The Profligate by Arthur Wing Pinero — Free Audiobook

1 01 - Act 1 - THIS MAN AND THIS WOMAN 46:35

It is a good and soothfast saw, Half-roasted never will be raw. No dough is dried once more to meal, No crock new-shapen by the wheel. You can't turn curds to milk again, nor now by wishing back to then. And having tasted stolen honey, you can't buy innocence for money. The persons of the play. Wilfred Brudenell, read by Redrun. Leslie, his sister, read by Jen Broda. Dunstan Renshaw, read by Greg Giordano. Janet Preece, read by Christine Rutger. Mr. Cheel, read by Adrian Stevens. Hugh Murray, read by Todd. Mr. F. Graves, read by Larry Wilson. Lord Dangars, read by Alan Mapstone. Mrs. Stonehay, read by Sonia. Irene, her daughter. Read by Mateo Bracić. Weaver. Read by Thomas Peter. Priscilla. Read by Inko.

Stage directions. Read by Beeswax Candle. The first act. This man and this woman. The scene is the junior partner's room and the offices of Messrs. Cheel and Murray solicitors Furnival's Inn Holborn. There is a gloomy air about the place, with its heavy old-fashioned furniture, its oak-panelled walls and dirty white mantelpiece, and its accumulation of black tin deed-boxes. Hugh Murray, a pale, thoughtful, resolute-looking man of about thirty, plainly dressed, is writing intently at a pedestal table. He pays no heed to a knock at the door, which is followed by the entrance of Mr. F. Graves, an elderly, sober-looking clerk, who places a slip of paper before him. Lord Dangars? Yes. Mr. Cheel always sees Lord Dangars.

Yes, sir, but Mr. Cheel is so put about by this morning's very unusual business that he doesn't wish to see anybody till after the wedding. Very well. F. Grace handing a bundle of legal documents to Hugh. Don Garee, v. Don Garee, oh, excuse me, but Mr. Renshaw has sent in some little nosegays with a request that they should be worn to-day. Sniffing the flower in his buttonhole. As the wedding takes place from the office, as it were, I consider it would be a permissible compliment to our client. The bride—'Quite so. Very kind of Mr. Renshaw. I shouldn't have mentioned it, but I see you are not wearing yours. Oh. This is from Mr. Renshaw? Yes. We are keeping Lord Dengar's waiting. F. Graves goes into the clerk's office as Hugh takes a flower from a glass on the table.

I can't wear it. I can't wear it at her wedding. F. Graves ushers in Lord Dangers, a dissipated-looking man of about forty, dressed in the height of fashion. Good morning, Mr. Murray. Good morning. Pray sit down. I don't want to bother you, you know, but my servant, who has been reading newspapers for me since my damn—I beg your pardon—since my divorce business has been before the public, says that we were in court again yesterday. Oh, yes. The decree, Nisi, has been made absolute on the application of the petitioner. The petitioner. Let me see. They call me the respondent, don't they? They do, under his breath, amongst other things. It's a deuced odd circumstance that I have been nearly everything in divorce cases, but never a petitioner.

Decree Nysai made absolute, eh? That means I am quite free, doesn't it? Certainly. And eligible? I beg pardon? I can marry again. You could marry again if you thought proper. You wouldn't call it improper. If you ask me that as your solicitor, I answer no. Otherwise, I have what are perhaps peculiar notions as to the eligibility of a man who marries. Oh, have you? Well, I don't see that a man's eligibility requires any further qualification than that of his being single. You differ? May I speak honestly, Lord Dangars? Do? I admire anything of that sort. I think your partner told me you were a Scotchman, and new to London. I like to encounter a man in his honest stage. Thank you. Then you will allow me to maintain that the man who marries a good woman, knowing that his past life is not as spotless as hers, grievously wrongs his wife, and fools himself.

As for wronging her, that's an abstract question of sentiment. But I don't see how a man is a fool. The man is a fool to bind himself to one who sooner or later must learn what little need there is to respect her husband. Why, my dear Mr. Murray, you're actually putting men on a level with ladies. Ladies, I admit, are like nations. To be happy, they should have no histories. But don't you know that marriage is the tomb of the past, as far as a man is concerned? No, I don't know it, and I don't believe it. Oh, really? You can't lay the past. It has an ugly habit of breaking its tomb. Even then, the shades of pretty women should not be such very bad company.

By Jove, a pleasant chat runs into one's time. If you want me, post-restore Rome till you hear again. Going abroad during the shooting? I must, you know. This divorce business checks the pleasant flow of invitations for a season or two. So I shall spend a few months' tranquility in Italy, and write a society novel. A society novel? Yes. That seems the only thing left for a man whose reputation is a little off color. "'Good-bye, Mr. Murray.' "'Good-bye, Lord Dangars. Come this way.' Hugh opens the door, leading on to the staircase landing. "'Excuse me, but didn't I see Mr. Dunstan Renshaw enter your outer office just then?' "'I am expecting Mr. Renshaw. Do you know him?' "'Know him?' We're bosom friends.

Friends? You and Mr. Renshaw? Then, of course, you know that he is going to be married this morning. Married? You're joking. I have a perfectly serious engagement to accompany Mr. Renshaw to the registrar's in half an hour. You? No. Ah-hum. That's very good. That's very good. That's capital. Why does the idea of Mr. Renshaw's marriage amuse you so much, Lord Dengars? My dear Mr. Murray, I am not laughing at Renshaw's marriage. But it tickles me confoundedly to think that you, my quixotic young friend, are to assist at laying the marble slab upon dear old Dunstan's bachelor days and nights. You mean that Mr. Renshaw is not, according to my qualification, an eligible husband for a pure honest-hearted woman?

"'Oh, come, come, Mr. Murray. Let us be men of the world. Renshaw's a good fellow. Just one of my own sort. That's all I mean.' Hugh turns away impatiently. "'May I beg to know who's the lady?' "'Miss Leslie Brudenell, an orphan. My partner's ward.' "'Money?' I needn't ask. If Miss Brudenell were penniless, I should describe her as a millionaire. She is very sweet, very beautiful. You're enthusiastic? No, barely just. Speaking half to himself. I thought the same the moment I first saw her. She was walking in the grounds of the old schoolhouse at Helmstead. And I stood aside in the shade of the beaches and watched her. I couldn't help it. And I remember how I stammered when I spoke to her. Because some women are like sacred pictures.

You can't do more than whisper before them. That's only six months ago, and today. God forgive us if we are doing wrong. Lord Dangers to himself. I'm dashed if my pious young Scotch solicitor isn't in love with the girl himself. F. Graves comes from the clerk's office. Mr. Renshaw? Mr. Yes. Dunstan! Dunstan speaking outside. Mr. Why, George! Dunstan Renshaw enters as F. Graves retires. He is a handsome young man with a buoyant, self-possessed manner, looking not more than thirty, but with the signs of a dissolute life in his face. His clothes are fashionable and suggest the bridegroom. Congratulate you. So the law has turned you into a jolly old bachelor. Yes, my boy, on condition that my solicitor offers a young fresh victim to Hyman in the course of this morning.

Hello. You know all about it, do you? Mr. Murray broke the news as gently as possible. Dunstan shaking hands with Murray. My best man. Good morning, Murray. Was it a shock, George? Terrible. You might have knocked me down with one of Miss Clotilde Green's lace fans. Shut up now. I've played that sort of game out. So, no reminiscences. Trust me, my dear boy. Make me a friend of your hearth and edit my recollections. Then all you remember is that at Cambridge, I was a diligent but unlucky student. Quite so. I recollect that perfectly. And that, from boyhood, I have suffered from a stupefying bashfulness before women. Done. You'll recall the same of me when I next have occasion to marry, won't you?

It's a bargain. I... Oh, confound this! What's the matter? Are you ill? No. Wait a minute. There were some fellows at my lodgings last night, assisting at the launching of the ship. I mean, saying goodbye to me. Supports himself unsteadily with the back of a chair. They set light to a bowlful of brandy, and threw my latchkey into it. Awful fun! And then they all swore they'd see the last of me. And they stayed and stayed. "'Till they couldn't see anything at all.' He sinks onto the chair with his head resting on his hands. Hugh brings him a glass of water. "'Here.' "'Thanks.' Gradually recovering. "'I'm all right. Did I look white or yellow?' "'Neither. Green. Fortunate the lady was not present.' Oh, Miss Brudenell doesn't know why rooms sometimes go round and round.

No? Perhaps her relations are more penetrating. Thank goodness there are no such encumbrances. Leslie is an orphan. I'm an orphan. I'm alone in the world. She has only a young brother who doesn't count. So we start. and even waits. He drains the remainder of the water and shivers. Met her at a ball, of course. I really will be seen at dances again, by and by. A ball? Nonsense. Her only idea of a ball is a lot of girls sitting against the wall pulling crackers. She's a little maid from school. Charming. But how? How? I'll give you the recipe. Go down into the country for a couple of days' fishing. Often done it. Caught fish. No girls. Wait. The stream must run off your host's property, through the recreation grounds of a young lady's school.

Times are altered. There was always a brick wall in my day. Brick walls still exist, but a heavy fish on your line breaks down your notions of propriety, and you paddle along midstream. You soon discover some pretty little women with their arms round each other's waists, and you apologize profusely. But you risk rheumatism. So Leslie thought. And that won me her sympathy. And sympathy is akin to love. And love, occasionally, leads to marriage. Holding his hand out to Dangers, who buttons his glove. Help deck me for the sacrifice, George. As luck would have it, Leslie's guardian, Mr. Cheel, was my people's lawyer years ago, and he knew I was a gentleman. and all that sort of thing. So Cheel got my affairs into something like order, made me settle everything on Leslie, and now you behold in me a happy bridegroom with a headache fit to convert the devil.

Thanks, old man. Mr. Cheel comes from his private office. He is an elderly man with a pompous manner and florid complexion. Hasn't Miss Brudenell arrived yet? Ah, good morning, Lord Dengers. Mr. Renshaw, pray don't be late. I believe it is customary for the bridegroom to receive the lady at the registrar's. Who is a married man here? Oh, Lord Dengers, perhaps you can tell us. No, no. Ask him something about the divorce court. Good gracious. I quite forgot. Pray pardon me.

