to be happy they should have no histories. But don’t you know that Marriage is the tomb of the Past, as far as a man is concerned?

Hugh Murray.

No, I don’t know it and I don’t believe it.

Lord Dangars.

Oh, really——

Hugh Murray.

You can’t lay the Past: it has an ugly habit of breaking its tomb.

Lord Dangars.

Even then the shades of pretty women should not be such very bad company. [Referring to his watch.] By Jove, a pleasant chat runs into one’s time. If you want me, “Poste Restante, Rome,” till you hear again.

Hugh Murray.

Going abroad, during the shooting?

Lord Dangars.

I must, you know. This divorce business checks the pleasant flow of invitations for a season or two. So I shall spend a few months tranquilly in Italy and write a Society novel.

Hugh Murray.

A Society novel!

Lord Dangars.

Yes—that seems the only thing left for a man whose reputation is a little off colour. Good-bye, Mr. Murray.

Hugh Murray.

Good-bye, Lord Dangars. Come this way.

[Hugh opens the door leading on to the staircase-landing.]

Lord Dangars.

Excuse me, but didn’t I see Mr. Dunstan Renshaw enter your outer office just then?

Hugh Murray.

I am expecting Mr. Renshaw. Do you know him?

Lord Dangars.

Know him! We’re bosom friends.

Hugh Murray.

Friends? You and Mr. Renshaw? Then of course you know that he is going to be married this morning.

Lord Dangars.

Married! You’re joking!

Hugh Murray.

I have a perfectly serious engagement to accompany Mr. Renshaw to the Registrar’s in half-an-hour.

Lord Dangars.

You! No! Ha, ha! That’s very good—that’s very good—that’s capital!

Hugh Murray.

Why does the idea of Mr. Renshaw’s marriage amuse you so much, Lord Dangars?

Lord Dangars.

My dear Mr. Murray, I am not laughing at Renshaw’s marriage, but it tickles me confoundedly to think that you, my Quixotic young friend, are to assist at laying the marble slab upon dear old Dunstan’s bachelor days—and nights.

Hugh Murray.

You mean that Mr. Renshaw is not, according to my qualification, an eligible husband for a pure honest-hearted woman?

Lord Dangars.

Oh, come, come, Mr. Murray, let us be men of the world. Renshaw’s a good fellow, just one of my own sort; that’s all I mean. [Hugh turns away impatiently.] May I beg to know who’s the lady?

Hugh Murray.

Miss Leslie Brudenell—an orphan—my partner’s ward.

Lord Dangars.

Money? I needn’t ask.

Hugh Murray.

If Miss Brudenell were penniless I should describe her as a millionaire. She is very sweet, very beautiful.

Lord Dangars.

You’re enthusiastic.

Hugh Murray.

No, barely just. [Speaking half to himself.] I thought the same the moment I first saw her. She was walking in the grounds of the old school-house at Helmstead, and I stood aside in the shade of the beeches and watched her—I couldn’t help it. And I remember how I stammered when I spoke to her; because some women are like sacred pictures, you can’t do more than whisper before them. That’s only six mouth’s ago, and to-day—— God forgive us if we are doing wrong!

Lord Dangars.

[To himself.] I’m dashed if my pious young Scotch solicitor isn’t in love with the girl himself.

[Ephgraves comes from the clerk’s office.]

Hugh Murray.

Mr. Renshaw?

Ephgraves.

Yes.

Lord Dangars.

Dunstan!

Dunstan Renshaw.

[Speaking outside.] Why, George!

[Dunstan Renshaw enters as Ephgraves retires. He is a handsome young man with a buoyant self-possessed manner, looking not more than thirty, but with the signs of a dissolute life in his face; his clothes are fashionable and suggest the bridegroom.]

Dunstan Renshaw.

Congratulate you! So the law has turned you into a jolly old bachelor?

Lord Dangars.

Yes, my boy—on condition that my solicitor offers a young fresh victim to Hymen in the course of this morning.

Dunstan Renshaw.

Hallo! You know all about it, do you?

Lord Dangars.

Mr. Murray broke the news as gently as possible.

Dunstan Renshaw.

[Shaking hands with Murray.] My best man. Good morning, Murray. Was it a shock, George?

Lord Dangars.

Terrible! You might have knocked me down with one of Clotilda Green’s lace fans.

Dunstan Renshaw.

Shut up, now! I’ve played that sort of game out; so no reminiscences.

Lord Dangars.

Trust me, my dear boy. Make me a friend of your hearth and edit my recollections.

Dunstan Renshaw.

Then all you remember is that at Cambridge I was a diligent but unlucky student.

Lord Dangars.

Quite so—I recollect that perfectly.

Dunstan Renshaw.

And that from boyhood I have suffered from a stupefying bashfulness before women.

Lord Dangars.

Done. You’ll recall the same of me when I next have occasion to marry, won’t you?

