The Second Act
The scene represents a portion of an English garden laid out in Italian fashion. At the extreme back—upon ground slightly raised—two dense cypress-hedges, about sixteen feet high, form an alley running from right to left. In the centre of the hedge which is nearer the spectator there is an opening, and at this opening are three or four steps connecting the higher with the lower level. Beyond the alley nothing is seen but the sky and some tree-tops. In advance is an enclosure formed by a dwarf cypress-hedge, about four feet in height, also broken in the centre by an opening, and running off right and left at a sharp angle. On the outside of the dwarf hedge is a walk; and beyond, on the right and left, are trees. Within the enclosure, on the left, is a small fountain; facing the fountain, on the right, a piece of old, broken sculpture. Other bits of antique sculpture are placed in different parts of the garden. In the foreground, on the right towards the centre, stands a stone bench, on the left of which is a table upon which are the remains of “afternoon tea,” with a garden chair. A similar stone bench stands opposite.
The light is that of a very fine evening.
[Lady Owbridge is in the garden-chair, asleep, an open book in her lap. Quex and Muriel stand, talking together, by the fountain. On the right-hand stone bench the Duchess of Strood and Mrs. Eden are seated. The Duchess is a daintily beautiful doll of about seven-and-thirty—a poseuse, outwardly dignified and stately when upon her guard, really a frail, shallow little creature full of extravagant sentimentality. Until Lady Owbridge wakes, the conversation is carried on in subdued tones.
Mrs. Eden.
[Indicating Muriel and Quex.] They make a fascinating couple, don’t they, Duchess?
Duchess.
[With placid melancholy.] To see two people on the threshold of wedlock is always painfully interesting.
Mrs. Eden.
I am quite triumphant about it. It is such a delightful engagement, now that the horrid difficulties are smoothed away.
Duchess.
Yes, you were telling me of some sad obstacles—
Mrs. Eden.
I nearly perished of them! [Very confidentially.] There’s no doubt, you know, that his past has been exceptionally naughty.
Duchess.
Really? Ah! don’t be surprised that I am not more deeply shocked. In these surroundings it is hard to realise that every aspect of life is not as lovely as—[pointing to the foliage] the tones of those exquisite, deep greens, for example.
Mrs. Eden.
However, the dear thing is going to be so good in the future. [Turning to the Duchess.] I keep forgetting—Lord Quex is a very old friend of yours?
Duchess.
[Serenely.] An acquaintance of many years’ standing. But since his Grace has been an invalid we have lived much abroad, or in seclusion, and gossip has not reached us. Alas, you find me a ready subject à désillusionner! [Rising.] We are in the sun. Shall we walk?
Mrs. Eden.
[Sympathetically, as they walk.] Is his Grace still very unwell?
Duchess.
[Smiling sadly upon Mrs. Eden.] He is still over seventy.
[They wander away, through the trees, as Quex and Muriel leave the fountain.
Quex.
[With tender playfulness, first glancing at the sleeping Lady Owbridge.] And so all these good things are to befall me after to-morrow?
Muriel.
[In a low voice.] After to-morrow.
Quex.
When I approach, I shall no longer see you skim away into the far vista of these alleys, or shrink back into the shadows of the corridors—[prosaically] after to-morrow.
Muriel.
No—not after to-morrow.
Quex.
In place of a cold word, a chilling phrase, a warm one—after to-morrow.
Muriel.
I am going to try.
Quex.
If I touch your hand, you’ll not slip it behind your back in a hurry [touching her hand]—?
Muriel.
[Withdrawing it.] Not after to-morrow.
[She sits; he stands behind the stone bench, leaning over the back of it.
Quex.
But why, may I ask, is this bliss reserved till after to-morrow?
Muriel.
I had rather you did not ask me, Quex.
Quex.
No? I see, I am a day too soon in putting even that little question.
Muriel.
Ah, I’ll tell you this—I am going to turn over a new leaf, after to-morrow.
Quex.
You! your pages are all milk-white. What can you detect upon one of them to induce you to turn it?
Muriel.
[Gazing into space.] I—I’ve been scribbling there—scrawling—drawing pictures—
Quex.
Pictures—of what?
Muriel.
You shall know, perhaps, some day.
Quex.
After to-morrow?
Muriel.
Yes, Quex, but—after many to-morrows.
[Two Men-Servants—an old man and a young one—descend the steps and proceed to remove the tea-things.
Lady Owbridge.
[Waking.] Eh—? [Seeing Muriel and Quex.] Ah, my dears—! I am reading such an absorbing book.
Muriel.
[By her side, taking the book.] May I—?
Lady Owbridge.
You should study the Dean of St. Olpherts’ sermons—and you, Henry.
Quex.
[Taking the book from Muriel and turning its pages.] Yes, I must—I must—
Lady Owbridge.
By the way, has anything been seen of that nice young manicure girl, Miss Sophy—something—?
Muriel.
Sophy Fullgarney—she arrived at about half-past four, and I asked Mrs. Gregory to show her over the house. I thought you would not object.
Lady Owbridge.
Object! it pleases me.
Muriel.
She is roving about the grounds now.
Lady Owbridge.
An exceedingly prepossessing young woman, of her class.
[The Servants have gone up the steps, carrying the tea-things.
The Elder Servant.
[Looking down the alley towards the left.] I see the young person, my lady.
