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Title: The Tyranny of Tears
A Comedy in Four Acts
Author: Charles Haddon Chambers
Release Date: February 11, 2013 [EBook #42068]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TYRANNY OF TEARS ***
Produced by Paul Haxo from page images generously made
available by the Internet Archive and the University of
California, Los Angeles Library.
The Tyranny of Tears
A COMEDY
IN FOUR ACTS
By C. HADDON CHAMBERS
All rights reserved under the International Copyright Act. Performance
forbidden, and right of representation reserved. Application for the
right of performing the above piece must be made to Charles Frohman,
Empire Theatre, New York.
BOSTON: WALTER H. BAKER & CO.
MCMII
THE TYRANNY OF TEARS
Copyright, 1902, by Walter H. Baker & Co.
All Rights Reserved.
PLEASE READ CAREFULLY.
The acting rights of this play are reserved by the author. Performance
is strictly forbidden unless his express consent, or that of his
representatives, has first been obtained, and attention is called to
the penalties provided by law for any infringements of his rights, as
follows:--
"SEC. 4966:--Any person publicly performing or representing any
dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has been obtained,
without the consent of the proprietor of said dramatic or musical
composition, or his heirs and assigns, shall be liable for damages
therefor, such damages in all cases to be assessed at such sum, not
less than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty dollars for
every subsequent performance, as to the court shall appear to be just.
If the unlawful performance and representation be wilful and for
profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and
upon conviction be imprisoned for a period not exceeding one year."--U.
S. REVISED STATUTES, _Title 60, Chap. 3._
TO
MY MOTHER
PERSONS CONCERNED
Mr. Parbury.
Mr. George Gunning.
Colonel Armitage, _Mrs. Parbury's father._
Mrs. Parbury.
Miss Hyacinth Woodward.
Evans, _Parbury's butler._
Caroline, _Mrs. Parbury's maid._
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
"The Tyranny of Tears," a comedy of the emotions, is most ingeniously
constructed on the simplest lines; it is a triumph of the commonplace.
Played virtually by five characters, and with but one change of scene,
it has that specious appearance of ease which is due to dexterity of
craftsmanship. It is refreshing, free from theatrical expedients, and
save perhaps for the somewhat accelerated wooing in Act Four, knots
which we are accustomed to see snipped by the scissors of an erratic
fate are here gently untangled by the fingers of probability. The germ
of it, a matter of fortunate selection, is a human foible so universal
that if a man is not conscious of it in his own proper person, he has
not failed to smile over it among his neighbors: that combination of
fondness and egoism out of which tyranny is legitimately born. This is
the keynote; it announces itself speedily upon the raising of the
curtain, and it is never for a moment after obscured by those modern
subtilties calculated to provoke discussion among the elect. The
hearer equipped with ordinary experience finds himself listening to it
with an acquiescent stream of running comment. He knows this alphabet.
It spells familiar words, and they come frequently. Here are
commonplaces which he has failed perhaps to formulate; but now they
flash upon the inward eye with a convincing vividness. This, he sees
at once, is a picture of pink and white tyranny, the triumph of the
weak. Domestic life has been caught and fixed at the culmination of a
strain: one of those dramatic moments when the cord snaps because it
has been for a long time fraying. One party to the contract has drawn
up a code and imposed it upon his mate. The tyrant has some piquancy;
she disarms suspicion because, although a despot, she is masquerading
as something else. Another sort of bully we know: the buckram female,
loud-voiced, militant, announcing herself, like the mosquito, by a
vicious trumpeting. Invulnerability sits on her helm; her armor clanks
a little while she strides. But this new tyrant wears another mien.
Behold her! a soft-cheeked, gentle-handed ministrant, who would have
husbands happy, provided they show the chivalrous courtesy of becoming
so in woman's way. She knows the rules of the game according as her
sex interprets them, and it never enters her ingenuous mind that "in
marriage there are two ideals to be realized." Thus does she make her
gentle progress, the victim beside her crowned with garlands, but yet
a victim. She is the arch destroyer, the juggernaut in muslin.
As soon, therefore, as she is recognized, there is a great pricking-up
of ears all over the house. Few are they whose withers are unwrung.
Every man among them, primed with his own warfare or that of some
defeated chum, settles down to the play, and wives follow suit with a
guilty sense that such things are, though "not, thank heaven! under
roof of mine."
A sly humor runs through the piece like a warm-colored thread, a humor
always faithful to those universal traits that make us kin. It asserts
itself robustly from time to time, once, for a notable instance, in
the fact that Parbury is moderately well content in his fool's
paradise until Gunning appears to beckon him out of it. Heretofore he
has accepted his experience like a chronic indigestion or a lameness
to which he was born; but now comes another man like unto himself, and
welds the data of his martyrdom into a cannonball. This man
generalizes, and Parbury at once perceives that husbands are not the
victims of special visitation, but of an epidemic. The thing is
universal. It can be classified; it can even be attacked. He stands
shoulder to shoulder with his suffering brothers, and makes his stroke
for liberty.
This is everyday life and the dialogue expresses it; the lines are
neither too bright nor good for any drawing-room. Here are no
sky-rocketings to make the hearer gasp at the playwright's cleverness,
while at the same time they accentuate the difference between his own
world and the world as it glitters from the stage. It is the talk to
be expected out of the mouths of admirable yet matter-of-fact persons
with whom we are quite at home. This is the man you meet at any
corner, who is living his life as he conceives it, and is vaguely
discomfited when the pattern comes out wrong. He and his fellow
puppets are related in the most intimate and delightful way to our own
cousins and aunts. It is a group of sharply differentiated types:
Parbury, honey-combed with something that passes for amiability; his
charming ruler; worldly-wise Gunning, fitted like a glove with amiable
cynicisms; the Colonel, clad in rejuvenescence like the spring; and
Miss Woodward, an original piquing to the intelligence of any actress
ambitious to "create a part."
"The Tyranny of Tears" was first produced at the Criterion Theatre in
London, April 6, 1899, with the following
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
MR. PARBURY . . . . . . . . MR. CHARLES WYNDHAM
MR. GEORGE GUNNING . . . . . . . MR. FRED KERR
COLONEL ARMITAGE . . . . . . MR. ALFRED BISHOP
MRS. PARBURY . . . . . . . . . MISS MARY MOORE
MISS HYACINTH WOODWARD . . . MISS MAUDE MILLETT
The comedy made an instant and striking success, and ran to enormous
business until the end of the season. It was revived on January 29,
1902, when the press, previously unstinting in its praise, greeted it
with a renewed enthusiasm. The _Times_ says of it, at this second
hearing: "No English dramatist of our time has turned out more
humorous or more human work than this delightful comedy. Every feeling
in it is, as the French say, 'lived,' and every word of it tells.
There is not a false note, no over-strained sentiment, no
over-emphasized phrase in it from one end to the other. Wit it has in
abundance, but not in superabundance--wit, that is, that obviously
belongs to the speaker and does not delusively suggest the author.
Truth, too, it has, but always simple, straightforward, fundamental
truth, truth that comes home to men's business and bosoms, not the
far-fetched truth which costs a headache to master it. . . . The
_Comic Spirit,_ as expounded by Mr. George Meredith, inhabits it. We
laugh at its personages and forgive them with an intimate solace, for
in forgiving them we laughingly forgive ourselves. . . . The whole
tone of the play is quiet, it soothes, it provokes smiles, chuckles,
gentle ripples of laughter. It is a rebuke, a kindly, playful rebuke
to the wild and whirling zealots of theatrical violence. We are
reminded of the praise which Matthew Arnold bestowed upon the style of
Addison--'perfect,' he said, 'in measure, balance and propriety.'"
Equally warm tributes to the comedy as an unusual work of dramatic art
were accorded on its presentation, September 11, 1899, at the Empire
Theatre, New York, with the following
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
MR. PARBURY . . . . . . . . . . . MR. JOHN DREW
MR. GEORGE GUNNING . . . . . . MR. ARTHUR BYRON
COLONEL ARMITAGE . . . . . . MR. HARRY HARWOOD
MRS. PARBURY . . . . . . . . MISS ISABEL IRVING
MISS HYACINTH WOODWARD . . . . MISS IDA CONQUEST
Of this performance Mr. J. Ranken Towse, in the New York _Evening
Post,_ says: "Mr. Drew played Parbury with his accustomed neatness and
dexterity. . . . The play, perhaps, may not be quite highly seasoned
enough with dramatic incident for the great mass of the public, but
its ingenuity, its simplicity, its truthfulness and its humor will
commend it strongly to connoisseurs."
It was afterwards given in the principal cities of the United States
with Mr. Drew as the victimized husband, and met everywhere with the
same enthusiastic favor. This year, 1902, the play was done into
German by Bertha Pozson, and it has been given with extraordinary
success throughout the German Empire.
Mr. Chambers's earlier work lay more in the direction of strong dramas
such as "Captain Swift," "The Idler," and "John a' Dreams," but the
comedy of these plays, especially the last, was of a character to
foreshadow to some extent the praiseworthy achievement represented by
"The Tyranny of Tears."
ALICE BROWN.
THE TYRANNY OF TEARS
ACT I
SCENE.--_MR. CLEMENT PARBURY'S study at his house in the neighbourhood
of Hampstead Heath. The main entrance leading from the hall is C. A
door, R., leads to the dining-room. A glass door, R.C., opens into a
garden. The fireplace is C. The room is comfortably and not severely
furnished. The furniture is made up of "odds and ends" selected with
taste. The couch down L. is a deep and cosy one; the desk or
writing-table about R.C. is a large and serviceable one. There is a
smaller desk higher up, and near it on wall, R., a telephone
apparatus. The apartment altogether represents the workshop of a
literary man of careless good taste. There is a touch, too, of
femininity in its decorations, and a portrait of MRS. PARBURY is the
only picture on the walls, which otherwise are mostly hidden by
bookcases._
[_For a few moments before and when the curtain rises the noise of
street singers is heard. MISS WOODWARD and EVANS are discovered. MISS
WOODWARD is dressed with severe simplicity in a costume of dark
colour, with linen collar and cuffs; her dark hair is drawn back from
her forehead. Her costume, being well cut, does not conceal the
graceful outline of her figure. She is a handsome, innocent, yet
determined-looking girl of twenty. She is at the window looking out._
EVANS.
[_Raising his voice above the outside singers._] They wouldn't listen
to me, Miss Woodward! [_Suddenly the music stops. A pause._] Ah,
they've listened to Mr. Parbury! [_MISS WOODWARD goes to desk, R.,
sits._] Mr. Parbury's a very masterful man--outside his house--isn't
he, Miss? [_MISS WOODWARD favours EVANS with a cold stare, then
resumes work at desk._] [_Aside._] What an iceberg that young woman
is! [_Telephone bell rings._]
[_Exit EVANS, L._
[_MISS WOODWARD goes to telephone and takes line._
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Speaking into telephone--very sweetly._] Yes, are you
there?--yes--who are you? Speak a little louder, please. Oh!--Well?
Yes--I don't know--Mr. Parbury's just coming in now--he'll speak to
you--keep the line.
[_She returns to the desk._
_Enter MR. PARBURY from garden. His hair is untidy; he is flustered
and cross. He is an agreeable-looking man of about forty._
PARBURY.
Thank heaven, they're gone! This house is a mistake! With the nerve
force one expends in swearing at street singers one might do some good
work. Make a note, please--look for house in secluded part of country.
[_MISS WOODWARD makes note._] And make a note--write _Times re_ Street
Music; suggest Local Option.
MISS WOODWARD.
The _Saturday Sentinel_ is waiting to speak to you on the telephone.
PARBURY.
Oh, worrying about the article, I suppose. [_Goes to telephone._]
Hullo! hullo! [_Gives them a ring up._] Are you there? [_Crossly._]
Are you there? Well? [_Pause; he listens._] Oh, of course, still
harping on my article. I suppose that's you, Jackson? Oh, well, if
you'll keep this confounded telephone quiet, and send a man to clear
the neighbourhood of street singers, you'll have a chance of receiving
the copy in half-an-hour. What? All right, old man. Yes, yes. I'll
send it by special messenger. Yes. Goodbye! [_Rings off, and hangs up
tube._] That is another mistake--that telephone.
MISS WOODWARD.
I was afraid you would find it so.
PARBURY.
You were right! You are always right! But my wife thought it would
save me a lot of correspondence and a lot of going out. [_Aside, with
a sigh._] I always liked going out. [_Aloud._] Make a note,
please--get rid of the telephone. [_MISS WOODWARD makes note._] [_Goes
to top of table, R.C._] Now we'll get on, please. I've promised the
article in half-an-hour. [_Looks at his watch._] They go to press this
afternoon.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Sits at desk, note-book before her._] Shall I read the last
sentence?
PARBURY.
Please.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Reading._] "The pity of it is that Mr. Theodore Bellevue seems to
enjoy a positively huge contentment of his own achievement----"
PARBURY.
[_Thinking._] The pity of it--yes--yes, of his own achievement. Yes.
[_Walks the stage._] Achievement [_Under his breath._] Damn the street
singers! Damn the telephone! [_Aloud._] What is it? Oh--ah!
Contentment of his own achievement--er--er-- [_Dictates._] "One
gathers from the complacency of his manner--[_Pause_]--that his
iconoclasm is its own reward--" Er--"What follows in the approval of
the unthinking--the applause of the uncultured--" [_Pause._] What's
that?
MISS WOODWARD.
The applause of the uncultured.
PARBURY.
"Makes up--makes up--" Er-- [_Pulls his hair._] Er----
_Enter MRS. PARBURY, L. She is a pretty, fragile, little woman of
about twenty-eight, and is charmingly dressed._
MRS. PARBURY.
I'm not interrupting, am I, darling?
PARBURY.
[_Concealing his irritation._] No, darling, but----
MRS. PARBURY.
I'll be ever so quiet. [_Comes to couch, sits L._]
PARBURY.
Yes, I know, dear--but, I fear--I fear you'll be rather bored. I'm
dictating an article that _must_ be finished this afternoon----
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh, I shall like it! Go on as if I were not in the room. But oh, how
tumbled your hair is. [_Rises, goes to him._] I must put it straight.
Then you'll be able to think better. There! Now I can see his clever
forehead again! [_Goes to couch and sits._]
[_PARBURY walks up C. and back, trying to collect his thoughts; then
he looks at MRS. PARBURY with the wish in his face that she were not
there; finally he goes over to MISS WOODWARD and speaks in a lowered
voice._
PARBURY.
[_At top of table, R._] What was that last?
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Reading in a lowered voice._] "What follows in the approval of the
unthinking, the applause of the uncultured makes up."
PARBURY.
Yes, yes. Makes up! [_Fidgeting._] Makes up-- [_Vaguely._] What does
it make up? I'm damned if I know what it does make up now? I've
forgotten.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Looking up at him with discreet sympathy after a glance at MRS.
PARBURY._] Shall I go back a little?
PARBURY.
Please do. Cut the other; it doesn't make up anything.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Reading._] "One gathers from the complacency of his manner that his
iconoclasm is its own reward."
PARBURY.
Thanks. Where's his article?
[_MISS WOODWARD rises, gives him an open magazine, and resumes her
seat._
[_After glancing at the magazine, and still in a low voice._] "His
smug self-sufficiency----" [_Pause._]
MRS. PARBURY.
Darling! I can't hear you.
[_Pause. PARBURY'S and MISS WOODWARD'S eyes meet._
PARBURY.
Can't you, dear? I suppose I must unconsciously have lowered my voice.
MRS. PARBURY.
I'm sure you did.
PARBURY.
I've an idea. [_Comes behind her and touches her shoulders
caressingly._] Suppose I finish the article quickly and give it to you
to read before sending it away?
MRS. PARBURY.
Yes, do.
[_PARBURY looks at her, expecting her to move, but she doesn't._
PARBURY.
Well, dear!
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Wonderingly._] Well?
PARBURY.
You--you're not going?
MRS. PARBURY.
Going!
PARBURY.
Yes, dear. I thought----
MRS. PARBURY.
[_With great reproach, and looking as if about to cry._] Clement!
[_She rises, and with trembling hands begins to gather up her fancy
work._]
PARBURY.
[_Relenting._] Don't go, dear, unless you wish to.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_More tremblingly and tearfully._] I certainly don't wish to remain
where I am unwelcome.
PARBURY.
[_Reproachfully._] Mabel!
MRS. PARBURY.
I thought I had a right to be where my husband was--that the
privileges of a wife were at least equal to those of a secretary.
PARBURY.
[_In a low voice._] Hush, dear! [_Turns to MISS WOODWARD, who has been
a secret but attentive observer of the scene._] Miss Woodward, would
you kindly run what we have done into type? We'll finish presently.
[_MISS WOODWARD rises, takes her notes, and crosses to door, L. At the
screen she pauses a moment, shrugs her shoulders, and exits R.I.E._
[_PARBURY passes his arm round MRS. PARBURY._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Freeing herself._] Oh, no; you wished me to go, and I'm going.
PARBURY.
It doesn't matter now. [_Grimly._] The article hasn't a million to one
chance of being finished this afternoon.
MRS. PARBURY.
Why did you send Miss Woodward away?
PARBURY.
Frankly?
[_Puts magazine on table, R._
MRS. PARBURY.
Of course.
PARBURY.
Because I hate scenes before other people.
MRS. PARBURY.
Scenes! What do you mean?
PARBURY.
[C.] What! Isn't there to be a scene? How splendid!
MRS. PARBURY.
[L.C.] I don't understand the humour you are in.
PARBURY.
I'm in a capital humour, dear. You've saved me for the moment from a
savage attack on the work of a man whom I respect and admire.
MRS. PARBURY.
You mean simply that I've interrupted your work. You will not have
reason to complain again.
[_Is going._
PARBURY.
Wait, dear.
MRS. PARBURY.
No, no. There are things one can't get over. Perhaps you can explain
why it is that Miss Woodward's presence doesn't disturb you, while
mine does?
