THE SECOND ACT.
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.
The scene is the Loggia of the Villa Colobiano, a beautiful old Florentine villa on the road to Fiesole, with a view of Florence in the distance. It is an artistic-looking place, with elegant pillars supporting a painted ceiling, coloured marble flooring, and a handsome balustrade and steps leading to the road and garden below, while noticeable on the wall of the villa, between the two entrance windows, is a glass case protecting the remnants of an old, half-obliterated fresco.
Weaver is gazing down the road through a pair of field-glasses, and Priscilla is bringing in the tea things, which she proceeds to arrange on a little table.
Weaver.
Pris.
Priscilla.
Hush! [Pointing towards the inner room.] Mr. Wilfrid has gone right off, tired out with his travelling.
Weaver.
I’m very sorry, but what am I to do? Here’s a carriage, with some ladies, coming up the road; of course they’ll pull up here to look at our blessed cartoon.
Priscilla.
Well, whatever folks can see in them few smears and scratches to come botherin’ us about, passes my belief.
Weaver.
You don’t see nothing in it, of course—a country-bred girl. But there’s a real bit of Michael Angelo under that glass. When he was stayin’ in this ’ouse some time back he amused himself by drawing that with a piece of black chalk.
Priscilla.
Why don’t he send and fetch it away?
Weaver.
It’s on the wall of the villa—how can he fetch it? And then again, he’s dead. [A bell rings.] I said so.
Priscilla.
Bother it! It’s sp’iled my dear little missy’s honeymoon. Jest as master is stroking the back of her little ’and, or dear missy is a’ goin’ to droop her head on master’s shoulder, in comes Weaver with “Somebody to look at the wall!” Lovin’ master as she do, why don’t she wipe it off and a’ done with it!
[Mrs. Stonehay’s voice is heard within the house.]
Mrs. Stonehay.
There is a step there, Irene—I have already struck my foot.
Priscilla.
Hush! Don’t show it ’em, Weaver.
Weaver.
I must. The villa was let to us on condition that all visitors was allowed to see the cartoon. This way, please.
[He shows in Mrs. Stonehay, a pompous-looking woman with an arrogant and artificial manner, and her daughter Irene, a handsome girl of about twenty, cold in speech and bearing.]
Mrs. Stonehay.
I hope we have not toiled up two flights of stairs for nothing. What is there to be seen here?
Priscilla.
[Pointing to Wilfrid.] Please, ma’am, the young gentleman has just travelled right through from England, and has fallen asleep.
Mrs. Stonehay.
Oh, indeed. This is surely not all.
Weaver.
[Opening the glass case.] Here is the cartoon, ma’am.
Mrs. Stonehay.
Cartoon—where?
Weaver.
A allegorical design, by Michael Angelo, ma’am; done when he was stayin’ in this very ’ouse.
Mrs. Stonehay.
Quite interesting! [Pedantically] Michael Angelo.
Weaver.
Michael Angelo.
Mrs. Stonehay.
How superior to the cartoons in our English comic journals! Irene.
Irene.
Yes, mamma?
Mrs. Stonehay.
Come here, child. [To Weaver.] What is the subject?
Weaver.
The Break of Day, ma’am. The black cloud underneath is departin’ Night—the nood figure reclinin’ on it is Early Morning.
Mrs. Stonehay.
Ugh! Never mind, Irene.
Irene.
Mamma, do you remember a girl who was at school at Helmstead during my last term—a little thing named Brudenell?
Mrs. Stonehay.
No—why?
Irene.
I am certain that the boy asleep there is the brother who came down every Saturday to visit her.
Mrs. Stonehay.
Dear me! [To Priscilla.] My good girl. Is that young gentleman’s name Brudenell?
Priscilla.
Yes, ma’am. It’s Mr. Wilfrid, Mrs. Renshaw’s brother.
Mrs. Stonehay.
Mrs. Renshaw! Miss Brudenell is married?
Priscilla.
A month ago, ma’am.
Mrs. Stonehay.
At home, I hope?
Priscilla.
She’s with Mr. Renshaw in the garden, ma’am.
Mrs. Stonehay.
[Giving Priscilla a card.] Your mistress will be delighted to see Mrs. Stonehay and her daughter. She is well and happy?
Priscilla.
As happy as the day is long, ma’am.
[Priscilla disappears down the steps.]
Mrs. Stonehay.
Irene, this will save us the expense of tea at Fiesole. [To Weaver.] Oh, you will find a young lady outside—my companion; be good enough to tell her to walk on to Fiesole—we will follow in the carriage.