Lady Owbridge.
I’ll speak to her, Bristow.
[The Elder Servant goes off towards the left; the younger one, bearing the tray, to the right. The Duchess and Mrs. Eden return, above the low cypress-hedge; Quex meets them.
Muriel.
I would not have left her, but the young man she is engaged to brought her down, and I took it upon myself to give him permission to remain.
Lady Owbridge.
Oh, is Miss Fullgarney engaged?
Muriel.
To Mr. Valma, the palmist.
Mrs. Eden.
[Approaching.] Valma, the palmist!
Lady Owbridge.
What is a palmist, pray?
Muriel.
He reads your past and your future in the lines of your hands. It’s his profession, dear Lady Owbridge.
Mrs. Eden.
Oh, do let us have him into the drawing-room after dinner! I hear he is simply charming.
Lady Owbridge.
Charming! [Rising.] What are our ladies coming to! Dear, dear me! in my day such follies and superstitions were entirely restricted to the kitchen.
[Muriel joins the Duchess. Quex is dutifully looking into the book of sermons. The servant returns, followed by Sophy, and then retires; Sophy comes forward, beamingly. She is prettily dressed, but in sober colours.
Sophy.
[To Lady Owbridge.] Here I am, my lady. I’m having such a good time!
Lady Owbridge.
That’s right.
Sophy.
Oh, this garden! they may well call it heavenly.
Lady Owbridge.
They ought not to call it that, my dear. But it is indeed full of earthly solace.
Sophy.
It must be. And what a place for a bicycle!
Muriel.
[Reprovingly.] Bicycles are not allowed to enter these grounds, Sophy.
Sophy.
[Sobered.] Oh—!
Lady Owbridge.
Miss Eden tells me you are accompanied by the young man to whom you are engaged to be married.
Sophy.
I hope I haven’t taken too great a liberty—
Lady Owbridge.
[Looking round.] I don’t see him.
Sophy.
He has run back to the station. I’ve just found out I left my bag in the fly that brought us here. So stupid of me!
Lady Owbridge.
Mrs. Gregory will give you, both, dinner.
Sophy.
Thank you, my lady.
[The Duchess is now seated in the garden-chair. The younger of the two servants enters, carrying Sophy’s bag and the evening papers.
Servant.
[Handing the bag to Sophy.] The cabman has brought your bag back, miss.
Sophy.
There now! Much obliged. [To Mrs. Eden.] Poor Mr. Valma will have his tramp for nothing, won’t he?
[Sophy and Mrs. Eden talk together.
Lady Owbridge.
The evening papers, Morgan?
Servant.
[Who has laid the papers upon the table.] Yes, my lady.
[The Servant retires.
Lady Owbridge.
So late? we must go in and dress.
Duchess.
[Who has been occupied in observing Quex.] I’ll follow you, dear Lady Owbridge.
[Lady Owbridge moves away and is joined by Mrs. Eden.
Mrs. Eden.
[As she ascends the steps with Lady Owbridge.] Sophy, I shall be ready for you in a quarter of an hour.
Sophy.
All right, Mrs. Eden.
[Lady Owbridge and Mrs. Eden disappear.
Muriel.
[Crossing to Sophy.] Wouldn’t you like to walk to the gates to meet Mr. Valma?
Sophy.
Thanks, dear, I think I would.
Muriel.
I can show you a nearer way than by going back to the house. [Pointing into the distance.] Follow this hedge and take the second alley—not the first—on your left. When you reach the big fountain—
[Quex, still dipping into the sermons, has come down to the back of the table. He now throws the book upon the table and picks up a newspaper.
Quex.
I beg your pardon, Duchess—I didn’t see you.
Duchess.
[In a whisper.] Harry—
Quex.
[Startled.] Eh?
Duchess.
I will hurry into my gown and return. Be here in a quarter of an hour.
Quex.
May I ask—the reason?
Duchess.
[A newspaper in her hand—talking to him, in undertones, over the top of it.] For a week, only the merest commonplaces have passed between us. I must relieve my heart; it is bursting!
Quex.
I entreat you to consider my position.
Duchess.
Yours! have I no reputation to endanger? [Rising—laying the paper aside.] What a pitiably small request! you will grant it?
Quex.
If you could see your way to excuse me—
Duchess.
In memory of the past—! I demand it!
Quex.
[With a stiff bow.] Oh—oh, certainly.
Duchess.
[Leaving him.] Thank you.
Quex.
[To himself.] Damn!
[He turns on his heel and walks away.
Duchess.
[Joining Muriel.] You are coming to dress?
Muriel.
[After smiling assent, presenting Sophy.] Miss Fullgarney was my first playmate, Duchess.
Duchess.
[Looking upon Sophy graciously.] Ah? [To Muriel.] The souvenirs of childhood are sweet, are they not?
[She slips her arm through Muriel’s, and they ascend the steps and go away together. Sophy comes to the stone bench on the left, upon which she deposits her bag. She opens the bag, produces a little mirror and a comb, and puts her “fringe” in order—humming as she does so an air from the latest comic opera. Then she returns the comb and mirror to the bag and—bag in hand—prepares to depart. While this is going on Quex returns, above the low hedge. He ascends the steps and looks off into the distance, watching the retreating figure of the Duchess. After a moment or two he shrugs his shoulders in a perplexed, troubled way, and, coming down the steps, encounters Sophy.
