THE PROFLIGATE
THE FIRST ACT.
THIS MAN AND THIS WOMAN.
The scene is the junior partner’s room in the offices of Messrs. Cheal 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. Ephgraves, an elderly, sober-looking clerk, who places a slip of paper before him.
Hugh Murray.
Lord Dangars.
Ephgraves.
Yes.
Hugh Murray.
Mr. Cheal always sees Lord Dangars.
Ephgraves.
Yes, sir, but Mr. Cheal is so put about by this morning’s very unusual business that he doesn’t wish to see anybody till after the wedding.
Hugh Murray.
Very well.
Ephgraves.
[Handing a bundle of legal documents to Hugh.] “Dangars v. Dangars.” 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 considered it would be a permissible compliment to our client, the bride——
Hugh Murray.
Quite so—very kind of Mr. Renshaw.
Ephgraves.
I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but I see you’re not wearing yours.
Hugh Murray.
Oh, this is from Mr. Renshaw?
Ephgraves.
Yes.
Hugh Murray.
We are keeping Lord Dangars waiting.
[Ephgraves 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.
[Ephgraves ushers in Lord Dangars, a dissipated-looking man of about forty, dressed in the height of fashion.]
Lord Dangars.
Good morning, Mr. Murray.
Hugh Murray.
Good morning. Pray sit down.
Lord Dangars.
I don’t want to bother you, you know, but my servant, who has been reading the newspapers for me since my damned—I beg your pardon—since my divorce business has been before the public, says that we were in Court again yesterday.
Hugh Murray.
Oh, yes. The Decree Nisi has been made absolute on the application of the petitioner.
Lord Dangars.
The Petitioner. Let me see—they call me the Respondent, don’t they?
Hugh Murray.
They do—[under his breath] amongst other things.
Lord Dangars.
It’s a deuced odd circumstance that I have been nearly everything in divorce cases, but never a petitioner. Decree Nisi made absolute, eh? That means I am quite free, doesn’t it?
Hugh Murray.
Certainly.
Lord Dangars.
And eligible?
Hugh Murray.
I beg pardon?
Lord Dangars.
I can marry again?
Hugh Murray.
You could marry again if you thought proper.
Lord Dangars.
You wouldn’t call it improper?
Hugh Murray.
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.
Lord Dangars.
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?
Hugh Murray.
May I speak honestly, Lord Dangars?
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.
Hugh Murray.
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.
Lord Dangars.
As for wronging her, that’s an abstract question of sentiment. But I don’t see how the man is a fool.
Hugh Murray.
A man is a fool to bind himself to one who sooner or later must learn what little need there is to respect her husband.
Lord Dangars.
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?
Hugh Murray.
No, I don’t know it and I don’t believe it.
Lord Dangars.
Oh, really——
Hugh Murray.
You can’t lay the Past: it has an ugly habit of breaking its tomb.
Lord Dangars.
Even then the shades of pretty women should not be such very bad company. [Referring to his watch.] By Jove, a pleasant chat runs into one’s time. If you want me, “Poste Restante, Rome,” till you hear again.
Hugh Murray.
Going abroad, during the shooting?
Lord Dangars.
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 tranquilly in Italy and write a Society novel.
Hugh Murray.
A Society novel!
Lord Dangars.
Yes—that seems the only thing left for a man whose reputation is a little off colour. Good-bye, Mr. Murray.
Hugh Murray.
Good-bye, Lord Dangars. Come this way.
[Hugh opens the door leading on to the staircase-landing.]
Lord Dangars.
Excuse me, but didn’t I see Mr. Dunstan Renshaw enter your outer office just then?
Hugh Murray.
I am expecting Mr. Renshaw. Do you know him?
Lord Dangars.
Know him! We’re bosom friends.
Hugh Murray.
Friends? You and Mr. Renshaw? Then of course you know that he is going to be married this morning.
Lord Dangars.
Married! You’re joking!
Hugh Murray.
I have a perfectly serious engagement to accompany Mr. Renshaw to the Registrar’s in half-an-hour.
Lord Dangars.
You! No! Ha, ha! That’s very good—that’s very good—that’s capital!
Hugh Murray.
Why does the idea of Mr. Renshaw’s marriage amuse you so much, Lord Dangars?
