The Benefit of the Doubt, by Arthur W. Pinero

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This Play was produced at the Comedy Theatre, London, on Wednesday, October 16th, 1895

The scenes are placed at Mrs. Emptage’s house, in the neighbourhood of Regent’s Park, and at “The Lichens,” Mr. Allingham’s cottage at Epsom.

The events of the First and Second Acts occur on the same day,day, those of the Third Act about fifteen hours afterwards.

The Scene represents a drawing-room in Mrs. Emptage’s house near Regent’s Park. At the back are double doors, opening on to a further drawing-room, and these face a window, over which the blinds are drawn, to moderate the glare of the sun, which nevertheless streams through them, for it is a fine afternoon in early summer. The rooms are furnished and decorated in a costly and tasteful fashion.

Mrs. Emptage is reclining upon the settee, her eyes closed, a bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. Justina is pacing the room between the door and the window. Mrs. Emptage is a pretty, carefully-preserved woman with dyed hair and “touched-up” face: she is old enough to be the mother of a 2daughter of nine-and-twenty. Justina is of that age, good-looking, “smart,” and already somewhat passé. Both are fashionably but sombrely dressed.

I can’t concentrate my attention in the least; I have been glancing at “The Yellow Book.”

Mrs. Emptage struggles to her feet as Mrs. Quinton Twelves enters. Horton retires. Kate Twelves is a lively, handsome young woman, brightly dressed.

Not quite; that is, it wasn’t when I came away. It’s all over by now, I expect.

Certainly, it was a wrench. Only, Theo wrote little notes to Sir Fletcher Portwood and to Claude and me. [Taking a screw of paper from her glove.glove.] Here’s mine. [Reading.] “I won’t have anybody I am 6fond of, except my husband, in Court at the finish. They tell me they are sure I am cleared, but it frightens me to think you are all waiting. Go to mother’s.”

[Taking the note.] My poor child! [Reading it.] “... they are sure I am cleared....” ’Tina, she’s cleared!

Cleared! I wish you could have heard Sir John Clarkson’s opening speech for Theophila this morning. There was quite a murmur of approval when he sat down.

He said that a morbidly jealous wife is one of the saddest spectacles the world presents; but that when her jealousy leads her to attempt to blacken the reputation, the hitherto spotless reputation, of another woman—in this instance, a young lady more happily married than herself—then that jealous wife becomes a positive danger to society.

Certainly; and yet you have both sat at home, quaking; behaving, for all the world, as if you have a lurking suspicion that Theophila really may—really has—really did——

Why these miserable-looking gowns then? You are dressed more funereally to-day than you were yesterday!

[Tearfully.] If you live to see a daughter of yours, however innocent she may be, dragged through the Divorce Court——!

[Rising, in a flutter.] ’Tina, pin some flowers in your dress at once! I’ll get Bristow to stick a bit of relief about me somewhere. And I’ll wear some more rings——

[She goes out. Justina selects some cut flowers from a vase on the pianoforte.

[Going to Mrs. Twelves.] By Jove, though! it would have been too rough on us if—if—wouldn’t it?

[Attaching the flowers to the bodice of Justina’s dress.] Pray complete your sentence.

Oh, you’re awfully prudish all of a sudden, Kate. You’ve very soon forgotten—— Mind that pin!

I mean, it isn’t as if we hadn’t all been just a leetle 10rapid in our time, we three girls—Theo, you, and I. You needn’t be quite so newly-married-womanish with me.

Of course we did. Only, when you’re married, as Theo is, to a cold, dry mummy of a man like Alexander Fraser, the line’s apt to get drawn rather zigzag.

Thanks—they’re jolly. [Picking up a little mirror from the table, and making a wry face at herself.] I haven’t had a night’s sound sleep for weeks.

I should think not, with such thoughts in your head. Poor Theo! I’ve been fretting about her too, in a different way.

[Adjusting the flowers with the aid of the mirror.] Yes, but it isn’t only Theo. I’ve been doing a bit of lying-awake on my own account, I can tell you.

[Moistening her eyelashes as she again surveys her face.] Why, if this business had gone against my sister, it wouldn’t have bettered my chances—eh?

Ugh, dash it, yes! And this beastly scrape of Theophila’s has been no end of a shocker for me. From to-day I turn over the proverbial new leaf.

Just fancy! I’m the only single one out of we three musketeers. Great Scot, Kate, suppose I got left!

But I won’t, you mark me! From to-day I’ll alter—I take my oath I will! No more slang for me, no more swears, no more smokes with the men after dinner, no more cycling at the club in knickers! I’ve been giving too much away——!

Claude Emptage, a plain, stumpy, altogether insignificant young man enters—a young man with a pale face, red eyelids and nostrils, a dense look, and heavy, depressed manner.

Ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha! All right for Theo! [Clapping her hands, almost dancing. Mrs. Twelves embraces her.] All right for Theo!

No, not in Court. I hung about outside, with Uncle Fletcher, to hear the result. [Sitting, with a little groan.] Oh!

Theophila’s brother! [Pointing into space.] The 15brother of Mrs. Fraser of Locheen! The brother of the witness in the box! Every eye upon me!

Oh, Kate, I’ve felt this business in more ways than one. It has been a terrible lesson to me.

[Not looking at her.] No, don’t pity me—despise me. Kitty, how easy it is for a fellow to imperil a woman’s reputation!

We attach ourselves to a pretty married woman; we lounge in her drawing-room, her boudoir; we make her our toy, our pastime. Do we allow a single 16thought of the scandal we may involve her in to check us in our pursuit of pleasure?

Perhaps you had better not come to tea with me quite so frequently in the future, Claude.

You are right; you, and others, must see less of me. [Turning to her.] And yet, Kate, I am not all bad!

Sir Fletcher Portwood enters. He is fifty-one, amiable, pompous, egotistical, foolish.

[Meeting Mrs. Twelves.] A very proper, a very satisfactory termination of this affair, Mrs. Twelves.

Ha! I daresay my attitude has been remarked. Beaming; why not? I’ve had no doubt as to the result.

Innocent; that goes without saying—my niece. But the result, in any case, would have been much the same, I venture to think.

[Smiling.] And I happen to know the judge—slightly perhaps; but there it is.

Heaven forbid I should say a word against our method of administering law in this country. The House knows my opinion of the English Judicial Bench. At the same time, judges are mortal—I have never concealed that from myself; and Sir William and I have met. [To Claude.] You saw the judge look at me this morning, Claude?

No? Oh, yes, and I half-smiled in return. Yesterday I couldn’t catch his eye, but today I’ve been half-smiling at him all through the proceedings.

19Justina runs in, seats herself at the pianoforte, and thumps out the Wedding March.

Mrs. Emptage returns. She has relieved the heaviness of her dress by a fichu of crêpe de soie.

[Embracing Claude.] My darling! [Embracing Sir Fletcher.] Oh, my dear Fletcher! Be quiet, ’Tina!

[Justina plays the air of a popular music-hall melody, softly; Mrs. Twelves comes to her.

They went over to Sir John Clarkson’s chambers directly the case concluded—I fancy, to consult him on some little point that had arisen. I managed to get one word——

I contrived to get just one word with Alec as he was putting Theophila into the carriage. I wanted to tell him——

[Pacing the room, humming the air played by Justina.] Tra, la, la! la, la! tra, la, la!

I wanted to tell him an amusing story I’d heard 21during the luncheon interval, but he hadn’t time to—— Ha, ha! It’s a legal anecdote. It appears that a fellow of the name of Babbitt once brought an action——

He might do worse, where such undeserved distress is occasioned a young wife and her husband——

I surmise that the judgment of my friend Sir William was very strongly worded, and I daresay an expression of regret followed from Mrs. Allingham’s counsel. But I had quitted the Court, you know——

But you are losing my anecdote. It appears that a man of the name of Babbitt—— One thing, Muriel, I will stake my reputation upon.

[Pacing the room again.] I can hear them doing it! Bravo, Mrs. Fraser! Eh, girls?

As a matter of fact, I talked with several strangers of a humble rank of life, and hinted that a few cheers—so regrettable and unseemly in a court of law as a rule—I hinted that a few cheers would undoubtedly be justifiable in the present instance, as well as peculiarly agreeable to me. It seems that Babbitt——

But I must havehave every support; I am unequal to it otherwise. Who will fetch her upstairs? Fletcher, dear!——

Exactly eleven years have elapsed since my sister Harriet placed it out of my power to continue on a footing of brotherly intercourse with her.

Her behaviour on that one memorable afternoon proved that her marriage to a dignitary of the Church was something worse than a fluke—a sacrilege.

[Going to Justina.] Do you think I could steal downstairs and get away? She used to tell me I was an empty-headed little fool.

28Mrs. Cloys enters, and stands surveying the room. Mrs. Emptage follows her. Mrs. Cloys is about fifty-three, handsome, dignified in bearing, richly but soberly dressed, in manner a mixture of sweetness and acerbity.

[Kissing her, then eyeing her keenly.] H’m! you’re not married yet, I believe?

[Justina retires; Sir Fletcher advances. Mrs. Cloys kisses him, then looks him up and down.

We’re all getting old; that’s why you have the pleasure of seeing me amongst you once more. [Turning to Claude, who bows stiffly.] My nephew? [Shaking hands with him and looking him in the face searchingly.] You’re rather old too. [Sharply.] Who’s that there?

[Who has been hidden by the flowers on the piano-forte, 31advancing, with a nervous outburst.] Oh, I hope you remember me, dear Mrs. Cloys—Kitty Twelves. I was Kitty Powis, if you recollect.

I recollect. Weren’t you at school in Paris with Justina and Theophila, and afterwards——?

Yes. Isn’t this interesting? Quinton, my husband, was confirmed by the Bishop of St. Olpherts! I never discovered it till we’d been married for ages—I mean, weeks and weeks—[gradually quailing under Mrs. Cloys’s gaze]—and then one day—he—he happened to see me kissing the sweetest photograph of you—and and—and——

Mrs. Twills, I understood from my sister there was a purely family gathering here this afternoon——

[Detaining her hand.] My dear, you were extremely 32old when I last saw you, during your first season, in eighty-something; I pray, now you’re married, that you are—younger.

[They look at each other for a moment longer, then Mrs. Twelves withdraws her hand, and, after nodding to the others in a scared way, goes out silently. Claude follows her.

[Sitting on the settee.] Muriel. [Mrs. Emptage comes to her.] We have been on bad terms for many years; let us have done with it. I suggest mutual concessions to disposition and temper.

You have brought up your children abominably; that was always our most serious point of dissension——

I may remind you, Harriet, that Muriel’s cheerful method of training her children has received my 33sympathy and sanction. On the death of the late Mr. Emptage——

Your twenty years of married life may have taught you how to manage a husband, Harriet, but——

Without, I fear, possessing every qualification for the—ah—the exalted station which—which——

[To Mrs. Emptage.] There, there! Don’t, I say. Have done with it? At any rate, we’re grey-haired women now—I am, and you ought to be——

This terrible calamity that has befallen your girl Theophila. Oh, how is it going to end?

You will see Theo and her husband in a few minutes. They are staying with me just now. 36“Weak, giddy mother,” am I, Harriet? My child flies to me in her trouble, nevertheless.

[Wiping her eyes.] The dear bishop will be so rejoiced. Not a newspaper has been taken at the Palace this week. [Resuming her seat.] It has hit us hard. How did it all come about?

[Glancing at Justina.] At one time we thought he was rather inclined to pay ’Tina——

However, he married this creature, Olive Harker—daughter of a Major Harker——

My extraordinary chronological faculty ought to serve me here. Theophila and Locheen were married in the March, Jack Allingham and Miss Harker in the following June; I took the chair that year at no less than three public dinners——

Of course, when the two couples settled down in 38London the usual exchange of visits began. But from the first it was quite evident that Mrs. Allingham resented her husband’s friendship for Theo.

John is some months younger than his wife, I may tell you. No marriage can turn out happily when the balance of age drops ever so slightly on the woman’s side. My observation——

When the wife is older than the husband every fresh little line in her face becomes an acute pain to her, just as if it were cut into her flesh, and renewed daily, with a knife. Those are Mrs. Allingham’s own words.

In her storms with Jack she used to rave out these things, and Jack would repeat them to Theo.

Well, his home had become such a hell that he fell into the way of rushing round to Lennox Gardens, to Theophila and Alec, to obtain relief from his worries.

Not divorce, Harriet; she wasn’t entitled to ask for that. Mrs. Allingham has been suing for judicial separation.

Accuracy with me is a perfect mania. Oh, yes, that’s all. With the exception of the—the——[With a wave of the hand.] However——!

Allingham and Theophila happen, both of them, to be fond of cards. And when Fraser was away in Scotland——

I see. When Mr. Fraser was in Scotland and his wife was by herself in London——

All the bézique part of the case. You see, the lawyers separated the case against Theophila into three divisions.

Friends, to hear Tannhäuser. She had sent her servants to bed, and let herself in with her latchkey. As she was closing the front door she caught sight of Jack Allingham on the other side of the way.

He had had one of his terrible scenes with his 45wife; they lived round the corner, in Pont Street——

And a most charming house theirs was. I always say, with regard to Pont Street——

Jack was in a dreadful state of distress; pacing the streets like a maniac, in fact——

And it wouldn’t have mattered in the least if that devil of a wife hadn’t suspected——

Not four in the morning, as Mrs. Allingham’s blundering counsel tried to establish. Ha, ha! Sir John Clarkson bowled him over there! Three, sir—not four!

[To Justina, who rises.] Go away! You can sit by and assist at the telling of a story of this nature, single woman that you are! [Justina walks away.] What did I prophesy? Years ago, what did I prophesy? [To Mrs. Emptage.] Now, pray, how do you like seeing your children dabbling their hands in this—this pig-pail?

[Repressing her excitement.] Sssh, sssh, sssh! Let nobody make a fuss; Alec hates a fuss!

No fuss, but some one ought to play “See the Conquering 48Hero——!” Theo is so fond of a little fun—genuine fun!

[He seats himself at the piano and fingers out the air laboriously. Theophila and her husband enter. She is an elegantly-dressed, still girlish, woman of seven-and-twenty; he a good-looking, undemonstrative man of about five-and-thirty. Both are pale, weary-looking, and subdued. Fraser is gloved and frock-coated; Theophila is in her bonnet and cape.

[Biting his lip.] Thanks. [Standing at the further end of the piano, to Sir Fletcher.] Do you mind not playing?