Sophy.
[Innocently.] Lovely evening, my lord.
Quex.
[Passing her, with a nod and a smile.] Very—very.
[At the table, he exchanges the newspaper he carries for another. She is going in the direction indicated by Muriel. Suddenly she pauses, above the dwarf cypress-hedge, and stands looking at Quex with an expression in which fear and determination are mingled. Having selected his newspaper, Quex crosses to the left and sits, reading.
Sophy.
[Coming to him.] I don’t think I shall go, after all.
Quex.
[Lowering his paper.] Eh?
Sophy.
I was just starting off down to the gates, you know, to meet Mr. Valma.
Quex.
[With amiable indifference.] Oh?
Sophy.
[Her head upon one side, smiling.] But it’s too hot for walking, isn’t it?
Quex.
[Resuming his reading.] It is warm.
Sophy.
[Putting her bag upon the table and removing her gloves.] Phew!
[She eyes him askance, undecided, as to a plan of action. He lowers his paper again, disconcerting her.
Quex.
You don’t feel you ought to go and meet your—Mr. Valma?
Sophy.
[Edging towards him.] I might miss him—mightn’t I?
Quex.
Certainly—you might.
Sophy.
Besides, it wouldn’t do for me to attend upon Mrs. Jack—Mrs. Eden—all puffing and towzelled; [archly] now, would it?
Quex.
[Resuming his reading.] You’re the best judge.
Sophy.
So I’ve a quarter of an hour to fill in somehow. [A pause.] I’ve a quarter of an hour to fill in somehow.
Quex.
[Behind his paper, beginning to be extremely bored.] Indeed?
Sophy.
[Quaking.] I—I wish there were some quiet little shady places to ramble about in, here at Fauncey Court.
Quex.
There are several.
Sophy.
Are there?... are there?
Quex.
[Turning his paper.] Oh, yes, a great many.
Sophy.
You see, I’m a stranger—
Quex.
[Kindly.] Well, you run along; you’ll find ’em. [She walks away slowly, baffled. He glances at her over his paper, slightly puzzled.] Have you seen the grotto?
Sophy.
[Turning sharply.] No.
Quex.
[Pointing towards the right.] It’s in that direction.
Sophy.
Grotto? Dark, I suppose, and lonelyish?
Quex.
You said you desired shade and quiet.
Sophy.
Yes, but not darkness. Fancy me in a grotto all by myself... by myself...!
Quex.
[Behind his paper again.] I’m afraid I have no further suggestion to offer.
[There is another pause; then her face lights up, and she comes down to him swiftly.
Sophy.
[Close to him.] Show me your nails, my lord.
Quex.
[Lowering his paper.] My nails?
Sophy.
[Taking his hand and examining it.] Excuse me. Oh, my lord, for shame!
Quex.
You take exception to them?
Sophy.
This is hacking, not cutting. You ought never to be allowed within a mile of a pair of scissors.
Quex.
[Looking at his other hand.] Oh, come! they’re hardly as bad as all that.
Sophy
[Examining that hand also.] Ha, ha, ha!
Quex.
[Rising, somewhat abashed.] Ha! I confess I am a little unskilful at such operations.
Sophy.
No gentleman should trust to himself where his nails are concerned. Why, a man’s hand has lost him a young lady’s affections before this! I’ve heard of heaps of cases where matches have been broken off—
Quex.
[Putting his hands behind him, smiling.] Really? the results of manicure are more far-reaching than I had imagined.
Sophy.
You, see, my lord, when a man’s courting he is free to look his young lady in the face for as long as he chooses; it’s considered proper and attentive. But the girl is expected to drop her eyes, and then—what has she to look at? Why, a well-trimmed hand or an ugly one. [Taking off her rings.] Now then, I’ll do wonders for you in ten minutes.
Quex.
Thank you; I am not going indoors just yet.
Sophy.
No need to go indoors. [Depositing her rings upon the table and opening her bag.] I’ve got my bag here, with all my tools—see!
Quex.
Ah, but I won’t trouble you this evening. Another occasion—
Sophy.
[Arranging her manicure instruments, &c., upon the table.] No trouble at all, my lord—quite an honour. [Indicating the stone bench.] Please sit down there. [Producing a little brass bowl.] Water—?
[She runs to the fountain and fills her bowl from its basin.
Quex.
[Crossing, hesitatingly, to the right—looking at his nails and speaking in a formal manner.] You have been bidden to Fauncey Court for rest and relaxation, Miss Fullgarney; it is most obliging of you to allow your pleasure to be disturbed in this way.
Sophy.
[Returning to him.] Oh, don’t say that, my lord. [Putting the bowl on the table and dragging the garden-chair forward to face him.] Business is a pleasure, sometimes.
[Her close proximity to him forces him back upon the bench.
Quex.
[Seated—stiffly.] You must, at least, let me open an account at your excellent establishment.
Sophy.
Not I. [Seated—taking his right hand.] One may work occasionally for love, I should hope? [archly] ha, ha! just for love, eh?
Quex
[Uncomfortably.] No, no, I couldn’t permit it—I couldn’t permit it.
Sophy.
[Holding his hand almost caressingly.] Well, well! we’ll see—we’ll see. [She clips his nails briskly and methodically. While she does so she again hums a song, looking up at him at intervals enticingly, under her lashes. Breaking off in her song.] My goodness! what a smooth, young hand you have!