Dunstan Renshaw.

It’s a bargain. I—[Puts his hand over his eyes.] Oh, confound this!

Lord Dangars.

What’s the matter? Are you ill?

Dunstan Renshaw.

No. Wait a minute. There were some fellows at my lodgings last night assisting at the launching of the ship—I mean, saying good-bye to me. [Supports himself unsteadily with the back of a chair.] They set light to a bowlful of brandy and threw my Latchkey into it—awful fun. And then they all swore they’d see the last of me, and they stayed and stayed till they couldn’t see anything at all.

[He sinks on to the chair, with his head resting on his hands. Hugh brings him a glass of water.]

Hugh Murray.

Here.

Dunstan Renshaw.

Thanks. [Gradually recovering.] I’m all right. Did I look white or yellow?

Lord Dangars.

Neither—green. Fortunate the lady was not present.

Dunstan Renshaw.

Oh, Miss Brudenell doesn’t know why rooms sometimes go round and round.

Lord Dangars.

No? Perhaps her relations are more penetrating.

Dunstan Renshaw.

Thank goodness there are no such incumbrances. Leslie is an orphan; I’m an orphan. I’m alone in the world; she has only a young brother who doesn’t count. So we start at even weights.

[He drains the remainder of the water and shivers.]

Lord Dangars.

Met her at a ball, of course. I really will be seen at dances again by-and-by.

Dunstan Renshaw.

A ball—nonsense. Her only idea of a ball is a lot of girls sitting against a wall pulling crackers. She’s a “little maid from school.”

Lord Dangars.

Charming! But how——

Dunstan Renshaw.

How—I’ll give you the recipe. Go down into the country for a couple of days’ fishing.

Lord Dangars.

Often done it—caught fish, no girls.

Dunstan Renshaw.

Wait. The stream must run off your host’s property through the recreation grounds of a young ladies’ school.

Lord Dangars.

Times are altered—there was always a brick wall in my day.

Dunstan Renshaw.

Brick walls still exist, but a heavy fish on your line breaks down your notions of propriety and you paddle along mid-stream. You soon discover some pretty little women with their arms round each other’s waists, and you apologise profusely.

Lord Dangars.

But you risk rheumatism.

Dunstan Renshaw.

So Leslie thought, and that won me her sympathy.

Lord Dangars.

And sympathy is akin to love.

Dunstan Renshaw.

And love, occasionally, leads to marriage. [Holding out his hand to Dangars, who buttons his glove.] Help deck me for the sacrifice, George. As luck would have it, Leslie’s guardian, Mr. Cheal, was my people’s lawyer years ago, and he knew I was a gentleman and all that sort of thing. So Cheal got my affairs into something like order, made me settle everything on Leslie, and now you behold in me a happy bridegroom with a headache fit to convert the devil. Thanks, old man.

[Mr. Cheal comes from his private office. He is an elderly man with a pompous manner and florid complexion.]

Mr. Cheal.

Hasn’t Miss Brudenell arrived yet? Ah, good morning, Lord Dangars. Mr. Renshaw, pray don’t be late. I believe it is customary for the bridegroom to receive the lady at the Registrar’s. Who is a married man here? Oh, Lord Dangars, perhaps you can tell us.

Dunstan Renshaw.

No, no! Ask him something about the Divorce Court.

Mr. Cheal.

Good gracious, I quite forgot! Pray pardon me.

[Dunstan laughs heartily.]

Dunstan Renshaw.

I’m waiting for Mr. Murray, my best man.

Mr. Cheal.

[Rather testily.] Mr. Murray! [Hugh is gazing into the fire.] Mr. Murray, please.

Hugh Murray.

Eh?

Mr. Cheal.

Mr. Renshaw is waiting.

Hugh Murray.

I beg your pardon, Mr. Renshaw. I must ask you to dispense with my assistance this morning.

[He sits at his table and commences writing, while Cheal, Dunstan, and Dangars exchange glances.]

Dunstan Renshaw.

Oh, all right—don’t mention it.

Lord Dangars.

[To himself.] Thought so.

Mr. Cheal.

You place us in rather an awkward position, Mr. Murray. I have to escort Miss Brudenell, and I hardly wish to send a clerk with Mr. Renshaw.

Dunstan Renshaw.

Look here, don’t bother. Where does this Registrar chap hang out?

Mr. Cheal.

Twenty-three, Ely Place—very near here.

Lord Dangars.

I’ll walk with you, my boy, and lend you my moral support.

Dunstan Renshaw.

Thanks. But, excuse me, George, I think we’ll part company at the Registrar’s front door.

Lord Dangars.

You believe in omens then, eh?

Dunstan Renshaw.

Well, every man does on his wedding morning.

Lord Dangars.

All right. Do you think I want to assist at your wedding? You never came to hear my divorce case.

[Dangars leaves the office followed by Dunstan.]