Irene.
Oh, no, mamma—not walk! The girl looks painfully delicate.
Mrs. Stonehay.
My dear, I will not overload poor dumb animals.
Weaver.
Excuse me, ma’am, but it’s a terrible up-hill walk to Fiesole, and the sun is very hot at this time of the afternoon.
Mrs. Stonehay.
Thank you. The young lady is in my service.
Weaver.
Oh, I beg pardon, ma’am. [Weaver goes.]
Irene.
Here she comes, mamma—little Leslie Brudenell. She is quite a woman.
Mrs. Stonehay.
I forget her entirely. We won’t waste much time here; we’ll just ascertain their position, take tea, and leave.
Irene.
Oh, mamma, will you never admit that one may know people out of pure liking and nothing further!
Mrs. Stonehay.
My dear, do remember my creed! Men and women are sent into the world to help each other. Unfortunately I can help nobody, but it is none the less the solemn duty of others to help me.
[Leslie, looking very bright and happy, runs up the steps, meets Irene and embraces her affectionately.]
Leslie.
Dear Irene!
Irene.
You remember me?
Leslie.
Remember you! You were kind to me at Helmstead.
Irene.
I think you saw my mother once.
[Leslie bows to Mrs. Stonehay, and is joined by Dunstan Renshaw, who has lost his dissipated look, and whose manner towards Leslie is gentle, watchful, and tender.]
Leslie.
This is my husband. [Dunstan bows.]
Mrs. Stonehay.
Very happy.
Leslie.
You will let me give you some tea?
Mrs. Stonehay.
It seems barbarous to intrude upon people so recently married.
Dunstan Renshaw.
On the contrary, Mrs. Stonehay, you may be able to console my wife in her first small grief.
Mrs. Stonehay.
So soon?
Leslie.
Dunstan is obliged to leave me for two or three days.
Dunstan Renshaw.
I am just off to Rome to furnish some lodgings we have taken there, in the Via Sistina. Poor Leslie was to have accompanied me, but Doctor Coldstream forbids the risk of a Roman hotel.
Mrs. Stonehay.
Leaving this delightful villa!
Dunstan Renshaw.
Yes, the Villa Colobiano is delightful. At any rate Michael Angelo must have thought so at one time, when, in a moment of misapplied artistic ecstacy, he made his mark upon our wall.
Leslie.
Oh, yes, we’ve suffered dreadfully. Dunstan didn’t know when he took the Villa that it is honourably mentioned in Baedeker.
Dunstan Renshaw.
The irrepressible Tourists have made our life a martyrdom. With guide-book, green spectacles, and sun-umbrella, they look for traces of Michael Angelo in every corner of the house.
Leslie.
If we’re dining they almost lift up the dish-covers.
Dunstan Renshaw.
At first the servants hinted at a desire for seclusion on the part of a newly married couple.
Leslie.
That made matters worse; they wanted to see us then.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Just as if we had been tatooed by Michael Angelo.
Leslie.
[Taking Irene’s hand.] But it is such a relief to see real friends. How did you discover us?
[Irene and Mrs. Stonehay look at each other.]
Irene.
We were driving out to Fiesole—and——
Mrs. Stonehay.
The coachman told us we ought to see Michael Angelo’s cartoon.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Oh, of course—delighted—we’re awfully pleased——
Leslie.
We didn’t mean that we don’t like showing the—the——
Mrs. Stonehay.
What a magnificent view you command here!
Leslie.
[Whispering to Dunstan.] Oh, darling, what a muddle!
Dunstan Renshaw.
Don’t fret about it, sweetheart. I must go and dress for my journey. You will drive with me to the railway station?
Leslie.
No, no. I couldn’t part from you with people standing by. Not that I mean to cry.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Cry! You must never shed tears. [He kisses her fondly while the others are looking at the view.] Why, there’s old Wilfrid asleep. Make him help you with these Stonehenges.
[He leaves her and she wakes Wilfrid.]
Leslie.
Will! Will!
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Eh! What is it? I think I must have dropped off to sleep.
Leslie.
We’ve accidentally hurt some people’s feelings. Assist me in being very nice to them.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Yes—but wait a minute. I’m not quite sure—where——
[She drags Wilfrid over to Mrs. Stonehay and Irene.]
Leslie.
