AGNES. Precisely. Depechez-vous. [FORTUNE bows and retires.] Fortune flatters himself he is engaged in some horrid intrigue. You guess whom I am expecting?
GERTRUDE. The Duke?
AGNES. [Ringing a bell.] I've written to him asking him to call upon me this afternoon while Lucas is at Florian's. [Referring to her watch.] He is to kick his heels about the Campo till I let him know I am alone.
GERTRUDE. Will he obey you?
AGNES. A week ago he was curious to see the sort of animal I am. If he holds off now, I'll hit upon some other plan. I will come to close quarters with him, if only for five minutes.
GERTRUDE. Good-bye. [They embrace, then walk together to the door.] You still refuse my address?
AGNES. You bat! Didn't you see me make a note of it?
GERTRUDE. You!
AGNES. [Her hand on her heart.] Here.
GERTRUDE. [Gratefully.] Ah! [She goes out.]
AGNES. [At the open door.] Gertrude!
GERTRUDE. [Outside.] Yes?
AGNES. [In a low voice.] Remember, in my thoughts I pace that lonely little room of yours with you. [As if to stop GERTRUDE from re-entering.] Hush! No, no. [She closes the door sharply. NELLA appears.]
AGNES. [Pointing to the box on the table.] Portez ce carton dans ma chambre.
NELLA. [Trying to peep into the box as she carries it.] Signora, se
Ella si mettesse questo magnifico abito! Oh! Quanto sarebbe piu bella!
(Signora, if you were to wear this magnificent dress, oh how much more
beautiful you would be!)
AGNES. Sssh! Sssh! [NELLA goes out. FORTUNE enters.] Eh, bien?
[FORTUNE glances over his shoulder. The DUKE OF ST. OLPHERTS enters; the wreck of a very handsome man, with delicate features, a polished manner, and a smooth, weary voice. He limps, walking with the aid of a cane. FORTUNE retires.]
AGNES. Duke of St. Olpherts?
ST. OLPHERTS. [Bowing.] Mrs. Ebbsmith?
AGNES. Mr. Cleeve would have opposed this rather out-of-the-way proceeding of mine. He doesn't know I have asked you to call on me today.
ST. OLPHERTS. So I conclude. It gives our meeting a pleasant air of adventure.
AGNES. I shall tell him directly he returns.
ST. OLPHERTS. [Gallantly.] And destroy a cherished secret.
AGNES. You are an invalid. [Motioning him to be seated.] Pray don't stand. [Sitting.] Your Grace is a man who takes life lightly. It will relieve you to hear that I wish to keep sentiment out of any business we have together.
ST. OLPHERTS. I believe I haven't the reputation of being a sentimental man. [Seating himself.] You send for me, Mrs. Ebbsmith—
AGNES. To tell you I have come to regard the suggestion you were good enough to make a week ago—
ST. OLPHERTS. Suggestion?
AGNES. Shakespeare, the musical glasses, you know—
ST. OLPHERTS. Oh, yes. Ha! Ha!
AGNES. I've come to think it a reasonable one. At the moment I considered it a gross impertinence.
ST. OLPHERTS. Written requests are so dependent on a sympathetic reader.
AGNES. That meeting might have saved you time and trouble.
ST. OLPHERTS. I grudge neither.
AGNES. It might perhaps have shown your Grace that your view of life is too narrow; that your method of dealing with its problems wants variety; that, in point of fact, your employment upon your present mission is distinctly inappropriate. Our meeting today may serve the same purpose.
ST. OLPHERTS. My view of life?
AGNES. That all men and women may safely be judged by the standards of the casino and the dancing-garden.
ST. OLPHERTS. I have found those standards not altogether untrustworthy. My method—?
AGNES. To scoff, to sneer, to ridicule.
ST. OLPHERTS. Ah! And how much is there, my dear Mrs. Ebbsmith, belonging to humanity that survives being laughed at?
AGNES. More than you credit, Duke. For example, I—I think it possible you may not succeed in grinning away the compact between Mr. Cleeve and myself?
ST. OLPHERTS. Compact?
AGNES. Between serious man and woman.
ST. OLPHERTS. Serious woman.
AGNES. Ah! At least you must see that—serious woman. [Rising, facing him.] You can't fail to realise, even from this slight personal knowledge of me, that you are not dealing just now with some poor, feeble ballet-girl.
ST. OLPHERTS. But how well you put it! [Rising.] And how frank of you to furnish, as it were, a plan of the fortifications to the—the—
AGNES. Why do you stick at "enemy"?
ST. OLPHERTS. It's not the word. Opponent! For the moment, perhaps, opponent. I am never an enemy, I hope, where your sex is concerned.
AGNES. No, I am aware that you are not over-nice in the bestowal of your patronage—where my sex is concerned.
ST. OLPHERTS. You regard my appearance in an affair of morals as a quaint one?
AGNES. Your Grace is beginning to know me.
ST. OLPHERTS. Dear lady, you take pride, I hear, in belonging to—The People. You would delight me amazingly by giving me an inkling of the popular notion of my career.
AGNES. [Walking away.] Excuse me.
ST. OLPHERTS. [Following her.] Please! It would be instructive, perhaps chastening. I entreat.
AGNES. No.
ST OLPHERTS. You are letting sentiment intrude itself. [Sitting, in pain.] I challenge you.
AGNES. At Eton you were curiously precocious. The head-master, referring to your aptitude with books, prophesied a brilliant future for you; your tutor, alarmed by your attachment to a certain cottage at Ascot which was minus a host, thanked his stars to be rid of you. At Oxford you closed all books, except, of course, betting-books.
ST. OLPHERTS. I detected the tendency of the age—scholarship for the masses. I considered it my turn to be merely intuitively intelligent.
AGNES. You left Oxford a gambler and a spendthrift. A year or two in town established you as an amiable, undisguised debauchee. The rest is modern history.
ST. OLPHERTS. Complete your sketch. Don't stop at the—rude outline.
AGNES. Your affairs falling into disorder, you promptly married a wealthy woman—the poor, rich lady who has for some years honoured you by being your duchess at a distance. This burlesque of a marriage helped to reassure your friends, and actually obtained for you an ornamental appointment for which an over-taxed nation provides a handsome stipend. But, to sum up, you must always remain an irritating source of uneasiness to your own order, as, luckily, you will always be a sharp-edged weapon in the hands of mine.
ST. OLPHERTS. [With a polite smile.] Yours! Ah, to that small, unruly section to which I understand you particularly attach yourself. To the—
AGNES. [With changed manner, flashing eyes, harsh voice, and violent gestures.] The sufferers, the toilers; that great crowd of old and young—old and young stamped by excessive labour and privation all of one pattern—whose backs bend under burdens, whose bones ache and grow awry, whose skins, in youth and in age, are wrinkled and yellow; those from whom a fair share of the earth's space and of the light of day is withheld. [Looking down at him fiercely.] The half-starved who are bidden to stand with their feet in the kennel to watch gay processions in which you and your kind are borne high. Those who would strip the robes from a dummy aristocracy and cast the broken dolls into the limbo of a nation's discarded toys. Those who—mark me!—are already upon the highway, marching, marching; whose time is coming as surely as yours is going!