Mr. Cheal.

Really, Mr. Murray, this is scarcely business-like.

Hugh Murray.

I think it is all cruelly business-like. Mr. Cheal, don’t you think it possible, even at this moment, to stop this marriage?

Mr. Cheal.

Stop the marriage! Good gracious, sir, for what reason?

Hugh Murray.

The marriage of a simple-minded trustful school-girl to a man of whom you know either too little or too much.

Mr. Cheal.

I know a great deal of Mr. Renshaw. He comes of a very excellent family—excellent family.

Hugh Murray.

Are the members of it at hand to speak for him?

Mr. Cheal.

They are all, I hope, beyond the reach of prejudice, Mr. Murray. They are unhappily deceased.

Hugh Murray.

Then how can you weigh the dead against the living? Here are two lives to be brought together this morning or kept apart, as you will; for upon you rests the responsibility of this marriage.

Mr. Cheal.

I beg your pardon, Mr. Murray. I should have thought that a young gentleman of your severe training would scarcely need to be reminded that marriages are——

Hugh Murray.

Made in Heaven?

Mr. Cheal.

Yes, sir, certainly.

Hugh Murray.

This one, sir, is the exclusive manufacture of Holborn.

Mr. Cheal.

That’s rather a flippant observation, Mr. Murray.

Hugh Murray.

I doubt whether Providence is ever especially busy in promoting the union of a delicate-minded child with a coarse gross-natured profligate.

Mr. Cheal.

Mr. Murray, you are speaking of a client in terms to which I prefer being no party. Mr. Renshaw may have yielded to some of the lighter temptations not unknown even in my youth—except to those employed in legal studies. But the world is not apt to condemn the—the——

Hugh Murray.

The license it permits itself!

Mr. Cheal.

You are bullying the world, Mr. Murray. I don’t attempt, sir, to be much wiser than the world.

Hugh Murray.

But it costs so small an effort to be a little better. I tell you I have stood by and heard this man Renshaw laughing over his excesses with the airs of a vicious school-boy.

Mr. Cheal.

Tut, tut, that’s all past. Marriage is the real beginning of a man’s life.

Hugh Murray.

No, sir, it is the end of it—what comes after is either heaven or hell.

[Ephgraves enters.]

Ephgraves.

Miss Brudenell is here with her maid and Mr. Wilfrid.

Hugh Murray.

Don’t bring them in till I ring.

Mr. Cheal.

Really, Mr. Murray——! [Ephgraves retires.]

Hugh Murray.

Mr. Cheal, I make a final appeal to you with my whole heart.

Mr. Cheal.

I am a man of business, Mr. Murray!

Hugh Murray.

I know that; and I know that this child is an unremunerative responsibility of which you would gladly be rid.

Mr. Cheal.

Frankly, the trustees were most inadequately provided for under the Will.

Hugh Murray.

Very well—relieve yourself of the trust and throw the estate into Chancery, and from this moment I undertake to bear on my shoulders the responsibilities of Miss Brudenell’s future.

Mr. Cheal.

My dear sir, you talk as if the young lady were not deeply in love with Mr. Renshaw.

Hugh Murray.

What judge is a school-girl of the worth of a man? Of course she falls in love with the first she meets.

Mr. Cheal.

Nothing of the kind. Why, for that matter, Miss Brudenell knew you before she met Mr. Renshaw.

Hugh Murray.

Yes, yes—I know!

Mr. Cheal.

You have been down to the school at Helmstead often enough—why on earth didn’t the child fall in love with you?

Hugh Murray.

No—true, true. But I have no pretensions to—— of course—I—— [He strikes a bell.] I fear my argument has been very poor.

[Ephgraves ushers in Leslie Brudenell, a sweet-looking girl, tastefully but simply dressed, who is accompanied by her brother Wilfrid, a handsome, boyish young man of about one-and-twenty, and her maid Priscilla, a healthy-looking country girl.]

Leslie.

Oh, Mr. Cheal, am I late?

Mr. Cheal.

Late, my dear—no. Good morning, Mr. Brudenell.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

Leslie was ready to start at seven o’clock this morning and broke the hotel-bell ringing for breakfast.

Leslie.

Oh, don’t tell about me, Will, dear.

Mr. Cheal.

Let me know when the carriage arrives, Mr. Ephgraves.

Ephgraves.

Yes, sir. [Ephgraves goes out.]

Leslie.

[Offering her hand.] Mr. Murray.

Hugh Murray.

Were you very frightened lest you should be late?

Leslie.

Yes, very.

Hugh Murray.

Of course you were.

Leslie.

For his sake—he would suffer so if I kept him waiting. Where is he?

Hugh Murray.

At the Registrar’s.

Leslie.

Why aren’t you with him? You promised.

Hugh Murray.

I am busy.

Leslie.