[Rising and singing.] “See the Conquering He—ro co—o—o—o—o—o—um—ms—!” Not hero—heroes. No, hero and heroine!

My dear, as a matter of fact, I’ve enjoyed myself in Court. I am not exaggerating—enjoyed myself.

[Turning.] Aunt——! [Advancing slowly to meet 50Mrs. Cloys—a little dazed.] I saw a figure; I—I thought it was Kitty. Why, aunt——!

[With a nod, sitting on the settee.] Alec——[Fraser advances.] My aunt Harriet, Mrs. Cloys—my husband.

[Fraser and Mrs. Cloys incline their heads to each other. Fraser then turns away and joins Claude and Justina, Sir Fletcher Portwood following him. Theophila strips off her gloves.

[Removing Theophila’s bonnet.] In your bonnet all 51day again; your head must be splitting. I know. Do you remember my head at the flower-show at Eastbourne?

[She takes her bonnet from Mrs. Emptage, and fiercely begins to roll it in her cape, as if about to crush them together.

[Uttering a little scream, running round the settee to her.] What are you doing?

[Looking round.] It’s all right. [With an attempt at a laugh.] Those things are to be destroyed.

[Taking the bonnet and cape from Theophila.] Destroyed! They were new for the case!

Phew! I intend to burn every thread I’m wearing, and to have a bath before dinner.

[Constrainedly.] We were rather unfortunate in the case that is to follow ours.

Yes. [Looking straight before her.] There was a patchouli business waiting to come on after us.

It, it, it. And it was wearing a bonnet almost precisely like mine; and it looked to be about my own age, and could have had my sort of complexion if it had chosen——

[She hurries out with Theophila’s bonnet and cape. Claude and Justina carry the tea-table and place it before the “cosy-corner.” Mrs. Cloys sits with her head bent. Horton places the tray upon the tea-table and withdraws. Justina sits in the “cosy-corner” and pours out tea.

[Bustling up to the tea-table.] Tea is what we all need. A most exciting day! I’ve often observed how welcome one’s tea is on a Derby Day——

[In a whisper to Fraser across the table.] Alec, will you tell them what the judge said of me, or shall I?

Thank you. [Quickly.] No, no—I’ll tell them. You couldn’t do it—how could you?

Tea, tea! [Sitting.] Alec, come and sit by me. [Fraser sits at a distance, his lips compressed, his hands gripped together.] Oh, fie! all that way off! You will persist in treating me as an ordinary mother-in-law! [Fraser moves his chair a little nearer.] That’s better. [Triumphantly.] Well, Harriet, you see all my children round me—a happy family!

[Bringing a cup of tea to Theophila.] I make no excuse for devoting myself to Theo—on this occasion. [Theophila takes the tea and gulps it.] You looked charming in the witness-box—piquant. [Returning to the tea-table.] Piquant—just the word—piquant.

Now, Alec dear, tell us. Did Mrs. Allingham’s counsel, Mr. What’s-his-name, express regret when it was all over?

[Sir Fletcher brings tea to Mrs. Emptage; Claude brings tea to Fraser, then returns to the tea-table.

Regret at finding himself made the—the thingamy—the vehicle—for such a malicious attack on Theo’s character—the poor child.

The judge never said he was sorry to see a nicely bred girl, so recently married too, subjected to such a—such a—such an unwarrantable ordeal? [Fraser is silent.] Eh—h?

[Holding up his hand.] Wait, wait, please! I don’t think I am very often out in my calculations. [To Theophila.] What sort of demonstration occurred at the close, may I venture to ask?

I—I feel as Theophila does. I must dip my face 58into cold water. The atmosphere of that place stifles one even now. Do excuse me.

Oh, Mrs. Allingham’s petition has been dismissed—yes. But Sir John Clarkson and Mr. Martyn, my other counsel—all my friends in fact—were a little too sanguine.

Rather down on me—severe. My behaviour—my conduct—has been careless—indiscreet, he says——

Hardly characteristic of a woman who is properly watchful of her own and her husband’s reputation—honour.

[Disjointedly.] But at the same time, he said, Mrs. Allingham had scarcely succeeded in establishing conclusively to his mind ... oh!... and he thought that even the petitioner herself, on further reflection, would be desirous that I should receive the—the benefit of the doubt ... and—and something about costs....

This—this will appear in the papers! Won’t it? 60Won’t it? [No one replies; Sir Fletcher sinks into a chair, with a blank look.] Can’t anybody answer me? Fletcher, will this be in the papers?

[Confused.] The papers—! No strong-minded public man ever looks at the papers. When I have spoken in the House I never——

[In a hard voice.] Why, of course, a dozen papers will have it. What a silly question to ask, ma!

[Advancing to Mrs. Cloys.] I hope you’re quite satisfied, Harriet. You came here, after these many years, on purpose to witness this——[Mrs. Cloys rises]—to see disgrace and ruin brought on me and my family.

[Weeping.] Oh, oh, oh! how glad our friends will be! [Going towards the door.] Here’s a triumph for our friends!

Bristow shall attend on me. I shall lie down on my bed. I shall have my corsets taken off——

[With a grating laugh.] That’s ma all over; she always goes through this process when there’s a family crisis. [To Theophila.] Do you remember, Phil?

[Rising.] I shall go out; people shall see me walking boldly through the streets: Portland Place—Regent Street—[in agitation]—Fletcher Portwood, with his head up—his head up, they’ll say. [He paces the room, and comes upon Claude, who is sitting at the writing-table, writing a telegram, his eyes bolting and a generally vacuous expression on his face.] And you! when are you going to do something in the world besides idling, and loafing, and living upon your mother——?

Do with it? Why, at eighteen I was earning twenty shillings a week, and maintaining myself. Now look at the position I have achieved, from sheer brain-force! [To Theophila.] I shall not turn my back on you, my poor little girl; don’t be frightened of that. You were always my favourite niece——

I beg your pardon, ’Tina; I’ve no favourites. Can I buy you anything, either of you, while I’m out? I may look in here again before I go down to the House. The finest assembly of gentlemen in the world. No patterns, or new music, wanted—eh?

I shall dine at the House, and then sup at the club. All London shall see me. “Look at Portwood!” everybody will say. “Then there can’t be 64the slightest foundation for this scandal about his niece——!”

[Looking after him.] Transparent old egotist! How do I know whether I’m in his Will or not? And yet I stand here and allow him to lecture me! Me! Ha, compare his education with mine! And what real knowledge has he of Life, of Men and Women——? [Showing Justina his telegram.] Is that the way you spell Bernhart?

[In an undertone.] The Wartons wanted to take me to see Bernhardt to-night. Of course, I can’t go now. A marked man! every eye upon me! her brother! [Going to the door, he meets Fraser.] ’Ullo, Fraser!

[Claude goes out; Fraser, who is carrying his hat and gloves, walks across the room, eyeing Justina.

Never mind, old girl. [With a little laugh.] Ha! I suppose this has queered my pitch for a season or two, but—[kissing her]—never mind—[going to the door]—these things will happen in the best regulated——

[She disappears. There is a brief silence, during which Theophila closes the doors.

All right—pretty well. Mother is lying down for a bit. She’ll be quite herself again in a few days.

She’ll have a week at Worthing. She’s always had a week at Worthing when we’ve been in any trouble. You’ve got your hat, Alec; do you mean to dine out?

[Weakly.] Oh, don’t be so sharp with me! All the way home from the Strand you’d hardly speak a word.

Yes, the things sounded much worse in Court than they did out of it, didn’t they?

How cruel it was of them to buoy us up by telling us the case was going right for me!

When one comes to think of it, her counsel managed to put such a very queer complexion——

Oh, I don’t know what I felt like at some moments! I—I felt like a woman caught with bare shoulders in daylight.

[Looking at him curiously.] Alec, you seem to be—different to me, now the trial’s over.

[To herself.] Oh——! [To him.] Alec, I’ve had the idea that the trouble we’ve lately gone through, both of us, over this horrid business, might help to bring us together. We haven’t got along over-well, have we?

As heartily as you hate London. I’m a town girl, a thorough little cockney—you knew it when you married me!—and—Locheen!——

[Hotly.] No to you, then. [Sitting.] I beg pardon again; I didn’t mean to be rude. I understand how you feel. You were born at Locheen.

[Pointing towards the window.] I was born in Chester Terrace. I admit, Locheen is all very well at a certain time of year. But to be stuck there when London’s full; when nobody but a poor relation, whose railway ticket you send with the invitation, will come and look you up! Oh, that summer you made me spend there just after we were married!

Not ridiculous, as you say it—great fun for a time; but four or five months of Duncan and Hamish and their pipes! To and fro on the terrace, for a whole hour in the morning, those pipes! To and fro, up and down, all round the house, in the afternoon, those pipes! At dinner, from the trout to the banana, those pipes. And then, the notion of your persistently dining in a kilt! A Highland costume on the moors—yes; but in the lamplight—at dinner——!

Think of it! A man and woman dining tête-à-tête, 72for months and months; the woman hypped, weary; the novelty of her new clothes gradually wearing off; she feeling she was getting lean and plain with it all, salt-cellary about the shoulders, drawn and hideous—[staring before her, her eyes dilating]—and, every blessed night, the man in a magnificent evening kilt!

It might have been, if you had the smallest sense of humour, Alec; but one soon tires of laughing alone. No, there was never any fun in that kilt. It got on my nerves from the beginning—the solemn, stupid stateliness of it. Girls are subject to creeps and crawls; I grew at last to positively dread joining you in the hall of an evening, to be frightened at giving you my arm to go into dinner—the simple sound of the rustling of my skirt against that petticoat of yours made the chairs, everything, dance. At those moments old Duncan and his boy Hamish seemed to be blowing into the blood-vessels of my head. And during dinner even the table wouldn’t help me; I was weak, hysterical—I declare to goodness 73I could always see through the thickness of the board—see the two knees! [With a backward shake of the head] Ha!

Well, Duncan and Hamish—poor fellows—and their pipes, and the objectionable kilt—those things need never trouble you again; at any rate, we can decide that.

Wait! you haven’t heard. [She changes her position, sitting beside him; he not responsive, almost shrinking from her.] Alec—Alec dear—[leaning her head against his shoulder]—I intend to be good in the future, so very good.

I intend to get on well with you, wherever we may 74be—I will get on well with you. I’ve been babyish and silly all my life; I’m seven-and-twenty; I’m an old woman; I’ve sown my wild oats now.

Forty-four pounds to the bushel. And so, directly we’ve fought our way—oh my, it will be a fight, too!—directly we’ve fought our way through the Season in London, we’ll be off to Locheen——

Theophila, there will be no Season for us in London, and no Locheen even for me, for two or three years at least. [Rising] We’re going abroad——

Directly, directly. There will be only to-morrow to settle everything, to make all arrangements. [Pacing up and down.] The servants at Lennox Gardens will be discharged, the house let furnished—perhaps it would be better to let Marlers sell the furniture, and have done with it. [Pausing in his walk.] I am returning to Lennox Gardens now, at once; will you come back with me, or dine with your people and let me fetch you later on? [She sits, staring at him, without speaking.] Theo, please let me know your wishes.

Why, don’t you see? We’ve got to sit tight here in town; we’ve got to do it, to win back my good name. [Fraser agitatedly resumes his walk.] Of course, we shall be asked nowhere, but we must be seen about together, you and I, wherever it’s possible for us to squeeze ourselves. [Rapidly and excitedly.] 76There’s the Opera; we can subscribe for a box on the ground tier—the stalls can’t help picking you out there. And there we must sit, laughing and talking, Alec, and convince people that we’re a happy couple and that you believe in me implicitly. And when the Season’s done with, then Locheen; we must have Locheen crowded with the best we can lay hands on—many that wouldn’t touch me with the tongs at this moment will be glad of a cheap week or two at Locheen in the autumn. And we must let ’em all see that I’m a rattling good indoor, as well as outdoor, wife, and that you’re frightfully devoted to me, and that what she charged me with—well, simply couldn’t have been. And afterwards they’ll go back to town and chatter, and in the end the thing will blow over, and—and——Oh, but to go abroad now! [Going to him, and slipping her arm through his.] Alec, dear old boy, how could you dream of cutting and running now?

Theophila, I—I am sorry to distress you—if it does distress you, but I—I’ve quite made up my mind. [Passionately.] We are going abroad.

You’d be a brute to do it, Alec! [Stamping her foot.] Don’t you hear me? Can’t you understand me? You’re not a fool! I tell you we’ve got to try to convince people——

Yes, before I go among people, to try to convince them, I have to try to convince myself.

You—you think there’s some—some truth in it then? [He makes no answer.] It’s true, you believe?

As you say, her counsel twisted and turned everything about so. When he cross-examined you to-day, and made you say ... and then the judge ... the benefit of the doubt ... awful....

[Rising.] Yes—that we must go away and be, quietly, together. For the present, there’s something even more important than regaining the good opinion of others—there is ourselves. Will you come back to Lennox Gardens now, or shall I return for you by-and-bye?

It doesn’t matter. [He goes out. For a few moments she remains quite still; then she rouses herself, and, with a blank look, wanders about, her arms moving restlessly. Suddenly she presses her hands to her brow and sinks into a chair, with a low half-cry, half-moan.] Oh! oh! [After a short burst of crying she examines her wedding-ring, removes it from her finger, and giving a little laugh, flings it on to the settee. Then she rises, and with an air of determination goes to the writing-table.] Very well! very well!

[She sits before the writing-table and writes rapidly. At intervals she utters an exclamation; then sings as she writes. The doors are opened, and Horton enters.

[Horton places the tea-cups on the tea-tray, lifts up the tray, and is about to carry it out.

[Looking off.] Mrs. Emptage lay them down in the next room. Here they are, ma’am.

Just give them to me. [Horton goes off and immediately returns with the bonnet, cape, and gloves.] Thanks.

[Horton arranges the cape over the back of a chair, places the bonnet and gloves on the table, and withdraws. Having finished her letter and addressed an envelope, she rises and searches for her wedding-ring; finding this she slips it into the letter, and fastens the envelope. Then, keeping the letter in her hand, she puts on her bonnet 82and cape, standing before the mirror. Sir Fletcher enters, looking disturbed and dejected; Claude follows, downcast, silent, and morose, and walks about aimlessly, staring at the carpet.

To walk it off, eh? [Ruffling his hair.] I find I can’t walk it off; I’ve been into the Euston Road; I don’t think I can be well. Fortunately, I have a box of most remarkable pills at my chambers. They are prepared by Gilliburton of 88 Piccadilly. Don’t forget the number—eighty-eight. Two eights. That’s my system of artificial memory. Eighty-eight—two eights.