I'm waiting for Mr. Murray, my best man. Mr. Murray. Hugh is gazing into the fire. Mr. Murray, please. Eh? Mr. Renshaw is waiting. I beg your pardon, Mr. Renshaw. I must ask you to dispense with my assistance this morning. He sits at his table and commences writing, while Cheel, Dunstan, and Dangers exchange glances. Oh, all right. Don't mention it. Lord Dangers to himself. Thought so. You place us in a rather awkward position, Mr. Murray. I have to escort Miss Brudenell, and I hardly wish to send a clerk with Mr. Renshaw. Look here. Don't bother. Where does this registrar chap hang out? 23 Ely Place. Very near here. I'll walk with you, my boy, and lend you my moral support. Thanks. But excuse me, George.

I think we'll part company at the registrar's front door. You believe in omens, then? Eh? Well... Every man does on his wedding morning. All right. Do you think I want to assist at your wedding? You never came to hear my divorce case. Dangers leaves the office, followed by Dunstan. Really, Mr. Murray, this is scarcely businesslike. I think it is all cruelly businesslike. Mr. Cheal. Don't you think it possible, even at this moment, to stop this marriage? Stop the marriage? Good gracious, sir. For what reason? The marriage of a simple-minded, trustful schoolgirl, to a man of whom you know either too little or too much? I know a great deal of Mr. Renshaw. He comes of a very excellent family. Excellent family.

Are the members of it at hand to speak for him? They are all, I hope, beyond the reach of prejudice, Mr. Murray. They are unhappily deceased. Then how can you weigh the dead against the living? There are two lives to be brought together this morning, or kept apart, as you will. For upon you rests the responsibility of this marriage. I beg your pardon, Mr. Murray? I should have thought that a young gentleman of your severe training would scarcely need to be reminded that marriages are... Made in heaven? Yes, sir. Certainly. This one, sir, is the exclusive manufacturer of Holborn. That's rather a flippant observation, Mr. Murray. I doubt whether Providence is ever especially busy in promoting the union of a delicate-minded child with a coarse, gross-natured profligate.

Mr. Murray, you are speaking of a client in terms to which I prefer being no party. Mr. Renshaw may have yielded to some of the lighter temptations not unknown even in my youth. Except to those employed in legal studies. But the world is not apt to condemn the... the... The license it permits itself. You are bullying the world, Mr. Murray. I don't attempt, sir, to be much wiser than the world. But it costs so small an effort to be a little better. I tell you, I have stood by and heard this man Renshaw. Laughing over his excesses with the airs of a vicious schoolboy. Tut, tut, that's all past. Marriage is the real beginning of a man's life. No, sir. It is the end of it. What comes after is either heaven or hell.

If Graves enters. Miss Boudendale is here with her maid and Mr. Wilfred. Don't bring them in till I ring. Really? Mr. Murray? If Grace retires. Mr. Cheel, I make a final appeal to you with my whole heart. I am a man of business, Mr. Murray. I know that. And I know that this child is an unremunerative responsibility, of which you would gladly be rid. Frankly, the trustees were most inadequately provided for under the will. Very well. Relieve yourself of the trust and throw the estate into chancery. And from this moment I undertake to bear on my shoulders the responsibilities of Miss Brudenell's future. My dear sir, you talk as if the young lady were not deeply in love with Mr. Renshaw. What judge is a schoolgirl the worth of a man?

Of course, if she falls in love with the first she meets. Nothing of the kind. Why, for that matter, Miss Broodinell knew you before she met Mr. Renshaw. Yes, yes, I know. You have been down to the school at Helmstead often enough. Why on earth didn't the child fall in love with you? No, true, true. But I have no pretensions to—of course, I—I fear my argument has been very poor. F. Graves ushers in Leslie Brondonow, a sweet-looking girl, tastefully but simply dressed, who was accompanied by her brother Wilfred, a handsome, boyish young man of about one-and-twenty, and her maid Priscilla, a healthy-looking country girl. Oh! Mr. Chill, am I late? Late, my dear? No. Good morning, Mr. Brudenell. Leslie was ready to start at seven o'clock this morning, and broke the hotel bell ringing for breakfast.

Oh, don't tell about me, Will, dear. Let me know when the carriage arrives, Mr. F. Graves. Yes, sir. F. Graves goes out. Leslie. Offering her hand. Mr. Murray. Were you very frightened lest you should be late? Yes, very. Of course you were. For his sake. He would suffer so if I kept him waiting. Where is he? At the registrar's. Why aren't you with him? You promised. I am busy. Oh, how unkind to be busy on such a morning. Will, Mr. Murray won't come to the wedding. That's a shame. How do you do, Mr. Murray? Hmm. I shall be there. Yes, but Leslie wants her London mother as well as her London father. Eh? What's that? Nothing. Be quiet, Will. What is the meaning of a London father and... I'll tell you.

No, no. You tell things so roughly. My London father... is a name the schoolgirls gave you, Mr. Cheel, because you are my guardian in London, and look after me. And when Mr. Murray began to come down to Helmstead about once a month to see that I was happy, they set about to invent some title for him, too. And as I couldn't have two fathers, and I already had a real brother, they called Mr. Murray my London mother because he was so thoughtful and tender. Just as my schoolfellows told me their mothers are. Hmm. Well, my dear, all that is very nice for schoolgirls, but it is what practical people call stuff and nonsense. I'll go and get my hat. He goes out. Mr. Cheel is angry. No, no. He is. He said stuff and nonsense.

The other day when I begged him to let me be married in church. And now... Ah, don't think of Mr. Cheel's very businesslike manner. I can't help it. Tell me, Mr. Murray, does everything simple become stuff and nonsense when you get married? How should I know, my child? I am an old bachelor. Priscilla beckons Leslie. Missy, miss, you're untidy again. Oh, no! Don't say that!

The little mirror, Priscilla! Priscilla, I'm getting uglier as the day wears on. I'm sure you're quite good-looking enough for London, miss. I'm not thinking about London.

That's an odd picture for a lawyer's musty office. Ah, imagine what would become of a plain matter-of-fact lawyer, sitting here scribbling day after day, if he could never get that vision out of his eyes. Rather bad for his clients, eh? Yes, and bad for the lawyer. I hope the registrar's office is very dark, Mr. Murray. I particularly dislike my face today. Priscilla whispering to Hugh, Ain't she sweet and pretty, sir? Yes. A lucky gentleman, Mr. Renshaw, sir. Aye. I heard that. Indeed, Mr. Renshaw is not lucky at all. I think so. Why not? Because I am not worthy of him. You're his friend, Mr. Murray, and you know how generous and true he is. I can tell you, my London mother, that every night and morning since I have been engaged, I have prayed nothing but this over and over again.

Make me good enough. Good enough for Dunstan Renshaw. Hugh moves away, Leslie looking at herself in the mirror. I wish now I had added, make me a little prettier. F. Graves appears at the door. The carriage is here, sir. Oh, oh! Tell Mr. Cheal. Leslie is a little flurried, and Priscilla at once busies herself about Leslie's costume. A young lady is in my room waiting to see you, Mr. Murray. She brings a card of Mr. Wilfred's with your name on it in his writing. Oh, I'm so glad she's called. Mr. Murray, I've found your firm a new client. Indeed. Thank you, thank you. In a few moments, Mr. F. Graves. F. Graves goes into the inner office. It's quite a romance, isn't it, Leslie? Oh, don't speak to me, please, dear.

When Leslie and I arrived at Paddington Station last night, a solitary young lady got out of the next compartment. Les, wasn't she gentle and pretty? Yes, yes. There's a button off my glove. Priscilla hastily produces needle and thread and commences stitching the glove. The poor little thing seemed quite lost in the crowd and bustle, and at last, pushed about by the porters and passengers, she sat herself down to cry. We asked if we could help her. Do you remember how pretty she looked then, Les? I can't remember anything till I have been married a little while. Do be quick, Priscilla. Well, what do you think the poor little lady wanted? She wanted to find the cleverest man in London, someone to advise her on an awfully important matter.

Leslie said I was clever, didn't you, Les? Yes, but I thought of Mr. Renshaw. But I said, I know what you really need, a lawyer. And I gave her my card to present to Mr. Hugh Murray of Cheel and Murray, Furnival's Inn. Thank you, thank you. Wilfred to himself. I wish I could find her here when we come back. Chio bustles into the room. Now then, my dear, are you ready? Ready. You had better say farewell to Miss Leslie Bruden now, Mr. Murray. You will never see her again. Goodbye. Come to my wedding. I... I am busy. He turns away and sits at his desk. Leslie to herself. I wonder whether the world will be of the same colour when I am married. Mr. Murray seems changing already. My dear. Chiel offers his arm to Leslie, who, as she takes it, looks appealingly at Hugh, but he will not notice her.

Mr. Murray! Mr. Murray! She leaves the room on Chiel's arm, attended by Priscilla. I say, we shan't be long getting married. I wish you could detain the young lady till I return. Yes, yes. It's of no consequence, you know. Wilfred runs out after the wedding party. She is going. He goes to the window and looks out. Ah, they have taken her away. The inn is empty. If Graves enters.

Mr. Murray. They have gone, F. Graves. Yes. Will you see the young lady now?

Certainly. F. Graves goes out.

Miss Janet Preece. Introduced by Mr. Wilfred Brudenell. F. Graves ushers in Janet Preece. A pretty, simply-dressed girl of about eighteen, with a timid ear and a troubled look. Are you Mr. Murray, sir? Yes. Sit down there. You wish to see a solicitor, I understand. A lawyer, sir? That's the same thing, sometimes. In what way can I serve you? I... I thought you would be older. Mr. Cheel, my partner, is older than I. But he is out. Can't you believe in me? It isn't that I think you're not clever. Come, come, that's something. But you don't know why I... what I have to... heaven help me. You know, people bring their troubles to men like me, quite as an ordinary matter. Yes, sir. Ordinary troubles.

I could tell a woman, I could tell your wife if she was as kind as you seemed to be. My dear young lady, I have no wife. Come now, don't think of me as anything but a mere machine. He listens without looking at her. I want to find somebody who has disappeared. Yes, a man or a woman. A man. The task may be very easy or very difficult. Is he a London man? Yes, a town gentleman. Who does ill in the country? Shall I begin by writing down his name? I don't know his name. I only know the name he called himself by way down home. Mr. Lawrence Kenward. Lawrence Kenward, Esquire. How do you know the name is assumed? Because I once came softly into the room while he was signing a letter. He wrote only his initials.