ST. OLPHERTS. [Clapping his hands gently.] Bravo! Bravo! Really a flash of the old fire. Admirable! [She walks away to the window with an impatient exclamation.] Your present affaire du coeur does not wholly absorb you, then, Mrs. Ebbsmith. Even now the murmurings of love have not entirely superseded the thunderous denunciations of—h'm—You once bore a nickname, my dear.
AGNES. [Turning sharply.] Ho! So you've heard that, have you?
ST. OLPHERTS. Oh, yes.
AGNES. Mad—Agnes? [He bows deprecatingly.] We appear to have studied each other's history pretty closely.
ST. OLPHERTS. Dear lady, this is not the first time the same roof has covered us.
AGNES. No?
ST. OLPHERTS. Five years ago, on a broiling night in July, I joined a party of men who made an excursion from a club-house in St James's Street to the unsavoury district of St. Luke's.
AGNES. Oh, yes.
ST. OLPHERTS. A depressin' building; the Iron Hall, Barker
Street—no—Carter Street.
AGNES. Precisely.
ST. OLPHERTS. We took our places amongst a handful of frowsy folks who cracked nuts and blasphemed. On the platform stood a gaunt, white-faced young lady resolutely engaged in making up by extravagance of gesture for the deficiencies of an exhausted voice. "There," said one of my companions, "that is the notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith." Upon which a person near us, whom I judged from his air of leaden laziness to be a British working man, blurted out, "Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith! Mad Agnes! That's the name her sanguinary friends give her—Mad Agnes!" At that moment the eye of the panting oratress caught mine for an instant, and you and I first met.
AGNES. [Passing her hand across her brow, thoughtfully.] Mad—Agnes . . . [To him, with a grim smile.] We have both been criticised, in our time, pretty sharply, eh, Duke?
ST. OLPHERTS. Yes. Let that reflection make you more charitable to a poor peer. [A knock at the door.]
AGNES. Entrez!
[FORTUNE and ANTONIO enter, ANTONIO carrying tea, &c., upon a tray.]
AGNES. [To ST. OLPHERTS.] You drink tea—fellow sufferer? [He signifies assent. FORTUNE places the tray on the table, then withdraws with ANTONIO. AGNES pours out tea.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [Producing a little box from his waistcoat pocket.] No milk, dear lady. And may I be allowed—saccharine? [She hands him his cup of tea; their eyes meet.]
AGNES. [Scornfully.] Tell me now—really—why do the Cleeves send a rip like you to do their serious work?
ST. OLPHERTS. [Laughing heartily.] Ha, ha, ha! Rip! ha, ha! Poor solemn family! Oh, set a thief to catch a thief, you know. That, I presume, is their motive.
AGNES. [Pausing in the act of pouring out, and staring at him.] What do you mean?
ST OLPHERTS. [Sipping his tea.] Set a thief to catch a thief. And by deduction, set one sensualist—who, after all, doesn't take the trouble to deceive himself—to rescue another who does.
AGNES. If I understand you, that is an insinuation against Mr. Cleeve.
ST. OLPHERTS. Insinuation!—
AGNES. [Looking at him fixedly.] Make yourself clearer.
ST. OLPHERTS. You have accused me, Mrs. Ebbsmith, of narrowness of outlook. In the present instance, dear lady, it is your judgement which is at fault.
AGNES. Mine?
ST. OLPHERTS. It is not I who fall into the error of confounding you with the designing danseuse of commerce; it is, strangely enough, you who have failed in your estimate of Mr. Lucas Cleeve.
AGNES. What is my estimate?
ST. OLPHERTS. I pay you the compliment of believing that you have looked upon my nephew as a talented young gentleman whose future was seriously threatened by domestic disorder; a young man of a certain courage and independence, with a share of the brain and spirit of those terrible human pests called reformers; the one gentleman, in fact, most likely to aid you in advancing your vivacious social and political tenets. You have such thoughts in your mind?
AGNES. I can't deny it.
ST. OLPHERTS. Ah! But what is the real, the actual Lucas Cleeve?
AGNES. Well—what is the real Lucas Cleeve?
ST OLPHERTS. Poor dear fellow! I'll tell you. [Going to the table to deposit his cup there; while she watches him, her hand tightly clasped, a frightened look in her eyes.] The real Lucas Cleeve. [Coming back to her.] An egoist. An egoist.
AGNES. An egoist, Yes.
ST. OLPHERTS. Possessing ambition without patience, self-esteem without self-confidence.
AGNES. Well?
ST. OLPHERTS. Afflicted with a desperate craving for the opium-like drug, adulation; persistently seeking the society of those whose white, pink-tipped fingers fill the pernicious pipe most deftly and delicately. Eh?
AGNES. I didn't—Pray, go on.
ST. OLPHERTS. Ha! I remember they looked to his marriage to check his dangerous fancy for the flutter of lace, the purr of pretty women. And now, here, he is—loose again.
AGNES. [Suffering.] Oh!—
ST. OLPHERTS. In short, in intellect still nothing but a callow boy; in body, nervous, bloodless, hysterical; in morals—an epicure.
AGNES. Have done! Have done!
ST. OLPHERTS. "Epicure" offends you. A vain woman would find consolation in the word.
AGNES. Enough of it! Enough! Enough! [She turns away, beating her hands together. The light in the room has gradually become subdued; the warm tinge of sunset now colours the scene outside the window.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [With a shrug of his shoulders.] The real Lucas Cleeve.
AGNES. No, no! Untrue, untrue! [LUCAS enters. The three remain silent for a moment.] The Duke of St. Olpherts calls in answer to a letter I wrote to him yesterday. I wanted to make his acquaintance. [She goes out.]
LUCAS. [After a brief pause.] By a lucky accident the tables were crowded at Florian's; I might have missed the chance of welcoming you. In God's name, Duke, why must you come here?
ST. OLPHERTS. [Fumbling in his pocket for a note.] In God's name? You bring the orthodoxy into this queer firm, then, Lucas? [Handing the note to LUCAS.] A peremptory summons.
LUCAS. You need not have obeyed it. [ST. OLPHERTS takes a cigarette from his case and limps away.] I looked about for you just now. I wanted to see you.
ST. OLPHERTS. How fortunate—
LUCAS. To tell you that this persecution must come to an end. It has made me desperately wretched for a whole week.
ST. OLPHERTS. Persecution?
LUCAS. Temptation.