[Handing him the letter.] Give that to ’Tina, will you? Claude—take care of mother.

Boy! my boyhood is long past. [Pinching the envelope.] There’s a coin in this—money.

[Sitting on the settee, fatigued.] Eh? Don’t forget, Claude—Gilliburton. Think of Gilly, corruption of Gilbert. Gilbert, a well-known sculptor—or writer; I forget which. Burton, man I jobbed two horses from—bays—Burton. There you have Gilly and Burton—Gilliburton. My own system of mnemonics. Memoria technica.

[Irritably.] What are you talking about, my boy? You always appear to be masticating some commonplace or other.

Beg pardon, Sir Fletcher. Mrs. Cloys wants to wish you good-day, Sir Fletcher. I wasn’t aware where you was, Sir Fletcher.

[Rising.] I’d quite forgotten your aunt. Do, please, look unconcerned, Claude. Let her see that men can display courage and decision at such moments.

[Humming an air, he unbuttons his coat and throws it back, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. Some newspapers fall from the breast of his coat; he is hastily picking them up when Mrs. Cloys enters.

[Putting them into his tail pockets.] The malicious utterances of the judge are not in these editions.

It is somebody’s duty to overlook the reports of this case. I see that one vile placard announces, “Lively cross-examination of Mrs. Fraser.”

[Producing a newspaper.] Here’s a rag which dares to give illustrations—“Sketches in Court.”

[Opening the paper.] I happen to be among them. But the fool of an artist has completely missed my salient points——

She’s gone out for a walk. [To Mrs. Cloys.] Here it is. That’s from an old photograph; I don’t wear that sort of collar now.

[Advancing between Mrs. Cloys and Sir Fletcher.] What are you talking about? Look here! [Reading.] “’Tina, hand enclosed to my husband when he comes back for me to-night after dinner.” [Showing the ring.] It’s her wedding-ring. [Reading.] “He believes that what that creature charged me with is true, and wants to take me away and hide me. All is up with me. Oh, those pipers at Locheen are playing into my brain again. Good-bye all.—Theo. P.S.—Jack Allingham would not treat a woman so like dirt.”

[Agitatedly.] I can’t hear you. [Taking the letter from Justina.] Let me see it.

[Confused.] We must certainly do something, at once. Er—it is her wedding-ring, I suppose?

[Encountering Claude.] Don’t stand there, Claude, looking precisely like an owl!

[Returning the letter to Justina.] Jump into a cab; you must take that to Mr. Fraser.

[Hurrying to the door.] All right. [Pausing.] What shall I do if I don’t find him at home?

I’m not throwing them. I merely say, what if he’s out, or hasn’t gone back to Lennox Gardens at all?

[Sitting at the writing-table.] Ha, ha! what a hideous mockery the whole world is! Life——!

Let us have none of your sickening optimism, sir! and in the presence of your aunt and sister.

[Holding out her hand for the letter.] Show it to me again. [Justina brings the letter to Mrs. Cloys, who begins reading.] “Hand enclosed to my husband when he comes back for me to-night after dinner.”

Ten or eleven o’clock. Where, on earth, will she be by ten or eleven o’clock?

[Reading.] “P.S.—Jack Allingham would not treat a woman so like dirt.” Jack Allingham——[Suddenly] Justina! [Justina again comes to her.] There’s only one very great danger.

No, I mean a worse danger than that. [Pointing to a sentence in the letter.] That one.

[Reading.] “Jack Allingham would not treat a woman——” [Staring at Mrs. Cloys.] Oh——!

This Mr. Allingham? Exceedingly kind and gentle to women—is that the class of man he belongs to?

Suppose—suppose this wretched girl lets her mind dwell too much just now on Mr. Allingham’s—kindness!

[Again returning the letter to Justina—with decision.] Where does he live? Where is he likely to be found?

Bring me the Red Book! [Claude finds the Red Book; he and Sir Fletcher Portwood search for the address.] Allingham—A—A—A—[finding the letter] A!

[Mrs. Cloys and Justina join Sir Fletcher Portwood and Claude impatiently.

I know it’s there. He went into lodgings when he parted from her. And he has a little cottage in Surrey——

[Taking the book from him.] “Allingham, John Crawshaw, Esq., 11 Bentham Street, W., and Turf and Garrick Clubs.—The Lichens, Epsom, Surrey.”

[Mrs. Cloys takes the book from Sir Fletcher. She tears out the page and throws the book upon the settee.

[Folding the extracted page, and slipping it into her glove.] Fletcher, Claude, you had better come with me. I may want you both. Claude, whistle a four-wheeled cab. You hear me!

Get your hat! [Sir Fletcher goes out. Mrs. Cloys turns to Justina.] Telegraph to the Bishop of St. Olpherts, The Palace, St. Olpherts: “Detained here to-night. Return, D.V., forenoon to-morrow. Get to bed early. Affectionate messages.—H.”

For mercy’s sake, don’t put any idea into his head that isn’t there already! Not a word to a soul——

I’m coming. [Claude withdraws.] Not a word, 95except that we’ve gone out, blindly, to try and find her.

I’ve always taken you for one of those who pick up their skirts and stalk away as far as possible from this kind of thing.

You don’t know what was really at the bottom of all my quarrels with your mother. I’ve no children. I’d have given the world if Theo had been mine.

[Taking her by the shoulder, almost shaking her.] You, too! [Kissing her.] Bless you, you’d have been better than nothing!

The Scene represents a room in Mr. Allingham’s cottage at Epsom. On the left-hand side is a fireplace, with a fire burning; above this is a door giving on to the hall; while below it is a similar door, over which hangs a portière, drawn aside, admitting to the dining-room. Facing us is a large open French window; and beyond is a view of a pretty garden with trees, laurels, etc. On the right, also facing us, but nearer, are a few balustered steps leading to an arched opening which is about three feet from the ground. The opening, across which runs a rod supporting a portière, admits to a small room, which, although containing no books that are visible, is called the library. All the furniture and accessories are characteristic of a well-to-do bachelor’s residence. It is twilight.

Denzil Shafto and Peter Elphick, two well-groomed, 98smart-looking men of about five-and-thirty, dressed for dinner, are shown in by Quaife, a manservant. Quaife is carrying a banjo in a case.

[Placing the banjo on the table.] Half an hour ago, sir; I’m now dressing him. [To Elphick.] Glad you brought the banjo, Mr. Elphick.

[A heavy-looking man with staring eyes, taking the banjo from its case with great care.] Nearly made me lose the train, Quaife, puzzlin’ whether to bring it or not.

[Laying the case aside.] Do Mr. Allingham a load of good, sir—a little melody after dinner.

Never saw him so played out, sir. [Closing the windows.] Oh, Mr. Allingham’s compliments, Mr. Shafto, and he says he forgot to inquire whether you and Mr. Elphick would sleep at The Lichens to-night.

Not to-night, thanks. I’ve arranged to take Mr. Elphick on to my father’s place at Leatherhead.

We shan’t keep you up here till the last train, Quaife, or anything like. Dessay Mr. Allingham’ll be glad to turn in early.

[Wandering about.] This is my first visit to this box since Jack came back here after his split with his wife.

He merely let it, when he married—let it to a stockbroker. Peter, Jack must have had some sort of a premonition——

Some sort of a premonition of his speedy return to single life. [Looking out of the window.] Same spotless white gate, I rejoice to see; same elms; same laurels—[Ascending the steps.] The library——! [Entering the room.] My heart sinks within me. [From within.] No, by Jove! Peter! Peter!

[From within.] Nothing. I breathe again. All the essential features of Jack’s library are undisturbed. [Coming down the steps.] A luxurious sofa, Ruff’s Turf Guide, and the Stud Book.

[Pouring out a glass of Vermouth.] Vermouth. Peter, I was totting up things this morning, gently and quietly, in my bath.

No, I was up at Mahabaleshwar that spring with Sandington. You stood best man, didn’t you?

I did. And look here—Jack Allingham is the seventh I’ve been best man to in nine years.

[Frowning.] And they’ve all managed to get into the Divorce Court since, one way or another. [After a pause.] How’s that?

John Allingham enters, a simple, boyish man, of about thirty, looking pale and worn. He is dressed for dinner.

[Shaking hands with Shafto.] Halloa, Denzil! [To Elphick, shaking hands with him.] Well, Peter! It’s awfully good of you fellows proposing to see me through this evening.

I couldn’t have endured my own company to-night, I can tell you. Sorry you can’t sleep here, though.

My governor hasn’t seen Peter since he’s been home this leave. It’s an old promise——

I understand. [Taking the banjo from Elphick.] And you’ve actually brought the banjo.

Thanks. [To both of them.] Warm, yesterday and to-day, in that Law Court, wasn’t it?

[Recovering himself.] True; that cursed nightmare of an approaching trial isn’t waiting for me upstairs, in that bedroom of mine, any longer. And to-morrow morning I shall wake with a start to find—what’ll the feeling be like!—that I’ve no lawyers to interview. Besides, I haven’t much to complain of. You two fellows have kept close at my elbow throughout the whole business—hardly ever left me. Well, that’s friendship—[shaking hands abruptly, first with Elphick, then with Shafto]—God bless yer!

[He walks away and sits on the settee, looking into the fire. Elphick and Shafto stand together, eyeing him uneasily.

[In a whisper, to Elphick.] Peter, our bags are here. What d’ye say to not leaving him to-night, after all?

[In a whisper.] Yes, I don’t suppose your guv’nor wants to see me so desperate bad as all that comes to.

[Passing his fingers over the strings of the banjo.] You don’t remember, Denzil—nor you, Peter, I suppose; she used to thrum on this thing—well, hardly this thing—the guitar—much the same. Oh, yes, she used to play it very nicely.

[Starting up.] I was close to her to-day; we stared each other right in the eyes. We didn’t mean to—we simply did it. We met in the corridor during lunch-time; I was getting out of the way of old Portwood; I turned sharply—and there we were, my wife and I, face to face. It might have been for ten seconds—it was like an hour.

No. Downright ill and distressed. [To both of them.] You’ve seen her in Court?

She nodded to us this morning from the—what do they call it?—not the sink——

[John sits, leaning his head upon his hands. Shafto walks away, quietly, to the window. Elphick sits on the settee, and, turning his face to the fire, strikes up a tune on his banjo.

That’s right! tune up, Peter! If I had a savage breast this evening you might soothe it with your Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink, as Kipling says. But I haven’t—isn’t that odd? Boys, do you know, all the bitterness I’ve been feeling towards her seems to have died out of me; and she’s been dragging me pretty thoroughly through the mud lately. Isn’t that odd?

[Leaving the window, and coming to the back of settee.] Well, she’s lost the day, you see.

I suppose that’s it. Ah, but her face! I hadn’t seen it for months. And the silence between us was so strange.

Yes, there wasn’t much of that, old chap, between you two when you were together.

No; didn’t we quarrel! And yet, this morning, during our little deadly-silent encounter, she seemed to say more to me than she’d ever said in her life before. By Jove, she has suffered—[starting up]—oh, damn it!

[Seating himself on the back of the settee, speaking with a drawl.] Ah, I shouldn’t worry myself too much, if I were you, about that. Other people have suffered.

Forget all round, my dear Jack—that’s the ticket; for the future, cultivate a single-minded devotion to yourself——

And the horses! You’re right, Denzil. By the bye, I had a line from O’Halligan yesterday—where is it? [Going to a writing-table and rummaging among the litter there.] He fancies Kildaowen very strongly. The mare’s feeding well; that’s always been their difficulty, you know——

[Laying his hand on John’s arm.] Wait a bit. [Goes cautiously to the window, peeps out, and comes away.] I say, old chap.

I thought so. It’s your wife. [There is a moment’s pause, then an excited movement from John.] Stop! [A pause.] What are you going to do?

[Shafto goes up the steps and into the library, drawing the portière across the door as he disappears.

Get out! [Elphick disappears. John hurriedly glances round the room and arranges a displaced chair. Then he discovers that Elphick has left the banjo upon the settee, and he seizes it impatiently.] Oh—— [Going to the door of the library and drawing aside the portière.] Here! Peter! catch! [He throws the banjo into the room, and readjusts the portière. The instrument is heard to fall with a crash to the floor. He looks into the library, hastily.] I beg your pardon, old fellow. [He descends the steps and goes to the window and opens it, speaking in a low voice.] Is any one there? [A pause.] Someone’s there.

He draws back to allow her to pass him. After a short delay she enters, and, without looking at him, comes right into the room. He closes the window, but remains at that end of the room. Olive Allingham is a fashionably and richly dressed woman of a little over thirty years of age—pale, worn red-eyed, but still handsome. In manner she is alternately beseeching and gentle, angry and imperious. The twilight now gradually deepens into dusk.

[Walking to the mantelpiece.] What do you think yourself, of my humbling myself in this fashion? [Turning to him.] What do you——? [As she has crossed to the left of the room, he, still at a distance, has moved over to the right. Speaking with a catch in her breath.] Oh, don’t do that! I’m not poisonous, John. [He approaches stiffly and silently. She advances towards him plaintively.] John, I am quite worn out—[putting her hand to her bosom]—burnt out here. This desperate lawsuit has been my last bolt. I’m finished—spent. I know my regrets won’t avail us much at 117this time of day; the future has a most melancholy look-out for both of us; but I want to tell you I am truly conscious, at last, of the evil my jealousy has wrought. [Sitting weakly.] Yes, John, I—I am quite reasonable at last.

[Rising and turning away—in an altered tone.] Oh, five minutes—ten at the outside.

[Bitterly.] I much regret keeping you and your friends from your dinner. It’s an exceptionably elaborate entertainment to-night, I suppose?

Dinner! dinner! if every woman in the world was weeping her heart out, men would be found dining—feeding—feasting! What was I saying when Quaife blundered in? Where was I?

[After a brief pause, speaking gently again.] Oh, John——! [Advancing a few steps.] It was inconsiderate of me to break out in that way. But I don’t mean half the brutal things I say; I never did.

Any jealous woman will tell you what a slave she is to her paroxysms. Oh, they are dreadful, while they last! [Agitatedly.] The flame behind one’s eyes, the buzzing in the ears, the dry tongue, the thumping of the heart——! [Calming herself, breathlessly.] Thank God, I’m cured!