But I saw that they didn't belong to the name of Lawrence Kenward. What were the initials? DR. Hugh scribbling on a sheet of paper. Ah, you may have been mistaken. The letters DR and LK have some resemblance at a distance. No, no, no, no. Hugh scribbling again. Now, making the DR in this way... Hmm. D.R. I'm not mistaken, for when I charged him with deceiving me, he told me a falsehood with his lips, and the truth with his eyes. And that night he broke with me. Hugh to himself, looking at his watch. It is her name now. Why do I let everything remind me of it? D.R. To Janet. Have you any letter from this man? No, he was always too near me for the need of writing. The more's the shame. Have you his portrait?

A photograph? He always meant me too much ill to give me a portrait. Describe him. A man about your age, sir, I should guess, but with a boy's voice when he speaks to women. I... I... I can't describe him. Hugh to himself. Great heavens! If by any awful freak of fate, this poor creature is a victim of Renshaw's, and she at this moment standing beside him—oh, what a fool I am to think of no man but Renshaw. Don't ask me to describe him in words, sir. I can't, I can't. But I've taught myself to draw his face faithfully. I am not boasting. I can't draw anything else because I see nothing else. Give me some paper I can sketch upon, and a pencil. Hugh hands her paper and pencil, and watches while she sketches.

Hugh to himself. If the face she sketches should bear any resemblance to his, what could I do? What could I do? That's with his mocking look as I last saw him. He's always mocking me now. Hugh to himself. I could do nothing. It's too late. Nothing. Shall I look now? No. What a coward I am. Yes. He looks over Janet's shoulder. Renshaw! He struggles against his agitation. The wife. I must think of the wife. To Janet. My poor child. The most accurate portrait in the world is poor material toward hunting for a man in this labyrinth of London. Oh, but take it. His face must be familiar to hundreds of men and women in London. I know that he belongs to some of your great clubs, and goes to the race meetings in grand style.

He has told me so. And take these. These papers tell you all about me and give an address where you can write to me when you've traced him. I... I can't undertake this search. It's useless. It's useless. No, no, don't refuse to help me. Your face says you are clever. It's easy work for you. He isn't in hiding. He's flaunting about in broad sunlight in your fine parks, maybe with another poor simple girl on his arm. Find him for me. He isn't a murderer stealing along in the shadow of walls at nighttime. He's only a betrayer of women, and men don't hide for that.

I'll look through this bundle of papers. You shall hear from me tomorrow. He is showing Janet to the door when Wilfred enters. Oh, I'm so glad you found your way here. How strange that we should meet again. Yes, thank you, thank you for your kindness. Goodbye. She goes hurriedly from the room. There now, after my hurrying off on the chance of seeing her, and being nearly run down in Holborn. Only thank you and goodbye. Have they left the registrars? He was congratulating them when I stole away. Hugh to himself. If the poor girl should come face to face with Renshaw this morning. Hugh looks out of the window. Come now, Mr. Murray. Isn't she sweet? Hugh to himself. Yes, yes. She is crossing the inn.

And don't you thank me for sending you such a pretty client? Hugh turning away from the window. She's gone. Do tell me about her. What's her name? I should like to think of her by some name. A lawyer talks of everything but his clients, my boy. So, your sister is married, eh? Married? She was married before one's eyes became used to the darkness of the gloomy little office. Married? Fast married. The older I grow... The more positive I am that nothing in life takes any time to speak of. You're born in no time, you're married in no time, you live in no time, you die in no time, you're forgotten in no time. But you suffer all the time. Suffer? Leslie and I intend never to suffer. We sat up together late last night, hand in hand, and we entered into a compact that will remain to each other.

Simple, light-hearted boy and girl, forever and ever. That's the way to be happy. Hark! He opens the door. Here they are. Hello, Dunstan. Renshaw enters, followed by his man, Weaver, who carries his traveling coat and hat. It's all over, Mr. Murray. Ha-ha! Leslie was on the verge of tears, because the registrar wouldn't read the marriage service. What do you want, Weaver? If you mean to get Cannon Street to catch the 1237 for fixed, then you haven't any time to lose, sir. Oh. To Wilfred. Leslie is affixing her signature with a great deal of dignity to some legal documents in the next room. Ask her to admit the flourishes, Wilfred. There's a good fellow. Wilfred goes quickly into the clerk's office, followed by Weaver.

Dunstan hums an ear and yawns.

I say, Murray, if you ever marry, take my advice. Patronize the registrar. The process is rapid and merciful. Mr. Renshaw, I don't stand in need of your counsel on the question of marriage. But less than half an hour ago, you might, with profit to yourself, have asked for mine. What's the matter? What's wrong? I tell you to your face, you have done a cruel, a wanton act. What do you mean? I know your past. I know that your mind is vicious and your heart callous. And yet you have dared to join lives with a child whose knowledge of evil is a blank. And whose instincts are pure and beautiful. God forgive you. Mr. Murray, the tone you're good enough to adopt deserves some special recognition. But you've always, I understand, been very kind to Leslie.

And I don't choose to dispute with one of her friends on her wedding morning. You can't dispute with me, because there is no question of truth between us. Oh. As to my past, which you are pleased to wax mightily moral about, well, I have taken the world as I found it. You chant the litany of those who rifle in wrong. You have simply taken the world's evil as you found it. I warn you. And I warn you that you'll do badly as a lawyer. Try the pulpit. I warn you. As surely as we now stand face to face, the crime you commit today you will expiate bitterly. Thank you for your warning, Mr. Murray. It is my intention to expiate my atrocities by a life of tolerable ease and comfort. Looking at his watch.

We shall really lose our train. Hugh turning away in disgust.

And it may surprise a sentimental Scotch gentleman like yourself to learn that marriages of contentment are the reward of husbands who have taken the precaution to sow their wild oats rather thickly. Contentment? Yes. I've studied the question. Contentment? Renshaw, do you imagine there is no autumn in the life of a profligate? Do you think there is no moment when the accursed crop begins to rear its millions of heads above ground? When the rich man would give his wealth to be able to tread them back into the earth which rejects the foul load? Today you have robbed some honest man of a sweet companion. Look here, Mr. Murray. Tomorrow, next week, next month, you may be happy. But what of the time when those wild oats thrust their ears through the very seams of the floor, trodden by the wife whose respect you will have learned to covet?

You may drag her into the crowded streets. There is the same vile growth springing up from the chinks of the pavement. In your house, or in the open, the scent of the mildewed grain always in your nostrils, and in your ears no music but the wind's rustle among the fat sheaths. And, worst of all, your wife's heart a granary bursting with the load of shame your profligacy has stored there. I warn you, Mr. Lawrence Kenwood— What? Hold your tongue, man. Damn you! Hold your tongue! Leslie enters with Wilfred and Cheel. Leslie to Dunstan. Have I kept you waiting? You are not cross with me, Dunne dear. Cross? No, but— Looking sullenly at Hugh, let us get on our journey. Goodbye, Mr. Murray. He takes her hand.

Won't you—won't you congratulate Mrs. Dunstan Renshaw? Do say something to me. What can I say to you but this? God bless you, little schoolgirl, always. She joins Dunstan and goes out. Followed by Wilfred and Cheel. Hugh is left alone gazing after them. End of Act One

2 02 - Act 2 - THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES 33:36

The Second Act. The Sword of Damocles. The scene is the loggia of the Villa Colobbiano, a beautiful old Florentine villa on the road to Fiesole, with a view of Florence in the distance. It is an artistic-looking place, with elegant pillars supporting a painted ceiling, coloured marble flooring, and a handsome balustrade, and steps leading to the road and garden below. While noticeable on the wall of the villa, between the two entrance windows, is a glass case protecting the remnants of an old half-obliterated fresco. Weaver is gazing down the road through a pair of field glasses, and Priscilla is bringing in the tea things, which she proceeds to arrange on a little table. Pris? Hush!

Mr. Wilfred has gone right off. Tired out with his travelling. I'm very sorry, but what am I to do? Here's a carriage with some ladies coming up the road. Of course they'll pull up here to look at our blessed cartoon. Well... What other folks can see in them few smears and scratches to come bothering us about passes my belief. You don't see nothing in it, of course, the country-bred girl, but there's a real bit of Michelangelo on that glass. When he was staying at his house some time back, he amused himself by drawing that with a piece of black chalk. Why don't he send and fetch it away? It's on the wall of the villa. How can he fetch it? And then again he's dead. A bell rings. "'I said so.' "'Bother it.

It spoils my dear little Missy's honeymoon. Just as Master is stroking the back of her little hand. Or dear Missy is a-gunna droop her head on Master's shoulder. In comes Weaver with somebody to look at the wall. Lovin' Master as she do, why don't she wipe it off and a-done with it?' Mrs. Stonehay's voice is heard within the house. "'There is a step there, Irene. I have already struck my foot.' "'Hush!' Don't show it, Weaver. I must. The villa was let to us on condition that all visitors was allowed to see the cartoon. This way, please. He shows in Mrs. Stonehay, a pompous-looking woman with an arrogant and artificial manner, and her daughter Irene, a handsome girl of about twenty, cold in speech and bearing.

I hope we have not toiled up two flights of stairs for nothing. What is there to be seen here? Priscilla pointing to Wilfrin. Please, ma'am, the young gentleman has just travelled right through from England and has fallen asleep. Oh, indeed. This is surely not all. Weaver opening the glass case. Here is a cartoon, ma'am. Cartoon? Where? Allegorical design by Michelangelo, ma'am. Done when he was staying in this very house. Quite interesting. Michael Angelo. Michael Angelo. How superior to the cartoons in our English comic journals. Irene. Yes, Mama? Come here, child. To Weaver. What is the subject? The break of day, ma'am. The black cloud underneath is a departing night. The nude figure reclining on it is early morning.

Never mind, Irene. Mama, do you remember a girl who was at school at Helmstead during my last term, a little thing named Brudnell? No. Why? I am certain that the boy asleep there is the brother who came down every Saturday to visit her. Dear me. To Priscilla. My good girl, is that young gentleman's name Brudnell? Yes, ma'am. It's Mr. Wilfred, Mrs. Renshaw's brother. Mrs. Renshaw? Miss Brodenell is married? A month ago, ma'am. At home, I hope? She's with Mr. Renshaw in the garden, ma'am. Mrs. Stonehay giving Priscilla a card. Your mistress will be delighted to see Mrs. Stonehay and her daughter. She is well and happy? As happy as the day is long, ma'am. Priscilla disappears down the steps. Irene.