ST. OLPHERTS. Dear Lucas, the process of inducing a man to return to his wife isn't generally described as temptation.
LUCAS. Ah, I won't hear another word of that proposal. [ST. OLPHERTS shrugs his shoulders.] I say my people are offering me, through you, a deliberate temptation to be a traitor. To which of these two women—my wife or—[pointing to the door]—to her—am I really bound now? It may be regrettable, scandalous, but the common rules of right and wrong have ceased to apply here. Finally, Duke—and this is my message—I intend to keep faith with the woman who sat by my bedside in Rome, the woman to whom I shouted my miserable story in my delirium, the woman whose calm, resolute voice healed me, hardened me, renewed in me the desire to live.
ST. OLPHERTS. Ah! Oh, these modern nurses, in their greys, or browns, and snowy bibs! They have much to answer for, dear Lucas.
LUCAS. No, no! Why will you persist, all of you, in regarding this as a mere morbid infatuation, bred in the fumes of pastilles? It isn't so! Laugh, if you care to; but this is a meeting of affinities, of the solitary man and the truly sympathetic woman.
ST. OLPHERTS. And oh—oh these sympathetic women!
LUCAS. No! Oh, the unsympathetic women! There you have the cause of half the world's misery. The unsympathetic women—you should have loved one of them.
ST. OLPHERTS. I dare say I've done that in my time.
LUCAS. Love one of these women—I know!—worship here, yield yourself to the intoxicating day-dreams that make the grimy world sweeter than any heaven ever imagined. How you heart leaps with gratitude for your good fortune! How compassionately you regard your unblest fellow men! What may you not accomplish with such a mate beside you; how high will be your aims, how paltry every obstacle that bars your way to them; how sweet is to be the labour, how divine the rest! Then—you marry her. Marry her, and in six months, if you've pluck enough to do it, lag behind your shooting party and blow your brains out, by accident, at the edge of a turnip-field. You have found out by that time all that there is to look for—the daily diminishing interest in your doings, the poorly assumed attention as you attempt to talk over some plan for the future; then the yawn, and by degrees, the covert sneer, the little sarcasm, and finally, the frank, open stare of boredom. Ah, Duke, when you all carry out your repressive legislation against women of evil lives, don't fail to include in your schedule the Unsympathetic Wives. They are the women whose victims show the sorriest scars; they are the really "bad women" of the world: all the others are snow-white in comparison!
ST. OLPHERTS. Yes, you've got a good deal of this in that capital Essay you quoted from this morning. Dear fellow, I admit your home discomforts; but to jump out of the frying pan into this confounded— what does she call it?—compact!
LUCAS. Compact?
ST. OLPHERTS. A vague reference, as I understand, to your joint crusade against the blessed institution of Marriage.
LUCAS. [An alteration in his manner.] Oh—ho, that idea! What—what has she been saying to you?
ST. OLPHERTS. Incidentally she pitched into me, dear Lucas; she attacked my moral character. You must have been telling tales.
LUCAS. Oh, I—I hope not. Of course, we—
ST. OLPHERTS. Yes, yes—a little family gossip, to pass the time while she has been dressing her hair or—By the bye, she doesn't appear to spend much time in dressing her hair.
LUCAS. [Biting his lip.] Really?
ST. OLPHERTS. Then she denounced the gilded aristocracy generally. Our day is over; we're broken wooden dolls, and are going to be chucked. The old tune; but I enjoyed the novelty of being so near the instrument. I assure you, dear fellow, I was within three feet of her when she deliberately Trafalgar Squared me.
LUCAS. [With an uneasy laugh.] You're the red rag, Duke. This spirit of revolt in her—it's ludicrously extravagant; but it will die out in time, when she has become used to being happy and cared for—[partly to himself, with clenched hands]—yes, cared for.
ST. OLPHERTS. Die out? Bred in the bone, dear Lucas.
LUCAS. On some topics she's a mere echo of her father, if you mean that?
ST. OLPHERTS. The father—one of those public park vermin, eh?
LUCAS. Dead years ago.
ST. OLPHERTS. I once heard her bellowing in a dirty little shed in St.
Luke's. I told you?
LUCAS. Yes, you've told me.
ST. OLPHERTS. I sat there again, it seemed, this afternoon. The orator not quite so lean, perhaps—a little less witch-like; but—
LUCAS. She was actually in want of food in those days! Poor girl! [Partly to himself.] I mean to remind myself of that constantly. Poor girl!
ST. OLPHERTS. Girl! Let me see—you're considerably her junior?
LUCAS. No, no; a few months, perhaps.
ST. OLPHERTS. Oh, come!
LUCAS. Well, years—two or three.
ST. OLPHERTS. The voice remains rather raucous.
LUCAS. By God, the voice is sweet!
ST. OLPHERTS. Well—considering the wear and tear. Really, my dear fellow, I do believe this—I do believe that if you gowned her respectably—
LUCAS. [Impulsively.] Yes, yes, I say so. I tell her that.
ST. OLPHERTS. [With a smile.] Do you? That's odd, now.
LUCAS. What a topic. Poor Agnes's dress!
ST. OLPHERTS. Your taste used to be rather aesthetic. Even your own wife is one of the smartest women in London.
LUCAS. Ha, well I must contrive to smother these aesthetic tastes of mine.
ST. OLPHERTS. It's a pity that other people will retain their sense of the incongruous.
LUCAS. [Snapping his fingers.] Other people!—
ST. OLPHERTS. The public.
LUCAS. The public?
ST. OLPHERTS. Come, you know well enough that unostentatious immodesty is no part of your partner's programme. Of course, you will find yourself by-and-bye in a sort of perpetual parade with your crack-brained visionary—
LUCAS. You shall not speak of her so! You shall not.
ST. OLPHERTS. [Unconcernedly.] Each of you bearing a pole of the soiled banner of Free Union. Free Union for the People! Ho, my dear Lucas!
LUCAS. Good heavens, Duke, do you imagine, now that I am in sound health and mind again, that I don't see the hideous absurdity of these views of hers?
ST. OLPHERTS. Then why the deuce don't you listen a little more patiently to my views?
LUCAS. No, no. I tell you I intend to keep faith with her, as far as I am able. She's so earnest, so pitiably earnest. If I broke faith with her entirely, it would be too damnably cowardly.
ST. OLPHERTS. Cowardly!
LUCAS. [Pacing the room agitatedly.] Besides, we shall do well together, after all, I believe—she and I. In the end we shall make concessions to each other and settle down, somewhere abroad, peacefully.
ST. OLPHERTS. Ha! And they called you a Coming Man at one time, didn't they?
LUCAS. Oh, I—I shall make as fine a career with my pen as that other career would have been. At any rate, I ask you to leave me to it all— to leave me!
[FORTUNE enters. The shades of evening have now deepened; the glow of sunset comes into the room.]