PARBURY.
Easily. Miss Woodward is a mouse.
MRS. PARBURY.
I hate mice!
PARBURY.
I mean she is a table--a chair--a desk--a dictionary--a something
useful that is always in the right place at the right moment, and yet
of whose presence one is pleasantly unconscious. She is a triumph of
the negative.
MRS. PARBURY.
And I?
[_Her face is not turned to him._
PARBURY.
Positive, my love--quite positive; you bristle with emotions. When you
are in the room, one knows it. [_MRS. PARBURY takes out her
handkerchief and begins to cry. Pause. PARBURY, who has gone to desk,
looks round inquiringly, then comes down gently and sees what she is
doing._] [_Aside._] Exactly!
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Wiping her eyes._] Of course I quite understand now that you don't
love me.
PARBURY.
[_Comes to her, concealing his impatience._] But I do! I do!
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh no, you don't! When we were first married you didn't object to my
being in the room when you were working.
PARBURY.
I admit I didn't _say_ so then; I was younger, and had more patience
and stronger nerves.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Turning to him with a gleam of anger._] Then you admit you have
always objected to my presence in your study?
PARBURY.
[_Smoothly._] I admit I have always felt that a writing man's writing
hours are sacred hours.
MRS. PARBURY.
They shouldn't be sacred from his wife.
PARBURY.
[_Gently._] They should be sacred _to_ his wife, dear. [_Slight
pause._] If you were a writing woman you would understand what I mean.
MRS. PARBURY.
I'm sure I'm very sorry I'm not a genius, but you understood that when
you married me, didn't you?
PARBURY.
Yes, darling, I quite understood that! [_He appears to say this quite
unconsciously. MRS. PARBURY turns to him deeply offended, then
suddenly goes up to leave the room. He quickly meets her, C._]
[_Taking her hands._] I only knew you were the best little woman in
the world!
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Struggling to free her hands._] Don't, please. I'm going!
PARBURY.
Where?
MRS. PARBURY.
To send Miss Woodward to you, since you prefer her society to mine.
PARBURY.
But I tell you I'm scarcely conscious of the girl's existence; anyway,
it was you who brought her here. You may remember I proposed having a
male secretary.
MRS. PARBURY.
Yes; to make a companion of at my expense. You were always a man's
man! If I had had more experience I would have known that by the host
of men friends you had when we married.
PARBURY.
[_Cheerily._] I haven't them now, dear.
MRS. PARBURY.
You mean--that I-- [_Struggling to release her hands._] You are most
brutal. Let me go!
PARBURY.
Not while you are angry, dear.
[_Gently forces her into a chair, R.C._
[_There is another slight pause. She is certainly angry, but she
doesn't attempt to leave the chair. He looks down at her, and lays a
hand lightly on her hair._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Brushing his hand away._] Please don't do that. I am not a child!
[_PARBURY takes a chair and sits next to her. Pause._] Perhaps you
will tell me why you have used your superior strength to keep me here
against my will?
PARBURY.
[_Taking her hand._] Do you know that I'm very much in love with you?
MRS. PARBURY.
You in love with me! You don't know what love is! All you feel at this
moment is the sort of insolent pity the strong have for the weak.
PARBURY.
You weak, darling! Oh, come! You know better than that! You can't be
unconscious of your power!
MRS. PARBURY.
I really don't understand you.
PARBURY.
I only meant to remind you that after all you do always get your own
way. I'm really very glad, for I'm sure your way must always be the
best way. Oh, the power and determination of this little hand!
[_Holding her hand._] Do let me, with the deepest submission, kiss
"The Mailed Fist."
[_He kisses her hand._
MRS. PARBURY.
As it pleases you to be rude to me I shall try to bear it patiently.
PARBURY.
I don't mean to be rude. It's my unfortunate way of putting things. I
kissed your hand because of the real tender love my heart holds for
you, and for the same reason I put back this dear, rebellious little
lock of hair which has escaped from over your ear. And what a perfect
ear! It's as delicate and fragile as a shell, and it's just the
daintiest pink possible.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Mollified._] I know my ears are all right, though I think you are
making fun of me.
PARBURY.
I think I'm making love to you.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Suddenly taking one of his hands in hers._] Oh, if you only loved me
in the way I love you!
PARBURY.
I love you in a most excellent way.
MRS. PARBURY.
But it's different--you don't understand. I love to breathe the air
you breathe, to hear your voice even when it's dictating a dry
article, to listen to your footsteps, to watch the changing
expressions on your face. I live by the warmth your life gives me; you
don't grudge me that, do you?
PARBURY.
Why, of course not, darling!
MRS. PARBURY.
I love this room because it is yours, the surroundings are yours, the
atmosphere is yours. When you are out----
PARBURY.
[_Gently patting her hand._] Which is not often, dear.
MRS. PARBURY.
When you are out I always stay here, because here I get most of you;
even the thin odour of cigarette smoke is dear to me. Smoke now.
PARBURY.
Shall I?
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Gives him a cigarette from his case on table, and lights it._]
That's delightful! [_Sniffs the smoke._] But only because it's you! I
used to detest tobacco.
PARBURY.
[_Smiling._] You dear!
[_Puts his arm around her._
MRS. PARBURY.
You understand a little now, don't you?
[_Putting her head on his shoulder._
PARBURY.
Perfectly!
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Rising._] And you are not angry any more?
PARBURY.
Was I angry?
[_Rises._
MRS. PARBURY.
Horribly!
PARBURY.
I'm sorry.
MRS. PARBURY.
Not vexed about the article?
PARBURY.
Bother the article. I knew it hadn't a million to one chance!
MRS. PARBURY.
And it doesn't matter?
PARBURY.
Not in the least!
MRS. PARBURY.
Then we may have tea in here?
PARBURY.
Rather! Let's go the pace.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Goes to him, standing before him, her hands by her sides._] Kiss me!
[_He kisses her. She throws her arms round him and whispers to him. He
whispers a word in reply. They both laugh slightly, and he playfully
pinches her cheek._] Brute! [_She smooths her hair and goes to door,
L.; turns at door and blows him a kiss, to which he responds._]
[_Exit MRS. PARBURY, L._
PARBURY.
[_Standing for moment, C., a whimsical look on his face._] Dear little
woman! What a pity she cries so much! [_Puts chair up, R.; goes to
desk and turns over pages of magazine, still continuing his thought._]
What a pity! What a pity!
_Enter MISS WOODWARD carrying loose type-written MS. PARBURY glances
up from his magazine as she places the leaves on the desk._
Oh, thanks!
MISS WOODWARD.
Do you wish to finish the article now?
PARBURY.
Impossible! Tea will be taken here in a few minutes.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_With a touch of indignant surprise._] Here? . . . Oh, I beg your
pardon!
PARBURY.
Not at all! I said here! [_Throws down magazine, goes up to fireplace,
C. MISS WOODWARD permits a slight groan to escape her._] Eh?
MISS WOODWARD.
Nothing, I didn't speak!
[_Sits and bends over desk._
[_PARBURY looks at her suddenly and keenly as though he had never
noticed her before. Slight pause. She arranges papers at desk. He is
leaning against the mantelpiece._
PARBURY.
Do you know, Miss Woodward, I believe you are more disappointed about
that article than I am.
MISS WOODWARD.
I was certainly very interested.
PARBURY.
Why?
MISS WOODWARD.
It was so strong! I admire strength.
PARBURY.
[_Smiling._] You are not then quite the machine one gets into the
habit of imagining one's secretary to be?
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Meeting his eye calmly and fearlessly for a moment._] I should like
to be what you wish me to be.
PARBURY.
[_A little disconcerted._] Humph! [_Stands with his hands in his
pockets looking at her, while she is busy at the desk._]
[_The door, L., suddenly opens. PARBURY starts almost violently. MRS.
PARBURY puts her head into the room._
MRS. PARBURY.
Darling, I've got rid of a would-be intruder for you. I thought you'd
like to know.
PARBURY.
Thank you, dear; who was it?
MRS. PARBURY.
A horrid person named Gunning. There's the creature's card. [_Throws
card into room on to chair by door L._] I knew you'd be pleased,
darling! Tea in five minutes.
[_Exit MRS. PARBURY, closing door._
PARBURY.
Gunning! Not George surely? [_Quickly gets the card._] It is! My dear
old friend; I wouldn't miss seeing him for worlds! [_Rushes to window,
opens it, and bends out._] Why, there he is, going across the lawn!
[_Shouts._] George! George!! Hi! Gunning!!!
[_Runs off, R._
GUNNING.
[_Outside, very distant._] Hullo, Clement!
PARBURY.
[_Outside._] Wait a moment, old chap!
[_MISS WOODWARD goes up and looks through window, comes down, and with
her handkerchief carefully dusts a photograph of PARBURY which stands
on book-case up L.C., then looks at the portrait of MRS. PARBURY,
which is C. on wall over mantel, shrugs her shoulders slightly,
returns to desk._
_Enter PARBURY and GUNNING, R., through window._
PARBURY.
[_C., speaking as they enter._] Quite a mistake! I assure you, my dear
fellow, my wife gave orders that I was not to be disturbed, thinking I
was engaged upon an important piece of work.
GUNNING.
[_Looking at MISS WOODWARD._] Won't you present me to Mrs.----
PARBURY.
[_Hastily._] To Miss Woodward, my secretary--certainly! Mr. Gunning,
Miss Woodward. [_They bow. MISS WOODWARD moves to go._] Don't go, Miss
Woodward. [_Crosses to top of table, R.C. GUNNING puts his hat and
gloves on chair, L._] You might very kindly get rid of some of this
correspondence for me. [_Takes a bundle of letters from desk._] "Dear
Sir,--I would esteem it a great favour if you would send me your
photograph, together with your autograph." [_Throws letter aside, and
reads another._] "My dear Sir,--I have read with the deepest interest
and the highest pleasure your deservedly successful novel, 'The
Overthrow of Harvey Masterton,' and feel convinced that if you knew
the story of my life----" [_Repeats business._] No one can deal with
these people like Miss Woodward.
GUNNING.
[_Taking off his gloves._] What is your method, Miss Woodward?
MISS WOODWARD.
It is Mr. Parbury's--perfect civility, consistent with finality.
[_Sits at desk and writes letters._
GUNNING.
Excellent! [_Sits and addresses PARBURY._] I suppose being a popular
author entails a lot of correspondence?
PARBURY.
Awful!
GUNNING.
[L.C.] For my part, my correspondence is practically nil.
PARBURY.
I have noticed it with pain.
GUNNING.
Oh, I'd have written to you, but what was the good of it? I'm not
literary, and I'm not married.
PARBURY.
And so you've kept away for five years.
GUNNING.
About that.
[_Sits on arm of sofa, L.C._
PARBURY.
Five years and three months--for I've been married all that time, and
you neither came to the wedding nor called on me afterwards.
GUNNING.
I was discreet.
PARBURY.
Discreet! Damned unfriendly, I call it, considering the years we had
been pals.
GUNNING.
Well, the rest of our old set stuck to you, anyway. What has become of
them? Take Wybrow, for instance--an awful good chap!
PARBURY.
Wybrow, Wybrow--what _has_ become of Wybrow?
GUNNING.
Never comes here, eh?
PARBURY.
Well, he did a few times some years ago, but----
GUNNING.
I understand--a little too Bohemian.
PARBURY.
[_Quickly._] Not for me, George, I assure you.
GUNNING.
No, no, of course not, my dear chap. Exit Bohemian Wybrow. Then there
was Carson--one of the best?
PARBURY.
[_Warmly._] Wasn't he a good fellow?
GUNNING.
Capital! Where is he?
PARBURY.
Married, you know.
GUNNING.
So I heard. You meet constantly, of course?
PARBURY.
No, we met them at Brighton one winter some years ago, but I don't
think our wives quite--you understand, don't you?
GUNNING.
Yes, yes, I understand. You dropped the Carsons. But Burleigh----
PARBURY.
Burleigh--ah!
[_Laughs._
GUNNING.
There was a great spirit if you like; he was your best man.
PARBURY.
Yes; he gave me this watch.
GUNNING.
Which you still wear. Touching constancy! When did you see him last?
PARBURY.
Wait a moment. What is all this interrogation for?
GUNNING.
Idle curiosity if you like--study of life if you like. Come, out with
it, when did you last have dear old Tom Burleigh to dinner?
PARBURY.
[_Almost defiantly._] The day we returned from our honeymoon.
[_Slightly awkward pause._
GUNNING.
[_Musingly._] About five years and six weeks ago.
PARBURY.
Of course, I see a lot of him at the Clubs. That is to say, I used to
when I was still a Club man.
GUNNING.
Which now you are not?
PARBURY.
Which now I am not! What does a man want with a Club when he has a
home of his own?
GUNNING.
Excellent sentiment; but neither the sentiment nor the words are your
own, Clement. [_Their eyes meet and they burst into laughter._] I
know, I know; "and what does a man want with men friends when he has a
wife of his own," and "the husband's old friends are the wife's worst
enemies," and "what I say about Clubs is, down with them!"
[_Laughs, sits on sofa, L.C._
PARBURY.
[_Suddenly serious._] What the devil are you laughing at, George? You
don't presume----
GUNNING.
I--why, of course not, my dear chap. Only now you see how wise I was
not to intrude after your marriage, not to wait for my congé as the
other poor boys did! I knew something.
PARBURY.
You always did, you brute! I believe you were born knowing something.
[_Leans on back of sofa._] But seriously [_lowers his voice_], George,
I assure you she's the best little woman in the world!
GUNNING.
Why, of course; it would be impious to suggest otherwise.
[_Exit MISS WOODWARD._
[_His eyes follow her off._] A perfect wife, and a charming secretary!
You're a lucky fellow, Clement!
PARBURY.
Is Miss Woodward charming? On my word, I hadn't noticed it, but I'm in
love with my wife, you see.
GUNNING.
Of course you would be the last to discover that your secretary was
personally pleasing.
PARBURY.
You're a sinister scoundrel, George, and coarse to a fault. Now, tell
me what you've been doing all these years--shedding your illusions
apparently.
GUNNING.
I've had none to lose since I grew up. I got rid of mine about the
time of measles and whooping-cough.
PARBURY.
It's a pity.
GUNNING.
Not at all. One can't attain the proper philosophical attitude towards
life while one nourishes illusions; one can never gain perspective.
PARBURY.
Great man! How beautifully you talk! I suppose you have quite a nice
thing in perspectives about with you now.
GUNNING.
Pretty well.
PARBURY.
So much for the journey of the soul. What of the body? Where have you
been?
GUNNING.
Round the world twice since I saw you.
PARBURY.
What did you see on the other side?
GUNNING.
Just what one sees on this side; there is always a man--and a woman.
PARBURY.
I know you were adventuring in Upper India last year, for the papers
were full of a rather fine thing you did--saved a lot of miserable
lives--an ordinary, manly, commonplace, heroic, English sort of thing.
GUNNING.
Oh, don't mention that; one was carried away by impulse.
PARBURY.
And so we keep our impulses even when we lose our illusions; I'm glad
of that anyway. [_Then he comes behind GUNNING'S chair, takes him by
the shoulder, and shakes him._] Old fool! I can't help liking you as
much as ever!
GUNNING.
[_Looking up with genuine pleasure._] Really?
PARBURY.
Honestly!
GUNNING.
[_Rises, puts his hands on PARBURY'S shoulders._] Well, I'm glad,
because I've often been weak enough to regret not seeing you. As for
your literary successes, I suppose I ought to congratulate you; but I
always knew you'd be a great man, because you never bored me.
PARBURY.
[_Drily._] Thanks so much. Now tell me how you found me.
GUNNING.
By means of the illustrated press--interview with Mr. Clement
Parbury--copyright. The author of the "Overthrow of Harvey something"
at his pretty retreat at Hampstead--copyright. Snapshot of Mr. Parbury
at work--copyright. View of the study from the garden--view of the
garden from the study--copyright.
PARBURY.
Shut up! You make me blush.
GUNNING.
Forgive me--it's only envy. It's the envious people who call this a
vulgar age, I suppose.
_Enter SERVANT, L., places occasional table for tea in front of sofa,
L.C., and exits L._
PARBURY.
Now you are to see my wife. How do you imagine her? Large, I suppose,
with huge hands and feet and a beetling brow?
GUNNING.
I'm content to wait.
_Re-enter SERVANT, L., with tea service._
PARBURY.
When you have had tea, you will go away to dress. You will return here
to dinner at eight.
GUNNING.
I think not.
PARBURY.
One moment. You will probably meet only my wife's father, Colonel
Armitage, and your dinner will be a fairly plain one, but I promise
that your palate will not be outraged.
GUNNING.
I really think not, old man. I remember the fate of old Burleigh. And
I never even gave you a watch.
PARBURY.
George, you hurt me. [_Slight pause._] Then you refuse?
GUNNING.
I make conditions.
PARBURY.
What are they?
GUNNING.
That you come yachting with me from to-morrow till the end of the
week. I've hired a charming little twenty-tonner, one after your own
heart--that is, if your heart or my memory hasn't entirely changed.
PARBURY.
[_Enthusiastic._] Splendid! There's nothing I should like so much; and
I've no special work on hand just now.
GUNNING.
Then it's agreed?
PARBURY.
Certainly!
GUNNING.
Good; we'll drink of the Cuvée 36, brush up our swearing vocabulary,
and I'll teach you to gain perspective!
PARBURY.
[_His face suddenly falling._] Oh, the deuce!
GUNNING.
What's the matter? What are you afraid of?
PARBURY.
Of nothing in the world!
GUNNING.
[_Slapping him on the back._] Hero!
_Enter MRS. PARBURY, L., wearing a bright smile, which fades when she
sees GUNNING._
PARBURY.
Mabel, I want to present you to my dear old friend, George Gunning. My
wife, George.
[_GUNNING crosses to MRS. PARBURY. Shakes hands._
MRS. PARBURY.