Never, under such extraordinary circumstances. [Going to him.] The fact that I can drag myself to you, in this spirit, after my defeat, for the sake of a few words with you, must show you what an altered woman I am. [Sitting.] John, I felt I couldn’t go back to that lonely flat of mine to-night without first proving to you how thorough my remorse is. [Looking round.] That dismal flat! [In an altered tone.] You appear to be extremely comfortable here.

This is where you gave me and papa tea once, when we were engaged to be married.

And now——[Excitedly.] Ha, I suppose I’m a fool not to indulge myself just as luxuriously, just as——! [She meets his eye and breaks off shamefacedly. Faltering, with her hand to her brow.] Where was I—again?

Oh, yes. [Weakly.] After the case ended this afternoon I walked about the streets quite light-headed, till I summoned up resolution to try to find you. [With an effort.] John, that—that lady——

[Repressing her agitation.] Of course, the judge fully justified my action by the very severe way he spoke of her.

His remarks were infamous! I could have taken him by the throat and thrown him into the body of the Court. No right-thinking person would have blamed me for doing so.

And paid me the compliment of believing that I would, as one woman to another, prefer such a course being adopted.

Haven’t I told you I am reasonable at last? For whether she be innocent or guilty is no longer the question.

The point is, this woman is entitled to the benefit of the doubt. [Rising and walking to and fro.] But how can she ever receive the benefit of the doubt if those words, which imply the doubt, are always to hang over her?

[Leaning over a chair, and speaking almost into his ear.] Would you like me to?

I want to atone to you, if I can, in some measure, for the suffering I’ve caused you. Would you like me to right Mrs. Fraser?

Mr. Fraser has been away from her as much as possible—[her eyes flashing]—you know that better than anybody.

[Indignantly.] Why do you come here—after all our struggles and failures, after the injury you’ve endeavoured to do me! Why do you torture me, and insult me, by trying to repeat the old heart-breaking scenes?

[He throws himself into a chair, distractedly. There is a pause; then she slowly goes to a chair, drags it towards him, and sits beside him.

[Panting.] Torture you? Oh! oh, I suffer too! [Rocking herself to and fro.] Well, there can be no punishment for jealous women in another world; we are damned in this.

[In a muffled voice, with his head on his hands.] And the fire has burnt out in you, you tell me!

Yes. I know my actions are contradictory, but—[her hand stealing towards his]—in my heart, John—always—in my heart—— [The banjo suddenly strikes up an air. John and Olive raise their heads and stare at each other; then Olive slowly backs her chair to its original position. Speaking in a whisper.] What’s that?

[They rise. He hurriedly ascends the steps and disappears through the portière. The music of the banjo stops abruptly, and the sound of voices comes from the library. Quaife enters, carrying a lamp which he deposits on the table; then, always watching Olive, he lights the standard-lamp and draws the window-curtains.

[Dropping his voice, impressively.] We regard him as a trust, ma’am, if I may make use of the expression.

They have to go on to Leatherhead at once. Is the boy ready to carry their bags to the station?

Er—next to nothing; a syllable or two when we 131were sitting there. That’s why Peter struck up a tune. [Laughing a little wildly.] Ha, ha, ha!

[In the same way.] Ha, ha, ha! [Glancing towards the door.] Shall I slip into the dining-room while they pass out?

Please don’t. They’re old friends of both of us; they understand perfectly——

[Shafto and Elphick sedately emerge from the library, and descend the steps. Shafto bows to Olive.

[Advancing, shaking hands with him across the table, graciously.] Oh, Mr. Shafto, I am so sorry to upset everybody in this way——

[Elphick, encumbered with his banjo and the banjo-case, joins Shafto. John goes to the door.

[Shaking hands with Elphick across the table.] Why should you lose your dinner? I have really finished all my—my business with my—with—Mr. Allingham.

[With an effort, earnestly.] No, you haven’t, Mrs. Allingham. Take it up, when we’ve gone, where you broke off. [Wringing her hand.] Do everything you’ve offered to do; try and square things——

[The three men go out, leaving Olive staring before her. John, Shafto, and Elphick are heard talking together in the hall.

[The sound of the voices dies away; a clock in the library strikes nine; John returns.

[Descending the steps.] And that idiot offers me his advice! Take it up where you broke off!

[Walking up the stage, beating her hands together.] Mrs. Fraser! the eternal Mrs. Fraser! Oh!... oh!... [Throwing herself into the chair facing the window.] I shall be quite calm in a moment. [Faintly.] Those men upset me.

[Going to her, solicitously.] To-day has been as exhausting for you as for the rest of us. Of course, there’s a dinner prepared here——

[Quickly, half-frightened.] Oh, no, dear; I couldn’t sit down to table with you; I’m not entitled to do that. Fetch me a glass of wine and a biscuit—[appealingly]—don’t let a servant bring it, John. [He goes to the dining-room door, she rises, and calls him.] John!—[her head drooping]—do you think we shall ever sit at the same table again, you and I?

[After a pause, sitting, looking away from her.] Oh, Olive, Olive! remember——!

[Fidgeting with the cigarette-box.] Not for many years, of course—three or four years, at least. Time makes the oddest things possible.

I haven’t heard a man swear since I turned you out of Pont Street. [Dreamily, almost inaudibly, as she plays with a cigarette.] Damn! [He looks round 137at her; she is lost in thought; suddenly she crushes the cigarette, and flings it from her fiercely.] Ah! Theo Fraser smokes!

[Following him a few steps, penitently.] Oh, John!—— [There is a knock at the upper door.] Yes?

[Looking round.] I beg pardon, ma’am; a lady and two gentlemen would like to see Mr. Allingham, if it’s not disturbing him.

[In a hard voice.] Are these people friends of Mr. Allingham’s? Have they ever called on him before?

No, ma’am. [Hesitatingly.] I fancy the eldest of 138the two gentlemen came once, if not twice, to Pont Street in—in—in your time, ma’am.

I’ll give those to Mr. Allingham. [He lays the cards out on the table.] You’ll be rung for. [He goes towards the door.] You haven’t mentioned that I am here?

[He withdraws. She eagerly scrutinises the cards, re-arranges them upon the table, then goes to the fireplace and stands waiting impatiently. John re-enters, carrying a decanter of champagne and some biscuits in a silver dish, which he places on a side-table.

This is the Moet we had just begun to drink when we—— You rather liked it, I fancy.

[Picking up the cards.] “Mrs. Cloys,” “Mr. Claude Aylmer Emptage,” “Sir Fletcher Portwood.” Mrs. Cloys—that’s an aunt.

I assure you I haven’t the slightest idea. I suppose nothing has happened to her!

Oh, Olive——! [She walks to the dining-room, he following her.] I won’t let them detain me very long.

[Rapidly, agitatedly, facing him, her hand on the door-handle.] This is a most extraordinary visitation. These three people—her relatives—to come down on you like this, at such an hour!

I am sure you will find that their visit admits of a perfectly reasonable explanation.

[Advancing quickly.] No, I don’t mean that! [Her hand to her heart.] Oh, do make some allowance for me, for my state of mind!

[Turning abruptly.] Have you the courage to meet these people with me? If so, you can begin to-night to carry out your promise to serve Mrs. Fraser; you can tell her relatives now what your intentions are towards her.

[Falteringly.] Certainly, I have the courage to meet them. [Advancing, tremblingly, breathlessly.] But do you know where you are drifting, John?

I couldn’t submit to be treated as a culprit; and there is only one other possible position for me.

[Rather wildly.] Well, I—I only want to cleanse the slate. My cursed stupidity has smeared poor little Mrs. Fraser’s character; I want to put that right. It cuts me to the heart to see how wretched you are, Olive; I want to put that right. Oh, if we fail again——!

[Desperately, throwing himself into the chair.] All right! Heaven have mercy upon us—we’re reconciled! Ring the bell. [She rises and touches the bell-press, and with the aid of the mirror over the mantelpiece attempts to adjust her hair and straighten her bonnet, he watching her.] By Jove, you have pluck!

If they did do such a thing——! [Agitatedly.] Gurrrh! I can’t get my bonnet to sit straight. May I take it off, and receive them as if I were—at home?

[He follows her. After a brief pause, Quaife re-enters, showing in Mrs. Cloys, Sir Fletcher Portwood, and Claude. Quaife withdraws.

[Walking about uneasily.] Harriet, your theories and suspicions have involved us in an entanglement of—ah—an unexpected kind.

But I don’t believe the woman will have the daring effrontery to show her face to us; to me—the brother!

You are unhinged—not yourself. No, no, we must simply avail ourselves of any topic that presents itself.

I am not often nonplussed. You had better watch me closely; follow my lead—tsch!

[After bowing to Mrs. Cloys.] How do you do, Sir Fletcher? [Nodding to Claude.] How are you, Emptage?

Mrs. Cloys, Sir Fletcher; there have been some most unhappy differences between my wife and myself in the past, as you know too well. Unfortunately, she and I have not been the only sufferers from these differences; we have dragged others along with us. However, we met this evening, half an hour ago, and are—reconciled——

And I have my wife’s authority for saying that her feeling towards Mrs. Fraser are now considerably—in fact, entirely—— But she will speak for herself. [Presenting Olive, awkwardly.] Er—my wife.

[To Sir Fletcher and Mrs. Cloys, graciously.] Pray sit down. [Mrs. Cloys sits again.] Sir Fletcher, we knew each other years ago——

I am delighted to renew—[pulling himself up uneasily]—that is, of course——

[Addressing Mrs. Cloys.] Mrs. Cloys, it is only fair to you that I should say at once that I don’t expect Mrs. Fraser’s relatives to treat me at all tenderly over the painful proceedings which terminated to-day. [Mrs. Cloys bows stiffly; Sir Fletcher eyes her anxiously.] So I beg that you will speak before me entirely without reserve. [Looking at John.] It is my husband’s wish that you should do so.

[Mrs. Cloys and Sir Fletcher Portwood sit staring before them in a glassy way; Olive again glances at John, puzzled.

[A little impatiently.] Naturally, Mrs. Cloys, I can’t think that you have taken this inconvenient journey to-night without some very special, some very definite object.

Er—so far as I am concerned, the object of my visit is in a great part attained when I have given Mr. Allingham my assurance that only absolute proof of his unworthiness will ever induce me to withdraw my friendship from him. I am nothing if not a just man——

Oh, I am not ashamed of my simple faith in young English manhood and in the efficacy of a training at one of our most honoured public schools. True, I was never a public-school boy myself——

[Rising, and going to Claude.] No, but I am still capable of rejoicing when I see the traditions of popular British institutions worthily upheld. The world was my public school——

[Eyeing Olive, and returning quickly.] Er—is there a question more vital, more absorbing, than this great vexed question of Education? Is there a question which calls more imperatively upon the attention of thinking men——?

[Turning to him with a forced smile.] But, Sir Fletcher, you surely haven’t brought Mrs. Cloys all the way to Epsom that she may hear you discuss Education with my husband?

[Disconcerted.] No, no. Good! ha, ha! good! Excellent! Er—— [Suddenly.] Now, this cottage—I wonder whether I may ask how many rooms?

[Looking at Mrs. Cloys significantly.] The bishop often suffers from the effects of severe intellectual strain, and it has more than once struck me that for a few weeks in the year this peculiarly invigorating air—— [Going to the dining-room door.] The arrangements appear to be most convenient. May I?

[Opening the door and peeping into the room.] Delightful! I can picture the bishop sitting there, my sister there, myself, perhaps, over there—delightful! [Closing the door and moving away, pointing to the upper door.] The hall and the little card-room I have seen. [Rapping the table.] But the grand question is, Mrs. Allingham—would you let? That’s the point, Allingham—would you feel inclined to let?

That’s extremely good-natured. [Trying to catch Mrs. Cloys’ eye.] You hear, Harriet?

[Out of sight.] Cheerful—very cheerful. A paucity of volumes, but the bishop would bring his own books.

[Quickly.] Sir Fletcher, while you are there, do examine the little clock on the mantelpiece. The case is modern oriental.

I gave it to Mr. Allingham some years ago. Count 156those curious stones round the dial. [To Mrs. Cloys, rapidly but forcibly, dropping her voice.] Mrs. Cloys, I confess I find it difficult to accept Sir Fletcher’s suggestion that you are engaged at this time of night in hunting for fresh air for the bishop. I——

[Upon Sir Fletcher’s disappearance, Claude advances and stands waiting for an opportunity to speak.

Pardon me. As Mrs. Fraser’s brother, and as, perhaps, the chief sufferer from the result of to-day’s proceedings——

[Appearing suddenly on top of the steps, no longer carrying his hat.] What’s this? What’s this?

I refuse to be silenced. As Mrs. Fraser’s brother, I desire to say that I did not expect to be received to-night by the lady who has done her best—her utmost——

[Hotly.] Look here, Emptage, you’re a boy—at any rate, a very young man——!

I am a truly unfortunate young man. A blight has been cast upon my name at the very outset of my career——

[Coming down the steps.] Why, when I was five years younger than he I had already applied my lever to the mountain. I first saw light in ’forty-four——

’Forty-four; an easily remembered date—two fours. And what was I doing at his age?

[He throws himself into a chair at the back, and in course of time falls asleep. His head is seen to drop back upon his shoulder; an arm hangs over the side of the chair.

[Firmly.] Excuse me, Fletcher; I believe Mrs. Allingham is looking to me for some further explanation. [Sitting.] Mrs. Allingham, happening to become acquainted to-day, for the first time, with several features of this disagreeable business, I thought—it was a fancy of mine—that I should like to—to meet Mr. Allingham—to talk over—to——

[Quickly.] It has not been sufficiently threshed out, then, in the Divorce Court?

[Hastily.] Quite sufficiently. [Eyeing Sir Fletcher reprovingly.] My brother doesn’t interpret me correctly. Er—as I have told you, it is a fancy of mine—to meet Mr. Allingham.

It would have been earlier but for a little difficulty in discovering Mr. Allingham’s whereabouts.

[Genially.] When ladies have fancies they don’t study the hour before indulging them.

Er—the fact is, my sister shares with me the Lavater-like faculty for judging character at sight.

[To Mrs. Cloys.] Oh, I see! You are here to—to form an impression of Mr. Allingham?

Sir Fletcher a little exaggerates my powers; but I confess I am, like many people, very sensitive to receiving impressions through such mediums.

Because the necessity you find for estimating my husband’s character shows—you know what it shows?

It shows, obviously, that if you are uncertain as 163to my husband’s innocence, you must be equally doubtful of the innocence of your niece, Mrs. Fraser.