Oh, how unkind to be busy on such a morning! Will, Mr. Murray won’t come to the wedding.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

That’s a shame. How d’y’r do, Mr. Murray?

Mr. Cheal.

H’m! I shall be there.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

Yes, but Leslie wants her London Mother as well as her London Father.

Mr. Cheal.

Eh? What’s that?

Leslie.

Nothing—be quiet, Will!

Mr. Cheal.

What is the meaning of a London father and——

Wilfrid Brudenell.

I’ll tell you——

Leslie.

No, no—you tell things so roughly. My London Father is a name the school-girls gave you, Mr. Cheal, because you are my guardian in London and look after me. And when Mr. Murray began to come down to Helmstead about once a month to see that I was happy, they set about to invent some title for him too. And as I couldn’t have two fathers and I already had a real brother they called Mr. Murray my London Mother, because he was so thoughtful and tender, just as my school-fellows told me their mothers are.

Mr. Cheal.

H’m! Well, my dear, all that is very nice for school-girls, but it is what practical people call stuff and nonsense. I’ll go and get my hat.

[He goes out.]

Leslie.

Mr. Cheal is angry.

Hugh Murray.

No, no.

Leslie.

He is. He said “stuff and nonsense” the other day when I begged him to let me be married in a church, and now——

Hugh Murray.

Ah, don’t think of Mr. Cheal’s very business-like manner.

Leslie.

I can’t help it. Tell me, Mr. Murray, does everything simple become stuff and nonsense when you get married?

Hugh Murray.

How should I know, my child? I am an old bachelor. [Priscilla beckons Leslie.]

Priscilla.

Missy—Miss—you’re untidy again!

Leslie.

Oh, no, don’t say that!

[Priscilla arranges Leslie’s costume.]

Leslie.

The little mirror, Priscilla. [Surveying herself critically as the sunlight enters at the windows.] Priscilla, I’m getting uglier as the day wears on.

Priscilla.

I’m sure you’re quite good-looking enough for London, Miss.

Leslie.

I’m not thinking about London.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

[Addressing Hugh.] That’s an odd picture for a lawyer’s musty office.

Hugh Murray.

Ay—imagine what would become of a plain matter-of-fact lawyer, sitting here scribbling day after day, if he could never get that vision out of his eyes.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

Rather bad for his clients, eh?

Hugh Murray.

Yes, and bad for the lawyer.

Leslie.

I hope the Registrar’s office is very dark, Mr. Murray. I particularly dislike my face to-day.

Priscilla.

[Whispering to Hugh.] Ain’t she sweet and pretty, sir?

Hugh Murray.

Yes.

Priscilla.

A lucky gentleman Mr. Renshaw, sir.

Hugh Murray.

Ay.

Leslie.

I heard that. Indeed Mr. Renshaw is not lucky at all.

Hugh Murray.

I think so. Why not?

Leslie.

Because I am not worthy of him. You’re his friend, Mr. Murray, and you know how generous and true he is. I can tell you, my London Mother, that every night and morning since I have been engaged, I have prayed nothing but this, over and over again—“Make me good enough—good enough for Dunstan Renshaw!” [Hugh moves away.] [Looking at herself in the mirror.] I wish now I had added “make me a little prettier.”

[Ephgraves appears at the door.]

Ephgraves.

The carriage is here, sir.

Leslie and Priscilla.

Oh!

Hugh Murray.

Tell Mr. Cheal.

[Leslie is a little flurried, and Priscilla at once busies herself about Leslie’s costume.]

Ephgraves.

A young lady is in my room waiting to see you, Mr. Murray. She brings a card of Mr. Wilfrid’s with your name on it in his writing.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

Oh, I am so glad she has called! Mr. Murray, I’ve found your firm a new client.

Hugh Murray.

Indeed—thank you—thank you. In a few moments, Mr. Ephgraves.

[Ephgraves goes into the inner office.]

Wilfrid Brudenell.

It’s quite a romance, isn’t it, Leslie?

Leslie.

Oh, don’t speak to me, please, dear.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

When Leslie and I arrived at Paddington Station last night, a solitary young lady got out of the next compartment. Les, wasn’t she gentle and pretty?

Leslie.

Yes—yes. There’s a button off my glove.

[Priscilla hastily produces needle and thread and commences stitching the glove.]

Wilfrid Brudenell.

The poor little thing seemed quite lost in the crowd and bustle and at last, pushed about by the porters and passengers, she sat herself down to cry. We asked if we could help her. Do you remember how pretty she looked then, Les?

Leslie.

I can’t remember anything till I have been married a little while. Do be quick, Priscilla.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

Well, what do you think the poor little lady wanted? She wanted to find the cleverest man in London, some one to advise her on an awfully important matter. Leslie said I was clever, didn’t you, Les?

Leslie.

Yes, but I thought of Mr. Renshaw.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

But, said I, “I know what you really need—a lawyer,” and I gave her my card to present to Mr. Hugh Murray, of Cheal and Murray, Furnival’s Inn.