Quex.
[His discomfort increasing.] Er—indeed?
Sophy.
Many a man of six-and-twenty would be glad to own such hands, I can tell you. [Patting his hand reprovingly.] Keep still! [It is now his turn to hum a song, which he does, under his breath, to disguise his embarrassment. She looks up at him.] But then, you’re an awfully young man for your age, in every way, aren’t you?
Quex.
[Gazing at the sky.] Oh, I don’t know about that.
Sophy.
[Slyly.] You do know. [Wagging her head at him.] You do know.
Quex.
[Relaxing slightly.] It may be so, of course, without one’s being conscious of it.
Sophy.
May be so! ah, ha! not conscious of it! ho! [Slapping his hand again, soundly.] Artful!
Quex.
[Flattered and amused.] No, no, I assure you! ha, ha!
[They laugh together. His constraint gradually diminishes. After shaking some liquid soap from a bottle into the bowl, she places the bowl beside him on the bench.
Sophy.
[While doing this.] My young ladies at a-hundred-and-eighty-five all agree with me about you.
Quex.
Do they?
Sophy.
Yes, do they!
Quex.
Your young ladies?
Sophy.
My girls.
Quex.
Ha, ha, ha! And what terrible pronouncement has a-hundred-and-eighty-five to pass upon me?
Sophy.
Seven-and-thirty, you look—not a day older; that’s what we say. There, dip your fingers in that, do!
Quex.
Into this?
Sophy.
[Thrusting his fingers into the bowl.] Baby! [The water splashes over her dress and his coat.] Oh!
Quex.
I beg your pardon.
Sophy.
Now what have you done? [Wiping the water from his coat.] You clumsy boy!
Quex.
Thanks, thanks.
[She commences operations upon his left hand. He is now thoroughly entertained by her freedom and audacity.
Sophy.
Ha, ha! do you know what I maintain?
Quex.
[Laughing.] Upon my word, I dread to think.
Sophy.
Why, that every man who looks younger than his years should be watched by the police.
Quex.
Good heavens, Sophy—Miss Fullgarney!
Sophy.
Yes—as a dangerous person.
Quex.
Dangerous! ho, come!
Sophy.
[With the suggestion of a wink.] Dangerous. The man who is younger than he ought to be is always no better than he should be.
Quex.
Ha, ha, ha!
Sophy.
Am I right? am I right, eh? [Putting her cheek near his lips—speaking in a low voice, breathlessly, her eyes averted.] Tell me whether I’m right, my lord.
[For the first time, a suspicion of her designs crosses his mind. He draws back slowly, eyeing her. There is a pause.
Quex.
[In an altered tone, but keeping her in play.] Ha, ha, ha, ha! [Looking at his watch.] I—I am afraid I shall have to run away to dress for dinner very soon.
Sophy.
[Resuming her work, disappointed.] Not yet; you’ve plenty of time. But there, dangerous or not dangerous, in my heart I can’t help holding with what my lady-customers are continually saying.
Quex.
[Watching her keenly.] No? and what are your lady-customers continually saying?
Sophy.
Why, that the young fellows of the day are such conceited, apish creatures; no man under forty-five is worth wasting a minute’s time over.
Quex.
Ho! they say that, your lady-customers?
Sophy.
Yes; and they’re good judges, they are.
Quex.
Good judges! none better—none better.
Sophy.
[Laying her clipper aside suddenly, and putting her hand to her eyes with a cry of pain.] Oh!
Quex.
[Coolly.] What’s the matter?
Sophy.
[Rising.] A little splinter has flown into my eye It often happens.
Quex.
[Rising.] Extremely painful, I expect?
Sophy.
[Producing her handkerchief.] Very. [Giving him her handkerchief.] Do you think you could find it?
Quex.
Certainly, if it’s to be found.
Sophy.
[Holding the lapels of his coat, her head almost upon his shoulder, her eyes closed.] Ah! please make haste and look for it!
Quex.
Right or left?
Sophy.
The ri—the left.
Quex.
[Sharply.] Raise your head. Stand up.
Sophy.
[Releasing his coat and raising her head.] Eh?
Quex.
[Sternly.] Open your eyes. Both of them. [She opens her eyes and stares at him. He returns her handkerchief.] There! I have removed the splinter. [She slowly backs away like a whipped child. He follows her.] Miss Fullgarney, I understand you are engaged to be married—to this young man, Valma?
Sophy.
[Tremblingly.] Yes, my lord.
Quex.
Do you care for him?
Sophy.
[Faintly.] Yes.
Quex.
In love with him?
Sophy.
Oh, yes, my lord, indeed.
Quex.
And yet you still flirt?
Sophy.
Y—es.
Quex.
Take my advice—be satisfied with the kisses your sweetheart gives you. Don’t try to get them from other men, old or young.
Sophy.
No—no—
Quex.
[Sternly, but kindly.] You little fool!
Pollitt enters, wearing a tall hat and lemon-coloured gloves.
Pollitt.
[Jealously.] Sophy!
[Quex walks away.
Sophy.
[Falteringly.] The fly-man brought back the bag, Valma dear.
Pollitt.
I am aware of that. [Lowering his voice.] What are you doing here with Lord Quex?
Sophy.