[Rising.] I—I beg that you will not put such a construction on what I have said——

[Passionately.] I will keep my promise when I am treated openly and fairly. [Walking away.] I feel something is going on here that I don’t understand, that I am not allowed to understand.

[To Mrs. Cloys and Sir Fletcher.] I am extremely sorry. But my wife is very fatigued and unstrung to-night——

Quite so, quite so. We are most inconsiderate, Harriet. Come—come; another time——

[Facing Olive firmly.] Mrs. Allingham, I think, when we look back upon this evening, that you and I will be able to congratulate ourselves upon a considerable exercise of politeness. But there are signs that neither of us is equal to a prolonged strain.

I beg your pardon; I will be patient. You need have no misgivings on my account.

[Formidably.] Perhaps not; but I am beginning to be acutely conscious of my own weakness. [Looking round.] Fletcher——

[She paces the room; John joins her, and is seen expostulating. Mrs. Cloys joins Sir Fletcher.

[Looking at his watch.] Oh, Allingham, the hotel people were to send a carriage up for us; perhaps you’ll get your servant——

[Upon entering, Quaife has encountered Mrs. Allingham; her eyes fall upon the letter on the salver.

[John is about to take the letter; when he sees the writing upon the envelope he hesitates for a moment and draws his hand back; then he picks up the letter deliberately.

[After opening the letter.] Yes. [He reads the letter to himself.] Poor little lady! This is bad news.

Er—yes, sir, we do know it—certainly we know it. I was almost the last person she spoke to before she quitted her mother’s house. She is deeply attached to me. [Buttoning his coat.] Where is she? Where is she?

[In a low voice.] Oh, yes. [Sitting, her hands tightly gripped together.] Oh, yes.

[After a pause, holding the letter between her finger and thumb, reading.] “Station Hotel, Epsom. My dear old Jack”—— [Hastily returning the letter to John, with a shudder.] Take it from me!

[Reading aloud.] “My dear old Jack”—[looking round, simply]—we have known each other many years—[reading]—“oh! I have had such a job to find you. I shall plant myself at some quiet spot near your cottage and get a messenger to bring this to you. The messenger will show you where I am, if you will only consent to see me for a few moments on—[looking round]—on a matter of business.”

[Mrs. Cloys, concealed from the others by Sir Fletcher, sinks on to the settee.

[Resuming.] “I have left my husband. He turned against me at the end and crushed my one hope of being able to whitewash myself.” The cur! [Resuming.] “Am off to Paris the first thing in the morning. Very likely this is the last chance you will ever have of a word with your poor little friend, Theo.” [To Sir Fletcher.] Sir Fletcher, I congratulate you on finding your niece; please tell her that it is impossible for me to grant her request.

[Calmly.] Oh, but wait. [Rising.] Surely it would be rather uncivil to refuse what Mrs. Fraser asks.

But she is apparently in need of some business service which my husband can render her.

Now that she is again in the hands of her relatives there can be no necessity for troubling Mr. Allingham.

Perhaps not. But before such a very curt message is sent to Mrs. Fraser, will you do me the favour of letting me have two or three minutes’ conversation with my husband alone?

[John goes to the dining-room door and opens it. After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Cloys goes to the door.

[Leading him towards the door.] In the next room. Come, sir! You are deficient in tact, delicacy——

[In the doorway, turning to John.] Allingham, of course you and I can never again be the same to each other as we have been in the past; but may I take the liberty of foraging for a piece of cake?

Oh, could anything be clearer? It’s easy enough 173now to see through the twaddle these people have been talking! Mrs. Fraser runs away from her husband, who believes her guilty; her relatives go in pursuit; they look for her and find her—where?

[Referring to the letter.] Desiring to see me “for a few moments, upon a matter of business.” That is all that can be made of it.

No, I do not; I do not. I want you to meet her to-night; you’ve heard me say I wish it.

[Referring to the letter.] “I shall plant myself at some quiet spot near your cottage——”

Ah, no! never mind the quiet spot near the cottage. Why can’t you have your business interview here?

[In a low voice, her head drooping.] Where we are now, while I—[glancing towards the library]—while I take my place in there?

And this is how you propose to carry out your undertaking to make amends to Mrs. Fraser?

Since I promised to aid Mrs. Fraser. The arrival of these people—that letter—has undone everything. [Throwing herself upon the settee despairingly.] Oh, they knew well enough where their bird would fly to! [Burying her face in the pillows.] Oh, John, you’ll kill me!

Ha! and so you would like to try Mrs. Fraser twice in one day! And there would be no mistake this time, no doubt whatever! Innocent or Guilty—guilty for choice!

And what a model judge of this lady you would make, of any woman you are jealous of! How scrupulously fair! how impartial! how——

[Savagely taking a cigarette from the box on the table and sticking it between his teeth.] Women of your temperament detect a leer in the smile of a wax doll.

I give you my word that I will make every allowance 178for you both, if you will let me hear you together. You are old friends—“chums” was her expression for it in the witness-box to-day—and you are Jack and Theo to each other, naturally; I am prepared for all that kind of thing. She can kiss you good-bye when she parts from you—[beating her brow]—I can comprehend even that. Only—only let me be satisfied by her general tone and bearing, by that unmistakable ring in the voice, that she has never been the arrant little profligate I once thought her.

[Rising and speaking earnestly and rapidly.] We are in June; I would have her to stay with me. My friends, her own friends, should see that we were close companions. She should go everywhere with me; my arm should always be through hers. I would get a crowd together; she should receive my guests with me. Oh, by Goodwood week her reputation 179should be as sound as any woman’s in England! Come! think of the dreadful days and nights she’s given me, whether she’s good or bad! Come! wouldn’t that be generous?

[In a low voice.] Look here! you would swear to me you’d never use against her anything that might arise during our meeting—I mean anything that your cursed jealousy could twist into harm?

Solemnly. If she proclaimed herself openly in this room to be your—[with a stamp of the foot he rises]—she should go scot-free, for me. If she behaved as an innocent woman, she might walk over me in the future, trample on me; I’d be a slave to her. Only satisfy me!

[He goes to the writing-table, and rapidly scribbles a note. She watches him with eager eyes. When he has finished writing, he takes an envelope, rises, comes to Olive, and holds the note up before her.

[She inclines her head. He touches the bell-press. Then he encloses the note in the envelope, which he fastens, and hands to Olive.

Take it. [She takes it wonderingly.] I have met your demands so far. Now, if you wish to do a womanly thing, you’ll throw that on the fire. [Quaife enters; Olive stands staring before her. Speaking in measured tones, keeping his eyes on Olive.] Quaife, the note which Mrs. Allingham will give you is for the messenger.

If a lady arrives, ask her to sit down in the card-room; let me know when she comes. I am alone, should the lady make any inquiries.

Olive, Quaife is waiting for the note. [There is a pause; then Olive turns suddenly and hands Quaife the note. He goes out. There is another pause.] And after this—after this!—you and I! Upon what terms do you imagine you and I will be after this?

[Clutching his arm.] I will make you forgive me for it; I will make you! [He releases himself from her, almost roughly, and moves away, turning his back upon her.] Of course, you will not mention to Mrs. Fraser that you and I are in any way—in any way——?

Reconciled! [Sitting on the settee, laughing wildly.] Ha, ha, ha——! [Turning to her.] Why not?

[Her hand to her brow.] You are—very—polite—[She walks slowly and painfully towards the steps, pausing in her walk, and referring to her watch.] John, when the talk between you and Mrs. Fraser has—gone far enough, I will strike ten on the bell of the little clock in here. You understand?

[Beginning to ascend the steps, with the aid of the balustrade.] When I am satisfied.

Olive——! [She stops.] It’s not too late now for us to think better of playing this infernally mean trick upon her.

[Steadily, in a low hard voice.] Why, nothing can arise, during this interview, injurious, in the mind of any fair person, to Mrs. Fraser’s reputation?

[She disappear into the library. After a brief pause, John hastily goes to the dining-room door, and opens it slightly.

Let me speak to you? [Mrs. Cloys enters; he closes the door sharply, speaking hurriedly and excitedly.] I—I have altered my mind about meeting Mrs. Fraser——

Pardon me. [Producing Theophila’s letter, and speaking disjointedly, uneasily.] On—on consideration, it seems to me that—that—for everybody’s sake, I have to satisfy my wife that Mrs. Fraser’s presence is due solely to the most innocent causes.

Mrs. Allingham has, I take it, arrived at certain conclusions as to the motive of my visit?

[Eyeing him penetratingly.] Mr. Allingham, you have no doubt whatever of the absolute genuineness of my niece’s excuse for calling upon you?

[Sitting.] Yes, I admit that I came here to-night to ask you to pledge your word to us that Theo should run no further risk from her—her acquaintanceship with you; to entreat you, if she should be so base, so abandoned——

You mean you thought it possible, probable, that this lady had run away from her husband and friends with the deliberate intention of joining me—me! [Mrs. Cloys covers her eyes with her handkerchief.] Great Heaven, I suppose there is no living soul who will believe in an honest friendship between a young man and a young woman!

[Excitedly.] Rules! The world is getting choked with rules for the conduct of everything and every body! What’s the matter with the world that a woman has to lose her character and paint her face before she is entitled to tell a man her troubles, and hear his in return, across a dying fire, by lamplight, when the streets are still and a few words of sympathy and encouragement stir one like a sudden peal of bells——?

[Looking at him, and speaking in a low voice.] Ah! a dying fire, the lamplight, the still streets——! The world is what it is, Mr. Allingham.

[Agitatedly.] Mr. Allingham, you will not let Theo slip through my fingers; you won’t let her escape me——? [Looking at him.] Oh, I will trust you so far.

You may. I only ask you to allow me to have my interview with Mrs. Fraser undisturbed.

Ah, if you knew how I hate the idea of this meeting between you two! [Turning sharply.] I’ve a feeling that something evil is going to result from it——!

I can only repeat, you’re wrong in what you think of me—[turning away]—wrong, every one of you.

[Coming to him, her manner gradually changing to harshness, almost to violence.] Well, understand me, Mr. Allingham! I’m inclined to—to half-believe in you; you’ve an honest face and air—not that those things count for much; but understand me: if you bring, in any shape or form, further harm to her——!

[Indignantly.] What further harm can I bring to her? You find me here with my wife——!

Sir, you had a wife round the corner when you were engaged in destroying my niece’s reputation in Lennox Gardens! [Recovering her composure.] But enough of that. [Calmly, amiably.] We do understand one another, do we not?

That’s right. [Arranging her bonnet-strings, which 189have become slightly disordered.] Excuse me for breaking out in this fashion. [She goes to the door, he following her. At the door she turns to him with grave dignity.] I’m afraid I’ve impressed you as being rather a tigress.

[She goes out. He closes the door after her and stands staring at the ground for a moment; then he gently turns the key in the lock and carefully draws the portière across the door. He is about to put his finger upon the bell-press when he pauses.

[In a low voice.] Olive. Olive. I have not yet rung the bell. Do you stop me? [A pause.] Won’t you stop me?

[He waits; there is no answer; with an angry gesture he rings the bell. After a brief pause Quaife enters; Theophila follows. She is dressed as in the previous Act, but is now thickly veiled. Quaife gives a puzzled look round the room and withdraws.

[Advancing and speaking in a weak, plaintive voice.] 190Oh, Jack——! [They shake hands, but in a constrained, rather formal way.] Of course, we could have had our talk very well in the lane; but it’s kind and considerate of you to ask me in.

[She looks at him, expecting him to find her a chair. In the end, after a little uncertainty, she seats herself on the right of the table. In the meantime he ascertains that the door by which Theophila has entered is closed.

[Lifting her veil.] I’m afraid you’re a little angry with me for hunting you up.

Well, I suppose it is another—what d’ye call it?—injudicious act on my part. But it seemed to me, if 191I thought about it at all, that we came so badly out of it to-day, that nothing matters much now. At any rate, my character’s gone.

Oh, isn’t it? And yours has gone too, Jack; only a man gets on comfortably without one. [Facing him, her elbows on the table.] Well, what do you think of my news?

[With a nod and a smile.] The looks have gone with the character—[putting her hands over her face]—both departed finally.

[Coming a little nearer to her.] Er—when you’ve had a little rest you will see everything in a brighter light——

I should have kept my appearance a good many years, being fair and small. [Removing her hands—looking up at him.] You used to tell me I should last pretty till I’m forty-five. Do you remember? [His jaw drops a little, and he stares at her without replying.] Do you remember?

[She shifts to the other side of the table, to be nearer to him. He eyes her askance.

[Impatiently.] You’ve read my letter, Jack. I’m a—what am I?—a single woman again; a sort of widow.

You are acting too hastily; you’re simply carried away by a rush of indignation. Perhaps matters can be arranged, patched up. You mustn’t be allowed to——

Arranged! patched up! You don’t realise what you’re proposing! You wouldn’t make such a suggestion if you had been a fly on the wall this afternoon while Mr. Fraser and I were—having a little talk. [Struggling to keep back her tears.] Alec—my husband—he was very much in love with me at one time! I never doubted that he would stand by me through thick and thin. He has done so pretty well, up till to-day, up till the trial, and then, suddenly, he—he——

[She produces her handkerchief, rises, then moves away abruptly, and stands, with her back to John, crying.

[Turning to the fire.] Mr. Fraser was taken aback, flabbergasted, I expect, by the tone adopted by the judge to-day; there’s that poor excuse for him. But a little reflection will soon——

[Drying her eyes.] Oh, don’t prose, Jack! [Turning.] On the whole, I think it’s better that he and I have at last managed to find out where we are.

You know, there’s always a moment in the lives of a man and woman who are tied to each other when the man has a chance of making the woman really, really, his own property. It’s only a moment; if he let’s the chance slip, it’s gone—it never comes back. I fancy my husband had his chance to-day. If he had just put his hand on my shoulder this afternoon and said, “You fool, you don’t deserve it, for your stupidity, but I’ll try to save you——”; if he had said something, anything, of that kind to me, I think 195I could have gone down on my knees to him and——[Coming to John excitedly.] But he stared at the carpet, and held on to his head, and moaned out that he must have time, time! Time! Oh, he was my one bit of rock! [Throwing herself into a chair on the right.] If he’d only mercifully stuck to me for a few months—three months—two—for a month——!

[Going to her slowly and deliberately, and standing by her.] Mrs. Fraser. [She looks up at him surprised.] Of course, whatever future is in store for you, nothing—no luck, no happy times—can ever pay you back for the distress of mind you’ve gone through.