How do you do? I'm very pleased.
[_She gives him simultaneously a cold smile and a stiff handshake._
GUNNING.
I'm very delighted to meet Clement's wife.
MRS. PARBURY.
You'll let me give you some tea?
[_Goes to tea-table; sits on sofa._
GUNNING.
Thank you. [_Aside to PARBURY._] She's charming!
[_PARBURY digs him in the ribs. GUNNING goes to tea-table. PARBURY
sits at desk._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Handing GUNNING tea-cup._] I've given you no sugar.
GUNNING.
I'll take one piece.
[_Does so._
_Enter MISS WOODWARD, R.I.E., with MS., which she hands to PARBURY._
PARBURY.
Thank you.
[_He reads and signs letters._
MRS. PARBURY.
Clement, come for your tea.
PARBURY.
In one moment, dear.
MRS. PARBURY.
Miss Woodward, you will take tea?
MISS WOODWARD.
Thank you, yes.
GUNNING.
[_To MRS. PARBURY._] Allow me.
[_Takes MISS WOODWARD'S cup to her, and offers her bread and butter,
&c._
MISS WOODWARD.
Thank you.
PARBURY.
You've often heard me speak of Gunning, Mabel; we were at Cambridge
together.
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh yes, I remember! [_To GUNNING._] You were very great friends?
GUNNING.
Inseparables!
PARBURY.
I should say so!
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Uneasily._] Indeed!
PARBURY.
[_Comes over and takes his tea._] You see, Gunning had been my fag at
Harrow, and my ill-treatment of him inspired a dog-like devotion. [_To
MISS WOODWARD._] Let me take your cup. [_Adds in a lower voice._] I've
an idea!
[_MISS WOODWARD goes to desk; PARBURY follows her to desk._]
GUNNING.
Let me.
[_Assists MRS. PARBURY with the tea service._
PARBURY.
[_To MISS WOODWARD in a low voice._] I think I can finish the article
in three sentences. Take your notes into the other room; I'll join you
in a moment.
[_MISS WOODWARD gathers her notes and exits R._]
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Pouring out a fresh cup of tea for GUNNING._] But of course it's not
in the nature of things that college friendships, however strong, can
last always. Time estranges, doesn't it, Mr. Gunning, and fate drives
people into different--well, different ways of life, doesn't it? Some
men marry soon. Are you married, Mr. Gunning?
GUNNING.
Alas, no, Mrs. Parbury!
PARBURY.
He has too much respect for your sex, dear. Forgive me for three
minutes.
[_Exit PARBURY, R._
MRS. PARBURY.
Not married! Well, I should have thought----
GUNNING.
That I'm old enough to know better. I admit it.
[_Sits R.C._
MRS. PARBURY.
Well, I was going to say that in marriage a man changes so much. He
becomes more--more----
GUNNING.
[_Gently._] Respectable?
MRS. PARBURY.
Well, I wasn't going to say quite that; though, as you suggest it, no
doubt it is true. I was going to say more responsible. He enters into
a broader, a fuller life; he gains in nobility, don't you think?
GUNNING.
[_Amused._] Oh, no doubt Clement has improved enormously!
MRS. PARBURY.
I'm so glad you recognise that. You may smoke, Mr. Gunning, if you
care to.
GUNNING.
Thank you. I'll steal one of Clement's cigarettes if I may?
[_Takes cigarette from box on desk._
MRS. PARBURY.
Of course Clement was always good and strong and clever. It only
wanted marriage to--to----
GUNNING.
To perfect him!
MRS. PARBURY.
Well, I was going to say to complete him; but it comes to the same
thing, doesn't it?
GUNNING.
Quite, quite!
MRS. PARBURY.
I found my happiness when I married Clement.
GUNNING.
You had been looking for it?
MRS. PARBURY.
Of course; isn't that every woman's duty?
GUNNING.
Yes, yes; and every man's?
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Less confidently._] Well, yes, I should think so.
GUNNING.
And one's happiness once found is worth fighting for?
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Firmly._] Worth fighting very hard for!
GUNNING.
[_Drily._] Of course. [_Aside._] Poor Burleigh!
[_Lights cigarette._
MRS. PARBURY.
You, I suppose, have never met a woman who could make you happy?
GUNNING.
I have never met a woman whom I was sure of being able to make happy.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Slightly embarrassed._] Oh!
GUNNING.
And, anyway, the state of marriage has always appeared to me to be a
state of warfare.
MRS. PARBURY.
Mr. Gunning, you little know----
GUNNING.
I admit the case of you and Clement to be an exceptional one. I'm
talking of ordinary cases--the average marriage; there you will find,
according to my observation, an endless war--a war of self-interests,
a war of opposing emotions, a war of irreconcilable nervous
organisations----
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh, Mr. Gunning!
GUNNING.
Viewed from the hill-tops rather a pitiful sort of war, in which can
be won neither the full joys of love nor the complete glories of
battle.
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh, Mr. Gunning!
GUNNING.
I remain single, Mrs. Parbury, quite without happiness--except in the
reflection that I am neither an oppressor exercising a daily tyranny,
nor a slave rightly struggling to be free.
MRS. PARBURY.
Of course I don't in the least agree with you. [_The telephone bell
rings._] [_Rising._] There's some one on the telephone--forgive me.
[_Goes to telephone box and puts the communicator to her ear._] Are
you there?--yes--who are you?--the article--yes--no, you can't have it
to-day--no, it hasn't a million to one chance of being finished. [_To
GUNNING, with a smile._] That's Clement's slang, not mine. [_Again
into telephone._] What?
_Enter PARBURY and MISS WOODWARD, R._
I say it hasn't a million to one chance of being finished.
PARBURY.
What? Who is it?
MRS. PARBURY.
It's the _Saturday Sentinel._
PARBURY.
But, my dear, the article is finished. [_Rushes to telephone._] [_MISS
WOODWARD and GUNNING are laughing secretly. MRS. PARBURY stands C.,
rather confused._] [_At telephone._] Hullo! Hullo! Are you there?
[_Rings violently._] Hullo--oh! is that you, Jackson? . . . what's the
matter? [_Rather a long pause. He smiles while listening._] No, no,
not at all, my dear chap. What was said was, 'It's a million to one
you'll have the copy in half-an-hour'--eh?--yes, those were the very
words . . . no, quite a mistake, you don't listen properly. A
messenger has just gone off in a cab with it. What? Yes. [_Laughs._]
All right! Good-bye!
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Seeing MISS WOODWARD laughing._] I really don't know what there is
to laugh at, Miss Woodward.
MISS WOODWARD.
I was only smiling at the messenger in the cab.
[_Folds MS. and puts it in envelope._
PARBURY.
Yes, send some one at once, please, Miss Woodward.
[_Exit MISS WOODWARD, R.V.E._
MRS. PARBURY.
It wasn't my fault, dear. You know you did use those words.
PARBURY.
My fault entirely. [_Aside to GUNNING._] Have you told her?
GUNNING.
What?
PARBURY.
About the yachting?
GUNNING.
Why, of course not. That's your affair, my dear fellow.
PARBURY.
[_His hand on GUNNING'S shoulder._] Mabel, dear, we're going yachting
for a few days. I think I want a little change.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Coming towards them, brightly._] Oh, what a good idea! When do we
go? [_PARBURY and GUNNING look at each other._] Are you coming, Mr.
Gunning?
[_PARBURY presses GUNNING forward. GUNNING looks round at PARBURY
reproachfully. PARBURY goes up stage._
GUNNING.
[_Embarrassed._] Well, it's my yacht, Mrs. Parbury, but she's very
small--only a little tub of a thing; and-- [_Looks at his watch._] By
Jove! I'll never be able to dress and get back for dinner if I don't
hurry. [_Gets his hat and gloves, L. Goes up quickly._] I need only
say _au revoir;_ don't trouble, Clement, I'll find my way out--_au
revoir!_
[_Exit GUNNING, L._
[_MRS. PARBURY, who is puzzled, sits on sofa._
PARBURY.
[_Calling after GUNNING._] Dinner at eight, remember.
GUNNING.
[_Outside._] All right!
PARBURY.
[_Shuts the door._] Capital fellow, George Gunning!
[_Comes to back of sofa._
MRS. PARBURY.
What does he mean by a little tub of a thing? Surely we're not----
PARBURY.
No, dear, certainly not. You're quite right. I wouldn't think of
letting you run any risks.
MRS. PARBURY.
Then we're not going?
PARBURY.
No, dear; that is to say, Gunning and I are going.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Rising, aghast._] Without me?
PARBURY.
Only for a few days, of course.
[_Laughing feebly._
MRS. PARBURY.
You are not serious?
PARBURY.
Quite!
[_His laugh becomes feebler._
MRS. PARBURY.
But--but you never go away without me!
PARBURY.
I haven't hitherto, but----
MRS. PARBURY.
Well?
[_Appears about to cry._
PARBURY.
I've been working very hard, you know, lately. I feel I want a change.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Tearfully._] It doesn't occur to you that I might want a change.
PARBURY.
Well, have one, dear. Aunt Martha would be delighted to have you at
Oaklands.
MRS. PARBURY.
I don't want to go to Aunt Martha. How would you like to go to Aunt
Martha?
PARBURY.
[_Suppressing a groan._] What is it you _do_ want?
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Quickly._] You! I want to be with you! It's very simple--it's not
asking very much. If you don't like my being with you, why did you
marry me?
[_Taking out her handkerchief._
PARBURY.
Now, dear, please don't cry! [_Aside._] If she does, I'm done for!
[_Aloud._] It's only common sense that you can't go knocking about
with a couple of men in a tub of a boat.
MRS. PARBURY.
Of course I quite know now that you don't love me.
[_Bursts into tears. Sits on sofa._
PARBURY.
[_With real irritation._] Oh, damn it! [_Goes up, but turns quickly
and comes down to her._] 'Pon my soul, you make me almost hate----
MRS. PARBURY.
Of course you hate me. Your old friend has done that for me. You are
breaking my heart!
PARBURY.
[_Who has recovered control of his temper and resumed his natural
bantering tone._] Not at all, dear. [_Sits at his desk and affects to
be busy._] I was only going to say that I hated--now, what the deuce
was it I hated?--oh, I know--to see a woman cry. I do think a woman is
wise who does her crying in private, and yet--I wonder--they know
best--millions to one they know best. I must write something about it.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Rises, goes to top of table, R. She is wiping her eyes, her back to
him._] Of course, you're going all the same?
PARBURY.
[_Affecting great pre-occupation._] Going? Going where?
MRS. PARBURY.
With Mr. Gunning.
[_Pause. She continues to cry gently._
PARBURY.
Gunning--Gunning!--who's Gunning? Oh--George--yachting, you mean! Not
I! I'm staying here.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Comes towards him gladly, her arms extended._] Clement!
PARBURY.
Eh? Oh, forgive me for a few minutes.
[_Writes._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Reproachfully._] I was only going to kiss you.
PARBURY.
[_Writing._] All right, dear--presently--presently, there's a dear
girl! [_MRS. PARBURY has a slow silent exit, looking back at him._]
[_He doesn't look up, but goes on writing. When the door closes, he
puts down his pen._] Oh, the tyranny of it! The tyranny of it!
[_Slow Curtain._
END OF ACT I.
ACT II
SCENE.--_The same as Act I. Evening after dinner the same day. The
room is lighted with lamps, but as it is a still warm evening, the
curtains are not drawn over the glass door which leads into the garden
and is open._
[_Enter EVANS, L. He places cigars and cigarettes on occasional table,
and lights a small spirit cigar-lamp._ [_Exit._] _Voices of ladies and
a ripple of laughter heard from the drawing-room, and for a moment the
sound made by fingers running lightly and irresponsibly over the keys
of the piano. Enter COLONEL ARMITAGE, followed by GUNNING and PARBURY.
ARMITAGE goes to mantelpiece. GUNNING selects the easiest chair in the
room. PARBURY goes to occasional table. ARMITAGE is a well-preserved
man of sixty-five, very carefully dressed--something of an elderly
dandy._
PARBURY.
Cigarette or cigar, George?
GUNNING.
Thanks, I have a cigarette.
[_Takes one from his case and lights it._
PARBURY.
Colonel?
COLONEL.
Thank you, I'll take a cigar. I think, however, I'll--er--smoke it in
the garden. Mabel's limited appreciation of tobacco----
PARBURY.
Oh, Mabel won't mind--she's quite educated.
COLONEL.
Not beyond the cigarette, I fancy.
[_He strolls to the glass door, lights his cigar, and steps out. For a
few moments he is still seen, then he wanders away._
GUNNING.
Nice old chap, your father-in-law.
PARBURY.
Isn't he? I'm quite fond of him. [_Pause. They smoke in silence,
PARBURY standing at mantelpiece._] What are you thinking of?
GUNNING.
I'm not thinking. I'm digesting. I had an excellent dinner.
_Enter EVANS with coffee, &c. GUNNING takes coffee._
EVANS.
Cognac, sir, or green chartreuse?
GUNNING.
Cognac. [_He takes glass._] Thank you.
PARBURY.
Colonel, here's your coffee.
COLONEL.
[_Outside._] I'll have it out here, if I may.
[_PARBURY takes his coffee and liqueur._
PARBURY.
Serve Colonel Armitage's coffee in the garden.
EVANS.
Yes, sir.
[_Exit EVANS, L._
GUNNING.
I've wired for the champagne.
PARBURY.
[_Uneasily._] Oh, yes!
[_Slight pause._
GUNNING.
I notice the glass keeps up well.
PARBURY.
Really? Good!
[_Slight pause._
GUNNING.
Yes, we ought to have capital weather.
PARBURY.
Capital! [_He is very embarrassed._] If it doesn't rain it'll be
pretty--er--fine.
[_Drinks. Puts his cup on mantelpiece._
GUNNING.
[_Favours him with a slow stare._] What's the matter, old man?
PARBURY.
Nothing in the world. Why?
GUNNING.
Oh, it doesn't matter. But I think the change will do you good.
[_Slight pause._] By the way, would to-morrow afternoon suit you for a
start?
PARBURY.
[_Standing with his back to the fireplace, looking up at the
ceiling._] I'm not going, old man.
GUNNING.
[_Indifferently._] Oh!
_Re-enter EVANS, R., from garden, and exit L. Silence till he has
gone._
PARBURY.
Well, you don't seem surprised.
GUNNING.
[_Effecting a yawn._] I never permit myself to be surprised.
PARBURY.
Or disappointed.
GUNNING.
Oh yes, I own I'm disappointed. I looked for a good time for a few
days. You were the only one of the old lot available, and you were the
best of them. I can't bear the new lot. They wear strange colours,
drop their "g's," and get on one's nerves.
PARBURY.
I'm really sorry, George.
GUNNING.
Don't bother. One simply goes alone. [_Discreetly._] The calls of
business are often irresistible.
PARBURY.
Don't rot. You know what the situation is.
GUNNING.
Mine is one of those poor intelligences that never know without
information.
PARBURY.
I'll supply it.
[_Sits on arm of chair, R.C._
GUNNING.
Don't, if it matters.
PARBURY.
I will, though it does matter. [_Grimly._] My wife wept.
GUNNING.
Unanswerable argument.
PARBURY.
Quite. George, what the devil is a man to do?
GUNNING.
I knew a man who once interfered between a husband and wife who were
disagreeing. The husband and wife each got a black eye. The man got
two.
PARBURY.
You might at least talk.
GUNNING.
Oh, certainly.
PARBURY.
You know the situation.
GUNNING.
Well, if one dare say so, I fancy you are suffering from the tyranny
of a fascinating egoism.
PARBURY.
I'm suffering from the tyranny of tears.
GUNNING.
What I can't understand is how a man of your strong nature arrived
where you are.
PARBURY.
I'll make an effort to tell you. To begin with, I suppose I'm fairly
good-natured.
GUNNING.
Oh yes!
PARBURY.
Or say, if you like, of indolent habit, which after all often passes
for the same thing. Then of course I was in love--I am still. One
drifted. It's so easy to give way in little things--really not
unpleasant when you're in love. And then there's one's work, which
fills the mind and makes the little things appear smaller than they
are. I say one drifted.
GUNNING.
Sometimes, if I know you, you rebelled. What then?
PARBURY.
[_Promptly._] Tears! And over such absurdly paltry things! Oh, the
farcical tragedy of it all! I wished to go shooting for a few days.
Tears! I fancied dining and spending the evening with an old chum.
Tears! I would go on a walking tour for a week. Tears! Some one would
ask me for three days' hunting. Tears! Tears, you understand, always
on hand. Tears--tears--tears _ad----_ [_Pulling himself up._] No.
GUNNING.
[_Quietly._] No--not _ad nauseam._
PARBURY.
No, that would be too low a thing to say.
[_Goes up R.C. Takes stopper out of the decanter._
GUNNING.
Do you know, Clement, I really like you tremendously.
PARBURY.
Thanks, old man. Have some more brandy?
GUNNING.
No thanks. [_Pause._] Don't stop. I'm interested.
PARBURY.
That's all. I drifted, almost unconsciously, right up to to-day, for
all the world like the man in the moral story-book one read as a child
on Sundays, who drifted in his boat on the Erie River towards Niagara.
To-night I'm conscious--I'm awake--I can feel the water gliding along
the boat's keel. I can see Niagara. I don't like it. What the devil's
one to do?
GUNNING.
Get out and walk.
[_Pause. They smoke._
PARBURY.
Of course, I shall change it all. I must, but it will be beastly work.
GUNNING.
Beastly. When do you begin?
PARBURY.
When occasion serves. I can't go back over this yachting business.
I've said I'm not going.
GUNNING.
Quite right.
[_Slight pause._
PARBURY.
Oh, if the _exigeant_ women only knew--if they only knew!
_Enter COLONEL ARMITAGE, R._
Talking of brandies, this is Hennessy '63. Have some, Colonel?
COLONEL.
Perhaps half a glass.