I—I’ve been manicuring him.
The Younger Servant comes down the steps.
Servant.
[To Sophy.] Mrs. Eden is quite ready for you, miss.
[She hurriedly replaces her manicure instruments, &c., in the bag, hands the bowl to the Servant, and, without looking at Pollitt or Quex, goes swiftly up the steps and disappears. The Servant follows her, carrying the bowl.
Pollitt.
[To Quex.] Excuse me, my lord—
Quex.
[Coming forward, and picking up his newspaper.] Eh?
Pollitt.
That young lady and I are engaged to be married.
Quex.
Mr.—Valma?
Pollitt.
Yes, my lord. [Hotly.] And I very much object to her manicuring gentlemen.
Quex.
[Dryly.] Well, there you have a little something to discuss at home—before, and, perhaps, after marriage.
Pollitt.
I consider the custom of ladies manicuring gentlemen one that may occasionally lead to undue familiarity, my lord.
Quex.
I am inclined to agree with you, sir.
Pollitt.
And I shall do all I can to persuade Miss Fullgarney to relinquish active participation in the business.
Quex.
The palmistry profession is a flourishing one at present, eh, Mr. Valma?
Pollitt.
[Loftily.] My engagement-book is always full. I have disappointed several ladies by coming here this afternoon.
Quex.
Poor women! Nevertheless, pray be careful how you slight the manicure trade. Crazes die, you know—nails grow.
Pollitt.
[Tapping his breast.] I think we have come to stay, my lord.
Quex.
[Lightly.] Well, you’re sailing pretty close to the wind, remember, you fellows.
Pollitt.
My lord!
Quex.
[Replacing his newspaper upon the table.] And if some day you should find yourselves in the police-court, alongside a poor old woman whose hand has been crossed with a threepenny-bit down an area—
The Duchess appears on the further side of the low cypress-hedge. She is dressed for dinner. The sky is now faintly rosy, and during the ensuing scene it deepens into a rich sunset.
Quex.
We are going to have a flaming sunset, Duchess.
Duchess.
Superb.
Pollitt.
[Haughtily.] I wish you good evening, my lord.
Quex.
Oh, good evening, Mr. Valma. [To himself.] Impudent beggar!
[Pollitt walks away. After watching his going, the Duchess comes eagerly forward.
Duchess.
[Her hand upon her heart.] Oh! I am here, Harry!
Quex.
[In delicate protest.] Ah, my dear Duchess!
Duchess.
Fortunately I have been able to dress quickly without exciting curiosity. My maid was summoned away this afternoon, to her father who is sick. [Sinking on to the bench.] Still, these risks are considerable enough.
Quex.
And yet you deliberately court them!
Duchess.
Great passions involve great dangers. The history of the world shows that.
Quex.
But why now—now that circumstances are altered between us? why, on earth, do you play these hazardous tricks now?
Duchess.
I was determined to meet, to know, the girl with whom you are about to ranger yourself, Harry.
Quex.
Even that could have been arrived at in some safer way.
Duchess.
Ah, but you fail to see; it was the daring of this proceeding that attracted me—the romance of it!
Quex.
[Raising his hands.] Romance! still!
Duchess.
Always. It is the very blood in my veins. It keeps me young. I shall die a romantic girl, however old I may be.
Quex.
You ought, you really ought, to have flourished in the Middle Ages.
Duchess.
You have frequently made that observation. [Rising.] I do live in the Middle Ages, in my imagination. I live in every age in which Love was not a cool, level emotion, but a fierce, all-conquering flame—a flame that grew in the heart of a woman, that of a sudden spread through her whole organism, that lit up her eyes with a light more refulgent than the light of sun or moon! [Laying her hand upon his arm.] Oh, oh, this poor, thin, modern sentiment miscalled Love—!
Quex.
[Edging away.] Sssh! pray be careful!
Duchess.
Ah, yes. But, dear Harry, I cannot endure the ordeal any longer.
Quex.
The ordeal?
Duchess.
The prolonged discomfort, to which I have subjected myself, of watching your wooing of Miss Eden. I must go.
Quex.
[With ill-concealed relief.] Go! leave us?
Duchess.
I recognise how fitting it is that you should bring your wild, irregular career to a close; but after to-morrow I shall cease to be a spectator of these preliminaries.
Quex.
[His eyes sparkling.] After to-morrow!
Duchess.
Yes, I rejoin poor dear Strood on Friday. True, he has four nurses—he always had four nurses, if you remember?
Quex.
[Sympathetically.] Three or four.
Duchess.
But then, nurses are but nurses. [Nobly.] I must not forget that I am a wife, Harry.
Quex.
No, no—you mustn’t forget that.
Duchess.
[Gazing into his eyes.] And so, between you and me, [placing her hands upon his shoulders] it is over.
Quex.
[Promptly.] Over.
Duchess.
Finally, irrevocably over.
Quex.
[Freeing himself.] Absolutely over. [Taking her hand and bowing over it solemnly.] Done with.
[He walks away.
Duchess.
[Moving slowly.] That is—almost over.
Quex.
[Turning sharply.] Almost?
Duchess.
We have yet to say good-bye, you know.
Quex.
[Returning to her, apprehensively.] We—we have said good-bye.
Duchess.
Ah, no, no!
Quex.
[Again bowing over her hand—with simulated feeling.] Good-bye.