Nothing, Jack—Mr. Allingham. [Her hand to her brow.] Oh, nobody knows! Oh, Jack, some nights—some nights—I’ve said my prayers.

Oh, don’t make me cry again! Oh, my head! oh, don’t let me cry any more——!

Well, he told me, one day in Brussels, that he managed to take all the sting out of his punishment by continually reminding himself that it was undeserved, 197that there wasn’t a shadow of justification for it. I suppose it would be the same with a woman who—who gets into a scrape; an innocent woman?

It’s good, under such circumstances, if you can feel a bit of a martyr, you mean?

That’s it. So, in the future, you must never tire of reminding yourself of the utter harmlessness of those hours we used to spend together in Lennox Gardens.

Yes, yes—comforting. It was the one thing that kept me together during those shocking Pont Street days of mine.

Our friendship. When I was in the deepest misery, the thought would come to me: “Well, I shall see my little friend to-day or to-morrow.” And then I’d go through our meeting as I supposed it would be—as it always was——

“’Ullo, Jack! good morning—or good evening. Oh, my dear boy, you’re in trouble again, I’m afraid!”

And then you invariably came out with that one piece of oracular advice of yours.

Which you couldn’t act upon, yourself. How vexed it used to make me—and the ponderous way you said it!

[Standing a little behind her; speaking calmly, but watching her eagerly.] Because, all the while, there was never one single thought of anything but friendship on either side.

And if you had for a moment fancied that I was losing sight of mere friendship——?

Oh, one day, the usual headache; not at home the next—the proper thing. But, Jack dear, I never felt the slightest fear of you—and that’s what makes an end like this so cruel, so intolerably cruel.

No, never; oh, of course, a woman can tell. Somehow, I knew—I knew you couldn’t be a black-guard.

[About to seize her hand, but restraining himself.] God bless you! God bless you! [He walks away and pokes the fire vigorously, hitting the coal triumphantly.] Ah, ha, ha! [Turning to Theophila.] I beg your pardon; you’re in the most uncomfortable chair in the room.

[Arranging the pillows on the settee.] You must be so weary, too. I’m confoundedly stupid and forgetful to-night.

[Walking about elatedly, dividing his glances between Theophila and the library.] I love to see a fire.

[Suddenly.] Of course. [Dropping her voice.] I remember. [He stops, staring at her.] Do you recollect? [Steadily gazing into the fire.] That night when we were sitting over the fire in that little room in Lennox Gardens——

“I shall always burn a fire, Theo,” you said, “to bring back these nights, these soothing, precious talks in the quiet hours. Wherever I may be, I shall only 203have to light my fire to hear you and to see you—to see you sitting facing me——”

Ah, that evening—yes, I was terribly—terribly down that evening [Wiping his brow.] By-the-bye, we—we mustn’t neglect the—the—the matter of business—the little matter of business——

[Rising.] Oh, yes. [Sitting on the left of the centre table.] Jack, I—I do hope you won’t hate me for asking you. You see, if I went to any one else, I should run a chance of having all my arrangements upset. I—I want to borrow a little money——

This is exactly how I am placed. Mr. Fraser wanted to hurry me off abroad—ah! that’s done with. Instead of that, you see, I’ve taken my travels and my future into my own hands. I’ve telegraphed to Emily Graveney, who was at Madame MacDonnell’s with us girls in the Rue D’Audiffret-Pasquier. Emily is teaching in Paris now—I hardly know how she scrapes along; she’ll be mad with delight to have my companionship. But till the lawyers settle my position precisely as regards Mr. Fraser, I’m practically broke, penniless. It’s a little ready-money I want.

[Who has seated himself at the right of the table while Theophila has been talking.] You have only to tell me how much——

Well, I think I could tide over with fifty pounds. I’m afraid you haven’t got it in the house, though. I don’t want a cheque.

[Taking out his keys and going to a table.] I believe I can just make it up——[He opens a drawer in the 205writing-table, finds some bank-notes, counts them, then empties his sovereign-purse and screws the gold up in the notes.] Within a pound——

That’s of no consequence. [Rising.] I’m awfully obliged to you; I knew you would—I—I——

Nothing. [Sinking back into the chair, with closed eyes.] I shall be all right in a minute.

[He brings her a glass of water, and places it to her lips. She sips the water for a little while, then gives a sigh.

When did you last eat? [She shakes her head feebly. He puts the glass of water aside and fetches the biscuits.] Get two or three of these down. Come—try——!

[He places the biscuits on the table by her side, and goes back to the other table.

[Nibbling the biscuit, her eyes still closed.] Would it? [He brings the decanter of champagne and a small tumbler. She, speaking faintly, and opening her eyes.] Oh, do let me off this, Jack.

[Watching him.] That looks nice. [She puts the 207remains of her biscuit on the table and stretches out her hand for the wine. He gives it to her; she drinks.] Oh! oh! oh—h—h—h! [There is a pause; there she shakes herself, looks up at him, and breaks into a low, childlike little laugh.] Ha! ha, ha, ha! I’d nearly gone, hadn’t I? [Emptying her glass.] Oh! oh!... Fetch yourself a glass, and we’ll drink luck to each other. Then I really must be off. The porter said the trains run every—every what was it? [He brings a glass, which she fills, speaking animatedly.] A tumbler! oh, fie! [Filling her own glass.] Oh, mine’s a tumbler too! [Nodding to him.] Ourselves! [Touching his glass with hers.] Our two poor unfortunate selves! [They drink.] Ha! I don’t care! do you?

A hang. For anything; for what the judge said; for what people think. Puh. Here’s to our friend, the judge——! [Drinking, nearly emptying her glass.] I hope his wife’s a cat who leads him a——! [Jumping up suddenly, her eyes dilating, holding her glass high in the air.] Happiness and prosperity to Mr. Fraser! [Loudly.] Mr. Fraser!

Fraser of Locheen! [She goes to the fireplace and flings the contents of her glass into the grate.] Ha! well, that’s throwing good stuff after poor, isn’t it? [She places her glass on the table; the cigarette box is open; she takes a cigarette.] The old sort?

[Striking a match.] Only a whiff. [Lighting her cigarette.] Sure I’m not in the way, Jack, if I rest here a minute or two longer?

[Throwing herself upon the settee in a careless attitude, smoking.] Oh, thank God for this rest! [Looking round.] So this is the little place you used to tell me about——

Phew! Your fire’s all right to look at——! [She removes her cape from her shoulders and flings it away from her; he picks it up, and places it over the back of a chair.] Never mind that rag. Are you likely to be in Paris?

[Jumping up, and speaking volubly, excitedly, boisterously.] Suppose that wire don’t find Emily, and she doesn’t meet me at the Nord to-morrow night. Ugh! cheerful! She may be dead, No, no; not Emily. Poor old Emily! Be sure you look me up if you should pass through. Rue Poissonnière, 18. You’re bound to be rambling soon. How lucky a man is! Does just as he chooses. Good chap, So-and-so—awfully rackety—but the world would be a dooced deal livelier if there were more like him! That’s what they all say of a man!... phew!... [As she rattles 210on, she takes off her bonnet and clears her hair from her brow.] But a woman! Well, look at me. Not that anybody will look at me, in Paris or elsewhere. I used to know several smart people in Paris! Now! Oh, my stars, won’t they stalk distant objects when they see me coming along! [Angrily.] Ah, a gay time I shall have of it, shut up with Emily Graveney, with her red nose, and her poor, narrow chest, and her perpetual sniffle! [She flings away her cigarette. Her hair is disordered, her breath comes quickly, there is a wild look in her eyes. Her bonnet falls to the floor. He paces the room distractedly.] By Jove, I won’t have a dull time though! I shall only hang out with Emily long enough just to turn round. Then I’ll take a little appartement of my own. Uncle Fletcher will make me an allowance; I won’t touch a penny of—puh—his money. I’ll let the world see how happy I am without the character I’ve been robbed of! Yes, robbed of! [Laughing noisily.] Ha, ha, ha! [Snapping her fingers.] Pish! I shall burst out laughing in the face of the whole world, Jack—put my tongue out at the world, your wife, my husband! After the solemn farce we’ve all gone through. [Between her teeth.] Y—y—yes, they shall have a pretty picture in their minds of me, t’other side of the Channel, with my finger to my nose like 211a cheeky urchin! Oh, my heavens, how I hate ’em—hate ’em—hate ’em!

Oh, the devilish injustice of it! To think that we’re still married, Jack—you and I! Hah! the mockery! To think that we wander about the world still with our owner’s marks branded upon us! Ha, ha! I believe I’ve an “F” branded upon my shoulder—burnt in! [Running to him.] Oh, I won’t bear it! I can’t bear it!

I shall go mad if I can’t pay out that wife of yours! [Shrilly.] She’s ruined me! I will be even with her!

And with him!—that fish!—that cold, flapping 212fish! [Clinging to him, suddenly.] Jack——! I wouldn’t bore you! I wouldn’t bore you, Jack——!

[Putting his hand over her mouth.] Ah, for God’s sake——! [The clock in the library is heard to strike.] It’s too late! too late!

[Drawing back, looking into his face.] Too late——? [There is a sharp knocking at the dining-room door.] What’s that? [The knocking is repeated.] Who is it?

Mrs. Cloys, Sir Fletcher, and your brother were with me when your note arrived. They want to see you.

[Gripping her wrist.] Pull yourself together, Mrs. Fraser——[The knocking is again heard. John goes to the door.

[In a whisper.] Jack! [He pauses; she seems dazed.] They—they haven’t heard—a word of—oh, of what I’ve said to you?

[He pulls aside the portière, unlocks the door, and opens it. Mrs. Cloys enters; Sir Fletcher and Claude appear in the doorway.

You have tried my patience long enough, Mr. Allingham. [She goes to Theophila; John walks 214away, and stands with his back to those in the room.] Come! you have had ample time for your business interview. [Staring at Theophila.] What’s wrong with you?

[He hands the cape to Mrs. Cloys; she snatches it from him, and puts it round Theophila’s shoulders. Claude picks up the bonnet, and brings it to Mrs. Cloys, then goes to the upper door, and stands there waiting.

[Raising Theophila.] You are not well; you are ill. Fletcher——! [Sir Fletcher goes up to the steps leading to the library.] Where are you going?

My hat——[He pushes the portière aside, then draws back.] Mrs. Allingham——! [Hesitatingly.] Er—I believe I have left my hat here, Mrs. Allingham. May I——? [He enters the library.

Mr. and Mrs. Allingham have arranged their differences. [Looking from Theophila to John.] Why, don’t you know?

Wait, Harriet, please! Allingham—Mr. Allingham—pardon me for putting such a question: surely you have not allowed—allowed—been a party to——?

[Looking towards the library.] Harriet, you can hear most distinctly, in the library——

No, no! [Going to John.] Preposterous! [After a pause.] Mr. Allingham, why should Mrs. Allingham—be there? [John is silent.] What has passed between you and——? Your wife has not been—listening?

[Desperately.] Mrs. Fraser—has said—nothing to me that a—a just woman can bring up against her——

[Almost inaudibly.] Yes. [Passionately.] But you don’t know——! [Calling in a loud voice.] Olive! Olive——!

[Olive comes out of the library and stands at the top of the steps. Theophila regards her for a moment blankly, then goes to the balustrade, and stares up at her. After a brief pause Theophila joins Mrs. Cloys, but seeing John, she comes unsteadily towards him and looks him in the face. Then as she turns away to Mrs. Cloys, she utters a groan, and tumbles to the floor at John’s feet.

The Scene is the same as in the previous Act, but a few articles of furniture are differently disposed about the room. There is no fire; and flowers decorate the fireplace. The windows are open and the light is that of a fine afternoon in summer.

Fraser is seated upon the settee. John Allingham appears in the garden, looks into the room, glares fiercely at Fraser, coughs significantly, and walks away. When John has gone, Fraser, glancing at the window, rises, and, with an angry exclamation, crosses the room. Mrs. Cloys and Justina enter; Mrs. Cloys is dressed as in the previous Acts, but without her bonnet and mantle; Justina is in a bright morning-dress.

Mrs. Allingham begged to be allowed to keep me 221company. There was a little scene between us—but the woman is, to some extent, human, I find.

I hope we are all ashamed of ourselves. In the end I was far from sorry to have her companionship. Your poor wife didn’t come out of her swoon till nearly one o’clock this morning. Then Dr. Erskine went home and Mrs. Allingham and I took our places by the bedside—[to Justina]—till you arrived at breakfast-time, Justina.

[To Fraser.] And I brought old Sarah, who used to maid us girls when Theo was at home; she’s dressing her now.

No, no—about Mr. Allingham. Ha! of course if we were Frenchmen we should fight a duel——

It doesn’t follow, because it can’t follow. But he would kill you and everybody would say of you, “Serve him right; another unsatisfactory husband disposed of!” And you would be buried, and my sister would be free and would go to Trouville in August in her weeds, and we should all have a splendid time generally.

[Advancing to Mrs. Cloys, hesitatingly, uncomfortably—lowering his voice.] I can’t deny that I have behaved in a very poor fashion to Theophila——

[Turning to Justina.] Please——! [To Mrs. Cloys.] But you, Mrs. Cloys, have just admitted to me that, up till last night, your feelings towards her were at least as unjust as my own.

Ah, I hope your contrition, now that the facts are known to us, is as sincere and as deep as mine, Mr. Fraser.

I don’t see that. He feels called upon to remain here to protect his wife. He might say, with equal reason——

Hardly. He can take his wife away, and protect her elsewhere. But I am helpless. You tell me it is a question whether Theophila ought to be moved to-day or not——

So, for how long, in heaven’s name, am I to endure Mr. Allingham? The fellow puts himself in my way. If I walk in the garden, he appears, indoors, at a window, and coughs in a menacing fashion. When I enter the house the proceedings are but slightly varied—I am inside; Allingham and his cough outside.

After all, the conspiracy he assisted at—for which I can never forgive him—was carried out, on his part, in perfect good faith to Theophila.

[Rising.] You and I must remember that it is through this discreditable act that we are able to do justice to your wife. [Justina re-enters, at the window.] Is Mr. Allingham there?

[To Fraser.] I assume you are anxious to avoid any open quarrel with Mr. Allingham?