Lord Dangars.
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.
Hugh Murray.
You mean that Mr. Renshaw is not, according to my qualification, an eligible husband for a pure honest-hearted woman?
Lord Dangars.
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?
Hugh Murray.
Miss Leslie Brudenell—an orphan—my partner’s ward.
Lord Dangars.
Money? I needn’t ask.
Hugh Murray.
If Miss Brudenell were penniless I should describe her as a millionaire. She is very sweet, very beautiful.
Lord Dangars.
You’re enthusiastic.
Hugh Murray.
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 school-house at Helmstead, and I stood aside in the shade of the beeches 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 mouth’s ago, and to-day—— God forgive us if we are doing wrong!
Lord Dangars.
[To himself.] I’m dashed if my pious young Scotch solicitor isn’t in love with the girl himself.
[Ephgraves comes from the clerk’s office.]
Hugh Murray.
Mr. Renshaw?
Ephgraves.
Yes.
Lord Dangars.
Dunstan!
Dunstan Renshaw.
[Speaking outside.] Why, George!
[Dunstan Renshaw enters as Ephgraves 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.]
Dunstan Renshaw.
Congratulate you! So the law has turned you into a jolly old bachelor?
Lord Dangars.
Yes, my boy—on condition that my solicitor offers a young fresh victim to Hymen in the course of this morning.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Hallo! You know all about it, do you?
Lord Dangars.
Mr. Murray broke the news as gently as possible.
Dunstan Renshaw.
[Shaking hands with Murray.] My best man. Good morning, Murray. Was it a shock, George?
Lord Dangars.
Terrible! You might have knocked me down with one of Clotilda Green’s lace fans.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Shut up, now! I’ve played that sort of game out; so no reminiscences.
Lord Dangars.
Trust me, my dear boy. Make me a friend of your hearth and edit my recollections.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Then all you remember is that at Cambridge I was a diligent but unlucky student.
Lord Dangars.
Quite so—I recollect that perfectly.
Dunstan Renshaw.
And that from boyhood I have suffered from a stupefying bashfulness before women.
Lord Dangars.
Done. You’ll recall the same of me when I next have occasion to marry, won’t you?
Dunstan Renshaw.
It’s a bargain. I—[Puts his hand over his eyes.] Oh, confound this!
Lord Dangars.
What’s the matter? Are you ill?
Dunstan Renshaw.
No. Wait a minute. There were some fellows at my lodgings last night assisting at the launching of the ship—I mean, saying good-bye 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 on to the chair, with his head resting on his hands. Hugh brings him a glass of water.]
Hugh Murray.
Here.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Thanks. [Gradually recovering.] I’m all right. Did I look white or yellow?
Lord Dangars.
Neither—green. Fortunate the lady was not present.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Oh, Miss Brudenell doesn’t know why rooms sometimes go round and round.
Lord Dangars.
No? Perhaps her relations are more penetrating.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Thank goodness there are no such incumbrances. 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 at even weights.
[He drains the remainder of the water and shivers.]
Lord Dangars.
Met her at a ball, of course. I really will be seen at dances again by-and-by.
Dunstan Renshaw.
A ball—nonsense. Her only idea of a ball is a lot of girls sitting against a wall pulling crackers. She’s a “little maid from school.”
Lord Dangars.
Charming! But how——
Dunstan Renshaw.
How—I’ll give you the recipe. Go down into the country for a couple of days’ fishing.
Lord Dangars.
Often done it—caught fish, no girls.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Wait. The stream must run off your host’s property through the recreation grounds of a young ladies’ school.
Lord Dangars.
Times are altered—there was always a brick wall in my day.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Brick walls still exist, but a heavy fish on your line breaks down your notions of propriety and you paddle along mid-stream. You soon discover some pretty little women with their arms round each other’s waists, and you apologise profusely.
Lord Dangars.
But you risk rheumatism.
Dunstan Renshaw.
So Leslie thought, and that won me her sympathy.
Lord Dangars.
And sympathy is akin to love.
Dunstan Renshaw.
And love, occasionally, leads to marriage. [Holding out his hand to Dangars, who buttons his glove.] Help deck me for the sacrifice, George. As luck would have it, Leslie’s guardian, Mr. Cheal, was my people’s lawyer years ago, and he knew I was a gentleman and all that sort of thing. So Cheal 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. Cheal comes from his private office. He is an elderly man with a pompous manner and florid complexion.]