This will save us the expense of tea at Fiesole. To Weaver. Oh, you will find a young lady outside, my companion. Be good enough to tell her to walk on to Fiesole. We will follow in the carriage. Oh no, Mama, not walk. The girl looks painfully delicate. My dear, I will not overload poor dumb animals. Excuse me, ma'am. But it's a terrible uphill walk to Fiesole, and the sun is very hot at this time of the afternoon. Thank you. The young lady is in my service. Oh, I beg pardon, ma'am. Weaver goes. Here she comes, Mama. Little Leslie Bradenow. She is quite a woman. I forgot her entirely. We won't waste much time here. We'll just ascertain their position, take tea, and leave. Oh, Mama, you will never admit that one may know people out of pure liking and nothing further.

My dear, do remember my creed. Men and women are sent into the world to help each other. Unfortunately, I can help nobody, but it is nonetheless the solemn duty of others to help me. Leslie, looking very bright and happy, runs up the steps, meets Irene, and embraces her affectionately. Dear Irene, you remember me? Remember you? You were so kind to me at Helmstead. I think you saw my mother once. Leslie bows to Mrs. Stonehay, and is joined by Dunstan Renshaw, who has lost his dissipated look, and whose manner towards Leslie is gentle, watchful, and tender. This is my husband. Dunstan bows. Very happy. You will let me give you some tea? It seems barbarous to intrude upon people so recently married.

On the contrary, Mrs. Stonehay, you may be able to console my wife in her first small grief. So soon? Dunstan is obliged to leave me for two or three days. I am just off to Rome to furnish some lodgings we have taken there, in the Via Sistina. Poor Leslie was to have accompanied me, but Dr. Coldstream forbids the risk of a Roman hotel. Leaving this delightful villa? Yes, the Via Collobiano is delightful. At any rate, Michelangelo must have thought so at one time, when, in a moment of misapplied artistic ecstasy, he made his mark upon our wall. Oh yes, we've suffered dreadfully. Dunstan didn't know when he took the villa that it is honorably mentioned in Baedeker. The irrepressible tourists have made our life a martyrdom.

With guidebook, green spectacles, and sun umbrella, they look for traces of Michelangelo in every corner of the house. If we're dining, they almost lift up the dish covers. At first... The servants hinted at a desire for seclusion on the part of a newly married couple. That made matters worse. They wanted to see us then. Just as if we had been tattooed by Michelangelo. Leslie taking Irene's hand. But it is such a relief to see real friends. How did you discover us? Irene and Mrs. Stonehay look at each other. We were driving out to Fiasoli. And the coachman told us we ought to see Michelangelo's cartoon. Oh, of course. Delighted. We're awfully pleased. We didn't mean that we don't like showing the...

the... what a magnificent view you command here. Leslie whispering to Dunstan. Oh, darling, what a muddle. Don't fret about it, sweetheart. I must go and dress for my journey. You will drive with me to the railway station. No, no. I couldn't part from you with people standing by. Not that I mean to cry. Cry? You must never shed tears. He kisses her fondly, while the others are looking at the view. Why, there's old Wilfred asleep. Make him help you with these stonehenges. He leaves her, and she wakes Wilfred. Will! Will! Eh? What is it? I think I must have dropped off to sleep. We've accidentally hurt some people's feelings. Assist me in being very nice to them. Yes, but wait a minute. I'm not quite sure.

Where… She drags Wilfred over to Mrs. Stonehay and Irene. This is my brother, Wilfred. Quietly to Wilfred. Rattle on, Will, dear. Wilfred, you recollect meeting Miss Stonehay at Helmstead? Wilfred, only half awake, seizing Mrs. Stonehay's hand. Oh yes, I recollect you perfectly. You left school some time ago, I suppose? Yes, five and twenty years ago. Wilfred, I want some more teacups. And brush your hair. You've made it worse. I'm afraid I am not quite awake. He retires. The rest sit at the tea table. You make me feel quite old, Leslie, to see you so much a woman. I am trying to be a woman, but I don't get on very quickly. Why try? Because I am ashamed that my husband's wife should be so insignificant.

You seem very fond of him. Fond of him? Fond is a poor, weak word. If I could realize my dearest desire, I would be my husband's slave. All new wives who have money and many domestic servants say that. Ah, but I would, truly. Do you know what it is to suffer keenly from overkindness? I thought that was a melody the faculty had succeeded in stamping out. I suppose it lingers yet in some odd old-world corners. It is within the crumbling walls of this villa, for instance. My husband is too devoted to me. I fear to have a wish, because I know he cannot rest till it is gratified. If I look here, or there, his dear eyes imitate mine. If I rise, he starts up. If I walk on, he follows me. When he takes my hand, he holds it as if it were a flower with a delicate bloom upon it.

When he speaks to me, he lowers his voice like one whispering into some rare shell that would break from too much sound. And all for one who is half a schoolgirl and half a woman, and so little of either. A man is heard singing a characteristic Italian air to the accompaniment of a mandolin. What's that? Leslie runs to the balustrade and waves her hand. That's Pietro Danigo. One of my husband's protégés. Dunstan wishes him to sing to me every day. Mrs. Stonehay, sotto voce. Good gracious, what next? What is there in this girl to be sung at? Dun has been very good to Pietro, who is poor, with an old blind mother. Oh, he is good to everybody. Good to everybody. But, my dear Mrs. Renshaw, a wife ought not to be astonished at her husband's good nature in the early days of their marriage.

What else did you expect for the first month? Hush, Mama, dear. All Leslie means is that she is proud of her husband's goodness. What wife would not be? Yes, that is it. I am both proud and humble. Why, look. Directly we came here. He sought out all the poor. In a few days they have learnt to bless his name, and when I pray for him I think I hear their chant echoing me. I tell you, sometimes I hide myself away to shed tears of gratitude, and it's then that I think a woman's heart might be broken less easily by cruelty than by too much kindness. Mrs. Stonehay to herself. This girl's parade of her model husband is insufferable. It is time I ended it.

By the way, Mrs. Ranshaw, I hope that out of your vast contentment you can spare some congratulations for my daughter. No, no, Mama. Congratulations. During our visit to Rome, Mrs. Ranshaw, Irene has become most fortunately engaged. Leslie embracing Irene. To be married? Yes. The combination of qualities possessed by Mrs. Rancho's husband is rare. Nevertheless, I think that some of the finest attributes of heart and mind are bestowed in an eminent degree upon Lord Dangars. Dear Irene, I hope you will be. Oh, you must be as happy as I am. Tell me about him. Wilfred, point out San Croce to Mrs. Stonehay and show her our little garden. Wilfred escorts Mrs. Stonehay towards the garden, Mrs. Stonehay to herself.

The chit has no rank to boast about at any rate. Go on, do make me your confidant. No, no. Lord Dangars, your mother said. Have I the name correctly? Lady Dangars? Leslie, I can't talk about it. Can't talk about your sweetheart? Hush! Lord Dangers is simply a man who wishes to marry me and who my mother wishes me to marry. We are poor, and she has her ambitions. There you have two volumes of a three-volume novel. You don't love him? Love him? Then you mustn't do this. Dear, can't I help you? You help me? Child, my small corner in the world is hewn out of stone. There's not a path there that it would not bruise your little feet to tread. Mrs. Stonehay to Wilfred. I am in ecstasy. The moment Lord Dangers arrives in Florence, I shall bring him to the Villa Colobiano.

This is the way to the garden. Mrs. Stonehay watching Leslie and Irene. I thought so. We shall not be patronized by Mrs. Ranshaw again. Wilfred and Mrs. Stonehay go down the garden steps. But perhaps you will learn to love Lord Dengars. Is he young? Sufficiently so to escape being taken for my grandfather. Handsome? There is no accepted standard for man's beauty. Oh, be more serious. Is he a bachelor or a widower? Neither. Neither? Lord Dangus is a divorcee. A divorcee? At least then he deserves your pity. For what? For his sorrow. He must have suffered. No, it was scarcely Lord Dangus who suffered. Leslie shrinking from Irene. His wife? Yes. And you will marry him? Oh, for shame, Irene. Leslie.

I can't think of it. Be silent. I have the world upon my side. What is your girl's voice against the world? I shall have money and a title. I shall have satisfied my mother at last. Why should you make it harder for me by even a word? I want to save you from sharing this man's hideous disgrace. Oh, the world has a short memory for a man's disgrace. It is only with women that it lays down scandal as it lays down wine to ripen and mature. But you will not forget. You will die under the burden of your husband's past. I? Oh, no! What is a man's past to the woman who marries him? It is her pride or her shame, the jewel she wears upon her brow or the mud which clings to her skirts. It is her light or her darkness, her life or her death.

You're too young a wife to lecture me like this. The only difference between me and other women will be that Lord Dangers' story is public and their husbands' vices are unrevealed. That is not true. You have no right to defend yourself in that way. It is true. What woman who doesn't wish to be lied to would ask her husband to unfold the record of his life of liberty? What woman would? I would. Simpleton. A thousand times I would. Oh, under my dear husband's roof, how dare you think so cruelly of good men! She runs to Dunstan as he enters dressed for travelling. Mrs. Stonehay rejoining them with Wilfred. Irene, we are forgetting our drive to Fierce Ole. Dunstan to Leslie. What's the matter? Have I been away too long?

It is always too long when you are away. Goodbye, dear Mrs. Ranshaw. Goodbye. My dear Mr. Ranshaw, everything here is too charming. Irene to Leslie. Forgive me. My life has made me bitter. Sometimes I am nearly mad. Come and see me again, Irene. When you know my husband better, you will realize how little your world has taught you. Leslie kisses Irene. Irene, I believe I can see that obstinate young woman sitting down in the vineyard, not a quarter of a mile from this house yet. There is a limit even to my forbearance. Wilfred, Mrs. Stonehay, and Irene go out. Leslie gives Dunstan a cup of tea. The stirrup cup. You will think of me in the toils of the Roman furniture and bric-a-brac dealers, won't you?

Think of you! I shall fight through the worry of it in a couple of days, and then there will be the first home of our own making. Just imagine. When we skip up the stone stairs in the Via Sestina, and I throw open the door. Our own door? Our own door. And we see our own chairs and tables, our own pictures, our own— He pauses suddenly. Done! Done, dear! This separating, even for a day or two, is a heavy-hearted business. It shall always be so, dear. Always. While I'm gone, you'll not forget the lame girl and the Via Velotini or Pietro's old mother. No, dear. No. And double the allowance to those little children we helped yesterday. If you wish it. But the father is working here now, in our garden.