This is my brother, Wilfrid. [Quietly to Wilfrid.] Rattle on, Will, dear. Wilfrid, you recollect meeting Miss Stonehay at Helmstead.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
[Only half awake, seizing Mrs. Stonehay’s hand.] O yes, I recollect you perfectly. You left school some time ago, I suppose?
Mrs. Stonehay.
Yes—five-and-twenty years ago.
Leslie.
Wilfrid! I want some more teacups. And brush your hair. You’ve made it worse!
Wilfrid Brudenell.
I’m afraid I am not quite awake.
[He retires, the rest sit at the tea-table.]
Irene.
You make me feel quite old, Leslie—to see you so much a woman.
Leslie.
I am trying to be a woman, but I don’t get on very quickly.
Irene.
Why try?
Leslie.
Because I am ashamed that my husband’s wife should be so insignificant.
Irene.
You seem very fond of him.
Leslie.
Fond of him! Fond is a poor weak word. If I could realize my dearest desire I would be my husband’s slave.
Mrs. Stonehay.
All new wives who have money and many domestic servants say that.
Leslie.
Ah, but I would, truly. Do you know what it is to suffer keenly from over-kindness?
Irene.
I thought that was a malady the Faculty had succeeded in stamping out.
Leslie.
I suppose it lingers yet in some odd old-world corners; it is within the crumbling walls of this Villa, for instance. My husband is too devoted to me. I fear to have a wish because I know he cannot rest till it is gratified. If I look here, or there, his dear eyes imitate mine; if I rise, he starts up; if I walk on, he follows me. When he takes my hand he holds it as if it were a flower with a delicate bloom upon it; when he speaks to me he lowers his voice like one whispering into some rare shell that would break from too much sound. And all for one who is half a school-girl and half a woman, and so little of either.
[A man is heard singing a characteristic Italian air to the accompaniment of a mandolin.]
Mrs. Stonehay.
What’s that?
[Leslie runs to the balustrade and waves her hand.]
Leslie.
That’s Pietro Donigo, one of my husband’s protégés. Dunstan wishes him to sing to me every day.
Mrs. Stonehay.
[Sotto voce.] Good gracious, what next! What is there in this girl to be sung at!
Leslie.
Dun has been very good to Pietro, who is poor, with an old blind mother. Oh, he is good to everybody—good to everybody!
Mrs. Stonehay.
But, my dear Mrs. Renshaw, a wife ought not to be astonished at her husband’s good-nature in the early days of their marriage. What else did you expect for the first month?
Irene.
Hush, mamma dear; all Leslie means is that she is proud of her husband’s goodness. What wife would not be?
Leslie.
Yes, that is it—I am both proud and humble. Why, look! Directly we came here he sought out all the poor; in a few days they have learnt to bless his name, and when I pray for him I think I hear their chant echoing me. I tell you, sometimes I hide myself away to shed tears of gratitude, and it’s then that I think a woman’s heart might be broken less easily by cruelty than by too much kindness!
Mrs. Stonehay.
[To herself.] This girl’s parade of her model husband is insufferable; it is time I ended it.
[Wilfrid returns.]
Mrs. Stonehay.
By the way, Mrs. Renshaw, I hope that out of your vast contentment you can spare some congratulations for my daughter.
Irene.
No, no, mamma.
Leslie.
Congratulations!
Mrs. Stonehay.
During our visit to Rome, Mrs. Renshaw, Irene has become most fortunately engaged.
Leslie.
[Embracing Irene.] To be married?
Irene.
Yes.
Mrs. Stonehay.
The combination of qualities possessed by Mrs. Renshaw’s husband is rare. Nevertheless I think that some of the finest attributes of heart and mind are bestowed in an eminent degree upon Lord Dangars.
Leslie.
Dear Irene, I hope you will be—oh, you must be, as happy as I am. Tell me about him. Wilfrid, point out San Croce to Mrs. Stonehay, and—and show her our little garden.
[Wilfrid escorts Mrs. Stonehay towards the garden.]
Mrs. Stonehay.
[To herself.] The chit has no rank to boast about, at any rate.
Leslie.
Go on. Do make me your confidante.
Irene.
No, no.
Leslie.
Lord Dangars, your mother said. Have I the name correctly? Lady Dangars!
Irene.
Leslie—I—I can’t talk about it.
Leslie.
Can’t talk about your sweetheart?
Irene.
Hush! Lord Dangars is simply a man who wishes to marry me and whom my mother wishes me to marry. We are poor and she has her ambitions; there you have two volumes of a three-volume novel.
Leslie.
You don’t—love him?
Irene.
Love him!
Leslie.