Duchess.
[Looking round.] What! here?
Quex.
[Humouring her.] This romantic old garden! [pointing to the statuary] these silent witnesses—beholders, it is likely, of many similar scenes! the—the—setting sun! Could any situation be more appropriate?
Duchess.
But we are liable to be interrupted at any moment. The joint romance of our lives, Harry, ought not to end with a curt word and formal hand-shake in an exposed spot of this kind. [Sitting in the garden chair.] Oh, it cannot, must not, end so!
Quex.
[Eyeing her uneasily.] Frankly, I see nothing else for it.
Duchess.
I can’t credit it. Why, what was the second reason for my coming here?
Quex.
Second reason?
Duchess.
That our parting might be in keeping with our great attachment!
Quex.
Impossible.
Duchess.
Impracticable?
Quex.
In every way, impossible.
Duchess.
[Taking his hand.] Oh, don’t say that, dear Harry! Ah, the auguries tell me that what I ask will be.
Quex.
[Omitting, in his anxiety, to withdraw his hand.] The auguries?
Duchess.
Fate—coincidence—call it what you please—foreshadows one more meeting between us.
Quex.
Coincidence?
Duchess.
[Intensely, in a low voice.] Harry, do you remember a particular evening at Stockholm?
Quex.
[Hazily.] Stockholm?
Duchess.
That evening upon which we discovered how much our society meant to each other!
Quex.
[Vaguely, while he hastily recovers possession of his hand.] At Stockholm was it—?
Duchess.
You were sailing with us in the Baltic—you must recollect? Our yacht had put in at Stockholm; we had come to the Grand Hotel. Strood had retired, and you and I were sitting out upon the balcony watching the lights of the café on the Norrbro and the tiny steamboats that stole to and fro across the harbour. Surely you recollect?
Quex.
Yes, yes, of course.
Duchess.
Well, do you remember the brand of the champagne you sipped while you and I sat smoking?
Quex.
Good lord, no!
Duchess.
“Félix Poubelle, Carte d’Or.” You remarked that it was a brand unknown to you. Have you ever met it since, Harry?
Quex.
Not that I—
Duchess.
Nor I till last night, at dinner. [Impressively.] It is in this very house.
Quex.
[With a slight shrug of the shoulders.] Extremely probable.
Duchess.
And do you remember how I was clad, that evening at Stockholm?
Quex.
I am afraid I don’t.
Duchess.
Couleur de rose garnie de vert. I have just such another garment with me.
Quex.
Really?
Duchess.
Do you remember in what month we were at Stockholm?
Quex.
No.
Duchess.
June—this month. Nor the day of the week?
Quex.
It must be ten years ago!
Duchess.
Wednesday. There stands the record in my diary.
Quex.
Diary! good heavens, you are not so indiscreet—!
Duchess.
No, no—only the words, “warm evening.” Yes, it was upon a Wednesday. What is to-day?
Quex.
Wednesday.
Duchess.
[Rising.] Harry, I want to see you sipping that brand of champagne once more, while you and I sit facing one another, silently, dreamily smoking Argyropulos.
Quex.
[Negatively.] Duchess—
Duchess.
To end as we began! you have not the heart to refuse?
Quex.
I—
Duchess.
You do refuse?
Quex.
I do.
[She passes him, and again sinks upon the bench.
Duchess.
[Her back towards him, her shoulders heaving.] Oh! oh!
Quex.
I—I am profoundly sorry to be obliged to speak to you in this fashion.
Duchess.
Oh, then I cannot go on Friday!
Quex.
Not!
Duchess.
No! no! no!
Quex.
Believe me, it would be better for you, for me, for everybody—
Duchess.
I cannot! [Producing a diminutive lace handkerchief.] In the first shock of the news of your engagement—for it was a shock—one thought consoled me; throughout the time that has elapsed since then I have fed upon this same thought—there will be a parting in keeping with our great attachment! And now, you would rob me even of that!
Quex.
But—but—but—a solemn, deliberate leave-taking! the ceremony, of all others, to be carefully avoided!
Duchess.
Not by me, Harry—not by me. I wish to carry, in my breast, from this house the numb despair of a piteous climax. I cannot drive away smugly from these gates with the simple feelings of a woman who has been paying a mere visit—I cannot!
Quex.
My dear Sidonia—!
Duchess.
[Decidedly.] I say I cannot!
Quex.
[To himself, with a little groan.] Oh! phew!
[He walks to and fro impatiently, reflecting. Sophy, without her hat, comes quickly down the steps as if making for the table. Seeing Quex and the Duchess, she draws back, inquisitively.
Quex.
[By the Duchess’s side again, helplessly.] Well, I—ha!—I—
Duchess.
[Rising eagerly, laying a hand upon his arm.] You will?
[Sophy stoops down behind the dwarf cypress-hedge.
Quex.
You are certain—certain that this would effectually remove the obstacle to your rejoining—[with a wave of the hand] on Friday?
Duchess.
Why, do you think I would risk an anticlimax? [In an intense whisper.] To-night! [Louder.] To-night? [He hesitates a little longer—then bows in assent, stiffly and coldly. She gives an ardent sigh.] Ah—! [He retreats a step or two. She draws herself up with dignity.] To-night then—
[She turns from him and glides away through the trees. He stands for a moment, a frown upon his face, in thought.