Never mind. Double it. Treble it. I don't spend enough, half enough, in conscience money. Conscience money? That is the name I give my little charities. Do you call all charity conscience money? No, but, Leslie, no man is good enough for a good woman, and so I'm trying to buy my right to possess you. To possess me? Worthless me? My right to your love? And your esteem. Oh, Dunn, you are sad, as if anything in life could rob you of my worship. Nothing that could happen? Husband, what could happen? Hugh Murray enters unseen by Leslie, but Dunstan stares at him as if in terror. Murray! Pardon me. Wilfred told me to. Mr. Murray! Oh dear Mr. Murray! She takes his hands, Wilfred joining them. The very last man we expected at the Villa Calabiano.

And what do you think, Dunstan? He hasn't come to see the old fresco. Dunstan! Hugh and Dunstan look significantly at Leslie, and then shake hands. As Wilfred says, You are the last man we looked to see in Florence. But oh so welcome! You must not, I'm sorry to say. Consider this the visit of a friend, Mr. Renshaw. Have you traveled so many miles to talk only about business? Yes. Ah, be a friend first, and let the business wait. I leave here tonight, and I must speak to Mr. Renshaw without delay. I can give you only five minutes. Leslie? I shall make a nosegay for my dear, and bring it when the five minutes are gone. Tenderly to Dunstan. You have made me forget there is anything in the world called business.

She follows Wilfred down the garden steps. Dunstan watches her for a moment, then faces Hugh. Do you come here, may I ask? To take up our acquaintance at the point where it was broken a month ago? I regret that I must do so. As a friend or as an enemy? Neither. As a man who feels he has a duty to follow, and who will follow it. What do you consider your duty? This. There is no need to remind you of my knowledge of the doings of Mr. Lawrence Kenwood. Murray. I did not use your name. You know the poor creature who... you knew her. She came to me, in ignorance of my association with you, on the very day, at the very moment of your marriage. What did she want of you? My aid in searching for her betrayer.

Don't tell me she is the girl whom my wife and her brother encountered at the railway station in London. She is the girl. That's fatality. Fatality. Before she had been with me ten minutes, I discovered the actual identity of the man Kenwood. Oh. And I deliberately and dishonestly concealed my knowledge from her. For my sake? No. For the sake of the child you had made your wife. My wife, Janet Preece. Can have her revenge now. My wife! My wife! The girl left me on your marriage morning upon the understanding that I would write to her. Yes? I did write, the day following, to an address she gave me in the country. I wrote, instructing her to take no steps, till she heard from me a month thence.

That is a month ago. Exactly a month ago. What do you intend to do now? Write to her once more, confessing that I have done nothing, and intend to do nothing to aid her. Oh, Murray. Man, don't thank me. For the sake of one poor creature, your wife, I have been dishonest to another poor creature, your broken plaything. For one month I have lied for you in act and in spirit, in the race between you and your victim. I have given the strong man a month's start, to her a month of suspense, to you a month of thoughtless happiness. You have taken it, enjoyed it, steeped yourself to the lips in it, and now, from this day, you play the game of your life without a Confederate. Our paths divide. Mary, listen to me.

You are the only man who may have it in his power to help me. I have done so for a month. I don't ask you to pity the girl I have ill-used, or the girl I have married. That you must do. But wretch that I am, you might do a greater injustice than to pity me. Pity you. Murray, a month ago I married this child. Perhaps then I was really in love with her. I hardly know. For loving had been to me like a tune a man hums for a day, and can't recall a week afterwards. But this I do know. I have grown to love her now with my whole soul. Ugh! I married her, as it were, in darkness. She seemed to take me by the hand, and to lead me out into the light. The companionship of this pure woman is a revelation of life to me.

I tell you there are times when she stands before me that I am like a man dazzled and can scarcely look at her without shading my eyes. But you know, because you read my future. You know what my existence has become. The past has overtaken me. I am in deadly fear. I dread the visit of a stranger, or the sight of strange handwriting, and in my sleep I dream that I am muttering into her ear the truth against myself. And, O Murray, there is one thing more that is the rack to me, and yet a delight, a paradise, and yet a torment, a curse, and yet a blessing. My wife! God help me! My wife thinks me good! Leslie in the garden below. Dunstan! Dunstan! Your wife! Be quick! Tell me, how can I help you?

I'll hurry! For her sake! For her sake! The moment you reach London, send for Janet Preece. Tell her the truth. Entreat her to be silent. Tell her I will do all in my power to atone if she will be but silent. Only silent. Silent. Leslie from the Garden. Dunstan, the five minutes are gone. Leslie runs on, carrying some flowers. Wilfred follows leisurely, smoking a cigarette. Have I come back a minute too soon? To Dunstan. You have bad news. Aw, don't send me away again. You are troubled. Why, of course I am troubled. About nothing worse than leaving me. Isn't that bad enough? Leslie giving him a bunch of flowers. For you. To Hugh. Is it unbusiness-like to give you a flower? Thank you. Weaver enters dressed for travelling.

The carriage is at the door, sir. Send it round to the gate. I will walk with Mrs. Renshaw through the garden. Weaver retires. Wilfred is here to amuse you, Mr. Murray, if I am poor company. Must you leave us, too? Thank you, yes. I turn my face homeward tonight. I have something more to say to Murray. To Hugh. Will you drive down with me? Hugh assents silently. Dunstan pointing into the distance. Leslie, when the carriage gets to that little rise, stand here and beckon to me till I am out of sight. Beckon to you? Yes. I want to remember it while we are apart as the last sign you made me, beckoning me to return. They go down the steps together. Wilfred, don't ever tell her, your sister, that I asked you this.

She is... quite happy? Oh, she's awfully happy. But I say, isn't she a lucky girl? Yes. Why? To have the best fellow in the world for her husband. Look, they're waiting for me. Goodbye. Goodbye. He shakes hands with Hugh, who descends the steps. No, I shan't assist at Dunn's departure. I'm afraid Les will cry, and I can't bear to see a girl cry. It makes me feel so dreadfully queer in the chest. Dunn is saying goodbye to her now. Oh, well now, she is a brick. She's rolled her handkerchief into a ball and put it in her pocket. There's Murray. In he gets. Away they go. Poor Leslie's head is drooping. Confound it, she's taking out her handkerchief. I can't stand it. Priscilla enters from the villa crying.

Mr. Wilfred! Well? Oh, now, what are you crying about? Mr. The young person, sir, who was with the two ladies who came to see our cartoon, has been sent back on foot, and she's downstairs begging for a morsel of water, and oh, Mr. Wilfred, the poor thing looks so weak and ill.

He goes into the villa as Leslie slowly ascends the garden steps. The serenade is heard again. No, Pietro mustn't sing to me while he is gone. My home shall never be bright and cheerful when its dear master is away. Wilfred from the house. Leslie! Leslie! Will? Wilfred comes from the villa with Janet Preece. Who looks weary and feeble. Leslie taking Janet's hand. Oh, Wilfred! It's our little friend, of the London Railway Station. No, no, I am only Mrs. Stonehay's servant. Little better. She has threatened to send me away, because she says I am self-willed and won't obey her. But I can't walk. I am not overstrong. What shall I do? She falls back fainting. Wilfred catches her in his arms. Leslie kneels beside her, loosening the strings of her bonnet.

Oh, poor girl! Why, she is no older than I! Aw, Will, she shan't want a shelter! Priscilla! Priscilla! Priscilla! Oh, the carriage! She runs quickly to the balustrade and looks out into the distance.

She beckons thrice. Dunstan, come back to me! Come back to me!

End of Act Two.

3 03 - Act 3 - THE END OF THE HONEYMOON 33:41

The third act. The end of the honeymoon. The scene is still the Wrenshaw's Florentine villa. Janet Preece is lying upon a sofa, and Wilfred is sitting on a footstool by her side, reading to her. Miss Priest, I hope you're tired of my reading. Why? Because you've heard all that Galignani has to remark. I'm afraid I haven't heard much. Not heard much? Oh. Not much of Gagliani. I've never been read to before, and I only know that your kind voice has been rising and falling, and rising and falling, and all for me. I didn't want to hear the words. By Jove! You're quite yourself this morning, aren't you? No, not myself. I feel so happy, but I am dreadfully puzzled. Tell me, have I been very ill? Wilfred holding her hand.

Just near enough to brain fever to be able to say, how do you do, to it, and go off in another direction. Have I been ill long? Long enough to make me, to make us, desperately anxious. How long is that? Three days. Three days. Three days. How strange to have lost three days out of one's life. I seem to have died and to have come back into a beautiful new world. That's a great compliment to the Villa Colabiano and its mistress. She is the angel of my new world. One angel is very little to do all the work of a beautiful new world. Janet timidly withdraws her hand. Oh, she has her brother to help her, of course. Leslie enters, and Janet embraces her. The post brought me a letter from my dear one, my husband, and I hid myself away to read it.

When does Dunn start for home, Les? I don't know. This was written the day before yesterday. Your husband? You... you are married? Married? Ah, I forget that my poor invalid knows nothing about her nurse. Let me tell you, I mustn't blame you for not guessing it, but I am, that exceedingly important person, a newly married lady. I am Mrs. Renshaw. Janet taking Leslie's hand. Mrs. Renshaw, I shall say the name to myself over and over again, that I may seem to have known you longer. Mrs. Renshaw. Yes, and my husband is in Rome preparing our first real home. You will see him soon. Oh, I hope very soon. I should like to see one who is so precious to you, of course, only... Only what? Only I know that when your dear companion comes back, I shall lose you.

Hush, hush! You mustn't distress yourself. You will be ill again. I would be ill again gladly if I could see your face constantly bending over me as I have seen it for the last three days. Oh, Mrs. Renshaw, why have you been so good to me, a stranger? I say, Leslie. Aren't Dunn's letters furious about Mrs. Stonehay's bad behavior? Mrs. Stonehay? I can't go back to her. Oh, don't send me back to Mrs. Stonehay. Oh, don't, please don't. Oh, no, dear, no. Of course not. To Wilfred. Why, I haven't written a word to Dunn about our little visitor and Mrs. Stonehay's resentment at our sheltering her. If I had, the dear fellow would have flown home to fight my battles for me and left his business unfinished.