[_Takes brandy and sits._
_Enter MRS. PARBURY, L., from drawing-room._
MRS. PARBURY.
Miss Woodward and I are boring each other. Shall we come to you, or
will you come to us? [_GUNNING and ARMITAGE rise._] There, the
question's answered.
[_Sits on sofa, L._
_Enter MISS WOODWARD, L. She goes to the desk._
GUNNING.
[_To MRS. PARBURY._] You were playing the piano just now?
MRS. PARBURY.
Yes, but I play wretchedly nowadays. I gave up practising when we
married.
GUNNING.
One should never give up an accomplishment.
COLONEL.
You used to play charmingly, Mabel.
MRS. PARBURY.
You thought so, dear, and that was enough for me. [_She rises and
crosses to C._] Why don't we sit in the garden? It's a perfect night.
[_COLONEL strolls off to garden._] [_MRS. PARBURY goes to PARBURY, who
is standing by fireplace, and takes his arm. In a low voice._] Are you
still angry?
PARBURY.
[_As they go out to the garden._] I angry with you! Nonsense. [_He
pats her hand._] Poor little woman! Poor little woman!
[_Exit MR. and MRS. PARBURY._
GUNNING.
[_Crossing to R.C. top of the table._] Are you not coming, Miss
Woodward?
MISS WOODWARD.
No, thank you. I have some work to do.
GUNNING.
But you seem to me to be always working.
MISS WOODWARD.
I needn't, you know. I do it because I like it.
GUNNING.
What are you doing now?
MISS WOODWARD.
Correcting proof sheets of a new novel. It will save Mr. Parbury the
trouble of doing it to-morrow.
GUNNING.
I wanted you to talk to me.
MISS WOODWARD.
What about?
GUNNING.
Yourself.
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm not interesting.
GUNNING.
On the contrary.
MISS WOODWARD.
What do you wish to know?
GUNNING.
All about you. May I?
MISS WOODWARD.
Will you go away and leave me to work if I tell you?
GUNNING.
Yes.
[_Comes down by chair R.C._
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Putting down her pen, and resting her cheek on her hand._] I'm the
thirteenth daughter of a parson. Why my parents had thirteen
daughters, I don't know; but I suppose it was because they are very
poor. We were all given the names of flowers--Rose, Lily, Tulip,
Mignonette--I can't remember them all--but Hyacinth fell to my lot.
Why we were called after flowers, I don't know; but I suppose it was
because we are none of us the least like flowers. My eldest sister
married my father's curate. I don't know why, but I suppose it was
because she came first and is the plainest in the family.
GUNNING.
[_Laughing._] Yes, well?
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Speaking in an even, emotionless way._] Two other of my sisters run
a Kindergarten, and one other is a governess. Personally I would
rather be a domestic servant. The others remain at home, help in the
house, and await husbands. I fear they will wait in vain, because
there are so many women in our part of the country and so few men. For
my part I seized an early opportunity of learning shorthand and
typewriting--and--well, here I am. Now you know the story of my life.
[_She returns to her work._
GUNNING.
I'm afraid it was deuced impertinent of me to ask.
MISS WOODWARD.
Not at all--only eminently man-like.
[_Pause. She works, he smokes._
GUNNING.
And so you have found your happiness.
MISS WOODWARD.
Oh no. I've only just started to look for it.
GUNNING.
Oh ho! Ambitious!
MISS WOODWARD.
Very. Have you ever been poor?
GUNNING.
Yes, at one time--had to pawn things.
MISS WOODWARD.
I mean being one of fifteen in family--large inferior joints to last
for days--hot, cold, hashed, minced, shepherd's pie--[_GUNNING
shudders at this_]--too much potatoes--too much boiled rice--too much
bread and dripping--too much weak tea--too much polishing up of things
not worth polishing up--too much darning on too little material--and
for ever giving thanks out of all proportion to the benefits received.
I wish some one would write the history of a hat or a frock--I mean a
hat or a frock that has marched steadily and sullenly under various
guises through an entire family such as ours, from the mother down to
the youngest girl. What might be written of the thoughts that had been
thought under such a hat, or of the hearts that had felt under such a
frock!
GUNNING.
Why don't you write the story?
MISS WOODWARD.
Perhaps some day I shall try. [_Returns to her work._] In the meantime
you ought to go. You promised, you know. You have nothing more to
learn. I don't think in all my life I've talked so much about myself
as I have to you, a stranger.
[_She keeps her eyes on her work._
GUNNING.
You have been engagingly frank. I do hope I shall have another
opportunity----
MISS WOODWARD.
Not at all likely, Mr. Gunning. [_Pause._] Goodnight. [_Still without
looking up._]
[_GUNNING looks at her, goes up to the window, turns, looks at her
again._
GUNNING.
[_At window._] Good-night, Miss Woodward.
[_Exit to garden, R._
[_MISS WOODWARD goes on with her work for a few moments, then drops
her face on her hand in her favourite attitude._
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Soliloquising._] Rather than go back, I--well, I know I'd rather
die. [_She looks over the pages for a moment or two, then yawns
slightly; she gathers her pages together and places a paperweight over
them._] That will have to do. [_She rises, looks off R._] There was
actually a man ready to take a sort of languid interest in me. Quite a
new experience. [_She takes up PARBURY'S photograph and speaks to
it._] You don't take an interest in me of any kind, do you? [_To the
photograph._] You never will, and I don't think I want you to. But I
do want to stay near you, because you are so strong--
_Enter MRS. PARBURY from garden carrying the COLONEL'S coffee cup and
saucer._
--and so weak, and so kind, and so foolish.
[_MRS. PARBURY has come down and is watching her unobserved. MISS
WOODWARD slowly raises the photograph to her lips. The cup and saucer
drop from MRS. PARBURY'S hand to the floor and are broken. MISS
WOODWARD, much startled, slowly turns towards MRS. PARBURY, and their
eyes meet. There is a pause. Suddenly, with a quick movement, MRS.
PARBURY snatches the photograph from MISS WOODWARD._
MRS. PARBURY.
How dare you! How dare you! [_Long pause. She is almost breathless.
Then she partly regains self-control._] What train do you intend
taking?
MISS WOODWARD.
[R.C.] I don't understand you.
MRS. PARBURY.
I mean for your home, of course.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Moves as if she had received a blow, and clasps her hands
together._] I am not going home.
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh, indeed you are. You don't suppose you can stay here, do you?
MISS WOODWARD.
Why shouldn't I?
MRS. PARBURY.
How dare you ask that when I have just caught you in the act of
kissing my husband's photograph?
MISS WOODWARD.
That was in a moment of abstraction. I wasn't even thinking of Mr.
Parbury.
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh! And you are the daughter of a clergyman! [_She goes up and fetches
the A.B.C. from bookcase, and offers it to MISS WOODWARD._] Here is
the A.B.C.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Turning away._] I have no use for it just now, thank you.
MRS. PARBURY.
Then I'll look you out an early morning train myself. [_Sits L._] Let
me see--[_turning over leaves_]--Carfields, Worcestershire, isn't it?
Here it is. 7.20. I suppose that's too early. 9.35; that will do.
Please understand you are to take the 9.35 from Paddington in the
morning.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Firmly._] I shall do nothing of the kind.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Ignoring the remark._] In the meanwhile there is no necessity that
my husband should know the reason of your going. You can make some
excuse. I wouldn't have him know for worlds.
MISS WOODWARD.
Of course he shall never know from me--but I want you to quite
understand, Mrs. Parbury, that I am _not_ going to Carfields
to-morrow. Rather than go home under the circumstances I would starve
in the gutter.
MRS. PARBURY.
Well, you must find a lodging till you get other employment. You will
have a month's salary, of course. Anyway, I'm determined you leave
this house in the morning.
[_Goes up C. Puts A.B.C. on chair up L.C._
MISS WOODWARD.
Is there any real occasion for my leaving?
MRS. PARBURY.
Haven't you sufficient delicacy of feeling left to teach you that?
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Warmly._] I don't think I need lessons of delicacy of feeling from
you. [_Slight pause._] I'm sorry I said that, and it means a great
deal for me to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry too about the photograph. I
think it all might be forgotten.
MRS. PARBURY.
Forgotten!
MISS WOODWARD.
After all, I'm only a girl; and I've worked very hard for Mr. Parbury.
I think you might be more lenient.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_At fireplace._] I'm very sorry for you, Miss Woodward; but I owe a
duty to myself and to my husband. You must go in the morning.
[_She moves to return to garden._
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Crosses to L.C._] Mrs. Parbury!
MRS. PARBURY.
Well?
MISS WOODWARD.
I suppose I ought to be a lady and go, because you, the mistress of
the house, wish me to. But I don't feel a bit like a lady just now. I
only feel like a poor girl whose chances in life are being ruined for
a very small and innocent folly.
MRS. PARBURY.
Well, what does all this mean?
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Fiercely._] It means that I am in Mr. Parbury's employment, not
yours, and that I will take my dismissal from him only.
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh, I can promise you that. [_She calls into the garden._] Clement!
[_Exit MRS. PARBURY to garden, R._
[_MISS WOODWARD throws a hard look after her. Then her eyes fall on
the broken cup and saucer. She stoops, collects the fragments, and
puts them in waste-paper basket. Then she goes to desk, sits and works
on proof sheets as before._
_Enter MR. and MRS. PARBURY, R._
PARBURY.
Working again, Miss Woodward! Really, you are indefatigable!
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm only correcting these proof sheets.
MRS. PARBURY.
No doubt Miss Woodward wishes to finish the work to-night, as she is
leaving to-morrow.
PARBURY.
Leaving to-morrow?
MISS WOODWARD.
I think Mrs. Parbury is mistaken.
PARBURY.
[_To MRS. PARBURY._] What do you mean, dear?
MRS. PARBURY.
I wish her to go.
PARBURY.
Why?
MRS. PARBURY.
I can't tell you. It is not a thing you would understand. It is simply
impossible for her to remain. In her heart she knows I am right.
[_Slight pause. PARBURY goes to MISS WOODWARD._
PARBURY.
Are you satisfied here?
MISS WOODWARD.
Perfectly.
PARBURY.
You have no wish to go away?
MISS WOODWARD.
Not while you wish me to remain.
PARBURY.
Do you know why my wife wishes you to go?
MISS WOODWARD.
Yes.
PARBURY.
Will you kindly tell me?
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm sorry I can't. I've promised. But--[_with a look at MRS.
PARBURY_]--I don't think that Mrs. Parbury's reasons are adequate.
[_Pause. PARBURY is thoughtful._
PARBURY.
[_To MRS. PARBURY._] Have you anything more to say?
MRS. PARBURY.
I have only to repeat that it is quite impossible for Miss Woodward to
stay.
PARBURY.
Well, I have made up my mind that there is something very foolish
under all this, and I shall not allow it to deprive me of Miss
Woodward's services. [_MRS. PARBURY looks surprised._] I don't mind
saying in her presence that she is invaluable to me. I should never be
able to replace her. [_Sense of relief on MISS WOODWARD'S part._] Now,
come. [_Looking from one to the other._] What is it? A tiff--a stupid
misunderstanding? Oh, you women, why will you fuss about little
things? Make it up, do. Think of "The Roll of Ages." Shake hands, cry,
embrace, kiss, or whatever your pet method may be. Weep if you like,
though personally I'd rather you didn't. Anyway, as far as I am
concerned, the incident is closed.
[_He turns to go._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Doggedly._] Miss Woodward leaves this house in the morning.
PARBURY.
[_Looks at his wife for a moment, then turns to MISS WOODWARD._] Miss
Woodward, would you be so very kind----
[_He opens the door for her with great courtesy. MISS WOODWARD bows,
and exits L. He comes to C._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Turning to him with assumed brightness._] Now, darling, it will be
different. Of course, I couldn't say much before her. You were quite
right to be nice and courteous to her now she is going.
PARBURY.
But I assure you she is not.
[_They are C. MRS. PARBURY takes his arm caressingly._
MRS. PARBURY.
But she is--believe me, she is. Of course, we don't want to be hard on
her, and she shall have a month's salary and a strong recommendation.
PARBURY.
[_Disengaging his arm._] My dear Mabel, I absolutely refuse to act in
the dark. I hate mysteries. If you care to tell me what all this
bother is about, I'll judge for myself what's the right thing to do.
[_Sits on sofa._
MRS. PARBURY.
I can't--it's impossible. There are some things that men can't be
trusted to know about. You must leave this matter to me.
[_Sits next him._
PARBURY.
That I quite decline to do.
[_She again takes his arm and talks rapidly, gradually rather
hysterically, towards the end appearing about to cry._
MRS. PARBURY.
Darling, do listen. You don't understand. You have never been like
this with me before. I'm sure I'm not asking very much. You can easily
get another secretary. Another time you shall have a man one, as you
originally wanted to. You were right, dear--you often are. [_PARBURY
rises; crosses to R. MRS. PARBURY follows him._] Darling, do be
reasonable. I've been a good wife to you, haven't I? I've always
respected your wishes, and not bothered you more than I could help.
This is only a little thing, and you must let me have my own way. You
must trust me absolutely, dear. You know anything I would do would
only be for your good, for you know that I love you. [_She takes out
her handkerchief._] I adore you, darling. You must give way--you
must--you must!
PARBURY.
[_Stepping back from her._] If you cry I shall leave the room.
[_Sits R. Begins to write._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_With her back to the audience, in a low voice._] I wasn't going to
cry.
PARBURY.
I'm glad to hear it.
[_MRS. PARBURY puts her handkerchief away and turns._
MRS. PARBURY.
I had no intention of crying, dear. [_PARBURY still writes. Pause. She
comes to desk._] Shall I write out an advertisement for you, dear?
PARBURY.
What for?
MRS. PARBURY.
For a new secretary--a man.
PARBURY.
No. My mind's made up. I shall not change my secretary.
MRS. PARBURY.
Clement!
PARBURY.
[_Rises and goes to her._] Listen, my dear Mabel. Perhaps I'm a good
deal to blame for the pain you are going to suffer now, and I'm very
sorry for you; in many ways you are the best little woman in the
world. I've been weak and yielding, and I've gradually allowed you to
acquire a great deal more power than you know how to use wisely.
MRS. PARBURY.
Really, Clement, you must be raving.
PARBURY.
Listen, my dear, listen. What's been the result? You've taken from me
my habits. You've taken from me my friends. You've taken from me my
clubs. You've taken from me my self-esteem, my joy in life, my high
spirits, the cheery devil that God implanted in me; but, damn it, you
must leave me my secretary.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Excitedly walking the stage._] Oh, I understand now. You use this
exaggerated language, you make these cruel accusations, you work
yourself into a passion, because you have grown to think more of Miss
Woodward than of me.
PARBURY.
Now you know that to be a purely fantastic interpretation of what I
said. [_She takes out handkerchief._] I observe with pain, too, that
you are about to cry again.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Puts handkerchief up her sleeve, controls her anger, and becomes
very determined._] You are quite wrong. Probably I shall never again
know the relief of tears. Your callousness and obstinacy seem to have
dried up all the tenderness in me. Miss Woodward leaves this house in
the morning, or _I_ leave it to-night.
PARBURY.
[_Coming to her._] Oh, come, come, Mabel, that is too ridiculous.
MRS. PARBURY.
I'm very, very serious. Please, for your own sake, understand that.
Which is it to be?
PARBURY.
There, dear, let's drop it now. Don't you think domestic squabbles
like this, besides being boring, are just a little--may one say it,
vulgar? Let's go back to the garden.
MRS. PARBURY.
Which is it to be?
PARBURY.
[_Shrugs his shoulders._] Of course, you know I'm decided. Miss
Woodward stays.
MRS. PARBURY.
Very well.
[_She goes to bell L. of fireplace and rings. PARBURY goes up, takes a
book, and negligently turns over the leaves, secretly, however,
watching his wife. Pause until_
_Enter EVANS, L._
MRS. PARBURY.
Where is Caroline?
EVANS.
She's in her room, ma'am.
MRS. PARBURY.
Send her to me, please.
EVANS.
Yes, ma'am!
[_Exit EVANS, L._
MRS. PARBURY.
I needn't keep you from your friend, Mr. Gunning, any longer.
PARBURY.
I'm all right here, dear; I'm perfectly contented. [_He turns over
leaves._] There is such a wise passage here. I'd like to read it to
you. [_She makes a gesture of irritation._] No! Well, it must keep.
_Enter CAROLINE, L._
MRS. PARBURY.
Caroline, I shall want you to pack a few things for me.
CAROLINE.
What shall you want, ma'am?
MRS. PARBURY.
I'll come upstairs and show you.
CAROLINE.
Yes, ma'am.
[_Exit CAROLINE, L. Slight pause._
PARBURY.
[_Rising from his leaning attitude against table up stage, putting
down the book, and coming down two steps._] You foolish little woman.
You know this is impossible. Be reasonable.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Firmly._] Which is it to be?
PARBURY.
[_With a gesture conveys that the subject is closed and returns to his
former attitude._] I think I have a right to ask what you propose
doing.
MRS. PARBURY.
I propose going home with my father.
[_The laugh of the COLONEL is heard in the garden. Then he appears at
the entrance, still laughing. GUNNING appears behind him. The COLONEL
enters. GUNNING remains at the window smoking._
COLONEL.
[_To PARBURY._] That's really the funniest thing I've heard for years.
Have you heard that story, Clement?
PARBURY.
What story?
COLONEL.
Story of--[_Then he sees MRS. PARBURY._] Oh, quite a drawing-room
story, believe me, dear.
MRS. PARBURY.
Father, I wish to speak to you.
COLONEL.
Certainly, dear. What is it?
[_Crosses to sofa, L. Sits. PARBURY exchanges a look with GUNNING._
GUNNING.
[_Coming down quickly._] Mrs. Parbury, I must reluctantly say
good-night. Your charming house is almost in the country, and I've to
get back to London. I thank you for----
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Interrupting._] Please don't go, Mr. Gunning. It's quite early, and
Clement and you, as such _very old_ friends, must still have a great
deal to talk about.