Quex.
[Suddenly, moving in the direction she has taken.] No, no! Duchess—! [A gong sounds in the distance, he pauses, looking at his watch, angrily.] Ptshah! [He turns up the stage and discovers Sophy, who is now standing behind the hedge.] Hallo! [Sophy advances, laughing rather foolishly.] What are you doing here?
Sophy.
Looking for my rings. I took them off before I began manicuring you.
Quex.
[Pointing to the hedge.] You didn’t drop them there, did you?
Sophy.
No, I left them on the table.
Quex.
[Looking towards the table.] There’s the table.
Sophy.
[Coming to the table and putting on her rings.] Yes, I know.
Quex.
[After a short pause.] How long have you been here?
Sophy.
I? Oh, I’d just come as you spoke to me.
Quex.
[Half-satisfied.] Oh—?
[He goes up the steps, gives her a parting look, and, disappears. It is now twilight. Mrs. Eden, Frayne, and Muriel—all dressed for dinner—appear on the other side of the low hedge.
Mrs. Eden.
[To Frayne, walking with him above the hedge.] Delightful, isn’t it? It was planted by the late Lord Owbridge’s father a hundred years ago.
Frayne.
[Seeing Sophy.] Why, isn’t that the young manicure lady?
Mrs. Eden.
Yes. All these pieces of sculpture are genuine old Italian. This quaint little fountain came from the Villa Marchotti—
Frayne.
[Edging towards Sophy.] Alluring.
Mrs. Eden.
This is the fountain.
Frayne.
[Returning to her.] Quaint old fountain.
Sophy.
[To Muriel, across the hedge in a whisper.] Darling!
Mrs. Eden.
[Looking into the distance.] I think I see the dear Duchess.
Frayne.
[Alertly.] Where?
Mrs. Eden.
There.
Frayne.
I have the honour of knowing her Grace slightly.
Mrs. Eden.
[Moving away.] What a sweet woman!
Frayne.
[Following her.] Alluring!
[They disappear through the trees as Muriel, coming from below the hedge, joins Sophy.
Sophy.
Darling!
Muriel.
What is it, Sophy?
Sophy.
Lord Quex and this—this Duchess—they know each other very well, of course?
Muriel.
They are old acquaintances, I understand.
Sophy.
Ah!
Muriel.
Why do you ask?
Sophy.
I’ve just seen them together, talking.
Muriel.
Talking? why not?
Sophy.
Yes, but how?
Muriel.
How?
Sophy.
I’ll tell you. After you went indoors to dress, I took off my rings and put them on that table. [Looking away rather guiltily.] Rings fidget me, this hot weather—don’t they you? Well, just as I’d finished with Mrs. Jack, it suddenly struck me—my rings!—and I hurried back to fetch them. When I got here, I came across Lord Quex and the Duchess.
Muriel.
[Calmly.] Yes?
Sophy.
I stooped down behind that hedge there.
Muriel.
You did not!
Sophy.
Oh, I suppose you consider it mean!
Muriel.
Despicable!
Sophy.
Despicable, is it! I don’t care! My goodness, I’d do the shabbiest thing a woman could do to save you from him!
Muriel.
[Peering among the trees.] Hush, hush, hush!
Sophy.
[On the verge of tears.] Perhaps you fancy I’m mean from choice? Perhaps you imagine—?
Muriel.
Be quiet, Sophy!
Sophy.
[Giving a sniff and lowering her voice.] Well, here they were, standing exactly where you are, close to each other. [Muriel changes her position.] I saw her touch his arm. Oh, I’m positive there’s something between those two! “You will?” I heard her say. And then he made a remark about Friday—Friday—
Muriel.
The Duchess goes on Friday.
Sophy.
That was it, of course! And then she mumbled something I couldn’t catch; and then—listen to this!—then she said “to-night,” quite plainly. To-night! and in such a tone of voice! And then he bowed, and out she came with “to-night” again—“to-night,” for the second time—and away she went. Now, what do you think that “to-night” of hers means?
Muriel.
[Coldly, seating herself upon the bench.] Nothing—anything.
Sophy.
Nothing!
Muriel.
A hundred topics of conversation would lead to such an expression. [Looking at Sophy steadily.] You are mistaken in the construction you put upon it.
Sophy.
[Quietly.] Mistaken, am I?
Muriel.
[With clenched hands.] The Duchess of Strood is a most immaculate woman. [Suddenly.] Oh, it would be too infamous!
[The Duchess and Frayne, followed by Mrs. Eden, reappear behind the low hedge. Sophy retreats to the back of the bench upon which Muriel is sitting. The Duchess and Frayne approach, talking, while Mrs. Eden chats to Sophy across the hedge.
Frayne.
[To the Duchess, gallantly.] I am flattered by your remembrance of me, Duchess. When we last met I had hardly a grey hair in my head. [Running his hand through his hair.] Ha! The West Coast—!
Duchess.
Is the climate so terrible?
Frayne.
Deadly. But the worst of it is, [with a bow and a sigh] we have no European ladies.
[Muriel—eyeing the Duchess—rises, shrinkingly, and steals away.
Frayne.
[Looking after Muriel.] Quex! ha, there’s a lucky dog, now!
Duchess.
[Sweetly.] You are delighted, naturally, at your old friend’s approaching marriage?