I know, Dunn. Mrs. Stonehay's resentment at your giving me shelter. Oh, why should she be so cruel to me? Hush, dear. It is Mrs. Stonehay's nature to be jealous and arrogant. When she discovered that her dependent, as she called you, was installed here as my friend, she indignantly reproached me for enticing you from her service. I never saw a woman so angry. I had the honor of bowing her out at the front door, and she declared she shook the dust of the Villa Colobiano from her feet. Luckily, it was only a figure of speech, for her feet are very large. Priscilla enters. Miss Stonehay is here, ma'am. Priscilla retires. Oh, Mrs. Renshaw. Don't be alarmed, Janet. You don't know that during the last three days, the face you have seen bending over you has often been poor Irene's.

Irene enters and appears agitated. Irene, you are trembling. There is some trouble. Irene quietly to Leslie. Yes, I've come to tell you. Janet, I am glad to see you almost well again. Don't you believe me? Janet shrinking from her. Yes, I am better. Don't be frightened of me. Not of me. Janet. Janet looks at Irene, then goes to her. Irene kissing Janet. Thank you. Giving Leslie a letter. A letter, Leslie. From your mother? From my mother. Read it. Leslie, as she reads. Oh, oh, Irene, do you guess the drift of this? Better than you do, Leslie. It is a humble apology from Mrs. Stonehay for her unintentional rudeness upon misunderstanding the motive of Mrs. Renshaw's extreme kindness to poor Miss Preece.

Yes, it is an apology. Followed by an entreaty that Mrs. Renshaw will permit Mrs. Stonehay to call at the Villa Colombiano immediately to make peace in person. Wilfred and Janet go down into the garden. You know the letter almost word for word. I know my mother better day by day. Leslie, don't you see what that means? That your mother is sorry. No, it means that she has just heard from Lord Dangars that he is an old and intimate friend of your husband's, and that they chanced to come together again two days ago in Rome. I am grieved to pain you, Irene, but I am sure that my husband can't be aware of the true character of Lord Dangars. Possibly not. My mother sees that Lord Dangers may hear of her conduct through Mr.

Renshaw, and is therefore anxious to conciliate you without delay. Oh! She tears Mrs. Stonehay's letter into pieces. Oh, Leslie, the meanness of my life is crushing me. I can't be faithful to my mother, and yet I loathe myself for being a traitor to her. I seem to bring a worldly taint even into your home, and yet your home is so sweet and pure to me that I haven't the courage to shut myself out of it. How you must despise me! Weaver enters. Weaver! I beg your pardon, ma'am. I wasn't aware you were engaged. Why have you left your master in Rome? He is well? Quite, ma'am. I haven't left the master in Rome. We got back to Florence this morning. He is in Florence. Master finished his business in Rome a little sooner than he expected, and we made a rush, ma'am, for the night train.

Getting in so very early this morning, Master thought it best to go to the Hotel de la Paix for an hour or two. Thought it best to go to the Hotel de la Paix? Oh, there must be some reason. Weaver handing a letter to Leslie. The reason is, ma'am, That master is bringing a visitor home with him, and didn't think it right to take you quite unprepared. A visitor? Yes, ma'am. Lord Dangars. Lord Dangars? Here? Oh, Dunstan! Dunstan! Irene to herself. So soon! So soon! So short a respite! Wilfred and Janet come up the steps from the garden. Leslie to herself as she reads the letter. Ah, I knew it! My poor Dun, to be victimised by such a companionship. I quite understand, Weaver. Mr. Renshaw will be here almost directly.

He and his lordship were at breakfast when I left, ma'am. In less than half an hour, I should say. Tell the servants. Weaver goes out. Leslie, the thought that you are to be thrown into the society of this man is unendurable to me. And yet you are speaking of the man you are going to marry. Certainly, but by my marriage I hope to lose much of his society. But you... Oh, your husband is to blame, to blame. Hush, Irene. You do Mr. Renshaw an injustice. Look. She hands Irene Dunstan's letter. Will, Will, Dunn has come back. Janet, be glad for my sake. Irene, reading the letter. Dear One, Weaver will explain my mode of arrival. Dangers I once knew fairly well, and somehow he won't be shaken off now.

As there appears to be an engagement between him and your friend, Miss Stonehay, I have asked him to be our guest for a couple of days, thinking you may consider it a kindness to her, but please don't extend the term, as he is not quite the man I wish my wife to count among her acquaintances. Janet and Wilfred Stroll Away. Leslie To Herself. My husband. Home again. Home again. Home again. But, oh, why hasn't he come back to me alone? Leslie, I perceive I have done Mr. Renshaw an injustice, but surely you had some further motive in sharing with me the privilege of enjoying Mr. Renshaw's estimate of the gentleman who's to be my husband? Yes, I had. I will convince you of the contempt in which honest men hold such as Lord Dangar's.

Irene crushing the letter in her hand. Thank you. I... Leslie, you are right. Save me. Save me. Irene. I knew that my next meeting with Lord Dangers could not be long delayed, and I taught myself to think of it coldly and callously. But now that the moment has come, and I am to lay my hand in his and look him in the face, a woman willing to sell herself, every nerve in my body is on fire with the shame of it, and I can't... can't... I'm a fool so utterly. Dear Irene, I knew I should save you. But can you? I'm such a coward. I haven't the courage of your good instincts. If you don't help me, I shall falter and be lost. But I can help you. I will make an appeal to your mother. That's hopeless, hopeless.

Then I will face Lord Dengars himself. You? Yes. With my husband. Ah, Irene, there are good men still to fight the battles of weak women, and I promise you my dear husband's aid. Wilfred and Janet reappear talking earnestly. Hush! Leslie quietly to Irene. Go back to your mother and tell her I will see her in answer to her letter. Leslie and Irene go into the villa. Janet to Wilfred. No, no, please don't speak to me like that. I mustn't listen to you. Indeed, I mustn't. I never thought I should hurt you by what I've said. What I was foolish enough to think was that perhaps you didn't dislike me. Dislike you? Why, there's no book in the world that's long enough, and no poetry ever written that's sweet enough to match what I think.

But can't say in gratitude to you and Mrs. Renshaw. Ah, we don't want you to thank us, Janet. Unless it's by a tinge of color in your white face. You make me feel how mean I've been to ask for your love. Oh, stop, stop. I can't bear you to say such a thing. I've no right to press you for the reason you can't love me. No, no, don't, don't. I can only guess what's in your mind. Is it that we're such new friends to talk of love and marriage? Because, Janet, if we know each other for years, I can never alter the truth that it took only a minute to fall in love with you. No, it isn't that you're a new friend, for the matter of that. After Mrs. Renshaw, you're my only friend. It isn't that. It isn't that.

Then, if we're your only friends... At least I know that you don't love any other... Janet starting up and hiding her face from him. Any other? Any other... man. No. No, I don't. I don't love any other man. And yet you can't love me. I'm answered. Ah, Janet, a man who isn't loved had better never seek the reason. Or if he does, he should look for it, in himself. My brother-in-law will be home in a few minutes, and I can very well be spared here. So there's one thing I beg of you, that you won't let this stupidity of mine shorten your stay at the Villa Colopiano. Janet bursting into tears. I can't bear it. My heart will break. You seemed in bitter trouble when we first met. Don't leave us till we have helped to make your life easier for you.

Oh, if we never had met. If we never had met. Why, I've done nothing but love you, Janet. Come, you're not cruel enough to wish you had never seen me. Ah, no, no. Believe me, the only happiness for such as I is in such wretchedness as this. Bid me goodbye. I am going. No. Let me steal away quietly. Tell your sister that I pray God to bless her, her husband, and her children when they come to make her life perfect. Say I'm only a poor creature, never worth the love I've stolen from you both, but that my thoughts will be only of you and her till I die. No, you must not leave the house until you have seen Leslie. Don't keep me here. If I see her again, I must tell her why I run away from the one sweet prospect my life has given me.

You do love me, then. You do love me. He draws her to him, but she breaks away with a low cry as Leslie enters. Let me go. Let me go. Janet! Mrs. Renshaw, you don't know what a base, wicked girl you are sheltering. I'm not fit to be in your house. Oh, I'll tell you. I'll tell you. Leslie, there have been no secrets between us ever, and there's a promise that there never shall be any. Will? I... I have told Janet that I love her, and I have asked her to be my wife. But Janet is in some distress and wishes to leave us. So, Les, I want you to do me a service. What service, dear brother? I want you to help her, and me. He leaves them together. Janet! Janet Preece! I love my brother very dearly, and long ago I determined that the moment his heart went out to a good girl, I would call her my sister without a murmur.

But you have said something to me which has frightened me. Oh, Janet, what is it that's wrong? What is it that's wrong? Janet kneels humbly at Leslie's feet. Why do you kneel, Janet? Because it's my place in the world forevermore. Because I'm of no more worth than the clod of earth you turn aside with your foot. Because the time has been when I was one of the tempted and not one of the strong. Leslie turning away. Oh, Janet! Janet! When I found out your brother loved me, I wanted to run away without the dreadful shame of confessing the truth to you. But I'm a little happier for having told you, and I'll go out of your house now quickly and quietly, and you'll never see me nor hear of me again.

Kissing the edge of Leslie's dress. Goodbye, my dear, goodbye, oh my dear, my dear. She rises and is about to go. No, no. Stop. What you have told me seems to have stunned me. I... I can't realize it yet. Don't try to. It's better you should never realize it. A few minutes ago, you and I were like simple girls. Now we have suddenly become sad, grown women. Will, my poor Will, what shall I do? Nothing, but let me go. Let you go? You have come into my life now, and your weakness and loneliness make it my task to protect you. Put on your hat, quickly. Janet hesitates. Quickly, throw that shawl over your shoulders. Janet obediently puts on the hat and shawl. Leslie begins writing hurriedly at the table.

You mustn't re-enter this house. You and my brother must never meet again. My poor brother. I'm going to send you to a friend who will gladly render me a service. This afternoon I will come to you. The Villa Lata, Viale d'Ecoli. Are you ready? Yes. Present this, and here, here is some money. Come, we will go through the garden. They go together to the garden steps. Suddenly Janet utters a cry of horror. Janet! Janet dragging Leslie from the steps. Come away. Come away. Look there. Look there. Leslie looking into the garden. My husband and Lord Dangars. It's the man. The man. The man? Lord Dangars? He lied to me. I've never known his true name till now. That's the man who called himself Lawrence Kenward.