PARBURY.
[_Taking GUNNING'S arm._] No, George, you really mustn't go.
[_Leads him up to window, R._
GUNNING.
I assure you, my dear chap----
PARBURY.
[_Interrupting._] But I make it a personal favour. Dear student of
life, stay and observe.
[_They remain up at window._
MRS. PARBURY.
Dear father, I wish you to take me home with you to-night.
COLONEL.
[_Surprised._] Certainly, dear, but----
MRS. PARBURY.
Don't question me. [_Puts her hand on his shoulder._] You love me,
don't you?
COLONEL.
Naturally, my dear. But nowadays, of course, I take second place.
MRS. PARBURY.
I thought so too, but I was wrong. Wait for me a few minutes.
COLONEL.
[_Hesitatingly, after glancing at PARBURY and again at his daughter._]
One moment, Mabel. This is all so sudden.
MRS. PARBURY.
Father, do you hesitate to receive me?
COLONEL.
Good heavens, no! But Clement----
MRS. PARBURY.
Shhh!
[_Puts her hand over his mouth._
COLONEL.
Oh! I was thinking, my dear, that unfortunately there is no mother to
receive you now. I'm only an old bachelor, and you'll be--er--give me
a word.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Kisses him, and goes to door, L. She looks across the room at her
husband, and then whispers to herself._] He'll never let me go.
[_Exit, L._
PARBURY.
[_To GUNNING._] She'll not go, my dear fellow.
GUNNING.
Humph! You think not? Anyway, _I_ must,
PARBURY.
Don't.
GUNNING.
The domestic atmosphere is volcanic, and I feel remorseful.
PARBURY.
Nonsense, it had to come. You must see me through it now.
GUNNING.
How beastly selfish you married men are!
[_They come down._
COLONEL.
Clement, I'm in a difficulty.
PARBURY.
You mean about Mabel, Colonel?
COLONEL.
Yes.
PARBURY.
She proposes going home with you.
COLONEL.
Yes.
PARBURY.
[_Smiling confidently._] I don't think she'll go.
_Enter EVANS, L._
EVANS.
[_To COLONEL._] Your carriage, sir. [_PARBURY looks uneasy._]
[_Exit EVANS, L._
COLONEL.
[_Whistles. Looks at his watch._] I think she means it. I ordered my
man to wait in the Avenue till he was called. Mabel has evidently had
him called.
[_PARBURY is thoughtful._
COLONEL.
I don't wish to be in the least degree meddlesome; but, well, there it
is!
PARBURY.
The question, I suppose, is what's it all about?
COLONEL.
Well, yes. I suppose that's it; although I don't in the least wish to
know.
PARBURY.
You hear, George; what's it all about?
GUNNING.
[_Down R., almost angrily._] Now, how the deuce should I know?
Colonel, you would be very kind if you would use your authority to
prevent Clement dragging me into his domestic difficulties. Married
men have a cowardly way of endeavouring to involve their friends.
Perhaps you have noticed it.
COLONEL.
I have, Mr. Gunning. My experience of married life extended over a
period of twenty-six years.
GUNNING.
May one discreetly express the hope that they were very happy years?
COLONEL.
Very happy years, with, however, I must admit, intermittent troubles.
Mabel's mother was one of the best women in the world, but, if I may
say so without disloyalty, she was just a little--a little--er--give
me a word.
PARBURY.
Would the word _exigeant_ apply?
COLONEL.
Admirably. Perhaps you have noticed in Mabel the slightest tendency?
Eh?
PARBURY.
Well, well!
COLONEL.
Her mother's jealousy, too, was something amazing. I hope I'm not
conceited, but in those days I was just a little--er--popular, and
perhaps I ought not to confess it, a little--er--give me a word.
GUNNING.
Human.
[_They laugh slightly._
COLONEL.
[_With affected severity._] Clement, I hope you are not too human?
PARBURY.
Quite the contrary, I assure you, Colonel.
COLONEL.
Then why--I suppose, after all, it is my duty to ask--why does Mabel
come home with me to-night?
PARBURY.
She is simply using pressure to get her own way in a matter in which I
think her way the wrong way.
COLONEL.
Gad! they do like their own way, don't they? Well, no doubt she'll be
more reasonable to-morrow. I think I may trust you.
PARBURY.
You may--absolutely.
_Enter MRS. PARBURY. She has put on a hat and a cloak._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Going to GUNNING._] You'll forgive me, I'm sure, Mr. Gunning.
Good-night. You'll have Clement all to yourself.
GUNNING.
Good-night, Mrs. Parbury.
[_They shake hands. PARBURY joins her, C._
PARBURY.
[_In a low voice._] Don't go, Mabel. It's very foolish.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Softening._] You could prevent me if you wished.
PARBURY.
I'm opposed to all violence.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Hard again._] Which way is it to be?
PARBURY.
[_Firmly._] My way, dear.
[_Goes up C. to fireplace._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Alone, C._] Good heavens! He'll really let me go. [_Hesitates for a
moment, then draws herself up._] Come, father.
COLONEL.
Good-night, Mr. Gunning. Good-night, Clement.
PARBURY and GUNNING.
Good-night, Colonel.
[_Exeunt MRS. PARBURY and the COLONEL._
PARBURY.
[_Comes down, a little astonished._] By Jove, she's really going!
[_GUNNING sits. PARBURY stands C., listening. Pause. Then there is the
noise of a carriage door being shut._
EVANS.
[_Outside._] Home!
[_PARBURY somewhat unsteadily lights a cigarette. He then catches
GUNNING'S eye. They look at each other._
_Slow Curtain._
END OF ACT II.
ACT III
SCENE.--_The Rose Garden at PARBURY'S house. A garden table, seat, and
chairs. The next morning._
[_Enter MISS WOODWARD. She is dressed simply, but less severely than
before. Her hair is dressed more loosely. She carries a little basket
full of roses. She places some roses upon the table, which is laid for
two for breakfast. She plucks more roses and fastens them in her
dress. Meanwhile she hums an air and conveys the impression of being
happier than in the previous Acts._]
[_Enter GUNNING, R. He wears a light morning suit, a round hat and
brown boots, and carries a stick and gloves._]
GUNNING.
Good-morning, Miss Woodward.
MISS WOODWARD.
Good-morning.
[_They shake hands._
GUNNING.
Shall I resist the temptation to pay you a compliment?
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Gathering more roses._] Yes, please.
GUNNING.
I thought you would say so. All the same, I feel it to be a
deprivation.
MISS WOODWARD.
Isn't that remark itself the cloven foot of compliment?
GUNNING.
Eh--well, perhaps it is. I'm sorry.
MISS WOODWARD.
And therefore unlike you.
GUNNING.
Unlike me? What does that mean?
MISS WOODWARD.
That it isn't much in your way to pay women compliments.
GUNNING.
I hope you are doing me an injustice.
MISS WOODWARD.
I don't think so. You haven't a very lofty opinion of women as a sex,
have you?
GUNNING.
Pretty well--pretty well; but what makes you think so?
MISS WOODWARD.
I heard you talk, you know, yesterday afternoon.
GUNNING.
Oh yes; one does talk a lot of rot sometimes, doesn't one?
MISS WOODWARD.
Yes.
[_Embarrassed pause._
GUNNING.
Is Mr. Parbury down yet?
MISS WOODWARD.
No. But he is sure to be in a few minutes. He is generally early.
Breakfast, as you see, will be served here. Perhaps--perhaps you would
rather wait indoors.
GUNNING.
No; I'll stay here if I may. . . . I'm afraid we made rather a late
night of it.
[_He sits._
MISS WOODWARD.
Really?
GUNNING.
Three o'clock.
MISS WOODWARD.
You had much to talk of. I envy people with pleasant memories.
GUNNING.
I don't remember that we talked much of old times. I think we talked
of the present.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Rather hardly._] Then my envy has flown.
GUNNING.
You are right. This affair is rather boring.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Innocently._] What affair, Mr. Gunning?
GUNNING.
Miss Woodward, you are a triumph of the inscrutable.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Leaning on chair, L.C._] I'm sure that is very clever, because I
can't quite understand it.
GUNNING.
Quite seriously, Miss Woodward, you interest me more than any person I
have ever met.
MISS WOODWARD.
Do you always say that to girls, Mr. Gunning?
GUNNING.
No. Why?
MISS WOODWARD.
You ought to. I'm sure it's very encouraging.
[_She picks another rose._
GUNNING.
[_Doubtfully._] Ahem!
MISS WOODWARD.
Are you quite sure you wouldn't rather wait indoors?
GUNNING.
Oh, quite. I like being here.
MISS WOODWARD.
But I'm sure you find it difficult getting down to one's level. I
often think that the very wise must be very lonely.
GUNNING.
[_Rising._] What an extremely unpleasant remark!
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm sorry. [_She sighs._] We don't seem to get on very well, do we?
GUNNING.
[_With sincerity and coming close to her._] I'd like to get on well
with you.
[_Pause. They look in each other's faces, both at table._
GUNNING.
Will you give me a rose?
MISS WOODWARD.
No, Mr. Gunning.
PARBURY.
[_Outside._] Are you there, George?
[_MISS WOODWARD gets letters from table._
GUNNING.
Yes.
PARBURY.
[_Outside, to EVANS._] Serve breakfast.
_Enter PARBURY, L._
Good-morning. I hope I haven't kept you waiting. Oh, you are here,
Miss Woodward. Good-morning. [_Looks at the table._] And you have
managed to find us some roses. How very kind of you! [_MISS WOODWARD
gives him letters. He runs them over._] No, no, no, no! Will you
kindly see what they're all about? [_She is about to go._] Oh, not
now--after breakfast will do.
MISS WOODWARD.
I have breakfasted, thank you.
PARBURY.
Really! I suppose I'm horribly late. [_Looks at his watch. Then,
noticing the roses she carries in her hand._] How very beautiful they
are! Look, George! [_She selects one and hands it to him._] For me?
Thank you. [_He fastens it in his buttonhole._]
[_Exit MISS WOODWARD, L._
[_To GUNNING._] Lovely, isn't it?
GUNNING.
[_Gruffly._] Yes, it's all right.
PARBURY.
What's the matter? Cross?
GUNNING.
Not at all. But, really, you married men are very tiresome.
PARBURY.
Oh, I see--wanted a rose yourself. Shall I call Miss Woodward back and
ask for you?
GUNNING.
Don't trouble. I've done that myself.
PARBURY.
You have? Ha, ha! [_Begins to laugh, but stops suddenly._] Oh!
[_Holding his head._] Dear, dear, what a head I have!
GUNNING.
You haven't asked after _my_ head.
PARBURY.
[_Sits at table._] Your pardon. How is it?
GUNNING.
[_Sits at table._] I'd like to sell it this morning. Do you know,
Clement, I'm not quite certain about that whisky of yours.
PARBURY.
I am. It's fifteen years old.
_Enter EVANS, L., with, breakfast-tray._
But you always had a way of mixing your drinks over-night and growling
in the morning.
GUNNING.
[_Drawing up his chair._] Put it at that, if you like. I do know that
I always had a way of disliking you particularly in the morning. I
regret I don't appear to have grown out of it.
PARBURY.
I'm so glad. I hate being too popular. [_EVANS offers bacon to MR.
PARBURY. He pushes the dish away._] Take it away. Have some bacon,
George?
[_Takes a piece of toast, looks at it, then puts it down._
GUNNING.
Thank you.
[_Helps himself to bacon._
[_Exit EVANS, L., with bacon dish._
PARBURY.
I must say I think your display of temper is in the worst possible
taste under the circumstances.
GUNNING.
[_Buttering toast._] What do you mean by "under the circumstances"?
PARBURY.
You know what I mean. How much sleep do you think I've had?
GUNNING.
I'm sure I don't know. What concerns me is that you detained me in
this outlandish place--what county is it?--till past three o'clock,
and then insisted, with alcoholic tears in your eyes, on my returning
to breakfast.
PARBURY.
Tea or coffee?
GUNNING.
Tea--no; coffee--no, neither.
PARBURY.
Have some hot milk?
[_Offers him the jug._
GUNNING.
Ugh! Don't.
[_Takes an egg. Shells it._
PARBURY.
[_Lifts the lid of the tea-pot, then of the coffee-pot, and closes
them gently with a look of distaste._] No, not this morning. Still, we
must drink something. What shall it be?
GUNNING.
I am your guest.
PARBURY.
Perhaps we had better split a bottle.
GUNNING.
Please be frank. Do you mean Bass or champagne?
PARBURY.
Champagne, of course. [_He calls loudly._] Evans! Evans!
EVANS.
[_Outside._] Yes, sir.
_Enter EVANS, L._
PARBURY.
Bring a bottle of champagne.
EVANS.
[_Starting ever so slightly._] Cham----
PARBURY.
[_Irritably._] Champagne and glasses.
EVANS.
[_Recovering his composure._] Yes, sir.
[_Exit EVANS, L., wearing a discreet smile._
PARBURY.
It's a thing I haven't done for years--taken wine in the morning.
GUNNING.
Five years.
PARBURY.
Exactly.
GUNNING.
In what I may venture to describe as the pre-domestic period it was
rather a way of yours.
PARBURY.
You mean ours.
GUNNING.
Ours, if you prefer it. Where's the salt?
PARBURY.
There it is, right before your eyes. Why don't you look?
GUNNING.
Pass the mustard, please. What a good chap you were in those days.
PARBURY.
Yes. Strange, you were always----
GUNNING.
Always what?
PARBURY.
Toast?
GUNNING.
Thanks, I've got some. Always what?
PARBURY.
It's quite pleasant out here, isn't it?
GUNNING.
Delightful. You were saying I was always----
PARBURY.
Oh, it doesn't matter.
GUNNING.
Of course, being about me it wouldn't matter.
PARBURY.
I'm afraid of offending you.
GUNNING.
You couldn't do that.
PARBURY.
Well, I was going to say you were always rather sour-natured.
GUNNING.
Really!
[_He takes up a daily paper and glances through it, continuing to do
so while PARBURY speaks._
PARBURY.
And that has, I fancy, quite unconsciously to you, I am sure, a
disturbing influence on others of happier nature.
[_Taking an egg._
GUNNING.
[_Drawlingly._] Yes.
[_He continues to read._
PARBURY.
Take yesterday, for instance. Of course, you didn't intend it. I
wouldn't suggest that for a moment. But, damn it, look at the result?
GUNNING.
[_In the same manner as before._] Yes.
[_He reads._
PARBURY.
[_Taking the top off his boiled egg._] Simply deplorable. I've broken
loose from my moorings. I'm at the mercy of every breeze. I feel that
I've lost moral stability. Confound it, why doesn't that champagne
come?
_Enter EVANS, L., with champagne. Pours out two glasses and hands them
to GUNNING and PARBURY._
PARBURY.
I'm not quite certain that for a man like me--[_GUNNING groans and
returns to his newspaper_]--a man, if I may say so, of generous
instincts and large sympathies--a groove isn't a good thing, even if
it be a little narrow. Of course, for a man of your nature, it's a
different matter.
GUNNING.
[_Suddenly puts down the paper, draws his chair closer to the table,
and takes an egg with apparent cheerfulness._] What were you saying,
old man?
PARBURY.
Nothing.
GUNNING.
[_Affecting heartiness._] Let's talk about you.
PARBURY.
[_Fingering the rose in his buttonhole._] Dear, dear, how cross you
are to-day!
EVANS.
Excuse me, sir, may I speak to you?
PARBURY.
Yes--what is it?
EVANS.
It's about cook, sir.
PARBURY.
What's the matter with her?
EVANS.
Well, sir, so to speak, she wants to know where she stands.
PARBURY.
[_Looks at EVANS, then at GUNNING._] How can I help her?
EVANS.
I mean, sir, or rather she means, now mistress has gone away----
PARBURY.
I presume my wife has a right to go away for a few days without cook's
permission.
EVANS.
Yes, sir, certainly. But excuse me, sir; there's been gossip. Emma,
the 'ousemaid, accidentally overheard something between Mrs. Parbury
and her maid. Servants is as nervous as race-horses, sir, and cook's
nerves is particularly sensible. So to speak, dismoralisation's set up
in the kitchen.
PARBURY.
Well, you had better go and set it down again, Evans, and don't bother
me any more.
EVANS.
Yes, sir, certainly. Excuse me, sir, I was to ask you who cook is to
take her orders from.
PARBURY.
In my wife's absence, from me, of course.
EVANS.
Not from Miss Woodward, sir?
PARBURY.
[_Staring slightly._] Why, has Miss Woodward given any orders?
EVANS.
No, sir, but cook thought----
PARBURY.
That will do, Evans.
EVANS.
Yes, sir.
[_Exit EVANS, L._
[_There is a pause. PARBURY and GUNNING exchange looks._
GUNNING.
Devilish awkward.
PARBURY.
What bores servants are!
[_PARBURY slowly drinks a glass of wine. GUNNING also drinks. PARBURY
re-fills the glasses._
_Enter COLONEL ARMITAGE, R._
ARMITAGE.
Am I an intruder?
PARBURY.
Good-morning, Colonel. [_He rises and shakes hands._] Not in the
least.
ARMITAGE.
[_At back of table, C._] Good-morning, Mr. Gunning.
GUNNING.
Good-morning, Colonel.
[_They shake hands._
PARBURY.
Have you breakfasted?
ARMITAGE.
Thanks, yes, but poorly. I didn't get to bed till four.
PARBURY.
Nor did I.
GUNNING.
Nor I.
ARMITAGE.
And then I had but little sleep.
PARBURY.
The same with me.
GUNNING.
And with me.
ARMITAGE.
[_With a touch of asperity._] Your troubles, Clement, you have, of
course, brought upon yourself; but I think it's a little hard on your
friends that they should be made to suffer with you.
GUNNING.
Hear, hear!
_Enter EVANS with fruit. GUNNING and PARBURY each take an apple._
ARMITAGE.