Hugh Murray.

Thank you—thank you.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

[To himself.] I wish I could find her here when we come back. [Cheal bustles into the room.]

Mr. Cheal.

Now then, my dear, are you ready?

Leslie.

Ready! You had better say farewell to Miss Leslie Brudenell, Mr. Murray; you will never see her again.

Hugh Murray.

Good-bye.

Leslie.

Come to my wedding.

Hugh Murray.

I—I am busy.

[He turns away and sits at his desk.]

Leslie.

[To herself.] I wonder whether the world will be of the same colour when I am married? Mr. Murray seems changing already.

Mr. Cheal.

My dear!

[Cheal offers his arm to Leslie, who, as she takes it, looks appealingly at Hugh, but he will not notice her.]

Leslie.

Mr. Murray! Mr. Murray!

[She leaves the room on Cheal’s arm, attended by Priscilla.]

Wilfrid Brudenell.

I say, we shan’t be long getting married. I wish you could detain the young lady till I return.

Hugh Murray.

Yes—yes.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

It’s of no consequence, you know.

[Wilfrid runs out after the wedding party.]

Hugh Murray.

She is going. [He goes to the window and looks out.] Ah! They have taken her away. The Inn is empty.

[Ephgraves enters.]

Ephgraves.

H’m! Mr. Murray.

Hugh Murray.

They have gone, Ephgraves.

Ephgraves.

Yes. [Handing him a slip of paper.] Will you see the young lady now?

Hugh Murray.

Certainly. [Ephgraves goes out.]

Hugh Murray.

[Reading.] “Miss Janet Preece, introduced by Mr. Wilfrid Brudenell.”

[Ephgraves ushers in Janet Preece, a pretty, simply-dressed girl of about eighteen, with a timid air, and a troubled look.]

Janet Preece.

Are you Mr. Murray, sir?

Hugh Murray.

Yes. Sit down there. You wish to see a solicitor, I understand?

Janet Preece.

A lawyer, sir.

Hugh Murray.

That’s the same thing—sometimes. In what way can I serve you?

Janet Preece.

I—I thought you would be older.

Hugh Murray.

Mr. Cheal, my partner, is older than I, but he is out. Can’t you believe in me?

Janet Preece.

It isn’t that I think you’re not clever.

Hugh Murray.

Come, come, that’s something.

Janet Preece.

But you don’t know why I—what I have to—Heaven help me!

Hugh Murray.

You know, people bring their troubles to men like me quite as an ordinary matter——

Janet Preece.

Yes, sir—ordinary troubles. I could tell a woman: I could tell your wife if she was as kind as you seem to be.

Hugh Murray.

My dear young lady, I have no wife. Come now, don’t think of me as anything but a mere machine.

[He listens without looking at her.]

Janet Preece.

I—want—to—find somebody who has disappeared.

Hugh Murray.

Yes? A man or a woman?

Janet Preece.

A man.

Hugh Murray.

The task may be very easy or very difficult. Is he a London man?

Janet Preece.

Yes, a town gentleman who does ill in the country.

Hugh Murray.

Shall I begin by writing down his name?

Janet Preece.

I don’t know his name—I only know the name he called himself by away down home. Mr.—Lawrence—Kenward. Lawrence—Kenward—Esquire.

Hugh Murray.

How do you know the name is assumed?

Janet Preece.

Because I once came softly into the room while he was signing a letter; he wrote only his initials, but I saw that they didn’t belong to the name of Lawrence Kenward.

Hugh Murray.

What were the initials?

Janet Preece.

D. R.

Hugh Murray.

[Scribbling upon a sheet of paper.] Ah, you may have been mistaken. The letters “D. R.” and “L. K.” have some resemblance at a distance.

Janet Preece.

No—no, no—no!

Hugh Murray.

[Scribbling again.] Now, making the “D. R.” in this way—[thoughtfully] D. R.

Janet Preece.

I’m not mistaken, for when I charged him with deceiving me he told me a falsehood with his lips and the truth with his eyes. And that night he broke with me.

Hugh Murray.

[To himself, looking at his watch.] It is her name now. Why do I let everything remind me of it? D. R. [To Janet.] Have you any letter from this man?

Janet Preece.

No. He was always too near me for the need of writing, the more’s the shame.

Hugh Murray.

Have you his portrait—a photograph?

Janet Preece.

He always meant me too much ill to give me a portrait.

Hugh Murray.

Describe him.

Janet Preece.

A man about your age, sir, I should guess, but with a boy’s voice when he speaks to women. I—I—I can’t describe him.

Hugh Murray.

[To himself.] Great Heavens! If by any awful freak of fate this poor creature is a victim of Renshaw’s—and she at this moment standing beside him——! What a fool I am to think of no man but Renshaw!

Janet Preece.

