II
THE DRAWBACK
Scene.—A corner in Kensington Gardens. A summer evening. Discovered, sitting on a seat, a girl, aged 21, pretty and neat, and a good-looking young man, aged 27, dressed in a top hat and a black morning coat.
He. But are you quite sure you will not change your mind?
She. I never change my mind once it is made up. I often take a very long time to make up my mind, but once I’ve made it up I never change. Now my sister Alice is quite different. She never knows her mind from one minute to the other.
He. But your father——
She. Papa always does what I want. Besides, directly he knows you it will be all right. And when he knows that you’re at the Bar he will be delighted. He always wanted me to marry a lawyer. You see Papa was at the Bar in his young days—I daresay your father was too.
He (embarrassed). No, yes—I mean no. That’s to say he is in a way indirectly connected with the Bar; but my father’s principal hobby is playing on the harp. He gives himself up almost entirely to that now.
She. I see.
He. Have you told your father yet?
She. You told me I wasn’t to until I’d seen you again.
He. Yes, of course. I thought you might have changed your mind.
She. As if that were likely.
He. And then, if you remember, I told you when I, when you, when we settled everything that there was a—er—drawback.
She. As if any drawback could possibly make any difference.
He. I thought it might.
She. You mean to say that it is something which might make me wish to change my mind?
He. Exactly.
She. That shows you know me very little—but what is it?
He. You see it’s a kind of confession.
She. I know what it is; you want to tell me you once loved some one else.
He. No, not that, I swear I never did. I may have thought once or twice that I was in love, but until I met you I never knew what love, what real love, was.
She. And those other times when you thought you were in love—were there many of them?
He. It only happened twice; that’s to say three times, only the third time didn’t count.
She. And the first time, who was she?
He. I was quite young, only a boy. She was a girl in an A.B.C. shop.
She. Was she pretty?
He. Not exactly.
She. Did you propose to her?
He. Yes, but she refused.
She. And that’s all that happened?
He. That’s all.
She. And the second time?
He. It was the parson’s daughter down in the country.
She. Did you make love to her?
He. No, not really, of course, but we were friends.
She. Did you kiss her?
He. Only once, and that was by accident. But it was all years ago.
She. How many years ago?
He. Let me see; two, no, no, it must have been four years ago. I’m not sure it wasn’t five. She married the curate.
She. And the third time?
He. Oh! that was nothing.
She. Who was she?
He. She was an artist—a singer.
She. A concert singer?
He. Almost; that’s to say she wanted to be one. She sang in a music-hall.
She. Oh!
He. Only a serious turn. She wasn’t dressed up or anything. She sang “The Lost Chord” and songs like that. She was called “The New Zealand Nightingale.”
She. And you knew her?
He. Very slightly. I had tea with her once or twice. And then she went away.
She. Back to New Zealand?
He. Yes, back to New Zealand.
She. Now I’ve made you confess everything. Aren’t you glad you’ve got it off your mind? I don’t mind a bit, and I like you for being so honest.
He. But it’s not that at all. It’s nothing to do with me.
She. Then who has it got to do with?
He. My father.
She. You mean he won’t approve of me?
He. Of course I don’t mean that. He’d simply love you.
She. He’s going to marry again.
He. No, it’s not that.
She. He doesn’t want you to marry.
He. No, it’s nothing to do with me.
She. Then I don’t understand.
He. It’s something to do with him.
She. He’s consumptive.
He. No; his health is excellent.
She. He’s lost his money.
He. No; he’s very well off. You see it’s something to do with his social position. A matter of—I don’t quite know how to put it.
She. But, Georgie, you don’t think I’m such a snob as to care twopence for social position and conventions of that kind? Your father is your father—that’s all that matters, isn’t it?
He. I know, I know, but there are prejudices.
She. Is it something your father’s done? Has he been in the Bankruptcy Court? I wouldn’t care a pin.
He. No, it’s nothing he’s done. It’s something he is.
She. He’s a Socialist!
He. No.
She. Is he a Roman Catholic?
He. Oh no! He’s Church of England.
She. I know; he’s a Liberal.
He. No; he says the Liberals are just as bad as the Conservatives.
She. Then he’s a Little Englander.
He. On the contrary; he’s outside politics. He belongs to no party.
She. He’s a foreigner—by birth, I mean.
He. Not at all.
She. He’s not a Mormon?