FORTUNE. I beg your pardon, sir.
LUCAS. Well?
FORTUNE. It is pas' ze time for you to dress for dinner.
LUCAS. I'll come. [FORTUNE goes out.]
ST. OLPHERTS. When do we next meet, dear fellow?
LUCAS. No, no—please not again.
[Nella enters, excitedly.]
NELLA [ Speaking over her shoulder.] Si, Signora; ecco il Signore. (Yes, Signora; her is the Signor.) [To Cleeve.] Scusi, Signore. Quando la vendra come e cara—! (Pardon, Signor, when you see her you'll see how sweet she looks—!) [Agnes's voice is heard.]
AGNES. [Outside.] Am I keeping you waiting, Lucas?
[She enters, handsomely gowned, her throat and arms bare, the fashion of her hair roughly altered. She stops abruptly upon seeing ST. OLPHERTS; a strange light comes into her eyes; her voice, manner, bearing, all express triumph. The two men stare at her blankly. She appears to be a beautiful woman.]
AGNES. [To Nella.] Un petit chale noir tricote—cher-chez-le. [Nella withdraws.] Ah, you're not dressed, Lucas dear.
LUCAS. What—what time is it? [He goes towards the door, still staring at AGNES.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [Looking at her, and speaking in an altered tone.] I fear my gossiping has delayed him. You—you dine out?
AGNES. At the Grunwald. Why don't you join us? [Turning to Lucas, lightly.] Persuade him, Lucas. [LUCAS pauses at the door.]
ST. OLPHERTS. Er—impossible. Some—friends of mine may arrive tonight. [Lucas goes out.] I am more than sorry.
AGNES. [Mockingly.] Really? You are sure you are not shy of being seen with a notorious woman?
ST. OLPHERTS. My dear Mrs. Ebbsmith—!
AGNES. No, I forget—that would be unlike you. Mad people scare you, perhaps?
ST. OLPHERTS. Ha, ha! Don't be too rough.
AGNES. Come, Duke, confess—isn't there more sanity in me than you suspected?
ST. OLPHERTS. [In a low voice, eyeing her.] Much more. I think you are very clever.
[LUCAS quietly re-enters the room; he halts upon seeing that ST.
OLPHERTS still lingers.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [With a wave of the hand to LUCAS.] Just off, dear fellow. [He offers his hand to AGNES; she quickly places hers behind her back.] You—you are charming. [He walks to the door, then looks round at the pair.] Au'voir! [ST. OLPHERTS goes out.]
AGNES. Au'voir! [Her hand drooping suddenly, her voice hard and dull.] You had better take me to Fulici's before we dine, and buy me some gloves.
LUCAS. [Coming to her, and seizing her hand.] Agnes dear!
AGNES. [Releasing herself and sitting with a heavy, almost sullen, look upon her face.] Are you satisfied?
LUCAS. [By her side.] You have delighted me! How sweet you look—
AGNES. Ah—!
LUCAS. You shall have twenty new gowns now; you shall see the women envying you, the men envying me. Ah, ha! Fifty new gowns! You will wear them?
AGNES. Yes.
LUCAS. Why, what has brought about this change in you?
AGNES. What!
LUCAS. What?
AGNES. I know.
LUCAS. You know?
AGNES. Exactly how you regard me.
LUCAS. I don't understand you.
AGNES. Listen. Long ago, in Florence, I began to suspect that we had made a mistake, Lucas. Even there I began to suspect that your nature was not one to allow you to go through life sternly, severely, looking upon me more and more each day as a fellow worker and less and less as —a woman. I suspected this—oh, proved it!—but still made myself believe that this companionship of ours would gradually become, in a sense, colder—more temperate, more impassive. [Beating her brow.] Never! never! Oh, a few minutes ago this man, who means to part us if he can, drew your character, disposition, in a dozen words.
LUCAS. You believe him! You credit what he says of me!
AGNES. I declared it to be untrue. Oh, but—
LUCAS. But—but—
AGNES. [Rising, seizing his arm.] The picture he paints of you is not wholly a false one. Sssh! Lucas. Hark! Attend to me! I resign myself to it all! Dear, I must resign myself to it!
LUCAS. Resign yourself? Has life with me become so distasteful?
AGNES. Has it? Think! Why, when I realised the actual terms of our companionship—why didn't I go on my own way stoically? Why don't I go at this very moment?
LUCAS. You really love me, do you mean—as simple, tender women are content to love? [She looks at him, nods slowly, then turns away and droops over the table. He raises her, and takes her in his arms.] My dear girl! My dear, cold, warm-hearted girl! Ha! You couldn't bear to see me packed up in one of the Duke's travelling boxes and borne back to London—eh! [She shakes her head; her lips form the word "No".] No fear of that, my—my sweetheart!
AGNES. [Gently pushing him from her.] Quick—dress—take me out.
LUCAS. You are shivering—get your thickest wrap.
AGNES. That heavy brown cloak of mine?
LUCAS. Yes.
AGNES. It's an old friend, but—dreadfully shabby. You will be ashamed of me again.
LUCAS. Ashamed—!
AGNES. I'll write to Bardini about a new one tomorrow. I won't oppose you—I won't repel you any more.
LUCAS. Repel me! I only urged you to reveal yourself as what you are— a beautiful woman.
AGNES. Ah! Am I—that?
LUCAS. [Kissing her.] Beautiful—beautiful!
AGNES. [With a gesture of abandonment.] I'm—glad. [She leaves him and goes out. He looks after her for a moment thoughtfully, then suddenly passes his hands across his brow and opens his arms widely as if casting a burden from him.]
LUCAS. Oh!—oh! [Turning away alertly.] Fortune—
END OF THE SECOND ACT
THE THIRD ACT
[The Scene is the same as before, but it is evening, and the lamps are lighted within the room, while outside it is bright moonlight.]
[AGNES, dressed as at the end of the preceding Act, is lying upon the settee propped up by pillows. A pretty silk shawl, with which she plays restlessly, is over her shoulders. Her face is pale, but her eyes glitter, and her voice has a bright ring in it. KIRKE is seated at a table writing. GERTRUDE, without hat or mantle, is standing behind the settee, looking down smilingly upon AGNES.]
KIRKE. [Writing.] H'm—[To AGNES.] Are you often guilty of this sort of thing?
AGNES. [Laughing.] I've never fainted before in my life; I don't mean to do so again.
KIRKE. [Writing.] Should you alter your mind about that, do select a suitable spot on the next occasion. What was it your head came against?
GERTRUDE. A wooden chest, Mr. Cleeve thinks.
AGNES. With beautiful, rusty, iron clamps. [Putting her hand to her head, and addressing GERTRUDE.] The price of vanity.
KIRKE. Vanity?
AGNES. Lucas was to take me out to dinner. While I was waiting for him to dress I must needs stand and survey my full length in a mirror.