Don’t ask me to describe him in words, sir,—I can’t, I can’t. But I’ve taught myself to draw his face faithfully. I’m not boasting—I can’t draw anything else because I see nothing else. Give me some paper I can sketch upon, and a pencil.

[Hugh hands her paper and pencil, and watches while she sketches.]

Hugh Murray.

[To himself.] If the face she sketches should bear any resemblance to his, what could I do, what could I do?

Janet Preece.

[To herself.] That’s with his mocking look as I last saw him. He is always mocking me now.

Hugh Murray.

[To himself.] I could do nothing—it’s too late—nothing. Shall I look now? No. What a coward I am! Yes. [He looks over Janet’s shoulder.] Renshaw! [He struggles against his agitation.] The wife! I must think of the wife. [To Janet.] My poor child, the most accurate portrait in the world is poor material towards hunting for a man in this labyrinth of London.

Janet Preece.

Oh, but take it. His face must be familiar to hundreds of men and women in London. I know that he belongs to some of your great clubs and goes to the race-meetings in grand style—he has told me so. And take these. These papers tell you all about me and give an address where you can write to me when you’ve traced him.

Hugh Murray.

I—I can’t undertake this search. It’s useless—it’s useless.

Janet Preece.

No, no—don’t refuse to help me! Your face says you are clever—it’s easy work for you. He isn’t in hiding; he is flaunting about in broad sunlight in your fine parks, maybe with another poor simple girl on his arm. Find him for me! He isn’t a murderer stealing along in the shadow of walls at night-time—he is only a betrayer of women, and men don’t hide for that!

Hugh Murray.

I—I’ll look through this bundle of papers. You shall hear from me to-morrow.

[He is showing Janet to the door when Wilfrid enters.]

Wilfrid Brudenell.

Oh, I’m so glad you’ve found your way here! How strange that we should meet again!

Janet Preece.

Yes. Thank you, thank you for your kindness. Good-bye! [She goes hurriedly from the room.]

Wilfrid Brudenell.

There now! After my hurrying off on the chance of seeing her, and being nearly run down in Holborn—only “thank you” and “good-bye!”

Hugh Murray.

Have they left the Registrar’s?

Wilfrid Brudenell.

He was congratulating them when I stole away.

Hugh Murray.

[To himself.] If the poor girl should come face to face with Renshaw this morning!

[Hugh looks out of the window.]

Wilfrid Brudenell.

Come now, Mr. Murray, isn’t she sweet?

Hugh Murray.

Yes, yes. [This to himself.] She is crossing the Inn.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

And don’t you thank me for sending you such a pretty client?

Hugh Murray.

[Turning away from the window.] She’s gone.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

Do tell me about her. What’s her name? I should like to think of her by some name.

Hugh Murray.

A lawyer talks of everything but his clients, my boy. So—your sister is married, eh?

Wilfrid Brudenell.

Married! She was married before one’s eyes became used to the darkness of the gloomy little office.

Hugh Murray.

Married—fast married!

Wilfrid Brudenell.

The older I grow the more positive I am that nothing in life takes any time to speak of. You’re born in no time, you’re married in no time, you live no time, you die in no time, you’re forgotten in no time——

Hugh Murray.

But you suffer all the time.

Wilfrid Brudenell.

Suffer! Leslie and I intend never to suffer. We sat up together late last night, hand in hand, and we entered into a compact that we’ll remain to each other simple, light-hearted boy and girl for ever and ever. That’s the way to be happy. Hark! [He opens the door.] Here they are! Hallo, Dunstan!

[Renshaw enters, followed by his man, Weaver, who carries his travelling coat and hat.]

Dunstan Renshaw.

It’s all over, Mr. Murray. Ha, ha! Leslie was on the verge of tears because the Registrar wouldn’t read the Marriage Service. What do you want, Weaver?

Weaver.

If you mean to get to Cannon Street, to catch the 12.37 for Folkestone, you haven’t any time to lose, sir.

Dunstan Renshaw.

Oh. [To Wilfrid.] Leslie is affixing her signature, with a great deal of dignity, to some legal documents in the next room. Ask her to omit the flourishes, Wilfrid; there’s a good fellow.

[Wilfrid goes quickly into the clerk’s office followed by Weaver.]

Dunstan Renshaw.

[Hums an air and yawns.] I say, Murray, if you ever marry, take my advice—patronize the Registrar; the process is rapid and merciful.

Hugh Murray.

Mr. Renshaw, I don’t stand in need of your counsel on the question of marriage, but less than half an hour ago you might with profit to yourself have asked for mine.

Dunstan Renshaw.

What’s the matter? What’s wrong?

Hugh Murray.

I tell you to your face, you have done a cruel, a wanton act!

Dunstan Renshaw.

What do you mean?

Hugh Murray.