Then you mustn’t do this. Dear, can’t I help you?
Irene.
You help me! Child, my small corner in the world is hewn out of stone; there’s not a path there that it would not bruise your little feet to tread.
Mrs. Stonehay.
[To Wilfrid.] I am in ecstacy! The moment Lord Dangars arrives in Florence I shall bring him to the Villa Colobiano.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
This is the way to the garden.
Mrs. Stonehay.
[Watching Leslie and Irene.] I thought so. We shall not be patronized by Mrs. Renshaw again.
[Wilfrid and Mrs. Stonehay go down the garden steps.]
Leslie.
But perhaps you will learn to love Lord Dangars. Is he young?
Irene.
Sufficiently so to escape being taken for my—grandfather.
Leslie.
Handsome?
Irene.
There is no accepted standard for man’s beauty.
Leslie.
Oh, be more serious. Is he a bachelor or a widower?
Irene.
Neither.
Leslie.
Neither?
Irene.
Lord Dangars is a divorcé.
Leslie.
A divorcé? At least, then, he deserves your pity.
Irene.
For what?
Leslie.
For his sorrow. He must have suffered.
Irene.
No, it was scarcely Lord Dangars who suffered.
Leslie.
[Shrinking from Irene.] His wife?
Irene.
Yes.
Leslie.
And you will—marry him! Oh! For shame, Irene!
Irene.
Leslie!
Leslie.
I can’t think of it!
Irene.
Be silent! I have the world upon my side—what is your girl’s voice against the world! I shall have money and a title—I shall have satisfied my mother at last. Why should you make it harder for me by even a word?
Leslie.
I want to save you from sharing this man’s hideous disgrace.
Irene.
Oh, the world has a short memory for a man’s disgrace. It is only with women that it lays down scandal, as it lays down wine, to ripen and mature.
Leslie.
But you will not forget; you will die under the burden of your husband’s past.
Irene.
I! oh, no! What is a man’s past to the woman who marries him!
Leslie.
It is her pride or her shame, the jewel she wears upon her brow or the mud which clings to her skirts! It is her light or her darkness; her life or her death!
Irene.
You’re too young a wife to lecture me like this! The only difference between me and other women will be that Lord Dangars’s story is public and their husband’s vices are unrevealed!
Leslie.
That is not true! You have no right to defend yourself in that way.
Irene.
It is true! What woman who doesn’t wish to be lied to would ask her husband to unfold the record of his life of—liberty?
Leslie.
What woman would——! I would!
Irene.
Simpleton!
Leslie.
A thousand times, I would! Oh, under my dear husband’s roof how dare you think so cruelly of good men!
[She runs to Dunstan as he enters dressed for travelling.]
Mrs. Stonehay.
[Rejoining them with Wilfrid.] Irene, we are forgetting our drive to Fiesole.
Dunstan Renshaw.
[To Leslie.] What’s the matter? Have I been away too long?
Leslie.
It is always too long when you are away.
Mrs. Stonehay.
Good-bye, dear Mrs. Renshaw.
Leslie.
[Distantly.] Good-bye.
Mrs. Stonehay.
My dear Mr. Renshaw, everything here is too charming!
Irene.
[To Leslie.] Forgive me. My life has made me bitter. Sometimes I am nearly mad.
Leslie.
Come and see me again, Irene. When you know my husband better you will realize how little your world has taught you. [Leslie kisses Irene.]
Mrs. Stonehay.
Irene, I believe I can see that obstinate young woman sitting down in a vineyard—not a quarter of a mile from this house yet. There is a limit even to my forbearance.
[Wilfrid, Mrs. Stonehay, and Irene go out. Leslie gives Dunstan a cup of tea.]
Leslie.
The stirrup cup.
Dunstan Renshaw.
You will think of me in the toils of the Roman furniture and bric-à-brac dealers, won’t you?
Leslie.
Think of you!
Dunstan Renshaw.
I shall fight through the worry of it in a couple of days and then—there will be the first home of our own making. Just imagine when we skip up the stone stairs in the Via Sistina and I throw open the door——
Leslie.
Our own door!
Dunstan Renshaw.
Our own door—and we see our own chairs and tables, our own pictures, our own——
[He pauses suddenly.]
Leslie.
Dun! Dun, dear?
Dunstan Renshaw.
This separating, even for a day or two, is a heavy-hearted business.
Leslie.
It shall always be so, dear, always.
Dunstan Renshaw.
While I’m gone you’ll not forget the lame girl in the Via Vellutini—or Pietro’s old mother——?