Frayne.
[Kissing his finger-tips towards the left.] Miss Eden—! [Inquisitively.] And—and you, Duchess?
Duchess.
[Raising her eyebrows.] I?
Frayne.
You also approve his choice?
Duchess.
[Blandly.] Approve? I am scarcely sufficiently intimate with either party to express approval or disapproval.
Frayne.
[Eyeing her askance.] Pardon. I thought you had known Quex for—ah—some years.
Duchess.
Quite superficially. I should describe him rather as a great friend of his Grace.
Lady Owbridge appears on the top of the steps.
Lady Owbridge.
Are you here, Duchess?
Duchess.
[Turning to her.] Yes.
Lady Owbridge.
[Coming down the steps.] Oh, I am really very upset!
Duchess.
Upset?
Lady Owbridge.
About your maid. The circumstance has only just been reported to me—you have lost your maid. [Seeing Frayne.] Is that Sir Chichester? [Frayne advances and shakes hands.] I didn’t observe you, in the dusk. Have you seen Henry? I wonder if he is waiting for us in the drawing-room?
Frayne.
May I go and hunt for him?
Lady Owbridge.
It would be kind of you.
[Frayne goes up the steps and away. Mrs. Eden comes to the stone bench. Muriel returns slowly, coming from among the trees and appearing on the further side of the low hedge.
Duchess.
[To Lady Owbridge.] Pray don’t be in the least concerned for me, dear Lady Owbridge; the absence of my maid is quite a temporary matter. Poor Watson’s father is unwell and I packed her off to him this afternoon. She will be back by mid-day to-morrow, she promises me.
Lady Owbridge.
But, dear me! in the meantime my own woman shall wait upon you.
Duchess.
I couldn’t dream of it.
Mrs. Eden.
Why not my Gilchrist—or let us share her?
Duchess.
No, no; the housemaid who assisted me into this gown—
Lady Owbridge.
Chalmers? well, there’s Chalmers, certainly. But I fear that Chalmers has hot hands. Or Denham—no, Denham is suffering from a bad knee. Of course, there’s Bruce! Bruce is painfully near-sighted—- but would Bruce do? Or little Atkins—?
Sophy.
[Stepping from behind the bench, and confronting Lady Owbridge—in a quiet voice.] Or I, my lady?
Lady Owbridge.
You, my dear?
Sophy.
Why shouldn’t I attend upon her Grace to-night and in the morning? [With half a courtesy to the Duchess.] I should dearly like to have the honour.
Muriel comes forward, staring at Sophy.
Mrs. Eden.
Now, that’s very proper and good-natured of you, Sophy.
Lady Owbridge.
But, Miss Fullgarney—
Sophy.
[Modestly.] Oh, I never feel like Miss Fullgarney out of my business, my lady. You see, I was maid for years, and it’s second nature to me. Do let me, my lady—do, your Grace!
Lady Owbridge.
Duchess—?
Duchess.
[Hesitatingly.] Oh—oh, by all means. [To Sophy.] Thank you.
[The gong sounds in the distance again, as Quex—now in evening-dress—and Frayne return together, above the hedge.
Lady Owbridge.
Here is Quex.
[The ladies, except Muriel, join Frayne and Quex.
Muriel.
[To Sophy.] What are you doing?
Sophy.
[Breathlessly.] The housekeeper showed me over the house. I remember—her maid’s room is at the end of a passage leading from the boudoir!
Muriel.
Sophy, you must not! you sha’n’t!
Sophy.
Why, isn’t it for the best? If I was mistaken over what I heard just now, I sha’n’t see or hear anything wicked to-night; and that will satisfy both of us—!
Lady Owbridge.
[Calling.] Muriel—
[Muriel joins the group; Sophy slips away and disappears.
Lady Owbridge.
[To the Duchess.] Shall we go in?
[Lady Owbridge and the Duchess, and Mrs. Eden and Muriel, ascend the steps and go towards the house. Instead, of following the ladies, Quex turns sharply and comes forward with an angry, sullen look upon his face.
Frayne.
[Looking round for Quex.] Hallo, Harry! [Coming to Quex.] Aren’t you—?
Quex.
Hang dinner! I don’t want to eat.
Frayne.
Anything wrong, old man? anything I—?
Quex.
[Shaking himself up.] No, no; nothing—the hot weather. Come along; we mustn’t be late for grace. [Boisterously.] At any rate, a glass of champagne—[slapping Frayne on the back] a glass or two of Félix Poubelle, hey? Félix Poubelle, Carte d’Or! ha, ha, ha!
[As they turn to go, they see Sophy on the other side of the low hedge, looking at them steadily.
Quex.
[To Frayne, quietly.] Wait!
[They stand still, while Sophy very demurely walks to the steps, ascends them, and disappears.
Quex.
[In an altered tone.] Chick—you see that hussy?
Frayne.
Miss Fullgarney?
Quex.
I can’t make her out. I believe she wants to play some trick on me.
Frayne.
Trick?
Quex.
‘Pon my soul, I believe she’s prying—spying on me.
Frayne.
That nice gal!
Quex.
Oh, I daresay I’m wrong. But if I found it so, I—- I’d wring her neck.
Frayne.
[Wistfully.] It’s an alluring neck.
Quex.
Possibly. But I’d wring it—!
[They go up the steps together.
end of the second act.