KIRKE. [Glancing at her.] A very excusable proceeding.
AGNES. Suddenly the room sank and left me—so the feeling was—in the air.
KIRKE. Well, most women can manage to look in their pier-glasses without swooning—eh, Mrs Thorpe?
GERTRUDE. [Smiling.] How should I know doctor?
KIRKE. [Blotting his writing.] There. How goes the time?
GERTRUDE. Half past eight.
KIRKE. I'll leave this prescription at Mantovani's myself. I can get it made up to-night.
AGNES. [Taking the prescription out of his hand playfully.] Let me look.
KIRKE. [Protesting.] Now, now!
AGNES. [Reading the prescription.] Ha, ha! After all, what humbugs doctors are!
KIRKE. You've never heard me deny it.
AGNES. [Returning the prescription to him.] But I'll swallow it—for the dignity of my old profession. [She reaches out her hand to take a cigarette.]
KIRKE. Don't smoke too many of those things.
AGNES. They never harm me. It's a survival of the time in my life when the cupboard was always empty. [Striking a match.] Only it had to be stronger tobacco in those days, I can tell you. [She lights her cigarette. GERTRUDE is assisting KIRKE with his overcoat. LUCAS enters, in evening dress, looking younger, almost boyish.]
LUCAS. [Brightly.] Well?
KIRKE. She's to have a cup of good bouillon—Mrs. Thorpe is going to look after that—and anything else she fancies. She's alright. [Shaking hands with AGNES.] The excitement of putting on that pretty frock—[AGNES gives a hard little laugh. Shaking hands with LUCAS.] I'll look in tomorrow. [Turning to GERTRUDE.] Oh, just a word with you, nurse. [LUCAS has been bending over AGNES affectionately; he now sits by her, and they talk in undertones; he lights a cigarette from hers.]
KIRKE. [To GERTRUDE.] There's many a true word, et cetera.
GERTRUDE. Excitement?
KIRKE. Yes, and that smart gown's connected with it too.
GERTRUDE. It is extraordinary to see her like this.
KIRKE. Not the same woman.
GERTRUDE. No, nor is he quite the same man.
KIRKE. How long can you remain with her?
GERTRUDE. Till eleven—if you will let my brother know where I am.
KIRKE. What, doesn't he know?
GERTRUDE. I simply sent word, about an hour ago, that I shouldn't be back to dinner.
KIRKE. Very well.
GERTRUDE. Look here! I'll get you to tell him the truth.
KIRKE. The truth—oh?
GERTRUDE. I called here this afternoon, unknown to Amos, to bid her good-bye. Then I pottered about, rather miserably, spending money. Coming out of Naya's, the photographer's, I tumbled over Mr. Cleeve, who had been looking for you, and he begged me to come round here again after I had done my shopping.
KIRKE. I understand.
GERTRUDE. Doctor, have you ever seen Amos look dreadfully stern and knit about the brows—like a bishop who is put out?
KIRKE. No.
GERTRUDE. Then you will.
KIRKE. Well, this is a pretty task—! [He goes out. GERTRUDE comes to
AGNES. LUCAS rises.]
GERTRUDE. I am going down into the kitchen to see what these people can do in the way of strong soup.
LUCAS. You are exceedingly good to us, Mrs. Thorpe. I can't tell you how ashamed I am of my bearishness this afternoon.
GERTRUDE. [Arranging the shawl about AGNES'S shoulders.] Hush, please!
AGNES. Are you looking at my shawl? Lucas brought it in with him, as a reward for my coming out of that stupid faint. I—I have always refused to be—spoilt in this way, but now—now—
LUCAS. [Breaking in deliberately.] Pretty work upon it, is there not,
Mrs. Thorpe?
GERTRUDE. Charming. [Going to the door, which LUCAS opens for her.]
Thank you.[She passes out. AGNES rises.]
LUCAS. Oh, my dear girl—!
AGNES. [Throwing her cigarette under the stove.] I'm quite myself again, Lucas dear. Watch me—look! [Walking firmly.]
LUCAS. No trembling?
AGNES. Not a flutter. [Watching her open hand.] My hand is absolutely steady. [He takes her hand and kisses it upon the palm.] Ah!—
LUCAS. [Looking at her hand.] No, it is shaking.
AGNES. Yes, when you—when you—oh, Lucas!—[She sinks into a chair, turning her back upon him, and covering her face with her hands; her shoulders heaving.]
LUCAS. [Going to her.] Agnes dear!
AGNES. [Taking out her handkerchief.] Let me—let me—
LUCAS. [Bending over her.] I've never seen you—
AGNES. No, I've never been a crying woman. But some great change has befallen me, I believe. What is it? That swoon—it wasn't mere faintness, giddiness; it was this change coming over me!
LUCAS. You are not unhappy?
AGNES. [Wiping her eyes.] No, I—I don't think I am. Isn't that strange?
LUCAS. My dearest, I'm happy to hear you say that, for you've made me very happy.
AGNES. Because I—
LUCAS. Because you love me—naturally, that's one great reason.
AGNES. I have always loved you.
LUCAS. But never so utterly, so absorbingly, as you confess you do now.
Do you fully realise what your confession does? It strikes off the
shackles from me, from us—sets us free. [With a gesture of freedom.]
Oh, my dear Agnes, free!
AGNES. [Staring at him.] Free?
LUCAS. Free from the burden of that crazy plan of ours of trumpeting our relations to the world. Forgive me—crazy is the only word for it. Thank heaven, we've at last admitted to each other that we're ordinary man and woman! Of course, I was ill—off my head. I didn't know what I was entering upon. And you, dear—living a pleasureless life, letting your thoughts dwell constantly on old troubles; that is how cranks are made. Now that I'm strong again, body and mind, I can protect you, keep you right. Ha, ha! What were we to pose as? Examples of independent thought and action! [Laughing.] Oh my darling, well be independent in thought and action still; but we won't make examples of ourselves—eh?
AGNES. [Who has been watching him with wide-open eyes.] Do you mean that all idea of our writing together, working together, defending our position, and the position of such as ourselves, before the world, is to be abandoned?
LUCAS. Why, of course.
AGNES. I—I didn't mean quite that.
LUCAS. Oh, come, come! We'll furl what my uncle calls the banner of Free Union finally. [Going to her and kissing her hair lightly.] For the future, mere man and woman. [Pacing the room excitedly.] The future! I've settled everything already. The work shall fall wholly on my shoulders. My poor girl, you shall enjoy a little rest and pleasure.