Mr. Cheal.
Hasn’t Miss Brudenell arrived yet? Ah, good morning, Lord Dangars. 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 Dangars, perhaps you can tell us.
Dunstan Renshaw.
No, no! Ask him something about the Divorce Court.
Mr. Cheal.
Good gracious, I quite forgot! Pray pardon me.
[Dunstan laughs heartily.]
Dunstan Renshaw.
I’m waiting for Mr. Murray, my best man.
Mr. Cheal.
[Rather testily.] Mr. Murray! [Hugh is gazing into the fire.] Mr. Murray, please.
Hugh Murray.
Eh?
Mr. Cheal.
Mr. Renshaw is waiting.
Hugh Murray.
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 Cheal, Dunstan, and Dangars exchange glances.]
Dunstan Renshaw.
Oh, all right—don’t mention it.
Lord Dangars.
[To himself.] Thought so.
Mr. Cheal.
You place us in rather an awkward position, Mr. Murray. I have to escort Miss Brudenell, and I hardly wish to send a clerk with Mr. Renshaw.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Look here, don’t bother. Where does this Registrar chap hang out?
Mr. Cheal.
Twenty-three, Ely Place—very near here.
Lord Dangars.
I’ll walk with you, my boy, and lend you my moral support.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Thanks. But, excuse me, George, I think we’ll part company at the Registrar’s front door.
Lord Dangars.
You believe in omens then, eh?
Dunstan Renshaw.
Well, every man does on his wedding morning.
Lord Dangars.
All right. Do you think I want to assist at your wedding? You never came to hear my divorce case.
[Dangars leaves the office followed by Dunstan.]
Mr. Cheal.
Really, Mr. Murray, this is scarcely business-like.
Hugh Murray.
I think it is all cruelly business-like. Mr. Cheal, don’t you think it possible, even at this moment, to stop this marriage?
Mr. Cheal.
Stop the marriage! Good gracious, sir, for what reason?
Hugh Murray.
The marriage of a simple-minded trustful school-girl to a man of whom you know either too little or too much.
Mr. Cheal.
I know a great deal of Mr. Renshaw. He comes of a very excellent family—excellent family.
Hugh Murray.
Are the members of it at hand to speak for him?
Mr. Cheal.
They are all, I hope, beyond the reach of prejudice, Mr. Murray. They are unhappily deceased.
Hugh Murray.
Then how can you weigh the dead against the living? Here are two lives to be brought together this morning or kept apart, as you will; for upon you rests the responsibility of this marriage.
Mr. Cheal.
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——
Hugh Murray.
Made in Heaven?
Mr. Cheal.
Yes, sir, certainly.
Hugh Murray.
This one, sir, is the exclusive manufacture of Holborn.
Mr. Cheal.
That’s rather a flippant observation, Mr. Murray.
Hugh 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. Cheal.
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——
Hugh Murray.
The license it permits itself!
Mr. Cheal.
You are bullying the world, Mr. Murray. I don’t attempt, sir, to be much wiser than the world.
Hugh Murray.
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 school-boy.
Mr. Cheal.
Tut, tut, that’s all past. Marriage is the real beginning of a man’s life.
Hugh Murray.
No, sir, it is the end of it—what comes after is either heaven or hell.
[Ephgraves enters.]
Ephgraves.
Miss Brudenell is here with her maid and Mr. Wilfrid.
Hugh Murray.
Don’t bring them in till I ring.
Mr. Cheal.
Really, Mr. Murray——! [Ephgraves retires.]
Hugh Murray.
Mr. Cheal, I make a final appeal to you with my whole heart.
Mr. Cheal.
I am a man of business, Mr. Murray!
Hugh Murray.
I know that; and I know that this child is an unremunerative responsibility of which you would gladly be rid.
Mr. Cheal.
Frankly, the trustees were most inadequately provided for under the Will.
Hugh Murray.
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.
Mr. Cheal.
My dear sir, you talk as if the young lady were not deeply in love with Mr. Renshaw.
Hugh Murray.
What judge is a school-girl of the worth of a man? Of course she falls in love with the first she meets.