I know your past! I know that your mind is vicious and your heart callous; and yet you have dared to join lives with a child whose knowledge of evil is a blank and whose instincts are pure and beautiful—God forgive you!

Dunstan Renshaw.

Mr. Murray, the tone you’re good enough to adopt deserves some special recognition. But you’ve always, I understand, been very kind to Leslie, and I don’t choose to dispute with one of her friends on her wedding morning.

Hugh Murray.

You can’t dispute with me because there is no question of truth between us!

Dunstan Renshaw.

Oh, as to my past, which you are pleased to wax mightily moral about, well—I have taken the world as I found it——

Hugh Murray.

You chant the litany of these who rifle and wrong! You have simply taken the world’s evil as you found it! I warn you!

Dunstan Renshaw.

And I warn you that you’ll do badly as a lawyer. Try the pulpit.

Hugh Murray.

I warn you! As surely as we now stand face to face, the crime you commit to-day you will expiate bitterly!

Dunstan Renshaw.

Thank you for your warning, Mr. Murray. It is my intention to expiate my atrocities by a life of tolerable ease and comfort. [Looking at his watch.] We shall really lose our train.

Hugh Murray.

[Turning away in disgust.] Oh!

Dunstan Renshaw.

And it may surprise a sentimental Scotch gentleman like yourself to learn that marriages of contentment are the reward of husbands who have taken the precaution to sow their wild oats rather thickly.

Hugh Murray.

Contentment!

Dunstan Renshaw.

Yes—I’ve studied the question.

Hugh Murray.

Contentment! Renshaw, do you imagine there is no Autumn in the life of a profligate? Do you think there is no moment when the accursed crop begins to rear its millions of heads above ground; when the rich man would give his wealth to be able to tread them back into the earth which rejects the foul load? To-day, you have robbed some honest man of a sweet companion!

Dunstan Renshaw.

Look here, Mr. Murray——!

Hugh Murray.

To-morrow, next week, next month, you may be happy—but what of the time when those wild oats thrust their ears through the very seams of the floor trodden by the wife whose respect you will have learned to covet! You may drag her into the crowded streets—there is the same vile growth springing up from the chinks of the pavement! In your house or in the open, the scent of the mildewed grain always in your nostrils, and in your ears no music but the wind’s rustle amongst the fat sheaves! And, worst of all, your wife’s heart a granary bursting with the load of shame your profligacy has stored there! I warn you—Mr. Lawrence Kenward!

Dunstan Renshaw.

What! Hold your tongue, man; d——n you, hold your tongue!

[Leslie enters with Wilfrid and Cheal.]

Leslie.

[To Dunstan.] Have I kept you waiting? You’re not cross with me, Dun, dear?

Dunstan Renshaw.

Cross—no. But—[looking sullenly at Hugh] let us get on our journey.

Leslie.

Good-bye, Mr. Murray. [He takes her hand.] Won’t you—won’t you congratulate Mrs. Dunstan Renshaw? Do say something to me!

Hugh Murray.

What can I say to you but this—God bless you, little school-girl, always?

[She joins Dunstan and goes out, followed by Wilfrid and Cheal. Hugh is left alone gazing after them.]

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

THE SECOND ACT.
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

The scene is the Loggia of the Villa Colobiano, a beautiful old Florentine villa on the road to Fiesole, with a view of Florence in the distance. It is an artistic-looking place, with elegant pillars supporting a painted ceiling, coloured marble flooring, and a handsome balustrade and steps leading to the road and garden below, while noticeable on the wall of the villa, between the two entrance windows, is a glass case protecting the remnants of an old, half-obliterated fresco.

Weaver is gazing down the road through a pair of field-glasses, and Priscilla is bringing in the tea things, which she proceeds to arrange on a little table.

Weaver.

Pris.

Priscilla.

Hush! [Pointing towards the inner room.] Mr. Wilfrid has gone right off, tired out with his travelling.

Weaver.

I’m very sorry, but what am I to do? Here’s a carriage, with some ladies, coming up the road; of course they’ll pull up here to look at our blessed cartoon.

Priscilla.

Well, whatever folks can see in them few smears and scratches to come botherin’ us about, passes my belief.

Weaver.

You don’t see nothing in it, of course—a country-bred girl. But there’s a real bit of Michael Angelo under that glass. When he was stayin’ in this ’ouse some time back he amused himself by drawing that with a piece of black chalk.

Priscilla.

Why don’t he send and fetch it away?

Weaver.

It’s on the wall of the villa—how can he fetch it? And then again, he’s dead. [A bell rings.] I said so.

Priscilla.

Bother it! It’s sp’iled my dear little missy’s honeymoon. Jest as master is stroking the back of her little ’and, or dear missy is a’ goin’ to droop her head on master’s shoulder, in comes Weaver with “Somebody to look at the wall!” Lovin’ master as she do, why don’t she wipe it off and a’ done with it!