AGNES. [In a low voice.] Rest and pleasure—
LUCAS. We'll remain abroad. One can live unobserved abroad, without actually hiding. [She rises slowly.] We'll find an ideal retreat. No more English tourists prying around us! And there, in some beautiful spot, alone except for your company, I'll work! [As he paces the room, she walks slowly to and fro, listening, staring before her.] I'll work. My new career! I'll write under a nom de plume. My books, Agnes, shall never ride to popularity on the back of a scandal. Our life! The mornings I must spend by myself, of course, shut up in my room. In the afternoon we will walk together. After dinner you shall hear what I've written in the morning; and then a few turns round our pretty garden, a glance at the stars with my arms round your waist—[she stops abruptly, a look of horror on her face]—while you whisper to me words of tenderness, words of—[There is the distant sound of music from mandolin and guitar.] Ah! [To AGNES.] Keep your shawl over your shoulders. [Opening the window, and stepping out; the music becoming louder.] Some mandolinisti in a gondola. [Listening at the window, his head turned from her.] How pretty, Agnes! Now, don't those mere sounds, in such surroundings, give you a sensation of hatred for revolt and turmoil! Don't they conjure up alluringly pictures of peace and pleasure, of golden days and star-lit nights—pictures of beauty and love?
AGNES. [Sitting on the settee, staring before her, speaking to herself.] My marriage—the early days of my marriage—all over again!
LUCAS. [Turning to her.] Eh? [Closing the window and coming to her, as the music dies away.] Tell me that those sounds thrill you.
AGNES. Lucas—
LUCAS. [Sitting beside her.] Yes?
AGNES. For the first few months of my marriage—[Breaking off abruptly and looking into his face wonderingly.] Why, how young you seem to have become; you look quite boyish!
LUCAS. [Laughing.] I believe that this return of our senses will make us both young again.
AGNES. Both? [With a little shudder.] You know, I'm older than you.
LUCAS. Tsch!
AGNES. [Passing her hand through his hair.] Yes, I shall feel that now.
[Stroking his brow tenderly.] Well—so it has come to this.
LUCAS. I declare that you have colour in your cheeks already.
AGNES. The return of my senses?
LUCAS. My dear Agnes, we've both been to the verge of madness, you and I—driven there by our troubles. [Taking her hand.] Let us agree, in so many words, that we have completely recovered. Shall we?
AGNES. Perhaps mine is a more obstinate case. My enemies called me mad years ago.
LUCAS. [With a wave of the hand.] Ah, but the future, the future. No more thoughts of reforming unequal laws from public platforms, no more shrieking in obscure magazines. No more beating of bare knuckles against stone walls. Come, say it!
AGNES. [With an effort.] Go on.
LUCAS. [Looking before him—partly to himself, his voice hardening.]
I'll never be mad again—never. [Thrusting his head back.] By heavens!
[To her, in an altered tone.] You don't say it.
AGNES. [After a pause.] I—I will never be mad again.
LUCAS. [Triumphantly.] Hah! ha, ha! [She deliberately removes the shawl from her shoulders, and, putting her arms round his neck, draws him to her.] Ah, my dear girl!
AGNES. [In a whisper, with her head on his breast.] Lucas.
LUCAS. Yes?
AGNES. Isn't this madness?
LUCAS. I don't think so.
AGNES. Oh! oh! oh! I believe, to be a woman is to be mad.
LUCAS. No, to be a woman trying not to be a woman—that is to be mad. [She draws a long, deep breath, then, sitting away from him, resumes her shawl mechanically.]
AGNES. Now, you promised me to run out to the Capello Nero to get a little food.
LUCAS. Oh, I'd rather—
AGNES. [Rising.] Dearest, you need it.
LUCAS. [Rising.] Well—Fortune shall fetch my hat and coat.
AGNES. Fortune! Are you going to take all my work from me? [She is walking towards the door; the sound of his voice stops her.]
LUCAS. Agnes! [She returns.] A thousand thoughts have rushed through my brain this last hour or two. I've been thinking—my wife—
AGNES. Yes?
LUCAS. My wife—she will soon get tired of her present position. If, by-and-bye, there should be a divorce, there would be nothing to prevent our marrying.
AGNES. Our—marrying!
LUCAS. [Sitting, not looking at her, as if discussing the matter with himself.] It might be to my advantage to settle again in London some day. After all, scandals quickly lose their keen edge. What would you say?
AGNES. Marriage—
LUCAS. Ah, remember, we're rational beings for the future. However, we needn't talk about it now.
AGNES. No.
LUCAS. Still, I assume you wouldn't oppose it. You would marry me if I wished it?
AGNES. [in a low voice.] Yes.
LUCAS. That's a sensible girl! By Jove, I am hungry! [He lights a cigarette as she walks slowly to the door, then throws himself idly back on the settee.]
AGNES. [To herself, in a whisper.] My old life—my old life coming all over again! [She goes out. He lies watching the wreaths of tobacco smoke. After a moment or two FORTUNE enters, closing the door carefully behind him.]
LUCAS. Eh?
FORTUNE. [After a glance round, dropping his voice.] Ze Duke of St. Olphert 'e say 'e vould like to speak a meenit alone. [LUCAS rises, with a muttered exclamation of annoyance.]
LUCAS. Priez Monsieur le Duc d'entrer. [FORTUNE goes to the door and opens it. The DUKE OF ST. OLPHERTS enters; he is in evening dress. FORTUNE retires.]
ST. OLPHERTS. Quite alone?
LUCAS. For the moment.
ST. OLPHERTS. My excuse to Mrs. Ebbsmith for not dining at the Grunwald —it was a perfectly legitimate one, dear Lucas. I really was expecting visitors.
LUCAS. [Wonderingly.] Yes?
ST. OLPHERTS. [With a little cough and a drawn face.] Oh, I am not so well tonight. Damn these people for troubling me! Damn 'em for keeping me hopping about! Damn 'em for every shoot I feel in my leg. Visitors from England—they've arrived.
LUCAS. But what—?
ST. OLPHERTS. I shall die of gout some day, Lucas. Er—your wife is here.
LUCAS. Sybil!
ST. OLPHERTS. She's come through with your brother. Sandford's a worse prig than ever—and I'm in shockin' pain.
LUCAS. This—this is your doing?
ST. OLPHERTS. Yes. Damn you, don't keep me standing!
[AGNES enters with LUCAS'S hat and coat. She stops abruptly on seeing
ST. OLPHERTS.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [By the settee—playfully, through his pain] Ah, my dear Mrs. Ebbsmith, how can you have the heart to deceive an invalid, a poor wretch who begs you—[sitting on the settee] to allow him to sit down for a moment? [AGNES deposits the hat and coat.]
AGNES. Deceive—?
ST. OLPHERTS. My friends arrive, I dine scrappily with them, and hurry to the Grunwald thinking to catch you over your Zabajone. Dear lady, you haven't been near the Grunwald.
AGNES. Your women faint sometimes, don't they?
ST. OLPHERTS. My—? [In pain.] Oh, what do you mean?
AGNES. The women in your class of life?
ST. OLPHERTS. Faint? Oh yes, when there's occasion for it.