[_Tapping the champagne bottle with his stick._] What's this! Some new
kind of table water, I suppose.
PARBURY.
Champagne.
ARMITAGE.
Champagne at this hour! Well, I suppose you know best how to regulate
your life. Have you an extra glass?
PARBURY.
Another glass, Evans.
EVANS.
Yes, sir.
[_Exit EVANS._
ARMITAGE.
It's a thing I haven't done for many years.
PARBURY.
I trust, Colonel, you won't accuse me of leading you from the path of
morning abstinence.
ARMITAGE.
Really, Clement, I think this display of ill-humour is scarcely
in--er--give me a word.
GUNNING.
Good taste.
ARMITAGE.
Exactly! Good taste, considering that we are suffering from the
effects of your domestic--er--er----
GUNNING.
Maladministration.
ARMITAGE.
Maladministration--exactly.
GUNNING.
I quite agree with you, Colonel.
ARMITAGE.
Look at your friend there. If he'll allow me to say so, he's put on
ten years since yesterday. Look at me! Last evening, I suggest--I hope
I'm not conceited--I suggest I didn't look a day over forty-seven.
GUNNING.
Not an hour.
ARMITAGE.
While to-day--what would you say, Mr Gunning?
GUNNING.
[_Looks at him critically, then falls back in his chair._] Fifty-two.
[_PARBURY looks savagely at GUNNING, throws his apple on table, and
turns away._
ARMITAGE.
I feared so; but I like you for your frankness.
[_He cuts a cigar._
_Enter EVANS, with tumbler on tray; he places tumbler on table, and
collects the breakfast things. Pause. ARMITAGE lights his cigar with a
match EVANS hands him._
ARMITAGE.
You haven't asked me if I have a message for you.
PARBURY.
Prenez-garde!
GUNNING.
[_Loudly._] You mean about Newmarket.
ARMITAGE.
[_After a glance at EVANS._] Yes; Allerton doesn't run any of his
horses. Death in the family, you know.
PARBURY.
So I heard. That will do, Evans. You may leave the champagne.
[_They all keep their glasses._
EVANS.
Yes, sir.
[_Exit EVANS with breakfast tray, L._
PARBURY.
[_Watches EVANS off; then to ARMITAGE._] Of course, you know, I'm
really most anxious about Mabel. How is she?
ARMITAGE.
I think I told you that I was up practically all night with her.
PARBURY.
Was she ill?
ARMITAGE.
Bodily, no. We supped in the kitchen at two. It's amazing how emotion
stimulates the appetite. No, Clement, her indisposition is of the
mind. She wept.
PARBURY.
All the time?
ARMITAGE.
All the time. [_Slight pause. Then he adds with a sigh._] I had rather
a trying night.
[_They all drink champagne; GUNNING rises, bends over a rose-bush, and
hums the air of the music-hall song, "'E 'as my sympathy."_
ARMITAGE.
I'm not without experience. Poor dear Mabel's mother, for
instance--one of the best women in the world--_she_ would cry at
times, and if she got well off the scratch, she was--er--hard to beat.
Mind you, I'll be fair; I was much to blame--very much to blame. But
as for Mabel, bless you, that dear child could have given her poor
mother a stone and--er--what's the expression?
GUNNING.
Romped home.
ARMITAGE.
That's it--romped home.
PARBURY.
Come, Colonel, give me the message.
ARMITAGE.
I have no message for you. I may tell you, you are not in very great
favour. [_GUNNING smiles._] You're not well spoken of, Clement.
PARBURY.
Oho! Perhaps my wife had a good word for my old friend, Gunning.
ARMITAGE.
In regard to Mr. Gunning, I think the word "serpent" was employed.
[_PARBURY laughs quietly; GUNNING becomes serious._] All the same, I
have a message for him.
GUNNING.
Really.
PARBURY.
[_Rising._] In that case, I'll get out of the way. I shall be in my
study if I'm wanted.
ARMITAGE.
[_Comes C._] Very well. But I must say, Clement, that I find you, very
much to my surprise and regret, just a little--a little--er--give me a
word.
GUNNING.
Callous!
ARMITAGE.
Thanks, yes--callous; and, dearly fond as I am of my daughter, I think
I have a right to ask how long you intend leaving your wife on my
hands.
GUNNING.
Perfectly reasonable--perfectly----
PARBURY.
Shut up, George! [_He goes to ARMITAGE._] My dear old friend----
ARMITAGE.
[_Interrupting._] Hear me out, please. My dear daughter is, of course,
always more than welcome to my home, but I trust you will not
misunderstand me when I say that I require notice. Since I regained my
liberty--I mean, since the death of your wife's dear mother, I've
drifted into my own--er--little ways. This affair has deranged my
plans. Without being indiscreet, I may tell you that I've had to send
telegrams.
GUNNING.
Deuced hard lines!
PARBURY.
Send her back to me, Colonel. Consult at once your happiness and mine
by using your authority. Tell her that cook is in revolt, and that
Evans is impertinent. Tell her that I only want my own way when I know
I am absolutely right, as in this case. And above all, tell her that I
prefer her society to that of a second-class cynic who bellows for
champagne at ten o'clock in the morning.
[_Exit PARBURY, L._
GUNNING.
In regard to your son-in-law, Colonel, you have my respectful
sympathy.
ARMITAGE.
A good fellow, but inconsiderate. [_He lowers his voice._] I may tell
you in confidence, Gunning, that I had been looking forward to keeping
a rather pleasant appointment to-night----
GUNNING.
[_Falling into the confidential manner._] Really!
ARMITAGE.
Yes, rather pleasant--rather pleasant.
[_He takes a miniature from his pocket and looks at it._
GUNNING.
[_Leaning towards him._] Might one venture to----
ARMITAGE.
[_Keeping the miniature away from him._] Oh, no, no, no, no--wouldn't
be fair. Oh, no. Besides, you might know her hus--you might--er----
GUNNING.
Yes, yes, of course; one can't be too discreet.
ARMITAGE.
[_Quickly._] Not, mind you, that there's anything the whole world
mightn't know, only she--er--she's not happy at home, and a quiet
evening at a theatre--you understand?
GUNNING.
Quite, quite!
ARMITAGE.
Now you, my dear fellow, can do me a friendly turn.
GUNNING.
I should be delighted to, but--I don't see----
ARMITAGE.
I'll explain. My daughter wishes to see you. She seems to think that
you hold the key of the situation.
GUNNING.
But I don't. I should very much object to.
ARMITAGE.
Never mind--never mind! See her and do your utmost to make it up
between her and Clement.
GUNNING.
It's no business of mine.
ARMITAGE.
To put it bluntly, I shall not be able to keep my appointment to-night
if I still have my daughter on my hands.
GUNNING.
That would be a pity.
ARMITAGE.
In which case my friend will be vexed--_very vexed._ I should have
mentioned that on her mother's side my friend is Spanish.
GUNNING.
[_Smiling. Shakes hands._] That decides me. Where is your daughter
now?
ARMITAGE.
She's there, my boy, quite close. We walked over the heath together.
One moment. [_He brings a chair forward._] Would you kindly lend me
your arm? [_With GUNNING'S assistance he mounts a chair, then he
raises his hat on his stick._] That's the signal the coast is clear.
Trust an old campaigner. There she is! I say, put that wine away!
[_GUNNING puts the bottle under table up L.C., and places the glasses
on table and covers them over with serviette._] It's all right! Thank
you, thank you! [_As GUNNING helps him down._] Remember, my dear
fellow, that I've trusted you implicitly. My happiness is in your
hands. If we men didn't stand shoulder to shoulder in these little
matters, society would--er--would----
GUNNING.
Crumble to dust.
ARMITAGE.
Exactly.
_Enter MRS. PARBURY, R. Advancing cautiously, she bows very stiffly to
GUNNING, who takes his hat off._
GUNNING.
Good-morning, Mrs. Parbury.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Coldly._] Good-morning.
ARMITAGE.
Well, I'll leave you. There's nothing further I can do for you at
present, dear?
MRS. PARBURY.
You might stay in the garden and give me a signal if Clement is
coming. I have no intention of meeting him under the circumstances.
ARMITAGE.
Very well, I'll give you an unmistakable signal. "I'll sing thee songs
of Araby."
[_Exit ARMITAGE, L._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Grimly._] Well, Mr. Gunning, I hope you're satisfied with your work.
GUNNING.
My work, Mrs. Parbury--come, come!
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh, I hope you won't dispute that. Clement and I were living together
in perfect harmony, in perfect happiness, until you turned up
yesterday.
GUNNING.
Like a bad penny, eh?
MRS. PARBURY.
I was going to say like the snake in the garden.
GUNNING.
Better still. Our conversation doesn't open propitiously. Don't you
think it would conduce to the comfort of us both if we didn't pursue
it any further?
MRS. PARBURY.
Isn't that a little cowardly?
GUNNING.
I acknowledge cowardice in regard to other people's affairs.
MRS. PARBURY.
Yesterday you were a hero.
GUNNING.
Believe me, Mrs. Parbury, you are mistaken. I didn't interfere in any
way.
MRS. PARBURY.
You did worse.
GUNNING.
How?
MRS. PARBURY.
You sneered.
GUNNING.
Really, Mrs. Parbury, I----
MRS. PARBURY.
You aired opinions to me--pernicious opinions. I have a right to
assume that you aired the same opinions to Clement, over whom you have
some sort of influence.
GUNNING.
I?
MRS. PARBURY.
Not, I think, a good influence, Mr. Gunning. I've been thinking things
over since midnight. Hitherto I've been obliged to think very little
of serious things. Perhaps trouble sharpens the intelligence. I've
discovered that your influence over Clement is the influence of
ridicule--the ridicule of the untamed for the tamed.
GUNNING.
Say of the disreputable for the respectable, if you like, Mrs.
Parbury.
MRS. PARBURY.
Thank you. That quite expresses my present opinion. Of course it is in
your power at least to modify it.
GUNNING.
I should be grateful if you would show me the way.
MRS. PARBURY.
You are not sincere.
GUNNING.
'Pon my word, I am. [_MRS. PARBURY raises her hand protestingly._] No,
but really--I assure you, dear Mrs. Parbury--I'm not nearly such a bad
fellow as you think. What can I do?
MRS. PARBURY.
Something--_anything_ to remove Miss Woodward from this house.
GUNNING.
Miss Woodward! What has she to do with your quarrel with Clement?
MRS. PARBURY.
Everything. Sit down. [_He does so. She makes sure that they are
unobserved, then takes a chair next him._] Mr. Gunning, strange as it
may appear after all that has occurred, I am going to trust you.
[_Lowering her voice._
GUNNING.
You are very good.
MRS. PARBURY.
That wretched girl is in love with Clement.
GUNNING.
[_Starting from his chair as if shot._] What!
MRS. PARBURY.
Sit down! Sit down!
GUNNING.
Miss Woodward is in love with----
MRS. PARBURY.
Sit down, _please,_ Mr. Gunning.
GUNNING.
[_Laughs--sitting._] No, no, no; I simply can't believe it.
MRS. PARBURY.
Why not?
GUNNING.
It seems such a monstrous absurdity.
[_Laughs._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Drawing herself up._] I see nothing monstrously absurd in any one
falling in love with my husband. I did!
GUNNING.
Oh, of course--a charming chap; but she's such an original girl.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Indignant._] You infer that I am not?
GUNNING.
Not at all, Mrs. Parbury. You are really most interesting.
MRS. PARBURY.
I don't think you are very tactful.
GUNNING.
I'm a boor--a perfect boor.
MRS. PARBURY.
You appear to take an interest in Miss Woodward.
GUNNING.
[_Confused._] Only the interest of the student. I still think you must
be mistaken.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Emphatically._] I caught her in the act of kissing his photograph.
GUNNING.
You saw her-- [_Laughs._] My dear Mrs. Parbury, a day-dream!
MRS. PARBURY.
A fact. When pressed, she didn't deny it.
GUNNING.
Does Clement know?
MRS. PARBURY.
No; I thought it wise not to tell him.
GUNNING.
[_Heartily._] You were right--very right.
MRS. PARBURY.
I'm glad you think so.
GUNNING.
Some men are so weak.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Drawing herself up again._] Mr. Gunning!
GUNNING.
So easily flattered.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_With more emphasis._] Mr. Gunning!
GUNNING.
In nine cases out of ten it's vanity that leads men astray.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_With growing wrath._] Mr. Gunning, we are speaking of my husband.
GUNNING.
Yes, yes, dear old Clement has his share of vanity, of course.
[_Aside._] Damn him!
[_Rises and goes L._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Rising indignantly._] How dare you speak like that of my husband! A
less vain man doesn't exist, and what small faults he has concern only
him and me--and not you in any way.
GUNNING.
I beg ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Parbury. Of course you know Clement
far better than I do. Please don't go.
MRS. PARBURY.
I shall certainly not remain to hear my husband abused.
GUNNING.
But I assure you----
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Crosses to L._] Clement vain indeed!
GUNNING.
No, no; a mistake. Do sit down again.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Crosses to R.C._] You might, with advantage, look for vanity nearer
home, Mr. Gunning.
MR. GUNNING.
Perfectly true, perfectly true.
[_He places her chair for her._
MRS. PARBURY.
As for the sort of weakness you were good enough to credit my husband
with----
GUNNING.
Nothing but a slip of the tongue. Do sit down.
MRS. PARBURY.
No doubt you have accustomed yourself to judging other men from your
own standpoint.
GUNNING.
That's it; quite true! You are always right. Won't you sit?
[_She sits. He sighs with relief, then takes a chair himself._
MRS. PARBURY.
What do you propose?
GUNNING.
I'm waiting for a suggestion from you.
MRS. PARBURY.
This brazen hussy----
GUNNING.
That expression seems to me to be unnecessarily harsh, Mrs. Parbury.
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh, of course, if you defend the girl----
GUNNING.
Pardon me, but I have an old-fashioned prejudice against speaking ill
of the absent.
MRS. PARBURY.
I didn't observe it when you spoke of my husband.
GUNNING.
[_Laughing._] Fairly hit. Come, let's be practical. Miss Woodward must
not remain in the house, and Clement must not know the truth. On these
points we are quite agreed.
MRS. PARBURY.
Quite.
GUNNING.
Very well. I'll see Clement. I have an idea.
[_Rises._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Rises._] You'll not tell him you've seen me.
GUNNING.
Certainly not.
MRS. PARBURY.
Remember above all, it's most important to our future happiness that
Clement should be the first to give way.
GUNNING.
Oh, I'll remember that.
MRS. PARBURY.
And, Mr. Gunning, if you succeed I'll try to forget the mischief
you've created, and will ask you to come and see us--[_shakes hands
with him_]--occasionally.
GUNNING.
Thank you so much.
[_Voice of COLONEL ARMITAGE outside singing "I'll sing thee songs of
Araby."_
MRS. PARBURY.
That's father's signal. I am going to walk on the heath. I'm far too
proud to allow myself to be discovered by Clement here. He might think
I want to come back.
[_Exit MRS. PARBURY, R._
[_Voice of ARMITAGE, still singing, comes nearer until he enters with
PARBURY, with the words "or charm thee to a tear." Unseen by PARBURY,
GUNNING points out to the COLONEL the direction in which MRS. PARBURY
has gone._
ARMITAGE.
[_In a low voice, to GUNNING._] Will it be all right?
GUNNING.
I hope so.
ARMITAGE.
[_Going R._] Well, I'll finish my constitutional. I'll look in again,
Clement, in the hope that you will then be able to tell me how long
this extremely uncomfortable state of affairs is to last.
[_Exit ARMITAGE, R., singing until he is well off._
PARBURY.
Give me a cigarette, George.
[_GUNNING hands him a cigarette, then takes a cigarette himself. They
both smoke. There is a short silence._
PARBURY.
Not a stroke of work. It's absurd!
[_Throws cigarette on ground in a rage._
GUNNING.
You are not happy?
PARBURY.
Not particularly.
GUNNING.
Then how can you expect to do imaginative work?
PARBURY.
Quite so!
GUNNING.
I'm afraid you've made a mistake, old chap.
PARBURY.
Eh?
GUNNING.
You know I'm your friend.
PARBURY.
Of course.
GUNNING.
Apart from all chaff.
PARBURY.
Yes, yes.
GUNNING.
Well, you've gone too far.
PARBURY.
[_Looks at him._] You think so?
GUNNING.
Yes. By a petulant discontent you've precipitated an awkward crisis.
PARBURY.
You see it now in that light.
GUNNING.
Yes. I've been thinking things over, Clement. [_Sits on front of
table, C._] After all, the love of a good woman is a priceless
possession.
PARBURY.
You appear to have dropped into the platitudinous.
GUNNING.
[_With much gravity._] Don't jest, old man, over so sacred a thing.
PARBURY.
[_After eyeing GUNNING keenly for a moment._] You have changed your
views since yesterday.
GUNNING.
Only the unimaginative never change their views.
PARBURY.
You think, then, I've been wrong?
GUNNING.
Very!
PARBURY.
I should have gone on putting up with the existing conditions?
GUNNING.
They might have been worse.
PARBURY.
Submitting to the old tyranny?
GUNNING.
A wholesome discipline, believe me.
PARBURY.
What of our spoilt yachting cruise?
GUNNING.
I ought never to have proposed it. Think what a loving wife must
suffer under the circumstances--lying awake at night listening to the
wind howling in the chimneys and sobbing in the trees. It doesn't bear
thinking of.
PARBURY.
Quite so--quite so! And about our dear old friends whom I was obliged
to drop. You may remember you made some very strong comments on my
weakness yesterday.
GUNNING.
I was hasty. I admit it.
PARBURY.
Wybrow, for instance--an awful good chap.
GUNNING.
A tavern wit--a Johnsonian spirit--eminently out of place on the
domestic hearth.
PARBURY.
Well, take Carson--one of the best.
GUNNING.