[Mrs. Stonehay’s voice is heard within the house.]

Mrs. Stonehay.

There is a step there, Irene—I have already struck my foot.

Priscilla.

Hush! Don’t show it ’em, Weaver.

Weaver.

I must. The villa was let to us on condition that all visitors was allowed to see the cartoon. This way, please.

[He shows in Mrs. Stonehay, a pompous-looking woman with an arrogant and artificial manner, and her daughter Irene, a handsome girl of about twenty, cold in speech and bearing.]

Mrs. Stonehay.

I hope we have not toiled up two flights of stairs for nothing. What is there to be seen here?

Priscilla.

[Pointing to Wilfrid.] Please, ma’am, the young gentleman has just travelled right through from England, and has fallen asleep.

Mrs. Stonehay.

Oh, indeed. This is surely not all.

Weaver.

[Opening the glass case.] Here is the cartoon, ma’am.

Mrs. Stonehay.

Cartoon—where?

Weaver.

A allegorical design, by Michael Angelo, ma’am; done when he was stayin’ in this very ’ouse.

Mrs. Stonehay.

Quite interesting! [Pedantically] Michael Angelo.

Weaver.

Michael Angelo.

Mrs. Stonehay.

How superior to the cartoons in our English comic journals! Irene.

Irene.

Yes, mamma?

Mrs. Stonehay.

Come here, child. [To Weaver.] What is the subject?

Weaver.

The Break of Day, ma’am. The black cloud underneath is departin’ Night—the nood figure reclinin’ on it is Early Morning.

Mrs. Stonehay.

Ugh! Never mind, Irene.

Irene.

Mamma, do you remember a girl who was at school at Helmstead during my last term—a little thing named Brudenell?

Mrs. Stonehay.

No—why?

Irene.

I am certain that the boy asleep there is the brother who came down every Saturday to visit her.

Mrs. Stonehay.

Dear me! [To Priscilla.] My good girl. Is that young gentleman’s name Brudenell?

Priscilla.

Yes, ma’am. It’s Mr. Wilfrid, Mrs. Renshaw’s brother.

Mrs. Stonehay.

Mrs. Renshaw! Miss Brudenell is married?

Priscilla.

A month ago, ma’am.

Mrs. Stonehay.

At home, I hope?

Priscilla.

She’s with Mr. Renshaw in the garden, ma’am.

Mrs. Stonehay.

[Giving Priscilla a card.] Your mistress will be delighted to see Mrs. Stonehay and her daughter. She is well and happy?

Priscilla.

As happy as the day is long, ma’am.

[Priscilla disappears down the steps.]

Mrs. Stonehay.

Irene, this will save us the expense of tea at Fiesole. [To Weaver.] Oh, you will find a young lady outside—my companion; be good enough to tell her to walk on to Fiesole—we will follow in the carriage.

Irene.

Oh, no, mamma—not walk! The girl looks painfully delicate.

Mrs. Stonehay.

My dear, I will not overload poor dumb animals.

Weaver.

Excuse me, ma’am, but it’s a terrible up-hill walk to Fiesole, and the sun is very hot at this time of the afternoon.

Mrs. Stonehay.

Thank you. The young lady is in my service.

Weaver.

Oh, I beg pardon, ma’am. [Weaver goes.]

Irene.

Here she comes, mamma—little Leslie Brudenell. She is quite a woman.

Mrs. Stonehay.

I forget her entirely. We won’t waste much time here; we’ll just ascertain their position, take tea, and leave.

Irene.

Oh, mamma, will you never admit that one may know people out of pure liking and nothing further!

Mrs. Stonehay.

My dear, do remember my creed! Men and women are sent into the world to help each other. Unfortunately I can help nobody, but it is none the less the solemn duty of others to help me.

[Leslie, looking very bright and happy, runs up the steps, meets Irene and embraces her affectionately.]

Leslie.

Dear Irene!

Irene.

You remember me?

Leslie.

Remember you! You were kind to me at Helmstead.

Irene.

I think you saw my mother once.

[Leslie bows to Mrs. Stonehay, and is joined by Dunstan Renshaw, who has lost his dissipated look, and whose manner towards Leslie is gentle, watchful, and tender.]

Leslie.

This is my husband. [Dunstan bows.]

Mrs. Stonehay.

Very happy.

Leslie.

You will let me give you some tea?

Mrs. Stonehay.

It seems barbarous to intrude upon people so recently married.

Dunstan Renshaw.

On the contrary, Mrs. Stonehay, you may be able to console my wife in her first small grief.

Mrs. Stonehay.

So soon?

Leslie.

Dunstan is obliged to leave me for two or three days.

Dunstan Renshaw.

I am just off to Rome to furnish some lodgings we have taken there, in the Via Sistina. Poor Leslie was to have accompanied me, but Doctor Coldstream forbids the risk of a Roman hotel.

Mrs. Stonehay.