AGNES. I'm hopelessly low-born; I fainted involuntarily.
ST. OLPHERTS. [Moving closer to her.] Oh, my dear, pray forgive me.
You've recovered? [She nods.] Indisposition agrees with you, evidently.
Your colouring tonight is charming. [Coughing.] You are—delightful—
to—look at.
[GERTRUDE enters, carrying a tray on which are a bowl of soup, a small decanter of wine, and accessories. She looks at ST. OLPHERTS unconcernedly, then turns away and places the tray on a table.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [Quietly to AGNES.] Not a servant?
AGNES, Oh, no.
ST. OLPHERTS. [Rising promptly.] Good God! I beg your pardon. A friend?
AGNES. Yes.
ST. OLPHERTS. [Looking at GERTRUDE, critically.] Very nice. [Still looking at GERTRUDE, but speaking to AGNES in undertones.] Married or—? [Turning to AGNES.] Married or—?
GERTRUDE. [To LUCAS, looking around.] It is draughty at this table.
LUCAS. [Going to the table near the settee, and collecting the writing materials.] Here—[AGNES joins GERTRUDE.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [Quietly to LUCAS.] Lucas—[LUCAS goes to him.] Who's that gal?
LUCAS. [To ST. OLPHERTS.] An hotel acquaintance we made in Florence—
Mrs Thorpe.
ST. OLPHERTS. Where's the husband?
LUCAS. A widow.
ST. OLPHERTS. You might—[GERTRUDE advances with the tray.]
LUCAS. Mrs. Thorpe, the Duke of St. Olpherts wishes to be introduced to you. [GERTRUDE inclines her head to the DUKE. LUCAS places the writing materials on another table.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [Limping up to GERTRUDE and handling the tray.] I beg to be allowed to help you. [At the table.] The tray here?
GERTRUDE. Thank you.
ST. OLPHERTS. Oh, how clumsy I am! We think it so gracious of you to
look after our poor friend here who is not quite herself today. [To
AGNES.] Come along, dear lady—everything is prepared for you. [To
GERTRUDE.] You are here with—your mother, I understand.
GERTRUDE. My brother.
ST. OLPHERTS. Brother. Now do tell me whether you find your—your little hotel comfortable.
GERTRUDE. [Looking at him steadily.] We don't stay at one.
ST. OLPHERTS. Apartments?
GERTRUDE. Yes.
ST. OLPHERTS. Do you know, dear Mrs. Thorpe, I have always had the very strongest desire to live in lodgings in Venice?
GERTRUDE. You should gratify it. Our quarters are rather humble; we are in the Campo San Bartolomeo.
ST. OLPHERTS. But how delightful!
GERTRUDE. Why not come and see our rooms?
ST. OLPHERTS. [Bowing.] My dear young lady! [Producing a pencil and writing upon his shirt-cuff.] Campo San Bartolomeo—
GERTRUDE. Five—four—nought—two
ST. OLPHERTS. [Writing.] Five—four—nought—two. Tomorrow afternoon? [She inclines her head.] Four o'clock?
GERTRUDE. Yes; that would give the people ample time to tidy and clear up after us.
ST. OLPHERTS. After you—?
GERTRUDE. After our departure. My brother and I leave early tomorrow morning.
ST. OLPHERTS. [After a brief pause, imperturbably.] A thousand thanks. May I impose myself so far upon you as to ask you to tell your landlord to expect me? [Taking up his hat and stick.] We are allowing this soup to get cold. [Joining LUCAS.] Dear Lucas, you have something to say to me—?
LUCAS. [Opening the door.] Come into my room. [They go out. The two women look at each other significantly.]
AGNES. You're a splendid woman.
GERTRUDE. That's rather a bad man, I think. Now, dear—[She places
AGNES on the settee, and sets the soup, &c., before her. AGNES eats.]
GERTRUDE. [Watching her closely.] So you have succeeded in coming to close quarters, as you expressed it, with him.
AGNES. [Taciturnly.] Yes.
GERTRUDE. His second visit here today, I gather.
AGNES. Yes.
GERTRUDE. His attitude towards you—his presence here under any circumstances—it's all rather queer.
AGNES. His code of behaviour is peculiarly his own.
GERTRUDE. However, you are easier in your mind?
AGNES. [Quietly, but with intensity.] I shall defeat him. I shall defeat him.
GERTRUDE. Defeat him? You will succeed in holding Mr. Cleeve, you mean?
AGNES. Oh, if you put it in that way—
GERTRUDE. Oh, come, I remember all you told me this afternoon. [With disdain.] So it has already arrived, then, at a simple struggle to hold Mr. Cleeve?
[There is a pause. AGNES, without answering, stretches out her hand to the wine. Her hand shakes—she withdraws it helplessly.]
GERTRUDE. What do you want—wine?
[AGNES nods. GERTRUDE pours out wine and gives her the glass. AGNES drains it eagerly and replaces it.]
GERTRUDE. Agnes—
AGNES. Yes?
GERTRUDE. You are dressed very beautifully.
AGNES. Do you think so?
GERTRUDE. Don't you know it? Who made you that gown?
AGNES. Bardini.
GERTRUDE. I shouldn't have credited the little woman with such excellent ideas.
AGNES. Oh, Lucas gave her the idea when he—when he—
GERTRUDE. When he ordered it?
AGNES. Yes.
GERTRUDE. Oh, the whole thing came as a surprise to you?
AGNES. Er—quite.
GERTRUDE. I noticed the box this afternoon when I called.
AGNES. Mr. Cleeve wishes me to appear more like—more like—
GERTRUDE. An ordinary smart woman. [Contemptuously.] Well, you ought to find no difficulty in managing that. You can make yourself very charming, it appears.
[AGNES again reaches out a hand towards the wine. GERTRUDE pours a very little wine into the wine-glass and takes up the glass; AGNES holds out her hand to receive it.]
GERTRUDE. Do you mind my drinking from your glass?
AGNES. [Staring at her.] No.
[GERTRUDE empties the glass and then places it, in a marked way, on the side of the table farthest from AGNES.]
GERTRUDE. [With a little shudder.] Ugh! Ugh! [AGNES moves away from GERTRUDE, to the end of the settee, her head bowed, her hands clenched.] I have something to propose. Come home with me tomorrow.
AGNES. [After a pause, raising her head.] Home—?
GERTRUDE. Ketherick. The very spot for a woman who wants to shut out things. Miles and miles of wild moorland! For company, purple heath and moss-covered granite, in summer; in winter, the moor-fowl and the snow glistening on top of the crags. Oh, and for open-air music, our little church owns the sweetest little peal of bells—! [AGNES rises, disturbed.] Ah, I can't promise you their silence! Indeed, I'm very much afraid that on a still Sunday you can even hear the sound of the organ quite a long distance off. I am the organist when I'm at home. That's Ketherick. Will you come? [The distant tinkling of mandolin and guitar is again heard.]