I simply wish to get my sick wife away as speedily and as peacefully as possible, and then to forget this gentleman—and his cough. [Mrs. Cloys goes out at the window and disappears.] Justina; surely you—you—resent this new attitude of Mrs. Allingham’s? For months and months she is your sister’s bitter, determined enemy; then suddenly she is allowed to sit up all night, nursing her!

You wouldn’t grudge the woman her little bit of 227practical repentance? If ever I go in for repentance, let nobody try to do me out of it!

[Sitting on the arm of a chair.] Oh, Olive Allingham didn’t have too gay a time of it last night, take my word for it. When Theo came-to, aunt tells me, her poor, overwrought brain wandered for an hour or so; that wasn’t over-pleasant for Mrs. A. Theo went through the whole business from beginning to end, breaking off occasionally to say her prayers—praying that the case might end in her favour, and that the season’s invitations would flow in as usual. Sometimes she’d stop in the middle of it, and call out that she couldn’t pray well while that creature was in the next room listening. Luckily, she fell into a heavy sleep, at about half-past two, and didn’t wake till just as I turned up in response to aunt’s telegram. But what a bad hour or two it must have been for Mrs. A.! Picture it! The half-darkened room; my little sister tossing about the bed, raving; aunt sitting grimly on one side, with a handkerchief round her head; and 228on the other side, hidden behind the bed-curtains, hardly daring to breathe, that woman, with her white face and her eyes almost out of their sockets!

Allingham has had really a most admirable cold luncheon laid in the dining-room. [To Fraser.] You haven’t seen the dining-room?

Really a capital lunch. Evidently it is intended that one should wander in and eat a wing of a chicken when one feels inclined.

A glass of sherry, merely. No—it is strange and unreasonable that it should be so, but it is so.

Why, one has rather a feeling of constraint in sitting down to Allingham’s table—at any rate until matters are in a more settled state. [To Fraser.] You wouldn’t care to—to make the plunge?

[Sitting on the settee and arranging his papers.] No, no; I can quite understand——

[Jumping up.] Oh, I’ve had my bad days lately—plenty of ’em! This morning the atmosphere’s a bit clearer. [Gaily.] Tra, la, la!

[Turning upon him.] Laugh! My dear Alec, if you had learnt to laugh when you acquired your other accomplishments, you would have been able perhaps to keep my sister out of the Divorce Court.

[Fussing with his papers.] Fraser——[Fraser 231comes to him.] When I got to my hotel here last night I jotted down the—the—the leading points—the leading features——

[Rising.] My dear Locheen! A lady deliberately stations herself in that room, with the cognizance and approval of her husband, to listen to——

Pardon me; it cannot be done with: it ought not to be done with, without the most complete apology—I 232will not, for reasons you will presently appreciate, hint from which side. [Going to Fraser, button-holing him.] Do you know what has suggested itself to me, Fraser?

Why, sir, if ever there was a matter for reference, for arbitration, this is one!

Good heavens, when I open my Times in the morning, and glance at the law reports, how often have I occasion to remark, “That scandal might have been averted, and that, and that——” if only the intervention of some cool, level-headed person had been secured, the intervention of some one possessing the rarest of all gifts—the judicial faculty!

The gift is rare enough upon the bench. People 233shrink from having their concerns adjudicated by a meddlesome amateur.

I sent Claude to town for his mother at ten o’clock this morning. When they arrive, the family will be complete—with the exception Of my brother, Thomas Osborne Portwood, who is in Australia; a deplorable case. [Looking about him.] Arbitration dispenses with legal paraphernalia. A table, writing materials, a few chairs arranged—[his eye falling upon a table]—a table. [He moves the table and stands, disposing, by gesture, of an imaginary audience.] Seated here, I should command the room. [Pushing the settee a little further towards the left.] This thing must be differently placed. Chairs there—and there—— [To Fraser.] Locheen, would this be the better room, I wonder, or the library?

For the arbitration? [Fraser impatiently starts to his feet as Mrs. Cloys enters at the window with 234John.] Oh, Mr. Allingham, if you will give me just a moment or two——

[Sir Fletcher and Mrs. Cloys stand outside the window, talking. John comes and faces Fraser.

[With an effort.] I am sorry to hear, Mr. Fraser, that you have been annoyed, while a visitor at my house, by the persistency of my cough.

If I could have assured myself, Mr. Allingham, that your cough was a genuine one, it would not, however violent and grave its attacks, have occasioned me the smallest concern.

I admit the cough was not genuine. I employed 235it as a sign that I was at hand should you wish to have an explanation with me.

It was clear enough for most men. At any rate, I hope the invitation is sufficiently plain now.

If I hesitate, it is because I hardly know in what language you would choose for me to reply.

[Coolly.] I decline your invitation, Mr. Allingham; I have nothing to say to you.

[Glances at Mrs. Cloys, then advances closely to Fraser and speaks to him, in a low voice, beside himself with anger, but betraying nothing by gesture.] Fraser, you are actually responsible for the occurrences of last night. You have never understood your unfortunate wife; but yesterday your behaviour to her was cruel, brutal. I charge you with acting towards her like a brute.

[After a pause, John retreats from Fraser and sits upon the settee, leaning his head upon his hands and uttering a groan.

Fraser, I promised Mrs. Cloys, out in the garden, just now that I would make an attempt to soften matters between us, and—and—offer you some civility—and so on. I began fairly well—[Fraser bows]—and then the conversation took another line. However—[rising, speaking with an effort, not looking at Fraser]—let me say that my house is quite at Mrs. Fraser’s disposal—[with a gulp]—and at yours, for as long as she honours me—as you both honour me—by remaining here. [Fraser again bows, John glares at him.] As for ourselves, whenever we encounter each other I will be careful to look in an opposite direction. Perhaps you will be good enough to follow the same course.

[To Fraser.] Of course, my sister Harriet throws cold water upon my proposal——

Arbitration. [Fraser walks away and eyes the upper door anxiously and expectantly.] But when did Harriet fail to throw cold water? I shall sound Allingham and get his views. After all, Harriet is not essential; Harriet is not——

[While speaking he goes to the table, takes up the inkstand and blotting-book and carries them to the other table.

[To Sir Fletcher.] Sir Fletcher, Theophila understands that she is to see me here alone——

[Abstractedly.] I am off; I am off. [Stopping at the door, looking at the table, and slowly tapping his forehead.] Pens—paper; two p.’s.

[He goes out. Fraser comes to the dining-room door, and carefully draws the portière; then he walks away as Mrs. Cloys enters by the upper door with Theophila leaning upon her arm. Theophila is dressed as in the preceding Acts, but without 240bonnet or cape. Mrs. Cloys places Theophila upon the settee, then goes out at the window, and disappears. Fraser takes a chair and sits.

[In a low, level, weary voice, her eyes turned from him.] No; I have just escaped being ill, they say.

I have been out all night, taking steps to find you; your aunt’s telegram did not reach me till late this morning. I hurried here directly.

Yes—I think they did. [Rousing herself slightly.] When did you receive the news that I’d—I’d——?

Men don’t think on some points, I suppose. They hit; they never expect to see a bruise.

The two days we passed in Court, Theophila, set me quite beside myself. I am here to express my deep, my unfeigned regret for my treatment of you. I—I humbly beg your pardon.

[Looking at him for the first time, in an expressionless way.] You know what happened last night?

[With assumed indifference.] Mrs. Cloys—told me—[with a wave of the hand]—oh, yes.

[Nodding agitatedly.] For God’s sake, let us never again refer to the subject. Forget my share of yesterday and I will forget yours. [Moving his chair to the head of the settee, to be nearer to her.] Theophila, everything you planned that we should do to reinstate you shall be done; I am prepared to go in with your schemes, heart and soul; all your suggestions shall be acted upon promptly.

I feel very different. When I asked you yesterday afternoon to lend me a helping hand I was asking for my right. It’s true we haven’t got on well together; you’ve been in one place, I in another, for more than half our married life. It’s true I’ve been miserable and lonely, and have told my tale often enough to him—Mr. Allingham——

But, throughout everything, I’ve never been disloyal to you; I’ve always been fair to you when speaking of you behind your back; though I’ve hated you sometimes, I wouldn’t have let a living soul say a word against you in my presence. This is truth,truth, 244Oh, I know I’ve been vilely brought up! ’Tina and I are vulgar and slangy, and generally bad form; and we were once what’s called “fast,” I suppose. But our fastness didn’t amount to much; it was only flirting, and giggling, and dodging mother, and getting lost in conservatories and gardens. Oh, what fools girls are! No, till yesterday I’ve been only silly—silly—nothing but silly—till last night——! till last night——!

[Rising and pacing the room.] You were no more yourself last night than I was myself yesterday afternoon!

[Sitting upright.] Who says I was not myself? It was myself, the dregs of myself, that came to the top last night!

I see a reason—that’s enough. I repeat, what I asked of you yesterday was my right, my right. But to-day—to-day it would be accepting a favour from you——

Favour. A poor, tawdry little thing I’ve always 246been; but I’ve been proud—yes, very proud—like every woman who is square and honest. But now——! No, if I could pull myself up again, I’d do it, for mother’s sake and ’Tina’s; but never, never, never, after last night, could I accept a favour from my husband!

I hear from your aunt that Mrs. Allingham—this man Allingham’s wife!—generously offers to take you under her wing. Is it so?

[Leaning back, her eyes closed.] Aunt brought me a message to that effect from Mrs. Allingham this morning.

This lady’s proposal is, after all, one worth considering. It would be a double triumph for you to ride back into the shabby little circle you regard as “society” in her coach. It would be a triumph over me in the first place—over me!

[Opening her eyes and speaking calmly in a subdued voice.] Alec [glancing over her shoulder], is aunt out there? [He goes to the window and looks out.

[He disappears. She rises feebly, and, with an effort, pushes away the chair Fraser has placed at the head of the settee; then she sinks into it. Mrs. Cloys enters at the window with Fraser, and comes to Theophila.

[Irritably.] Oh, I am not going to appear quite a wreck before Mrs. Allingham. Find her, aunt.

[Mrs. Cloys goes out. Fraser brings a foot-stool to Theophila and places it under her feet. She nods in acknowledgment.

[Sarcastically.] You must not forget to thank Mrs. Allingham for taking her place by your bedside all last night.

[Indignantly.] Ah, it was shameful of aunt to have allowed that! She hid herself behind the curtains and peeped at me. She saw how ugly I was! I’ll never forgive aunt for permitting it! Oh——!

[He walks away as Olive enters, followed by Mrs. Cloys. Olive is dressed as in the previous Act. Upon encountering Fraser she slightly inclines her head to him, with eyes averted; he bows stiffly. She then comes and stands before Theophila.

Thank you, yes. [Turning her head.] Don’t go yet, aunt—nor you, Alec. [To Olive.] Mrs. Allingham, my husband comes to me to-day asking me to go back home with him, in order that, after all, we may commence together to fight the “shabby little circle” to 250which I have, I dare say, attached a great deal too much importance. Well, I’ve declined to go back—declined. But Mr. Fraser has an idea that I’m treating him spitefully because I’ve found a powerful friend in you.

Mrs. Fraser, I—I do beg of you not to act hastily, and without good advice. Of course, you are angry, justifiably angry——

But pray take time to reflect. Oh, I entreat you to try—in a little while, when you feel less bitter—to try to see your way clear to—to——

[Theophila partly rises, as if about to make some indignant response, but restrains herself.

I—I can only make the same reply to you, Mrs. Allingham, as I have just made to my husband—thank you, no.

You cannot right yourself in the eyes of people without Mr. Fraser’s assistance or mine. And especially mine! You couldn’t accomplish it thoroughly with his help alone; it would be impossible.

[To Fraser.] Mr. Fraser——[Fraser advances a few steps.] Perhaps, by-and-bye, you will add your persuasions to mine that your wife will accept me as your ally?

[Stiffly.] Mrs. Allingham, I regret that what you suggest is, so far as I am concerned, quite out of the question.

Mrs. Cloys—[Fraser retires as Mrs. Cloys 252approaches]—I am sure you can understand the value of the services I am able to render your niece.

I may tell you that I anticipated her rejection of your proposal directly you communicated it to me——

And I must say—[looking at Theophila]—that I fully sympathise with the—ah—the feelings of——

[Politely.] Of Mrs. Fraser. [Quaife enters, and advances a few steps towards Mrs. Cloys, who speaks to him quickly.] Has——?

[To Fraser.] Mr. Fraser, may I trouble you to follow me? I have something to say to you. [Quaife withdraws. To Theophila.] I must run away for a few moments. Shall I send Justina to you?

[Quickly.] Oh, Mrs. Fraser, let me speak a few words to you while no one is present——!

[Mrs. Cloys passes her hand over Theophila’s head caressingly, then hurries to the door.

[She goes out, Fraser accompanying her. Olive looks round the room, then sits, slowly and deliberately upon the settee.

Endeavour to understand me. I don’t remember that it ever struck me, when you and I were—friends, that your disposition was a jealous one.

Oh, don’t you think that enough has been done in the name of jealousy? For months and months it has made a hell of my life, your jealousy. People have seen me walking about looking merry; but what sort of days and nights does a woman really spend with the Divorce Court looming before her? “Allingham versus Allingham, Fraser intervening!” that’s the air you’ve kept me dancing to since—goodness knows when the music first struck up! And now I’m to forgive you, offhand, because—you happen to have a jealous disposition!

[Falteringly.] You were sustained all the time by the knowledge that you were an innocent, persecuted woman——

Much good did my innocence do me yesterday when they gave me “the benefit of the doubt,” and sent me out of the Court ruined!

It does you this much good—that now I am satisfied as to your innocence I am prepared to serve you humbly and faithfully. Oh, Mrs. Fraser, I would be a true friend to you this time! [Rising and standing before Theophila.] Come, forgive me!

[In a low voice.] Well, for the months of awful trouble you gave me, and for those two days in the Divorce Court—yes, you’re welcome to my forgiveness for all that. [Her voice hardening, her hands clenched.] But not for last night!

I do hold you responsible. Why—they’ve told me 257the story—I know that, when my note to your husband was handed to him, he wanted to send a message to me excusing himself from meeting me. Did you let the message go? There was I waiting out in the lane, my people in this room, all in a fidget to hurry to me and take me away. Did you let them come to me? No, you huddled them out of the way, and then drew your husband into your plot, and trapped me in here. I was the poor rat, half dead, who had been well worried, but who’d a little life still left; so you had me in, panting, and got another few minutes’ sport out of me——

[Her hands to her brows.] Oh, don’t, don’t! Mrs. Fraser, at any rate, it was through last night that you cleared yourself——

[Rising, and speaking fiercely.] Cleared myself! Yes, and a pretty price you were the cause of my paying for “clearing myself!” Do you think I’d have willingly cleared myself at that cost? Ah, no decent woman could afford it! Cleared myself!