He. No. It’s nothing to do with politics or religion or that kind of thing. It’s his profession.
She. His profession! But I thought—as if I cared about his profession!
He. But you might—there are some professions——
She. You see, I know he’s honest.
He. Oh! you needn’t have any fear. He’s perfectly honest, respectable, and respected.
She. Then what is it?
He. I’d rather you guessed it.
She. How absurd you are! I know what it is; he’s somebody’s agent.
He. No.
She. Then he’s a schoolmaster.
He. No.
She (tentatively). Of course, I know he was never in trade?
He. No, never. He had nothing to do with it.
She. Is he on the stage?
He. No; he disapproves of actors.
She. He’s a Quaker.
He. I told you it’s nothing to do with religion.
She. Then, he’s a photographer. Some photographers almost count as artists.
He. No.
She. Then it is something to do with art.
He. His profession certainly needs art and skill.
She. He’s not a conjurer?
He. Conjurers are scarcely respectable.
She. I know, of course. He’s a jockey.
He. No
She. A bookmaker.
He. No.
She. A veterinary surgeon.
He. No.
She. Does he ever give lessons?
He. Only to his assistants, whom he’s training.
She. He’s a prize-fighter.
He. Oh no!
She. He’s an Art-dressmaker.
He. No. You see it’s something some people might mind.
She. What can it be? A dentist.
He. No.
She. How stupid of me. He’s a literary man.
He. He’s never written a line.
She. But you told me. I remember now. He plays the harp. He’s something musical; but nobody could mind that. He’s a dancing-master.
He. No.
She. A commercial traveller.
He. No.
She. Of course not; it’s something to do with art. But what could one mind?
He. Not exactly art. It’s more skill.
She. Is he a chiropodist?
He. No.
She. Or a Swedish masseur?
He. Nothing like it.
She. Is it anything to do with officials?
He. Yes, in a way.
She. Then I’ve guessed. He’s a detective.
He. No.
She. He’s in the Secret Service.
He. No.
She. It’s something to do with the police.
He. Not exactly.
She. With prisons.
He. In a way.
She. He’s a prison inspector.
He. No.
She. A prison chaplain.
He. No; he’s not in Orders.
She. The prison doctor who has to feed the Suffragettes.
He. No.
She. I’ve guessed. He’s a keeper in a lunatic asylum.
He. You’re getting cold again.
She. Then it’s something to do with prisons?
He. Yes.
She. He’s a warder.
He. No.
She. I don’t know who else is in a prison, except the prisoners.
He. He doesn’t live in the prison.
She. But he goes there sometimes?
He. Yes.
She. I give it up.
He. His duty is a disagreeable one, but some one has to do it.
She. He’s the man who has to taste the prisoners’ food.
He. I didn’t know there was such a person.
She. You must tell me. I’ll never guess.
He (blurting it out). Well, you see, he’s the hangman.
[A Pause.
She. You mean he——
He. Yes, he——
She. Oh, I see.
He. Some people might mind this. He’s going to retire very soon—on a pension.
She. Yes?
He. And, of course, he very seldom——
She. Yes, I suppose——
He. It’s all quite private, of course.
She. Yes, of course.
[A Pause.
(Looking at her watch) Good gracious! I shall be late for dinner. It’s nearly seven o’clock. I must fly. I was late yesterday.
He. Shall I—shall we meet to-morrow?
She. No, not to-morrow. I’m busy all to-morrow.
He. Perhaps the day after.
She. Perhaps I had better tell you at once what I was going to write to you.
He. You think the drawback——
She (indignantly). I wasn’t thinking of that. But I do think you ought to have told me directly about those others.
He. What others?
She. Those women—the A.B.C. shop, the clergyman’s daughter, and that music-hall singer.
He. But you said you didn’t mind.
She. I minded too much to speak about it. A music-hall singer! The New Zealand Nightingale! Oh! to think that you, that I——Oh! the shame of it.
He. But——
She. There’s no but. You’ve grossly deceived me. You played with my feelings. You led me on. You trifled with me. You’ve treated me scandalously. You’ve broken my heart. You’ve ruined my life.
He. But let me say one word.
She. Not one word. A girl in an A.B.C. shop! A clergyman’s daughter! and a music-hall singer!
He. You really mean——
She. I’ve heard quite enough. Thank you, Mr. Belleville. Please to understand that our acquaintance is at an end. Good evening. (She bows and walks away.)
Curtain.