Mr. Cheal.
Nothing of the kind. Why, for that matter, Miss Brudenell knew you before she met Mr. Renshaw.
Hugh Murray.
Yes, yes—I know!
Mr. Cheal.
You have been down to the school at Helmstead often enough—why on earth didn’t the child fall in love with you?
Hugh Murray.
No—true, true. But I have no pretensions to—— of course—I—— [He strikes a bell.] I fear my argument has been very poor.
[Ephgraves ushers in Leslie Brudenell, a sweet-looking girl, tastefully but simply dressed, who is accompanied by her brother Wilfrid, a handsome, boyish young man of about one-and-twenty, and her maid Priscilla, a healthy-looking country girl.]
Leslie.
Oh, Mr. Cheal, am I late?
Mr. Cheal.
Late, my dear—no. Good morning, Mr. Brudenell.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Leslie was ready to start at seven o’clock this morning and broke the hotel-bell ringing for breakfast.
Leslie.
Oh, don’t tell about me, Will, dear.
Mr. Cheal.
Let me know when the carriage arrives, Mr. Ephgraves.
Ephgraves.
Yes, sir. [Ephgraves goes out.]
Leslie.
[Offering her hand.] Mr. Murray.
Hugh Murray.
Were you very frightened lest you should be late?
Leslie.
Yes, very.
Hugh Murray.
Of course you were.
Leslie.
For his sake—he would suffer so if I kept him waiting. Where is he?
Hugh Murray.
At the Registrar’s.
Leslie.
Why aren’t you with him? You promised.
Hugh Murray.
I am busy.
Leslie.
Oh, how unkind to be busy on such a morning! Will, Mr. Murray won’t come to the wedding.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
That’s a shame. How d’y’r do, Mr. Murray?
Mr. Cheal.
H’m! I shall be there.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Yes, but Leslie wants her London Mother as well as her London Father.
Mr. Cheal.
Eh? What’s that?
Leslie.
Nothing—be quiet, Will!
Mr. Cheal.
What is the meaning of a London father and——
Wilfrid Brudenell.
I’ll tell you——
Leslie.
No, no—you tell things so roughly. My London Father is a name the school-girls gave you, Mr. Cheal, 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 school-fellows told me their mothers are.
Mr. Cheal.
H’m! Well, my dear, all that is very nice for school-girls, but it is what practical people call stuff and nonsense. I’ll go and get my hat.
[He goes out.]
Leslie.
Mr. Cheal is angry.
Hugh Murray.
No, no.
Leslie.
He is. He said “stuff and nonsense” the other day when I begged him to let me be married in a church, and now——
Hugh Murray.
Ah, don’t think of Mr. Cheal’s very business-like manner.
Leslie.
I can’t help it. Tell me, Mr. Murray, does everything simple become stuff and nonsense when you get married?
Hugh Murray.
How should I know, my child? I am an old bachelor. [Priscilla beckons Leslie.]
Priscilla.
Missy—Miss—you’re untidy again!
Leslie.
Oh, no, don’t say that!
[Priscilla arranges Leslie’s costume.]
Leslie.
The little mirror, Priscilla. [Surveying herself critically as the sunlight enters at the windows.] Priscilla, I’m getting uglier as the day wears on.
Priscilla.
I’m sure you’re quite good-looking enough for London, Miss.
Leslie.
I’m not thinking about London.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
[Addressing Hugh.] That’s an odd picture for a lawyer’s musty office.
Hugh Murray.
Ay—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.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Rather bad for his clients, eh?
Hugh Murray.
Yes, and bad for the lawyer.
Leslie.
I hope the Registrar’s office is very dark, Mr. Murray. I particularly dislike my face to-day.
Priscilla.
[Whispering to Hugh.] Ain’t she sweet and pretty, sir?
Hugh Murray.
Yes.
Priscilla.
A lucky gentleman Mr. Renshaw, sir.
Hugh Murray.
Ay.
Leslie.
I heard that. Indeed Mr. Renshaw is not lucky at all.
Hugh Murray.
I think so. Why not?
Leslie.
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.] [Looking at herself in the mirror.] I wish now I had added “make me a little prettier.”
[Ephgraves appears at the door.]
Ephgraves.
The carriage is here, sir.