Foolishly married a woman your wife couldn't get on with. You admitted
it.
PARBURY.
But Burleigh--a truly great spirit--your own words.
GUNNING.
Burleigh? It isn't because a man gives you a watch that you need
thrust him down your wife's throat, is it?
PARBURY.
What an old fraud you are, George!
GUNNING.
Not at all. One sees things more clearly in the morning.
PARBURY.
Well, since you've resigned your attitude of nonintervention, what do
you advise?
GUNNING.
Discreet surrender.
PARBURY.
I'm to send for my wife?
GUNNING.
Exactly.
PARBURY.
Unconditionally?
GUNNING.
Of course. Why impose conditions on a weak, loving, trusting woman?
[_Going to him._] Damn it all, old man, show a little heart.
PARBURY.
You know it means the sacrifice of my secretary?
GUNNING.
Well?
PARBURY.
Well?
GUNNING.
[_A little embarrassed; he drops his cigarette and places his foot on
it._] It's obvious that Miss Woodward can't stay on here in your
wife's absence.
PARBURY.
I've thought of that.
GUNNING.
You heard what Evans said. The servants are talking already--and if
the servants are talking this morning the neighbours will be talking
this afternoon, and the entire north-west of London by the evening.
PARBURY.
Quite true--quite true!
GUNNING.
I suppose you don't wish to compromise the girl?
PARBURY.
Certainly not--certainly not! [_He goes slowly over to GUNNING, and
looks him in the face, smiling._] And so that's your secret.
GUNNING.
What do you mean?
PARBURY.
All this solicitude for my happiness--this sudden change of your point
of view--this miraculous conversion of the cynic into the
peacemaker--all inspired by a pair of blue eyes. An arrow from Cupid's
bow has winged its way into this wooden heart--[_Tapping GUNNING'S
chest_]--and "Earth has won her child again," as Goethe puts it.
GUNNING.
Don't talk rot!
PARBURY.
Don't be offended. I like it. It pleases me. Think of it! One dull
evening in a suburban home, one morning's encounter in a rose-garden,
and the thing's done--the sage melts into the man, the onlooker into
the soldier. I tell you I like it. It's so natural, so human--so
splendidly unlike you. Let me help. What can I do? She's coming here
now with some letters for me to sign. "Were it ever so airy a tread,
your heart would hear her and beat." Isn't it so? Shall I speak to her
for you? Better still, shall I leave you alone together?
GUNNING.
[_Fixing his hat on more firmly and taking his stick._] I'm going. You
bore me.
_Enter MISS WOODWARD, L. She carries some typewritten letters and pen
and ink. She goes to the table and stands waiting for PARBURY._
PARBURY.
One moment, old man. [_He looks in GUNNING'S face, then speaks in a
lower voice._] Don't let it pass unrecorded. You have permitted
yourself a blush.
GUNNING.
[_Trying to pass him._] Don't be an idiot.
PARBURY.
[_Restraining him._] It's a beautiful, touching truth. The
philosopher--the man who has gained perspective--the student who sits
perched on a lofty ledge and looks down pityingly on the rest of us,
is actually blushing--blushing a poor, simple, human blush!
[_Laughs loudly._
GUNNING.
Go to the devil!
[_Exit GUNNING, R._
PARBURY.
[_Turning to MISS WOODWARD. He goes to her._] Forgive my laughter,
Miss Woodward, but it isn't often one surprises a philosopher in a
blush. Now, let us see! [_He sits and takes the letters. MISS WOODWARD
remains standing by him. He reads. Interrupting himself after a
moment, he laughs slightly._] Dear old George! [_He continues reading,
then signs the letter. He looks over another and says "Excellent!" and
signs it. Then he quickly signs the other letters, sits back in his
chair, and says_] Thank you! [_MISS WOODWARD gathers up the letters._]
I'm afraid that's all the work I can do to-day. I'd like to have gone
on with the novel, but it seems the mood won't come.
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm very sorry.
PARBURY.
The day is out of joint.
MISS WOODWARD.
I wish I could do something.
PARBURY.
No, no, don't you trouble. It'll all come right presently. By the way,
what a good fellow Gunning is!
MISS WOODWARD.
Is he?
PARBURY.
Don't you think so?
[_Looking at her._
MISS WOODWARD.
I've seen so little of him; but I'm sure he must be if you think so.
[_She is going, L._
PARBURY.
Wait one moment, Miss Woodward. I know there was something else I
wanted to say to you. [_She comes back._] [_He rises and paces stage
thoughtfully._] Oh, yes; I know! I'm afraid my domestic complications
have made things a little uncomfortable for you here.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Astonished, drops the letters on the table._] I don't--don't
understand.
PARBURY.
I mean that you probably feel it rather awkward to actually
live--night and day in the house in my wife's absence?
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Blankly._] Oh, yes, yes; quite I suppose.
PARBURY.
[_Not looking at her._] I don't know much about these matters; but I
do know that you women are very sensitive, and apt to worry about what
people might say.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_In the same manner as before._] Yes--of course.
PARBURY.
I thought so. Well, it has occurred to me that perhaps under present
circumstances it would be better if----
MISS WOODWARD.
You mean for me to go away.
PARBURY.
Yes.
[_Pause._
MISS WOODWARD.
[_In a low voice._] If I had been wiser I would have expected it.
PARBURY.
I mean, of course, to sleep only. Mrs. Howlands at Parkhurst House
just down here lets some of her rooms I know, and probably she has a
vacant bedroom now. I'll send down presently and see what can be done.
In fact, I'll send Evans now.
[_Is about to go L._
MISS WOODWARD.
Mr. Parbury!
PARBURY.
[_Stopping._] Yes.
MISS WOODWARD.
Don't send, please.
PARBURY.
Oh, I see; you would rather go yourself.
MISS WOODWARD.
I would rather go altogether.
PARBURY.
[_Amazed._] You would rather go altogether!
MISS WOODWARD.
I mean I _will_ go altogether.
PARBURY.
Miss Woodward, what is this for? What have I done?
MISS WOODWARD.
Nothing that hasn't been perfect kindness to me.
PARBURY.
Then why wish to go now? I know I can't expect to have you always,
because you will some day get married.
MISS WOODWARD.
I shall never get married.
PARBURY.
Nonsense! Of course you will, and the man who gets you will, in my
opinion, be a very lucky fellow; but until that day I certainly looked
forward to having the benefit of your services.
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm sorry if I disappoint you. Please forgive me and let me go.
PARBURY.
But really, Miss Woodward, I must beg for some sort of explanation.
Last night you acknowledged you were perfectly satisfied. You wished
to remain.
MISS WOODWARD.
You have unconsciously shown me to-day that I was wrong.
PARBURY.
Indeed! I would be glad to know how. Oh, how weary one gets of
mysteries! [_MISS WOODWARD'S head droops lower._] [_He walks the
stage, then looks at MISS WOODWARD and pauses; he goes to her and
speaks more gently._] I beg your pardon, I fear I spoke impatiently.
Do understand that I only wish for your own good. I admit in our
relations I've hitherto been rather selfish. I'm afraid writing men
are prone to be so. I've allowed you to study my wishes and feelings
and nerves all the time, without giving any thought to yours. I'll try
to be more considerate in the future if you'll only regard me as an
elder brother and tell me what is troubling you now.
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm ashamed that you should worry about me at
all.
PARBURY.
Is it anything to do with Mr. Gunning?
MISS WOODWARD.
Nothing at all. How could it be?
PARBURY.
Miss Woodward, I don't like to press you, but this general cloud of
mystery is seriously affecting my nerves. At least tell me--I make it
a personal favour--the cause of the quarrel between my wife and you.
MISS WOODWARD.
It's impossible! Mrs. Parbury may tell you after I've gone. I'd rather
you despised me then than now.
PARBURY.
[_Wonderingly._] Despise you?
[_Their eyes meet. Pause._
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Passionately._] Please don't--don't even try to guess.
PARBURY.
[_The light breaking in on him slowly._] I think I understand.
[_MISS WOODWARD turns up stage and stands with head bowed, her back to
the audience. There is a long pause. At first PARBURY doesn't appear
ill-pleased. He looks down at the rose in his buttonhole, and begins
to raise it half-tenderly to his face. Then his face becomes grave,
and he slowly removes the flower from his coat, and places it on the
table against which MISS WOODWARD is standing. He takes one of her
hands._
PARBURY.
I don't ask anything--I don't guess anything, my dear child--my little
sister. I was wrong to press you to tell me your trouble; for what
could a hardened, rough-natured man do with the secrets of a young
girl's heart?
MISS WOODWARD.
Don't speak like that; only say that I may go.
PARBURY.
Yes.
[_Goes up C._
MISS WOODWARD.
Thank you.
[_Sees the rose where he has placed it. After a slight pause she takes
it up. During the following, she slowly picks it to pieces, dropping
the petals on the ground._
PARBURY.
[_Coming down to back of table and speaking very gently._] I suppose
there must soon come a time to every girl of heart who goes out alone
into the world--a time when life seems to press hardly upon her and
weariness of the unaccustomed stress makes her heart falter, and when
she longs to take rest for a time in the old childhood, in the home
she perhaps once thought to be dull and dreary, in the mother's arms
that have always been ready to open with love for her.
MISS WOODWARD.
Don't!
[_Sinks into chair, R.C.; buries her face in her hands._
PARBURY.
Perhaps you feel that that time has come now. If so, go home for a
little while, and get rest and fresh strength for the battle of life.
Come back to the fight soon. You are bound to succeed, because you
have talent and ambition and courage. [_Slight pause. He takes her
hand._] Don't cry. There is nothing you have lost or suffered yet
quite worth a tear--
_Enter MRS. PARBURY, R., GUNNING, and ARMITAGE._
--nothing quite worth a tear. [_He is bending towards her._]
[_MRS. PARBURY, who is slightly in advance of ARMITAGE and GUNNING,
stops near MISS WOODWARD and PARBURY, brought up short by seeing their
intimate position. PARBURY draws back from MISS WOODWARD, who remains
upright and motionless. GUNNING and ARMITAGE, who exchange glances,
remain L. MISS WOODWARD crosses L. to go._
MRS. PARBURY.
[_In a low voice, speaking slowly, with deep emotion._] I suppose--I
have still a right to ask--for some explanation?
PARBURY.
Of what, dear?
MRS. PARBURY.
Of this familiarity.
PARBURY.
You shouldn't mistake sympathy for familiarity. I was only giving Miss
Woodward some advice about her affairs.
MRS. PARBURY.
What affairs?
PARBURY.
I said _her_ affairs, dear, not ours.
MRS. PARBURY.
If that is all the explanation----
[_Turns away L._
MISS WOODWARD.
Mr. Parbury very kindly and very properly advised me to go home for a
time--[_She comes down to MRS. PARBURY and speaks to her alone_]--and
I--I descended to your level--I cried!
_Quick Curtain._
END OF ACT III.
ACT IV
SCENE.--_Same as Acts I. and II._
_Same day as Act III._
[_Upon the curtain rising, MISS WOODWARD is discovered at the desk. A
luncheon gong is immediately heard. MISS WOODWARD looks up and listens
for a moment, then shrugs her shoulders and resumes her work. She
opens a drawer of the desk, glances at its contents, and then
writes._]
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Writing._] Drawer four. Reviews favourable of "Harvey Masterton." In
top corner, tied in bundle, reviews unfavourable. [_She closes and
locks that drawer and unlocks another, into which she looks.
Writing._] Drawer five. Proof sheets of new novel corrected to page
180. At back, accounts with publishers. [_The luncheon gong is struck
again. She opens another drawer, looks into it for a moment, turns
over its contents, then shrugs her shoulders and writes._] A variety
of photographs of Mrs. Parbury and two packets of letters marked
"Private." How touching! [_She closes the drawer with a bang, and
opens another._]
_Enter EVANS, L._
EVANS.
[C.] Excuse me, Miss, but have you heard the luncheon gong?
MISS WOODWARD.
Yes, thank you.
EVANS.
It's been struck twice, specially for you, Miss.
MISS WOODWARD.
Who told you to strike it the second time?
EVANS.
Mr. Parbury, Miss.
MISS WOODWARD.
And who sent you now?
EVANS.
Mrs. Parbury asked me to tell you they're at lunch. They're the only
words that's been spoken since they sat down. It's rather trying to
the nerves, Miss, waiting on people that only open their mouths to
eat.
MISS WOODWARD.
You will please say that I don't wish any lunch.
EVANS.
Yes, Miss.
MISS WOODWARD.
Has Emma packed my things?
EVANS.
She's packing them now, Miss.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Glancing at an A.B.C. which is on the desk._] Will you please order
a cab for me at--let me see--[_consulting the book_]--four-twenty--say
at half-past three.
EVANS.
Yes, Miss. Excuse me, Miss, but we're all very sorry you're
going--particularly cook. Cook's very strong in her attachments.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Looking into a drawer._] It's very kind of cook.
EVANS.
Cook's words was, "This'll be a dull 'ouse when the little sunbeam's
gone."
MISS WOODWARD.
That will do, Evans.
EVANS.
Excuse me, Miss, it was meant kindly. We was all on your side in this
embroglo.
[_A pause. MISS WOODWARD is obstinately silent, and goes on working._
EVANS.
Can't I get you something, Miss?
MISS WOODWARD.
Yes; ask cook to kindly make me a sandwich, and I'll have a glass of
beer.
EVANS.
Sandwich of mutton or 'am, Miss?
MISS WOODWARD.
Ham, please. [_Exit EVANS, L._] It's sure to be cold mutton to-night.
[_She writes._] Old manuscripts. [_Closes drawer._] There, that's all
in order for him. [_Rises._] I know there are some books of mine here.
I may as well have them. [_Goes towards book-shelves, but stops when
she comes to the occasional table on which is the photo of MR.
PARBURY. She stretches out her hand and takes the photograph gingerly.
Then she looks round to see if she is observed, with to herself an
affectation of fear._] Poor thing! Was it outraged by a kiss! What a
shame! But it's all right now! [_Puts it back with care._] No one
shall hurt it. It's perfectly safe--perfectly safe. [_She goes to
book-shelf._] Keats--mine. [_Takes a volume._] Matthew Arnold--mine.
_Enter EVANS with sandwiches, beer, &c., on a small tray, which he
places on the desk._
Jane Eyre--mine. I think that's all. [_Brings the books down and
places them on desk._] Thank you, Evans.
[_She sits._
EVANS.
Cook thought you would care for that piece of cake, Miss.
MISS WOODWARD.
I would. Thank cook for me.
EVANS.
Yes, Miss. [_He goes to door._] There's still a hominous silence at
the lunch-table, Miss.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Taking a sandwich._] That's all right, Evans. [_Exit EVANS, L._]
After all, one must have food. [_She takes a respectable bite out of a
sandwich._] And who could over-estimate the consolations of
literature? [_Opens a book and reads._]
"Is the calm thine of stoic souls who weigh
Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore,
But in disdainful silence turn away,
Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more?"
Yes, Mr. Arnold, it is.
[_Takes another bite of a sandwich._
_Enter MRS. PARBURY, L._
MRS. PARBURY.
Why won't you come to lunch, Miss Woodward. But oh, I see you're
having something here.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_For a moment slightly confused._] I--I--[_Drinks some of her
beer_]--I have a railway journey before me.
[_She rises._
MRS. PARBURY.
All the more reason you should come and lunch properly.
MISS WOODWARD.
You are very kind, but I am in no mood for merriment.
MRS. PARBURY.
Merriment!
MISS WOODWARD.
Aren't you all merry? I'm so sorry. I thought it would be all right
now that I'm going away.
MRS. PARBURY.
I'm afraid that won't make any difference. You speak as though you
thought you had a grievance against me.
MISS WOODWARD.
Oh no; I suppose it's the other way about.
MRS. PARBURY.
Perhaps it ought to be, but somehow I don't feel it acutely. I feel
only a dull pain. It's a terrible thing, Miss Woodward, for a young
married woman to suddenly realise that her happiness is gone. I feel
that I have aged many years in the last few hours.
MISS WOODWARD.
So do I. I'm sadder, but healthier.
[_Finishes the beer._
MRS. PARBURY.
It's so much worse for me.
MISS WOODWARD.
Oh, of course our own troubles are always the worst. That is what has
been called "The vanity of grief."
MRS. PARBURY.
Well, Miss Woodward, I'll say good-bye. I bear you no ill-will
now--really I don't; and I shall always be glad to hear that you are
doing well, although naturally under the circumstances I can hold out
no hopes of your coming back here.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_In amazement._] You, Mrs. Parbury, hold out hopes of my returning
here! Do you think there is enough money in the Bank of England to
induce me to do that?
MRS. PARBURY.
I didn't mean it unkindly. I was only trying to say a nice womanly
thing, and to show you that I didn't blame you so much for falling in
love with my husband.
MISS WOODWARD.
I never did.
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh, Miss Woodward, you know I saw you here. [_Pointing to PARBURY'S
photograph._] It was the greatest shock of my life.
MISS WOODWARD.
You mean I kissed his photograph?
MRS. PARBURY.
You know you did.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_With a little laugh._] I suppose I did.
MRS. PARBURY.
Then how can you say----
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Gravely._] It was a motherly kiss.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Turning away._] It seems impossible to talk with you. I used to
think you a serious-minded person.
MISS WOODWARD.
Please don't go, Mrs. Parbury, I'm quite serious. I'd like to explain.
I think I owe it to you.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Turning._] Well?
MISS WOODWARD.
You will let me be quite frank?
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh, I shall like it.
MRS. PARBURY.
I'll take the risk. [_Comes down L., sits on sofa._] Go on, please.
MISS WOODWARD.
The interest which I began to take in Mr. Parbury sprang in a way from
what has been called the maternal instinct.
MRS. PARBURY.
If you go through the world exercising your maternal instinct on other
women's husbands, Miss Woodward, you'll end badly.
MISS WOODWARD.
I don't propose doing so. I'm going home to try it on my sisters.