You know better! I was sane enough! But mad, or sane, or—or whatever I was, I shall never think the same of myself again, never feel quite the same again. And to-day I’m to forgive you for it! No, if you came to me and told me that you’d just saved the life of some one dear to me, I couldn’t forgive you for last night. I couldn’t! No woman could!

[After a pause, speaking in a hard voice.] Excuse me for saying so, Mrs. Fraser—but I think you regard your share in the affair of last night more as a schoolgirl would regard it, than as a woman; rather sentimentally, in fact.

Thank God, I’m able to do that! Sentimentally? 259Well, ninety-nine women out of a hundred are kept fresh and sweet by nothing better than mere sentiment. [Sitting upon the settee, a little faintly.] Where’s ’Tina?

[Turning from Theophila, her hand playing with the arm of the chair.] The services I thought you would allow me to render you are the only means by which I could hope to get my husband to overlook my behaviour of last night. He won’t speak to me to-day.

After what has happened my one hold on him is 260through the reparation I could make you. And now—and now—you—— [Throwing herself into the chair, crying.] Oh, it’s like begging to you!

Notwithstanding—all you’ve done—you’re anxious to make it up with your husband, aren’t you?

Do you think that, with your nature, you could ever be happy with him, and make him happy?

Excuse me being so persistent. [Piteously.] You 261won’t accept my help? [Theophila, leaning back with closed eyes, shakes her head.] You won’t even—try?

[Goes to the upper door, opens it, and looks out.] Oh, Quaife, where is Miss Emptage?

[Closing the door.] No, thank you. [She goes to the dining-room door, and opens it slightly, without withdrawing the portière.] Miss Emptage!

[Olive walks away and stands outside the window, as Justina enters and goes to Theophila.

[Walking with Theophila towards the upper door.] Oh, we’ve had such a time in there! Uncle Fletcher’s been boring our heads off on the subject of the blessings of Arbitration; and at last, Jack, who is in a vile temper, almost jumped down his throat.

[They go out, whereupon John is seen to slightly push aside the portière and peep into the room. Satisfied that the room is empty, he enters quickly, closes the door behind him emphatically, and throws himself on to the settee with a groan of weariness. Olive returns; she is about to pass the window, but seeing John she enters quietly, takes a chair and sits. They remain looking at each other for a little while without speaking.

[Rising and walking about.] I believe all these people will drive me crazy! I don’t know where to get to for them.

Well, I’m not particularly desirous, for instance, of another encounter with Mr. Fraser.

Lectures me and patronises me till my blood curdles. Just now I was almost—well, I hope not——

Yes. And then this maddening old man——? I can’t endure it! Even my servants——

A minute or two ago I was trying to escape from the dining-room by passing through the kitchen, and I came upon my cook and Mrs. Fraser’s maid discussing me over a bowl of chicken broth. Mrs. Quaife—my cook——! I heard her distinctly! “I never thought Mr. Allingham was that sort of a gentleman,” she said.

And there are two more relatives of Mrs. Fraser’s to arrive yet. [Throwing himself into a chair.] The boy has gone to town to fetch the mother. The mother!

[Rising and walking towards the door.] At any rate, I can rid you of one unwelcome guest. [He looks up at her.] I am going, John, directly.

[Rising.] Then there is no longer any necessity for me to stick in this wretched cottage.

She will not receive help from the woman who—who brought that humiliation on her last night. I believe, if she was starving, she wouldn’t take a crust from my hand.

[With a slight shrug of the shoulders.] She’s a sentimental, romantic little person, I find. Well——!

Ha, we didn’t calculate for this when we arranged our ingenious little plan last night! We were to restore Mrs. Fraser’s name and position to her untarnished; we were to set poor little Humpty-Dumpty 270up again by—when was it?—Goodwood week; all in return for your ten minutes’ fun in there! We were damned generous, you and I—only we reckoned without Mrs. Fraser! [Starting up.] And so, you see, after all, we’ve had our fun, and enjoyed it, and yet pay nothing for it! But, at the same time, we mustn’t forget that in this world everything has to be paid for by somebody. By Jove, there’s no doubt as to who stands treat for last night! Mrs. Fraser pays! that poor little, broken-down woman pays! She pays——!

[Rising.] You blame me beyond all reason! I’ll not put up with it! Why didn’t you call her aunt into the room last night when you saw Mrs. Fraser becoming wilder and wilder? [Walking away.] Pah! you appeared moonstruck! moonstruck!

I thought I might save her from meeting her people while she was so unlike herself. You know I was helpless——[She approaches; he seizes her by the shoulders.] You—you reproach me! Why didn’t you strike that bell sooner? why didn’t you strike it sooner? [Leaving her, and throwing himself into a chair.] Ah, you weren’t capable even of that!

I was under the impression I had stopped the clock before I sat down to listen, but in my agitation I must have shaken it and started it again. [Kneeling beside John’s chair.] The clock struck of its own accord.

And you sat there, drinking in every word; and when the poor creature had cleared herself, and satisfied you, still you made no effort——! [Rising.] Oh!

[Seizing his coat.] John, I couldn’t move from that curtain! I was a wretch! Pity me! I couldn’t stir! [John walks away. She rises from the ground and sits.] Oh, get me a carriage of some sort to take me to the station.

[Going towards the bell.] I’ll tell Quaife. [Pausing, looking at her.] I don’t know—I can’t imagine—how you are going to get through your life——

Oh, please! I’ve been lectured by Mrs. Fraser, Oh, there are heaps of solitary women in the world; some people envy them. [He sits upon the settee.] Now that—now that—the chances of our coming together again have fallen through, I shall be off out of London at once. Where can one go to at this time of the year?

You needn’t. I dare say the “Splendide” is quite large enough for two people who—who——

Who want to keep far apart. [Rising, and going towards the door, pausing by the head of the settee.] How ridiculous that reconciliation of ours last night! Why, how many weeks should we have been together?

Weeks! Days, I should have said—or hours. “Heaven have mercy upon us! we’re reconciled!” Do you remember—last night——?

[Wiping the tears from her eyes.] I—I’ll go and put my bonnet on. [He rises, and she holds out her hand.] Good-bye, John.

Quaife enters, showing in Mrs. Emptage and Claude. Quaife retires. Mrs. Emptage is in a bright and fashionable morning dress.

[To Olive.] Mrs. Allingham——! [To Claude.] Claude, keep by me. My legs are all of a tremble. Where is my daughter, Mrs. Fraser? Take me to her. I am very ill indeed; I fancy this affair has affected my heart——

[Sitting down.] We used to be friends, Mr. Allingham—great friends; now I wonder you can look me in the face. [Panting.] I have heard everything from Claude. I am ashamed—I must say it—I am ashamed of you and your wife.

[To Olive.] No, no; I don’t think we’ll run away and hide any more. [Turning to Mrs. Emptage.] But I hope that Mrs. Emptage will be kind enough to apply to me, alone, any harsh expressions she may care to make use of——

[Rising, throwing her arms round Sir Fletcher’s neck.] Oh, Fletcher, Fletcher! I’ve hardly closed my eyes all night!

Does Theo return to Lennox Gardens? Has an arrangement of any sort been come to?

[Mrs. Emptage totters to Mrs. Cloys. Claude retires. John walks away to the fireplace. Olive is now seated upon the settee.

[Embracing Mrs. Cloys.] Oh, Harriet, I am very poorly; I don’t think I have had two hours’ rest all night. [Going to Fraser and kissing him.] Alec, you will prove a generous, good fellow—of that I am sure. Poor Theo has behaved very indiscreetly. I really believe my heart has been upset by it all——

[In a flutter.] I know, I know. Unless I can be kept quiet it will be very serious for me. [In her agitation, she is about to sit upon the settee beside Olive.] Oh, dear, what am I doing! [Moving away, she stops, pointing to the library.] Great heavens! was that the room——?

Sssh! [Mrs. Emptage sits again. Fraser goes to the window and stands there, apart, his back turned to those in the room.] What I have to say concerns the future Of Theophila——[There is a movement on the 280part of John and Olive.] Please, let nobody go. All who are here are interested in the future of Mrs. Fraser—[looking at Olive]—and I believe sympathetically interested. [Sitting.] In fact, I want it to be known that a very happy arrangement has been arrived at.

I did not consider it necessary, Fletcher. There was a question whether the plan I had in view could be carried out.

The cloak of pedantry, Harriet, scarcely conceals your want of respect for your brother.

[Touching his arm.] We’ll all keep our tempers, Fletcher. [He remains.] Yes, the thought came to me during the night—a long, anxious night——

The thought that I would telegraph to the bishop the very first thing this morning.

The bishop is goodness and compliance personified. He left St. Olpherts at ten o’clock this morning; he is here.

I shall be ashamed to meet him; after my sleepless night my face is so dreadfully lined——!

The bishop does not notice the lines in women’s faces. Directly he arrived, I submitted my scheme; in two words, he approved; it will be carried into execution.

Theophila returns to St. Olpherts at once with us. She will rest there two or three days, by which time I shall have found a suitable house in town——

The bishop and I have not had a house in town for some years. Mr. Fraser kindly sees house agents this afternoon.

[Assenting.] For the season—sufficiently large for the dear bishop, myself, and Theophila. Both in London and at St. Olpherts, Theophila will be my close companion. In our little London gaieties she will figure prominently. At certain formal gatherings she will share the responsibilities of the hostess. If any paragraph concerning our doings should creep into the newspaper, it will concern the Bishop of St. Olpherts, Mrs. Cloys, and Mrs. Fraser of Locheen. Oh, I don’t think there will be many to wag evil tongues against Mrs. Fraser a few months hence!

[Falteringly.] But your—your scheme owes—just a little to my idea, doesn’t it?

[Rising, fretfully.] It seems to me everything is taken out of one’s hands——

[Glancing at Fraser, who is now out in the garden.] What about Alec—Mr. Fraser——?

Of course, any policy that doesn’t tend to bring my niece and her husband together——

Ah, I haven’t told you. Mr. Fraser is to be a frequent—a fairly frequent visitor in London, and at St. Olpherts.

And it is further arranged that, in a year’s time, Mr. Fraser comes to us and formally asks Theophila to return to Lennox Gardens.

[Walking away.] I can’t quite explain my feeling—but I am not sanguine—not at all sanguine.

At any rate, in less than twelve months, if I know my girl, she will have grown heartily sick of her solemn surroundings.surroundings.

[Indignantly.] How dare you——! how——! [Checking herself.] Well, suppose she does weary of me, good will result even from that if it sends her back to her husband.

[The door opens, and the Bishop of St. Olpherts enters with Theophila upon his arm. Justina follows them, carrying a shawl. The bishop is a mild-looking, very old man. Theophila is dressed in her cape and bonnet, and her face is hidden under her thick veil.

I remember years ago, at the opening of the People’s Library at Stockwell, describing Dr. Cloys as one of the stoutest pillars of our Church——

Stockwell. To-day I have only to add—may that pillar never grow faint nor weary; may itsits back remain equal to the burden imposed upon it; may it continue to plough the stormy seas of scepticism and agnosticism!

[Quaife withdraws. The Bishop moves towards the window, Sir Fletcher closely following him.

[Embracing her.] Oh, good-bye, my darling. I won’t reproach you. If you make a bed you must lie on it. You’ve nearly broken my heart, but I’m only your mother——

[In a whisper.] Mind you see that we visit you constantly in London and St Olpherts!

Yes, yes. [As she is walking away, she sees John—who has been standing silently behind the settee, his back turned to those in the room—and she says to the others.] One moment. [She comes down, looking at John.] Mr. Allingham. [He approaches her slowly. After a pause she says in a low voice.] Oh, Jack, how could you? [He bows his head, making no reply.] Well—for auld lang-syne——[She holds out her hand; he takes it, but releases it quickly. She turns to go, then pauses.] Where’s your wife? [He looks towards the dining-room door. She hesitates for a moment, then, goes out quickly by that door.]

[His voice rising.] My dear bishop, it is my view of life, and the observation has some theological bearing, that the devil almost invariably appears to women in the form of Impulse. In saying this, I am perhaps on the verge of a truism——

[There is a hubbub of talk as Theophila and her relatives go out at the upper door.

[The talk ceases. John is alone. After a pause he goes out into the garden and stands looking off towards the left, as if watching the departing carriage. Olive enters slowly and sadly; she sits upon the settee, covering her eyes with her hand. John re-enters the room. Seeing Olive, he remains where he is for a moment or two irresolutely; then he comes down to her, sits beside her and takes her hand.

New Review.—“If you have any pernicious remnants of literary chauvinism, I hope it will not survive the series of foreign classics of which Mr. William Heinemann, aided by Mr. Edmund Gosse, is publishing translations to the great contentment of all lovers of literature.”

THE CHIEF JUSTICE. From the German of Karl Emil Franzos, Author of “For the Right,” &c.

Transcriber’s Note

Minor inconsistencies in the punctuation of stage directions have been regularized.

Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.

v.5	on the same day[,]	Added.
5.17	Taking a screw of paper from her glove[.]	Added.
25.2	But I must have[ have] every support	Redundant.
216.19	Allowe[d]—what?	Added.
242.17	No, thank you, Alec[.]	Added.
243.22	This is truth[!/,] truth!]	Replaced.
286.9	grown heartily sick of her solemn surroundings[.]	Added.
288.14	may it[’]s back remain equal to the burden	Removed.

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Vol.	I.	THE TIMES
”	II.	THE PROFLIGATE
”	III.	THE CABINET MINISTER
”	IV.	THE HOBBY-HORSE
”	V.	LADY BOUNTIFUL
”	VI.	THE MAGISTRATE
”	VII.	DANDY DICK
”	VIII.	SWEET LAVENDER
”	IX.	THE SCHOOLMISTRESS
”	X.	THE WEAKER SEX
”	XI.	THE AMAZONS

Also
In small 4to.

”	XII.	THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY
”	XIII.	THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH
”	XIV.	THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT

THE FISHER MAIDEN.	MAGNHILD.
THE BRIDAL MARCH.	CAPTAIN MANSANA.

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Benefit of the Doubt; a Comedy in Three Acts

THE
BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT

THE FIRST ACT

THE SECOND ACT

THE THIRD ACT

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