Leslie and Priscilla.
Oh!
Hugh Murray.
Tell Mr. Cheal.
[Leslie is a little flurried, and Priscilla at once busies herself about Leslie’s costume.]
Ephgraves.
A young lady is in my room waiting to see you, Mr. Murray. She brings a card of Mr. Wilfrid’s with your name on it in his writing.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Oh, I am so glad she has called! Mr. Murray, I’ve found your firm a new client.
Hugh Murray.
Indeed—thank you—thank you. In a few moments, Mr. Ephgraves.
[Ephgraves goes into the inner office.]
Wilfrid Brudenell.
It’s quite a romance, isn’t it, Leslie?
Leslie.
Oh, don’t speak to me, please, dear.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
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?
Leslie.
Yes—yes. There’s a button off my glove.
[Priscilla hastily produces needle and thread and commences stitching the glove.]
Wilfrid Brudenell.
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?
Leslie.
I can’t remember anything till I have been married a little while. Do be quick, Priscilla.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Well, what do you think the poor little lady wanted? She wanted to find the cleverest man in London, some one to advise her on an awfully important matter. Leslie said I was clever, didn’t you, Les?
Leslie.
Yes, but I thought of Mr. Renshaw.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
But, said I, “I know what you really need—a lawyer,” and I gave her my card to present to Mr. Hugh Murray, of Cheal and Murray, Furnival’s Inn.
Hugh Murray.
Thank you—thank you.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
[To himself.] I wish I could find her here when we come back. [Cheal bustles into the room.]
Mr. Cheal.
Now then, my dear, are you ready?
Leslie.
Ready! You had better say farewell to Miss Leslie Brudenell, Mr. Murray; you will never see her again.
Hugh Murray.
Good-bye.
Leslie.
Come to my wedding.
Hugh Murray.
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.
Mr. Cheal.
My dear!
[Cheal offers his arm to Leslie, who, as she takes it, looks appealingly at Hugh, but he will not notice her.]
Leslie.
Mr. Murray! Mr. Murray!
[She leaves the room on Cheal’s arm, attended by Priscilla.]
Wilfrid Brudenell.
I say, we shan’t be long getting married. I wish you could detain the young lady till I return.
Hugh Murray.
Yes—yes.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
It’s of no consequence, you know.
[Wilfrid runs out after the wedding party.]
Hugh Murray.
She is going. [He goes to the window and looks out.] Ah! They have taken her away. The Inn is empty.
[Ephgraves enters.]
Ephgraves.
H’m! Mr. Murray.
Hugh Murray.
They have gone, Ephgraves.
Ephgraves.
Yes. [Handing him a slip of paper.] Will you see the young lady now?
Hugh Murray.
Certainly. [Ephgraves goes out.]
Hugh Murray.
[Reading.] “Miss Janet Preece, introduced by Mr. Wilfrid Brudenell.”
[Ephgraves ushers in Janet Preece, a pretty, simply-dressed girl of about eighteen, with a timid air, and a troubled look.]
Janet Preece.
Are you Mr. Murray, sir?
Hugh Murray.
Yes. Sit down there. You wish to see a solicitor, I understand?
Janet Preece.
A lawyer, sir.
Hugh Murray.
That’s the same thing—sometimes. In what way can I serve you?
Janet Preece.
I—I thought you would be older.
Hugh Murray.
Mr. Cheal, my partner, is older than I, but he is out. Can’t you believe in me?
Janet Preece.
It isn’t that I think you’re not clever.
Hugh Murray.
Come, come, that’s something.
Janet Preece.
But you don’t know why I—what I have to—Heaven help me!
Hugh Murray.
You know, people bring their troubles to men like me quite as an ordinary matter——
Janet Preece.
Yes, sir—ordinary troubles. I could tell a woman: I could tell your wife if she was as kind as you seem to be.
Hugh Murray.
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.]
Janet Preece.
I—want—to—find somebody who has disappeared.
Hugh Murray.
Yes? A man or a woman?
Janet Preece.
A man.
Hugh Murray.
The task may be very easy or very difficult. Is he a London man?
Janet Preece.
Yes, a town gentleman who does ill in the country.
Hugh Murray.
Shall I begin by writing down his name?
Janet Preece.