Great heavens! They are coming this way into the house. Oh, hide me, hide me. I haven't the courage to meet him. Oh, hide me. She staggers to the sofa and sinks down beside it. Janet! Leslie crouches down by Janet and puts her arms around her protectingly, as Dunstan Renshaw and Lord Dangers ascend the steps. Oh, I'm smothered with dust. You would walk. I'm very sorry. Shall we restore the perfection of our appearance before looking for Mrs. Renshaw? They go into the villa. Janet, do you know that this is the man to whom Irene Stonehay is engaged to be married? I've heard them speak of him. I never suspected who he was. Heaven pity her. He'll kill her, body and soul. No, no. It is you who must help me to save her.

I? You must. If you do your utmost to rescue this weak woman from the dreadful life that is before her, you'll do something to make you happier in the future. What can I do? I couldn't shame him. But you could shame her mother. You could drive any remaining feeling of irresolution from this poor girl's mind. They wouldn't believe me. Why should they? Then, if they doubt you, will you face this miserable libertine before their eyes? No, no. For months I've been seeking him to beg him to make reparation to me, but now that I've found him, I want to put miles between us, for I feel I'd rather go down to my grave what I am than live what he could make me. Priscilla enters. Mrs. Stonehay and Miss Stonehay are here, ma'am.

Oh, I'll see them. Priscilla retires. Let me go. Give me leave to go. You are free to go, Janet. Go. But you are going from your duty. My duty, my duty. If he came to hear of it, would he think a little better of me for it? He? Wilfred, your brother. I think he would. I'll stay. I'll try to do my duty. She sinks upon the sofa as Mrs. Stonehay and Irene enter. Mrs. Stonehay advances to Leslie with outstretched hands. My dear Mrs. Ranshaw. Mrs. Stonehay. Dear child, what can I say to you in reference to our... misunderstanding, shall I call it? Say nothing. Please, nothing. We will say nothing. The passing ill-humours of a crotchety but not unamiable old woman are best forgotten. Ah, my dear, remember I am about to lose my daughter.

But I have yet to make my peace with our little friend here. You have been indisposed, my poor Janet. Let it be a lesson to you. Never mistake firmness for unkindness. Don't stand in your weak state." Janet sinks back upon the sofa. I am positively in ecstasies, dear Mrs. Ranshaw, to learn that Lord Dangers is to be a guest at the Villa Colobiano. To my surprise, I find that my husband and this gentleman are acquainted. Our old and close friends, and you weren't aware of it. Delightful. I say again, I am surprised. Naturally. You will like Dangers. He has suffered, poor fellow, but he has come out of the furnace a very refined metal. My husband, knowing Lord Dangars, I venture to think, but slightly, has indeed invited him to this house.

Charming. It brings us all so closely together. Will Lord Dangars, may I ask, remain with you very long? No. No? Because, Mrs. Stonehay— I cannot, I regret to say, consent to receive Lord Dengars. I confess I don't understand. Your husband's friend? No, Mrs. Stonehay. My husband has only to know Lord Dengars as thoroughly as I do to consider him an unfit companion for any reputable man or woman. Do you forget that you are speaking of one who is to be my daughter's husband? Irene, are you dumb? Leslie turns to Irene, who is sitting with her head bowed and her hands clasped. Irene! Irene! Irene rises, supporting herself by the table. Mother, don't ask me to marry Lord Dangers. Oh, don't make me do that.

Don't make me do that. Oh, I see. I quite see. To Leslie. How dare you temper with my daughter? How dare you? To Irene. We will go home. You shall never enter this house again. Our acquaintance with this lady has terminated. Irene. What? Do you think by your mock morality to upset my calculations for Irene's welfare? If so, you can have this satisfaction for your pains, that one word, one look from me, will do more with this weak, ungrateful girl than a month of your impudent meddling. Good morning. Irene! I...

I told you I was a coward. Good-bye. Oh, Irene! You have done your utmost to save me. No. I have not yet done my utmost. Janet? Janet! Janet rises from the sofa with an effort, and Leslie takes her by the hand. Look here. This poor child is a living sacrifice to a man whose history is a horrible chapter of dishonor. He is a man who preys upon the weak under the mask of a false name, who stabs but has not the mercy to kill, and who leaves his victims to bleed to death in their hearts, slowly but surely. I always feared this was a worthless girl. But pray, what has her depravity to do with us? Only this. Janet has discovered the whereabouts of the man she has been seeking. Really, this is no concern of ours.

There, you are mistaken, Miss Stonehay. Mistaken? Yes, because if this man were willing to atone to Janet Preece by marrying her, he could not fulfill his engagement to your daughter. Oh! This is an infamous fabrication. Leslie to Janet. Is it the truth? It is the truth. Janet sinks back upon the sofa, burying her face in the pillows. Oh, Leslie! A girl of that character lives upon her lying romances, and the woman who harbors such a creature becomes a partner and not a protector. To Irene. Come, do you hear me? No, no, Leslie! Dunstan! Dunstan Renshaw and Lord Dangers enter. Leslie. He bows to Mrs. Stonehay and Irene. Leslie dear, let me introduce Lord Dangers to you. Janet raises her head with a startled look of horror, Lord Dangers offering his hand.

Mrs. Renshaw, I— No, Dunstan, forgive me. I cannot make the acquaintance of Lord Dangers. Leslie! If Lord Dangar's wishes for an explanation, Dunstan, I have only to recall him to the existence of this unhappy girl whose story is known to me. She reveals Janet. No, no. Janet Preece. Dunstan stares at Janet, helplessly and horror-stricken. I should not be so impolite as to disturb Mrs. Renshaw's prejudices against me were they founded upon less illusory evidence. But I can assure Mrs. Renshaw that I believe I have never seen this young lady until the present moment." Leslie looks aghast at Janet. Janet! Do you say you know Lord Dangers? No, no, it's not he I know. It is a mistake I— A mistake?

Ah, let me go, let me go! Leslie grasps her by the arm. Girl, do you mean that you know Mr. Ranshaw? Dangers and Leslie turn to Dunstan, who is staring blankly before him, with his hands clenched. "'Janet? Janet?' As the truth dawns upon her. "'Oh! Ah! What have I done to you? I'd have died to save you this. God forgive me. I'm not fit to live. Kill me! Kill me! Ah!' She rushes down the garden steps, past Leslie, who is as one turned to stone. Lord Dangers, may I trespass upon your good nature so far as to beg your escort home? Poor Irene is naturally much distressed. Lord Dangers, looking from Dunstan to Leslie. This is perhaps not the time to express regrets. Regrets? Regrets that the character of an honourable man is cleared from a gross and vindictive slander?

It is not from us that regrets should come. I am ready. Irene weeping. Leslie! Leslie! She takes Leslie's hand and kisses it. Leslie stands with staring eyes, immovable. Irene, give your arm to Lord Dangers. Irene gives her arm helplessly to Dangers. Mrs. Stonehay shrugs her shoulders and goes out. Followed by Dangas with Irene. Leslie. Leslie. He staggers towards her. You hate me. You hate me. He looks into her face. How you hate me. Deny it. Deny it. Deny it? Deny it. I... I... Oh, God! I'm guilty! I'm guilty! I'm guilty! Don't ask me to tell you the story of my life! I can't! I can't! It's one of sin! All sin! Till I met you! Till I met you! Can you hear me? She nods her head twice, still with the wild, dazed look in her face.

Then everything altered. I love you. I love you. In all the world there is nothing for me but you. You make my day or my night by the opening or the closing of your eyes. There is nothing for me but you. I worship you. The man is heard again, singing to the mandolin. Leslie shudders and tries to go. Don't leave me. You won't leave me. I can't live away from you. Have mercy on me. Have mercy on me. Mercy." He kneels to her. I repent. Help me to begin a new life. I'm young. I won't die till I've made amends. I won't die till I've done some good act to make you proud of me. Oh, give me hope. Deny it. I'm guilty. You know it. Have mercy. Give me a faint hope. A year hence you'll pardon me. Two years.

Ten. A little hope. Only a little hope. Deny it. I can't deny it. Go.

After a moment, he goes quietly away. Then she falls to the ground in a swoon. The voice of the singer rises in the distance.

End of Act Three.

4 04 - Act 4 - THE BEGINNING OF A NEW LIFE 23:15

The Fourth Act. The Beginning of a New Life. The scene is Hugh Murray's private sitting-room in an old-fashioned Holborn hotel, comfortably and solidly furnished, but with an antiquated look about the place. It is evening. The lamps are lighted, and the fire is burning. Hugh is playing a plaintive melody upon the piano, and watching Leslie, who sits with a listless ear. Mr. Murray? Yes? Wilfred is very late. He will be back soon. With the worn, hopeless look upon his face, which makes my heart ache so. Do you guess why the poor boy is out and about from morning till night? Do I guess? Ah, you do guess. You know that my brother is searching for Janet Preece. Something of the kind has crossed my mind.

Why does he look for her here? He ascertained that she left Florence before we hurried out of that dreadful city. But she has not returned to her home in the country, and so he prays that the whirlpool has drawn her to London again, and that he may find her. Does he confide in you? No, poor fellow. But I know. I know, I know. Oh, it's horrible that he can't forget her. Horrible. Hush. You must try not to think. I do try. I do try. How long have my brother and I been here? I can't reckon. You left Florence ten days ago. You've been sharing an old bachelor's solitude almost a week. Dear friend, your solitude must be far better than such dismal company. Better? No. Ah, yes. I wanted Wilfred to be with me when I told you, but I leave early tomorrow.

Tomorrow? Yes. I've written to my old schoolmistress at Helmstead begging her to take me again. Not to learn. I've nothing more to learn. But I want to sit amongst the girls again, to walk with them, and to run down to the brook with my hands in theirs as I did only six weeks ago. Only six weeks ago. And Wilfred? Wilfred has promised to visit me very often, as he used to, so everything will be just as it was. Just as it was. I knew you could not remain in this dreary hotel, but still. Why so suddenly? Because I've been thinking that if he should try to see me, you know whom I mean? Yes. If he should try to see me again, it is to you he would first come to ascertain my whereabouts. And surely you would grant him an interview?

Not yet. I'm not cruel. I used not to be cruel. Only I'm not ready to meet him yet. When will you be prepared to meet him? How can I tell? I'm like a dead woman dreaming after death. What good would it do him to look upon a soulless woman? Is there no hope left for him? Yes, a miracle, when there is hope for me. Wilfred enters, looking very weary and careworn. Wilfred, dear. Well, Les? He kisses her listlessly. You look fagged, my boy. Hello, Murray. I'm a bit done tonight. Walking? Flying like a blind bat from one quarter of London to another. I've got some business in hand, and no one will do more than gape or laugh at a fellow when he's in terrible earnest. This cursed city. It soaks up the poor and the helpless like a sponge, but I'll wring it dry yet.