Leslie.
No, dear, no.
Dunstan Renshaw.
And—and double the allowance to those little children we helped yesterday.
Leslie.
If you wish it; but the father is working here now in our garden——
Dunstan Renshaw.
Never mind—double it, treble it! I don’t spend enough, half enough, in conscience money.
Leslie.
Conscience money!
Dunstan Renshaw.
That is the name I give my little charities.
Leslie.
Do you call all charity conscience money?
Dunstan Renshaw.
No. But, Leslie, no man is good enough for a good woman, and so I’m trying to buy my right to possess you——
Leslie.
To possess me! Worthless me!
Dunstan Renshaw.
My right to your love and—your esteem.
Leslie.
Oh, Dun, you are sad! As if anything in life could rob you of my worship.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Nothing that could happen?
Leslie.
Husband, what could happen!
[Hugh Murray enters unseen by Leslie, but Dunstan stares at him, as if in terror.]
Dunstan Renshaw.
Murray!
Hugh Murray.
Pardon me. Wilfrid told me to——
Leslie.
Mr. Murray! Oh, dear Mr. Murray!
[She takes his hands.]
Wilfrid.
[Joining them.] The very last man we expected at the Villa Colobiano! And, what do you think, Dunstan—he hasn’t come to see the old fresco!
Leslie.
Dunstan!
[Hugh and Dunstan look significantly at Leslie, and then shake hands.]
Dunstan Renshaw.
As Wilfrid says, you are the last man we looked to see in Florence.
Leslie.
But, oh, so welcome!
Hugh Murray.
You must not, I’m sorry to say, consider this the visit of a friend, Mr. Renshaw.
Leslie.
Have you travelled so many miles to talk only about business?
Hugh Murray.
Yes.
Leslie.
Ah, be a friend first and let the business wait.
Hugh Murray.
I leave here to-night, and I must speak to Mr. Renshaw without delay.
Dunstan Renshaw.
I can give you only five minutes. Leslie.
Leslie.
I shall make a nosegay for my dear, and bring it when the five minutes are gone. [Tenderly to Dunstan.] You have made me forget there is anything in the world called Business.
[She follows Wilfrid down the garden steps. Dunstan watches her for a moment, then faces Hugh.]
Dunstan Renshaw.
Do you come here, may I ask, to take up our acquaintance at the point where it was broken a month ago?
Hugh Murray.
I regret that I must do so.
Dunstan Renshaw.
As a friend—or as an enemy?
Hugh Murray.
Neither—as a man who feels he has a duty to follow, and who will follow it.
Dunstan Renshaw.
What do you consider your duty?
Hugh Murray.
This. There is no need to remind you of my knowledge of the doings of Mr. Lawrence Kenward.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Murray!
Hugh Murray.
I did not use your name.
Dunstan Renshaw.
You know the poor creature who—you know her?
Hugh Murray.
She came to me, in ignorance of my association with you, on the very day, at the very moment, of your marriage.
Dunstan Renshaw.
What did she want of you?
Hugh Murray.
My aid in searching for her betrayer.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Don’t tell me she is the girl whom my wife and her brother encountered at the railway station in London!
Hugh Murray.
She is the girl.
Dunstan Renshaw.
That’s fatality—fatality.
Hugh Murray.
Before she had been with me ten minutes, I discovered the actual identity of the man Kenward.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Oh!
Hugh Murray.
And I deliberately and dishonestly concealed my knowledge from her.
Dunstan Renshaw.
For my sake?
Hugh Murray.
No—for the sake of the child you had made your wife.
Dunstan Renshaw.
My wife. Janet Preece can have her revenge now. My wife—my wife.
Hugh Murray.
The girl left me on your marriage morning upon the understanding that I would write to her.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Yes.
Hugh Murray.
I did write, the day following, to an address she gave me, in the country. I wrote instructing her to take no steps till she heard from me a month thence.
Dunstan Renshaw.
That is a month ago!
Hugh Murray.
Exactly a month ago.
Dunstan Renshaw.
What do you intend to do now?
Hugh Murray.
Write to her once more, confessing that I have done nothing, and intend to do nothing to aid her.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Oh, Murray!
Hugh Murray.
Man, don’t thank me! For the sake of one poor creature, your wife, I have been dishonest to another poor creature, your broken plaything! For one month I have lied for you in act and in spirit. In the race between you and your victim I have given the strong man a month’s start; to her a month of suspense, to you a month of thoughtless happiness. You have taken it, enjoyed it, steeped yourself to the lips in it; and now, from this day, you play the game of your life without a confederate. Our paths divide!