I don’t know his name—I only know the name he called himself by away down home. Mr.—Lawrence—Kenward. Lawrence—Kenward—Esquire.
Hugh Murray.
How do you know the name is assumed?
Janet Preece.
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.
Hugh Murray.
What were the initials?
Janet Preece.
D. R.
Hugh Murray.
[Scribbling upon a sheet of paper.] Ah, you may have been mistaken. The letters “D. R.” and “L. K.” have some resemblance at a distance.
Janet Preece.
No—no, no—no!
Hugh Murray.
[Scribbling again.] Now, making the “D. R.” in this way—[thoughtfully] D. R.
Janet Preece.
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 Murray.
[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?
Janet Preece.
No. He was always too near me for the need of writing, the more’s the shame.
Hugh Murray.
Have you his portrait—a photograph?
Janet Preece.
He always meant me too much ill to give me a portrait.
Hugh Murray.
Describe him.
Janet Preece.
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 Murray.
[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——! What a fool I am to think of no man but Renshaw!
Janet Preece.
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’m 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 Murray.
[To himself.] If the face she sketches should bear any resemblance to his, what could I do, what could I do?
Janet Preece.
[To herself.] That’s with his mocking look as I last saw him. He is always mocking me now.
Hugh Murray.
[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 towards hunting for a man in this labyrinth of London.
Janet Preece.
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.
Hugh Murray.
I—I can’t undertake this search. It’s useless—it’s useless.
Janet Preece.
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 is 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 night-time—he is only a betrayer of women, and men don’t hide for that!
Hugh Murray.
I—I’ll look through this bundle of papers. You shall hear from me to-morrow.
[He is showing Janet to the door when Wilfrid enters.]
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Oh, I’m so glad you’ve found your way here! How strange that we should meet again!
Janet Preece.
Yes. Thank you, thank you for your kindness. Good-bye! [She goes hurriedly from the room.]
Wilfrid Brudenell.
There now! After my hurrying off on the chance of seeing her, and being nearly run down in Holborn—only “thank you” and “good-bye!”
Hugh Murray.
Have they left the Registrar’s?
Wilfrid Brudenell.
He was congratulating them when I stole away.
Hugh Murray.
[To himself.] If the poor girl should come face to face with Renshaw this morning!
[Hugh looks out of the window.]
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Come now, Mr. Murray, isn’t she sweet?
Hugh Murray.
Yes, yes. [This to himself.] She is crossing the Inn.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
And don’t you thank me for sending you such a pretty client?
Hugh Murray.
[Turning away from the window.] She’s gone.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Do tell me about her. What’s her name? I should like to think of her by some name.
Hugh Murray.
A lawyer talks of everything but his clients, my boy. So—your sister is married, eh?
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Married! She was married before one’s eyes became used to the darkness of the gloomy little office.
Hugh Murray.
Married—fast married!
Wilfrid Brudenell.
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 no time, you die in no time, you’re forgotten in no time——
Hugh Murray.
But you suffer all the time.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
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 we’ll remain to each other simple, light-hearted boy and girl for ever and ever. That’s the way to be happy. Hark! [He opens the door.] Here they are! Hallo, Dunstan!
[Renshaw enters, followed by his man, Weaver, who carries his travelling coat and hat.]
Dunstan Renshaw.
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?
Weaver.
If you mean to get to Cannon Street, to catch the 12.37 for Folkestone, you haven’t any time to lose, sir.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Oh. [To Wilfrid.] Leslie is affixing her signature, with a great deal of dignity, to some legal documents in the next room. Ask her to omit the flourishes, Wilfrid; there’s a good fellow.
[Wilfrid goes quickly into the clerk’s office followed by Weaver.]
Dunstan Renshaw.
[Hums an air and yawns.] I say, Murray, if you ever marry, take my advice—patronize the Registrar; the process is rapid and merciful.
Hugh Murray.
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.
Dunstan Renshaw.
What’s the matter? What’s wrong?
Hugh Murray.
I tell you to your face, you have done a cruel, a wanton act!
Dunstan Renshaw.
What do you mean?
Hugh Murray.
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!
Dunstan Renshaw.
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.
Hugh Murray.
You can’t dispute with me because there is no question of truth between us!
Dunstan Renshaw.