MRS. PARBURY.
If you had known anything of life, you would have seen that I had
sufficient of the maternal instinct for the needs of my husband.
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm very, very sorry; please don't be angry, but I didn't think it
found the right expression. It was very impudent of me, I know.
MRS. PARBURY.
Very.
MISS WOODWARD.
It seemed to me that you smoothed his hair when he'd rather it was
rough, and roughed it when he'd rather it was smooth. [_Demurely._] I
think that expresses what I mean. I have a beastly sly way of noticing
everything, and I began to feel sorry for Mr. Parbury. And being quite
as egotistical as most girls, I began to think I should have made him
a better wife than you.
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh.
[_Rises._
MISS WOODWARD.
Perhaps in the remotest corner of my heart I think so still.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Indignant._] Well?
MISS WOODWARD.
But I never loved him--never in the least degree.
[_MRS. PARBURY, during the foregoing, has listened with anger
gathering in her face, but at the end, after an apparent momentary
struggle with herself, she bursts into laughter._
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm glad you're not angry.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Still laughing._] It's impossible to be angry. And so because you
thought his wife bored him, you gave his photograph a nice motherly
kiss. That was very sweet of you, I'm sure.
MISS WOODWARD.
It was well meant, Mrs. Parbury; and you must always remember that I
didn't know you were looking.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Laughing, sits on sofa._] Why do you make me laugh when you must
know that my heart is breaking--that I have lost my happiness for
ever. [_Pause. She begins to laugh again. Rises._] And I thought you a
designing hussy, when you are only a very quaint and harmless girl.
[_Laughs._
_Enter GUNNING, L.; keeps the door open._
GUNNING.
I'm afraid I'm in the way.
MRS. PARBURY.
Not at all. We have said all we had to say to each other. Oh, how that
girl has made me laugh!
[_Exit MRS. PARBURY, L., laughing. GUNNING shuts the door._
MISS WOODWARD.
Good-bye, Mr. Gunning.
[_Gathering her books together._
GUNNING.
I want a little talk with you.
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm sorry I can't give you the time,
GUNNING.
Oh yes, you will, Miss Woodward.
MISS WOODWARD.
Indeed? I admit my position is a lowly one, but that doesn't lessen
your presumption.
[_Goes towards the door._
GUNNING.
[_With conviction._] You won't go.
MISS WOODWARD.
But I will.
GUNNING.
My dear Miss Woodward, believe me, you will not.
MISS WOODWARD.
You don't propose using force, I suppose?
GUNNING.
No; I think you would like me to, but unfortunately this is not our
house, and one must observe the convenances.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Going to door, L._] Good-bye, Mr. Gunning.
GUNNING.
Moral force will detain you.
MISS WOODWARD.
What moral force, pray?
[_Turning._
GUNNING.
Curiosity. You know you are dying to know what I have to say.
MISS WOODWARD.
Indeed I am not.
GUNNING.
Oh yes, you are. And further, a certain womanly graciousness will
prevent your going. You are saying to yourself, "Mr. Gunning has
evinced a genuine interest in me. It would be cattish of me to refuse
him a few minutes' talk."
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Slowly comes to sofa and puts her books down._] I certainly don't
wish to be cattish.
GUNNING.
Of course not.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Sits on sofa._] And anyway I want to eat my piece of cake. Will you
pass it, please? [_He passes the plate._] Thank you. I hope you won't
mind my eating.
GUNNING.
Not at all. I like it.
MISS WOODWARD.
Not that I fear it would make any difference if you did.
GUNNING.
No, certainly not. Go on being natural, please. [_Pause. He watches
her nibbling the cake._] Shall I ring for a fresh piece?
MISS WOODWARD.
No, thank you. I'm used to this piece now. [_She glances up at him._]
You needn't be disconcerted, Mr. Gunning.
GUNNING.
I'm not a bit.
MISS WOODWARD.
You look it a little.
GUNNING.
Do I?
MISS WOODWARD.
And you know you didn't detain me here to watch me eating cake.
GUNNING.
No, although you do it very nicely. I want to ask you what you think
of me.
[_Leaning on back of chair, R.C._
MISS WOODWARD.
I haven't thought of you.
GUNNING.
Well, I'd like you to begin.
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm afraid I haven't time now.
GUNNING.
It might be to your interest, though I don't say positively that it
would be.
MISS WOODWARD.
Explain.
[_Turns to him._
GUNNING.
I think I ought first to tell you something about myself.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_In mock alarm._] Not the story of your life, surely. My cab will be
here soon.
GUNNING.
You told me yours last night?
MISS WOODWARD.
You asked me to. I haven't asked you.
GUNNING.
You needn't reproach me for taking an interest in you.
MISS WOODWARD.
I don't; but you make such a fuss about it, as if it were a sort of
miracle.
GUNNING.
[_Crossly takes plate from her lap and cake from her hand; puts them
on table, R._] Oh well, I suppose I oughtn't to detain you, Miss
Woodward. You are evidently anxious to get back to your twelve sisters
and the hat and frock you told me about.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Rises._] You needn't throw the family poverty in my face, although
it serves me right for giving my confidence to a comparative stranger.
GUNNING.
Miss Woodward, I humbly beg your pardon.
MISS WOODWARD.
Although the home may be grubby, I daresay we are as happy as you. We
believe in things, anyway--you don't.
GUNNING.
Don't judge me by a hasty remark. Besides, I had an alternative to
suggest.
MISS WOODWARD.
You? You don't want a secretary, do you?
GUNNING.
I--I wanted to tell you in a different way, but you won't let me. I
want you as my wife.
MISS WOODWARD.
Your wife, Mr. Gunning?
GUNNING.
It may appear sudden and cold-blooded--but your cab is coming.
MISS WOODWARD.
You've taken my breath away. How exciting it is when it does come. I
really don't know what to say. I know there is a usual thing. It isn't
"To what am I indebted for this honour," is it?
GUNNING.
I don't know. I've never asked a girl before.
MISS WOODWARD.
We don't know each other in the least.
GUNNING.
That's where we would start with a big advantage. We'd have all the
pleasure of finding each other out. Anyway, you are not displeased.
MISS WOODWARD.
Oh no; either way I score. If I say yes, I suppose I'll make a good
match.
GUNNING.
Pretty good.
MISS WOODWARD.
And if I say no, I shall at least be able to boast of a proposal.
GUNNING.
That's so.
MISS WOODWARD.
Not that there's much satisfaction in that to a practical mind.
GUNNING.
No? [_Goes to her._] Try the other.
MISS WOODWARD.
But we don't love each other.
GUNNING.
Another big advantage. Love is the rock upon which so many
well-intentioned young persons split. They engage to marry each other
while the intelligence is perverted, the reason unbalanced, and the
judgment obscured by an overpowering sentiment. They enter into a
solemn life-binding contract in a highly emotional and altogether
unnormal moral condition. The disastrous results of such folly we see
examples of daily. We will escape that snare. [_He comes close to
her._] Of course if the sentiment should subsequently come, if that
particular kind of emotion should by chance supervene, we'll deal with
it as best we may.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Sits on arm of sofa._] Still there must be something in love-making.
I remember my sister and the curate seemed to have a very good time.
We all thought them fussy, but I know they liked it.
GUNNING.
I made love to you in the garden this morning.
MISS WOODWARD.
Did you? I thought it was pity, and resented it
GUNNING.
You refused me a rose, and gave one----
MISS WOODWARD.
I refused you because I thought you pitied me, and gave one to Mr.
Parbury because I pitied him.
GUNNING.
I'd like you to pity me.
MISS WOODWARD.
I _should_ if I said yes. [_Leaves him._] But I mean to say no.
GUNNING.
[_Following her._] You are afraid.
MISS WOODWARD.
Of what?
GUNNING.
Of what people call my "nasty sneering way," for instance.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Confidently._] Oh, I could deal with that all right.
GUNNING.
I'm sure you could. [_Goes near to her._] Say yes, Hyacinth.
_Enter EVANS, L._
EVANS.
Your cab is here, Miss.
GUNNING.
[_To MISS WOODWARD, in low voice._] Send it away. [_She hesitates._]
Do.
MISS WOODWARD.
Thank you, Evans. Let it wait.
[_GUNNING moves away to C. with a satisfied smile._
EVANS.
Yes, Miss.
[_Exit L._
MISS WOODWARD.
Good-bye, Mr. Gunning. If you were entirely different from what you
are, I think I could have liked you; or if I were entirely different
from what I am, I think I might have married you. But you are
hopelessly modern and cold-blooded, and I am only an old-fashioned,
healthy English girl, and a healthy English girl doesn't want to make
experiments, she wants to be loved.
[_Suddenly GUNNING throws his arm round her, and bends forward to kiss
her. She quickly raises her clenched hand as if to strike him in the
face. He looks her in the eyes without flinching._
GUNNING.
Perhaps she wants a master.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Softly._] Perhaps.
[_Her hand slowly drops; he kisses her._
COLONEL.
[_Outside L._] No, my dear; I can't wait any longer.
GUNNING.
[_In a low voice to MISS WOODWARD._] The garden. Will you come and
find me a rose?
MISS WOODWARD.
Yes.
_Enter COLONEL ARMITAGE, L., MRS. PARBURY, and MR. PARBURY._
[_MISS WOODWARD and GUNNING exeunt quickly to garden, R._
[_MRS. PARBURY comes down L. and sits on sofa. PARBURY goes R. and
sits, ARMITAGE remains C. They are all silent and uneasy. A
considerable pause, during which they are occupied with avoiding each
other's eyes._
COLONEL.
A cheerful day.
MR. PARBURY.
Yes.
MRS. PARBURY.
Very.
[_Another uneasy pause._
COLONEL.
Well, I must be going.
MR. PARBURY.
Don't go.
MRS. PARBURY.
Please stay, father.
[_Another pause._
COLONEL.
[_With much irritation._] Well, you see I'm staying.
MRS. PARBURY.
Thank you.
MR. PARBURY.
Thank you, Colonel.
COLONEL.
But I should like to know what the devil for?
MRS. PARBURY.
Father!
MR. PARBURY.
Colonel!
COLONEL.
I really think I have cause to be angry. A more depressing function
than your luncheon party to-day I've never experienced. I think I have
a right to a little cheerfulness in my middle age. I'm sure I've
earned it. I've had a great deal to put up with in my life.
MR. PARBURY.
No doubt, no doubt.
COLONEL.
Of course I have always accepted my full share of the blame. That I
have felt to be only right and manly. [_Pause. He looks at CLEMENT._]
As for my late dear wife, her heart was rarely deaf to a proper
expression of regret. The memory of her I feel to be a blessing to
this day. [_He blows his nose sympathetically._] One thing I can tell
you, Mabel, that when your dear mother and I made it up--well, we
_did_ make it up. I am not without some very agreeable
recollections--most agreeable. [_Pause. He comes to MRS. PARBURY._] I
trust you won't require me tonight, my dear. I have to attend a
Masonic Banquet.
MRS. PARBURY.
No, father; I shan't want you.
COLONEL.
Then good-bye. [_Aside to her._] Be true to your own good heart. Your
dear mother was--sometimes. [_He kisses her, and then goes to
PARBURY._] Good-bye, Clement. [_Aside to him._] Bear up; I've been
there myself. [_He goes--aside at door._] Rather tactful, I
think--rather tactful.
[_Exit L._
[_There is a constrained silence. MRS. PARBURY is particularly uneasy.
After a moment PARBURY rises, lights a cigarette, and stands at
mantelpiece._
MRS. PARBURY.
Am I in the way, dear? Do you want to work?
PARBURY.
No. [_Rises, goes up R._] To-day must be a holiday.
MRS. PARBURY.
Holidays are meant to be happy days.
PARBURY.
I suppose so.
MRS. PARBURY.
Our happy days have gone. I suppose they will never come back.
[_Very sadly._
PARBURY.
It would be wiser to look for new ones than to weep over the old ones.
MRS. PARBURY.
I'll not cry, dear; I promise you that. [_Pause. Suddenly rises and
turns to him._] Clement, can't we start again?
PARBURY.
Perhaps. But we must consider first where we now are and the direction
in which we should go.
MRS. PARBURY.
Perhaps in your heart you are blaming me more than I deserve--I mean
about Miss Woodward.
PARBURY.
You chose to keep the motives of your conduct a secret from me.
MRS. PARBURY.
I may have been wrong. I saw her kiss your photograph.
PARBURY.
[_Starts slightly._] Why didn't you tell me? [_Pause._] Why didn't you
tell me?
MRS. PARBURY.
I thought--I thought it would be wiser not to.
PARBURY.
What have I ever done to earn so low an estimate of my character from
you--that I am not to be trusted with the knowledge that a foolish
girl had kissed my photograph.
MRS. PARBURY.
Nothing, dear; nothing. But I was jealous--furious. I am sorry. [_She
is half-turned from him. He smiles very kindly, and half makes a step
forward as if to take her in his arms, then restrains himself._]
[_Drooping._] You are very, very angry with me?
PARBURY.
I am very, very pained.
MRS. PARBURY.
Can't you forgive?
PARBURY.
Yes, that is forgiven.
MRS. PARBURY.
You say you forgive, but you don't make me feel it. [_Slight pause. He
is obviously tempted to come to her, but does not._] Won't you forget
too, and let us go back together?
PARBURY.
No, we can never go back.
MRS. PARBURY.
Love counts for something, Clement.
PARBURY.
[_Comes to her._] Does love without respect count for very much? Would
you like to go back to the old way--the way of petty tyranny--the way
of the cowardly, unnecessary tear--the way of gaining your own ends at
all costs--the way of being a spoilt child, instead of a thoughtful
and considerate woman--the way of my own contemptible weakness?
MRS. PARBURY.
I never looked upon it in that light. I thought I was happy then.
PARBURY.
Because you never dreamed that my love was beginning to wear badly.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Startled._] Clement! . . . Oh? [_Goes to him._] Good God!
PARBURY.
I don't want ever to think or speak of it again; but to-day I must,
for if we are honest with each other, we may be able in time to save
ourselves from that most pitiable and hideous of all states of
existence--what is called "a cat and dog life." Have you never seen
it--that domestic flower with the rotten heart? The thin outside
petals of courtesy, of hollow words of endearment before others, mask
the ugly truth from the casual and unobservant; but the intimate
friends know, and the prying eyes of the spiteful are undeceived. That
man and woman who appear in public wearing the veneered ghost of a
smile, are walking in hell. Think of their private lives--the slow
death of love; the hearts poisoned with bitterness; the ever-growing
rancour; the bandied insolences; the swift thoughts, black as murder;
the final dull monotony of aching hatred. Do you think such cases
rare? Every rank of society has its examples. Do you think such a
couple have deliberately sought their hell? Oh no; they may have
started as fairly as we did. Their love has not been slain by a blow,
it has been pecked to a cupboard skeleton by littlenesses--little
jealousies, little selfishnesses, little insults, little tyrannies,
little intolerances.
MRS. PARBURY.
Clement, you terrify me. [C.R.] Oh, I am ashamed--ashamed. You have
made me shudder at the old way. Dear, if I have lost a particle of
your love, I'll win it back. You will show me the new way, won't you?
PARBURY.
The new way for us is the old way for the wise. It is a pleasant way
strewn with flowers, the flowers of self-abnegation--of sweet
reasonableness--of patient tolerance--of enduring trustfulness.
Walking in that way we seek diligently for the happiness, not of
ourselves, but of each other. Rising in the morning we say, not, I
will find happiness to-day, but I will give happiness to-day. In that
way lie peace, the fulfilment of our better selves, the full golden
harvest of love.
[_As he speaks these words with deep sympathy, standing a little away
from her, she gradually draws nearer to him._
MRS. PARBURY.
I will walk in that way with you, Clement. [_She stoops, and taking
one of his hands kisses it. Pause._]
[_He stoops and raises her, and takes her in his arms._
_Enter MISS WOODWARD and GUNNING. GUNNING wears a rose in his coat._
GUNNING.
Really--I beg your pardon.
MRS. PARBURY.
Don't trouble about us any more. We're reconciled. [_She remains in
her husband's arms._]
[_GUNNING turns smilingly to MISS WOODWARD and takes her hand._
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Smiling back upon GUNNING._] Don't trouble about us any more. We're
engaged.
_Curtain._
Transcriber's Note
This transcription is based on scanned images posted by the Internet
Archive from a copy in the University of California, Los Angeles
Library:
archive.org/details/tyrannyoftearsco00chamiala
The following changes were noted:
- Throughout the text, the convention of long dashes at the end of
lines has been made consistent.
- p. iii: ...his charming ruler, worldly-wise Gunning...--Changed
comma to a semicolon.
- p. 25: [_Leans on back of sofa._--Added closing bracket.
- p. 37: ..._MRS. PARBURY stands C., rather confused_].--Placed period
within brackets for consistency.
- p. 52: ...the trouble of doing it to-morrow--Added period to end of
sentence.
- p. 64: [_PARBURY rises; crosses to R. MRS. PARBURY follows
him._]--In html version, changed "_R._" to plain text for consistency.
- p. 79: Three o'clock--Added period to end of line.
- p. 95: _They all drink champagne..._--Added opening bracket.
- p. 115: [_He goes slowly over GUNNING..._--Inserted "_to_" after
"_over_".
- p. 123: Don t speak like that...--Inserted an apostrophe between
"Don" and "t".
- p. 124: [_Slight pause. He takes her hand_].--Placed period within
brackets for consistency.
- p. 139: Not the story of your life, surely--Added period to end of
sentence.
- p. 149: ..._then restrains himself._][_Drooping._]...--In the
printed text, there was a line break between these two directions.
They have been placed on the same line for consistency.
The html version of this etext attempts to reproduce the layout of the
printed text. However, some concessions have been made, partly to
simplify coding. For example, stage directions printed flush right at
the end of a line of dialogue without a closing bracket were placed on
the next line, indented the same amount from the left margin, and
coded as hanging paragraphs.
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