You'll see if I don't. You'll see. He twists the armchair round and sits facing the fire. Leslie to Hugh in a whisper. I told you so. He is searching for her. Yes. What should I do if he found her? Nothing. Leave everything to chance. Chance! Chance is a fairer arbiter of our lives than we imagine. You are terribly ill. She shakes her head. I have written into the country for some fruit for you. It should have arrived by this time, with this morning's bloom on it. I'll go and inquire. She offers her hand, which he merely touches. Poor Will's fast asleep. He goes out. Leslie. Bending over Wilfred. Tired to death. Will, my dear brother, you are the only one left to me now, and you are drifting away from me.

Your heart is no longer mine, and your thoughts are no longer mine. It's so hard to lose husband and brother at once. Come back to me. Come back to me. Janet, looking very poor and ill, appears at the door. Oh! Janet! Mrs. Rainshaw! How do you come here? I've been keeping near you since you left Florence. Days ago, I found out you were here, through watching your brother and Mr. Murray. If I'd sent my name up to you, you'd have refused to see me. So I've been waiting my opportunity to steal into the hotel while the porter was absent. Don't turn me away till you've heard me. Sit down while I think for a moment. Thank you. Leslie, to herself, looking at the armchair in which Wilfred is sleeping concealed from view.

Chance has brought them together again. And Mr. Murray says that Chance is a just arbiter. I'll neither unite them nor keep them apart. Chance shall do everything for me. Well, speak low, please.

Your brother is not in there. No. What do you want of me? To tell you this. I am going out to Australia in company with some poor farming people from down near home. I met them by chance here in London, and it's settled. We sail from Plymouth the day after tomorrow, and there's an end to me. Can I do anything to help you? Oh, no, no. But before I go, I've got to ease my mind of something that you must listen to. It's this. I've parted you from your husband, haven't I? Haven't I? Yes. Well then, it's only just to him you should know this. It's I that tempted him, not he that led me on. And I've lied to you in letting you think the man was to blame instead of the woman. I'm worthless, part of the rubbish of the world, and was so before I met him.

And he's a better man than you think for... there. Janet, do you think I don't see through the falsehood you're telling me? The falsehood? You're trying to heal my sorrow with a fable. It's useless. I have heard the truth from my husband's lips. Ah, then in pity for me, take him back. Don't let me go to my grave knowing that I've ruined your life for you. Try to blame me more. Try to blame me more. Wilfred stirs in his sleep. Hush! We're not alone. My brother. He has not heard me. I'll go. Janet, I'll not keep the truth from you. Wilfred loves you still. Oh, no. He has been searching for you for days past, and he is there now, worn with trouble and anxiety for you. Oh, no, don't tell me. Don't tell me.

You would be a reproach to me if I let you go in ignorance. And now, Janet, I... I leave the rest to you. God bless you for the trust you place in me. You needn't fear me. Goodbye. Aw, Janet. I am so perplexed. We are both in trouble. Both in trouble. In years to come, when I am only a mere speck in this life, you'll tell him, won't you? Yes. Yes. You'll let me look at his face once more for the last time? Leslie nods her head. Janet, looking at Wilfred. Goodbye. To Leslie. He need never know. She slowly bends over Wilfred and kisses him upon the forehead. As she draws back behind the chair, Wilfred opens his eyes and sees Leslie standing before him. Leslie, dear, I was dreaming and you woke me with your kiss.

Janet steals out. What's that? Hugh enters, carrying a basket of fruit. Oh, it's Murray. Leslie, in an undertone, to Hugh. Lend me some money. Some money. By and by, I'll tell you why I want it. Gold or notes? Either. Both. He hands her some money from a cabinet, and she goes out. Wilfred? Yes? Quick, man, before your sister returns. I must tell you. Renshaw is coming here tonight. Renshaw? I received this note from him five minutes ago. A few lines telling me he has returned to England and entreating me to see him tonight. You'll not meet him. Why not? The man is suffering. I can read that in his handwriting. Suffering? Let him taste such suffering as he has dealt out to others. Is my sister not suffering?

Is Janet Preece not suffering? Am I not suffering? Wilfred, my boy, Wilfred, there's something better to do than to be revenged. How easy it is, Murray, for an onlooker to be charitable. Hush, my boy. Don't you see that there is no future for her except one of reconciliation with her husband? Reconciliation? Her ideal is destroyed. Her illusions are gone. But time will send Renshaw's sins further and further into the distance, and habit will teach her never to look back. Murray, you don't know. You argue like a lawyer who has to patch up a mere wrangle between husband and wife. I don't know. You don't know what it is to have the heart plucked out of you and trampled upon. Wilfred, be silent. How can you, living your level, humdrum life, gauge the penalty paid by those of us who love what is worth so much, and yet so little?

Ah, Murray, wait till you love and lose, as we have lost. Wait. Leslie enters unnoticed. Wait. Do you think you can read me a lesson in despair? Come to me when your boy's passion has grown cold. And I'll describe to you the agony of a man's hungry, hopeless, endless devotion. Murray! I love your sister. I have loved her from the moment I first saw her in the school garden at Helmstead. But I loved her too reverently to disturb the simplicity of her childhood. And I waited. I waited. Waited for him to scorch into her cheeks the first flame of consciousness. Waited for her to make him her idol. waited for him to break her heart. Waited for this! He sits with his face buried in his hands. Murray, forgive me.

I never thought of this. If we could have been brothers. Shush! It is always as it is now, Will. Women love men whose natures are like bright colors. The homespun of life repels them. They delight to hear their fate in the cadences of a musical voice, thinking they are listening to an impromptu. It's too late when they learn that the melody has been composed by experience and scored by other women's tears. Leslie reveals herself. My sister! Mrs. Renshaw, I fear you have heard. Yes. I never meant you to know. I meant to carry it with me silently and patiently. The sorrow is mine, mine only. I... I can say nothing, nothing. Good night. We will not meet tomorrow. I shall be gone early. Good night.

I shall never cease to pray for your good fortune. God bless you, Mr. Murray. Leslie gives Hugh her hand. Then she and Wilfred go out together. There is a knock at the door. Yes? The servant brings Hugh a card. Renshaw. The servant goes out. The servant ushers in Dunstan Renshaw, who looks broken and walks feebly. Speak to me, Murray. You look ill. Sit down. I have been ill. In Florence. And haven't had strength to struggle back to England till now. I'm sorry. What do you want of me? Friendship. If you're not my friend, I haven't one in the world. Marie, you know where she is? Yes, I know. Tell me. Tell me. I can't tell you. I... I may not tell you. "'Ah, I appeal to you. Exact any promise from me.

Be as hard on me as you please. Only tell me. Tell me.' Hugh is silent. "'Ah, you don't know what you're doing. I am mad. Night and day I see nothing but her face as it looked on me.' When she sent me from her. Night and day I hear nothing but that one word. Go! The last she spoke to me. The word won't let me sleep. It beats so on my brain. Another word, a simple message from her, might drive it out. Only tell me where she is. My wife! Marie, my wife! I would tell you of my own will, but I can't break faith with her. She has not softened towards me, then, a little? A little, Marie? Man, you must have patience. Patience? You must wait. Wait? It is a hundred years since I lost her. A hundred years.

And she has not softened towards me just a little. He sits gazing vacantly upon the ground. Hugh to himself. Surely she would pity him if she saw him now. And if I can reconcile them, it is my duty. I'll do my best. It will be my consolation to have done my best. To Dunstan. Where are you going when you leave me tonight? Let me rest here. In your room, for a few hours. Have you left your hotel? I am staying nowhere. I have been walking the streets till I came here. I'll order you a room in this house. No, no. It's only here I can rest. I shall rest here. Why here? Because I shall feel sure that a friend's eyes will look on me. In the morning. Ring for what you want, otherwise the servants won't disturb you.

Dunstan to himself. Won't disturb me. Won't disturb me. No. I'll leave you now. Good night. You will not tell me where she is? Till I have her permission, I cannot. You mean that, guessing I should follow her. She has taken precautions to avoid me. To avoid me! Your face answers me. Hugh to himself. She will relent. I know she will relent. I shan't see you again tonight, Murray. No, you'll not see me. Good night. Goodbye. Hugh to himself. But you shall see her. I know she will relent. He goes out. Fool! Fool! Why couldn't you have died in Florence? Why did you drag yourself all these miles to end it here? I should have known better. I should have known better. He takes a file from his pocket and slowly pours some poison into a tumbler.

When I've... She proved that I could not live away from her. Perhaps she'll pity me. I shall never know it, but perhaps she'll pity me then. About to drink. Supposing I am blind, supposing there is some chance of my regaining her, regaining her. How dull sleeplessness makes me. How much could I regain of what I've lost? Why, she knows me. Nothing can ever undo that. She knows me. Every day would be a dreary, hideous masquerade. Every night a wakeful, torturing retrospect. If she smiled, I should whisper to myself, Yes, yes, that's a very pretty pretense. But— She knows you. The slamming of a door would shout it. The creaking of a stair would murmur it. She knows you. And when she thought herself alone, or while she lay in her sleep, I should be always stealthily spying for that dreadful look upon her face, and I should find it again and again as I see it now.

The look which cries out so plainly. Profligate. You taught one good woman to believe in you, but now she knows you. No, no, no, no. He drains the contents of the tumbler. The end. The end. Pointing towards the clock. The hour at which we used to walk together in the garden of Florence. Husband and wife. Lovers.

Pulls up the window blind and looks out. The sky. The last time. The sky. He rests drowsily against the piano. Tired. Tired. He walks rather unsteadily to the table. A line to Murray. Writing. A line to Murray telling him poison, morphine, message. The pain falls from his hand and his head drops forward.

The light is going out. I can't see. Light. I'll finish this. When I wake, I'll rest. He staggers to the sofa and falls upon it. I shall sleep tonight. The voice has come. Leslie, wife, reconciled. Leslie enters softly and kneels by his side. Dunstan, I am here. He partly opens his eyes, raises himself, and stares at her. Then his head falls back quietly, Leslie's face averted. Dunstan, I have returned to you. We are one, and we will make atonement for the past together. I will be your wife, not your judge. Let us, from this moment, begin the new life you spoke of. Dunstan. She sees the paper which has fallen from his hand and reads it. Dunstan! Dunstan! No! No! Look at me! Ah! She catches him in her arms.

Husband! Husband!

Husband!

queue_music Chapters 4