AGNES. Listen to that. The mandolinisti! You talk of the sound of your church organ, and I hear his music.
GERTRUDE. His music?
AGNES. The music he is fond of; the music that gives him the thoughts that please him, soothe him.
GERTRUDE. [Listening—humming the words of the air, contemptuously: "Bell'amore deh! Porgi l'orecchio, ad un canto che parte del cuore . . ."] Love-music!
AGNES. [In a low voice, staring upon the ground.] Yes, love music.
[The door leading from LUCAS'S room opens, and ST. OLPHERTS and LUCAS are heard talking. GERTRUDE hastily goes out. KUCAS enters; the boyishness of manner has left him—he is pale and excited.]
AGNES. What is the matter?
LUCAS. My wife is revealing quite a novel phase of character.
AGNES. Your wife—?
LUCAS. The submissive mood. It's right that you should be told, Agnes. She is here, at the Danieli, with my brother Sandford. [ST. OLPHERTS enters slowly.] Yes, positively! It appears that she has lent herself to a scheme of Sandford's—[glancing at ST. OLPHERTS]—and of—and—
ST. OLPHERTS. Of Sandford's.
LUCAS. [To AGNES.] A plan of reconciliation. [To ST. OLPHERTS.] Tell Sybil that the submissive mood comes too late, by a year or so! [He paces to and fro. AGNES sits, with an expressionless face.]
AGNES.[Quietly, to ST. OLPHERTS.] The "friends" you were expecting,
Duke?
ST. OLPHERTS. [Meekly.] Yes. [She smiles at him scornfully.]
LUCAS. Agnes dear, you and I leave here early tomorrow.
AGNES. Very well, Lucas.
LUCAS. [To ST. OLPHERTS.] Duke, will you be the bearer of a note from me to Sandford?
ST. OLPHERTS. Certainly.
LUCAS. [Going to the door of his room.] I'll write it at once.
ST. OLPHERTS. [Raising his voice.] You won't see Sandford, then, dear
Lucas, for a moment or two?
LUCAS. No, no; pray excuse me. [He goes out. ST. OLPHERTS advances to
AGNES. The sound of the music dies away.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [Slipping his coat off and throwing it upon the head of the settee.] Upon my soul, I think you've routed us!
AGNES. Yes.
ST. OLPHERTS. [Sitting, breaking into a laugh.] Ha, ha! he, he, he! Sir Sandford and Mrs. Cleeve will be so angry. Such a devil of a journey for nothing! Ho! [Coughing.] Ho, ho, ho!
AGNES. This was to be your grand coup.
ST. OLPHERTS. I admit it—I have been keeping this in reserve.
AGNES. I see. A further term of cat-and-dog life for Lucas and this lady—but it would have served to dispose of me, you fondly imagined. I see.
ST. OLPHERTS. I knew your hold on him was weakening. [She looks at him.] You knew it too. [She looks away.] He was beginning to find out that a dowdy demagogue is not the cheeriest person to live with. I repeat, you're a dooced clever woman, my dear. [She rises, with an impatient shake of her body, and walks past him, he following her with his eyes.] And a handsome one, into the bargain.
AGNES. Tsch!
ST. OLPHERTS. Tell me, when did you make up your mind to transform yourself?
AGNES. Suddenly, after our interview this afternoon; after what you said—
ST. OLPHERTS. Oh—!
AGNES. [With a little shiver.] An impulse.
ST. OLPHERTS. Impulse doesn't account for the possession of those gorgeous trappings.
AGNES. These rags? A surprise gift from Lucas, today.
ST. OLPHERTS. Really, my dear, I believe I've helped to bring about my own defeat. [Laughing softly.] Ho, ho, ho! How disgusted the Cleeve family will be! Ha, ha! [Testily.] Come, why don't you smile—laugh? You can afford to do so! Show your pretty white teeth! Laugh!
AGNES. [Hysterically.] Ha, ha, ha! Ha!
ST. OLPHERTS. That's better! [Pushing the cigarette-box towards him, she takes a cigarette and places it between her lips. He also takes a cigarette gaily. They smoke—she standing, with an elbow resting upon the top of the stove, looking down upon him.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [As he lights his cigarette.] This isn't explosive, I hope? No nitric and sulphuric acid, with glycerine—eh? [Eyeing her wonderingly and admiringly.] By jove! Which is you—the shabby, shapeless rebel who entertained me this afternoon or—[kissing the tips of his fingers to her]—or that?
AGNES. This—this. [Seating herself, slowly and thoughtfully, facing the stove, her back turned to him.] My sex has found me out.
ST. OLPHERTS. Ha! tsch! [Between his teeth.] Damn it, for your sake I almost wish Lucas was a different sort of feller!
AGNES. [Partly to herself, with intensity.] Nothing matters now—not even that. He's mine. He would have died but for me. I gave him life. He is my child, my husband, my lover, my bread, my daylight—all— everything. Mine! Mine!
ST. OLPHERTS. [Rising and limping over to her.] Good luck, my girl.
AGNES. Thanks!
ST. OLPHERTS. I'm rather sorry for you. This sort of triumph is short-lived, you know.
AGNES. [Turning to him.] I know. But I shall fight for every moment that prolongs it. This is my hour.
ST. OLPHERTS. Your hour—?
AGNES. There's only one hour in a woman's life.
ST. OLPHERTS. One—?
AGNES. One supreme hour. Her poor life is like the arch of a crescent; so many years lead up to that hour, so many weary years decline from it. No matter what she may strive for, there is a moment when Circumstance taps her upon the shoulder and says "Woman, this hour is the best that Earth has to spare you." It may come to her in calm or in temper, lighted by a steady radiance or by the glitter of evil stars; but however it comes, be it good or evil, it is her hour—let her dwell upon every second of it!
ST. OLPHERTS. And this little victory of yours—the possession of this man; you think this is the best that Earth can spare you? [She nods slowly and deliberately, with fixed eyes.] Dear me, how amusin' you women are! And in your dowdy days you had ambitions? [She looks at him suddenly.] They were of a queer, gunpowder-and-faggot sort—but they were ambitions.
AGNES. [Starting up.] Oh—! [Putting her hands to her brows.] Oh—! [Facing him.] Yes, yes! You're right! Once, long ago, I hoped that my hour would be very different from this. Ambitions! I have seen myself, standing, humbly-clad, looking down upon a dense, swaying crowd—a scarlet flag for my background. I have seen the responsive look upon thousands of white, eager, hungry faces, and I've heard the great hoarse shout of welcome as I have seized my flag and hurried down amongst the people—to be given a place among their leaders! I! With the leaders, the leaders! Yes, that is what I once hoped would be my hour! [Her voice sinking.] But this is my hour.