Dunstan Renshaw.
Murray! Listen to me! You are the only man who may have it in his power to help me!
Hugh Murray.
I have done so—for a month.
Dunstan Renshaw.
I don’t ask you to pity the girl I have ill-used or the girl I have married—that you must do. But, wretch that I am, you might do a greater injustice than to pity me.
Hugh Murray.
Pity you!
Dunstan Renshaw.
Murray, a month ago I married this child. Perhaps, then, I was really in love with her; I hardly know, for loving had been to me like a tune a man hums for a day and can’t recall a week afterwards. But this I do know—I have grown to love her now with my whole soul!
Hugh Murray.
[Contemptuously.] Oh!
Dunstan Renshaw.
I married her, as it were, in darkness; she seemed to take me by the hand and to lead me out into the light. Murray, the companionship of this pure woman is a revelation of life to me! I tell you there are times when she stands before me that I am like a man dazzled and can scarcely look at her without shading my eyes. But you know—because you read my future—you know what my existence has become! The Past has overtaken me! I am in deadly fear! I dread the visit of a stranger, or the sight of strange handwriting, and in my sleep I dream that I am muttering into her ear the truth against myself! And, oh, Murray, there is one thing more that is the rack to me and yet a delight, a paradise and yet a torment, a curse and yet a blessing, my wife—God help me!—my wife thinks me—Good!
Leslie.
[In the garden below.] Dunstan! Dunstan!
Hugh Murray.
Your wife! Be quick! Tell me—how can I help you?
Dunstan Renshaw.
Ah, Murray!
Hugh Murray.
For her sake—for her sake!
Dunstan Renshaw.
The moment you reach London send for Janet Preece—tell her the truth—entreat her to be silent. Tell her I will do all in my power to atone if she will be but silent—only silent—silent!
Leslie.
[From the garden.] Dunstan! The five minutes are gone.
[Leslie runs on carrying some flowers. Wilfrid follows, leisurely, smoking a cigarette.]
Leslie.
Have I come back a minute too soon? [To Dunstan.] You have had bad news; ah, don’t send me away again! You are troubled.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Why, of course I am troubled.
Leslie.
About nothing worse than leaving me?
Dunstan Renshaw.
Isn’t that bad enough?
Leslie.
[Giving him a bunch of flowers.] For you. [To Hugh.] Is it unbusiness-like to give you a flower?
Hugh Murray.
Thank you.
[Weaver enters dressed for travelling.]
Weaver.
The carriage is at the door, sir.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Send it round to the gate. I will walk with Mrs. Renshaw through the garden.
[Weaver retires.]
Leslie.
Wilfrid is here to amuse you, Mr. Murray, if I am poor company. Must you leave us too?
Hugh Murray.
Thank you—yes. I turn my face homeward to-night.
Dunstan Renshaw.
I have something more to say to Murray. [To Hugh.] Will you drive down with me?
[Hugh assents silently.]
Dunstan Renshaw.
[Pointing into the distance.] Leslie, when the carriage gets to that little rise stand here and beckon to me till I am out of sight.
Leslie.
Beckon to you?
Dunstan Renshaw.
Yes, I want to remember it while we are apart as the last sign you made me—beckoning me to return.
[They go down the steps together.]
Hugh Murray.
Wilfrid, don’t ever tell her—your sister—that I asked you this. She is—quite happy?
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Oh, she’s awfully happy. But, I say, isn’t she a lucky girl?
Hugh Murray.
Yes. Why?
Wilfrid Brudenell.
To have the best fellow in the world for her husband.
Hugh Murray.
Look—they’re waiting for me. Good-bye.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Good-bye. [He shakes hands with Hugh, who descends the steps.] No, I sha’n’t assist at Dun’s departure. I’m afraid Les will cry, and I can’t bear to see a girl cry; it makes me feel so dreadfully queer in the chest. Dun is saying good-bye to her now. Oh, well now, she is a brick! She’s rolled her handkerchief into a ball and put it in her pocket. There’s Murray. In he gets! Away they go! Poor Leslie’s head is drooping. Confound it, she’s taking out her handkerchief! I can’t stand it.
[Priscilla enters from the villa, crying.]
Priscilla.
Mr. Wilfrid.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Well? Oh, now, what are you crying about?
Priscilla.
The young person, sir, who was with the two ladies who came to see our cartoon, has been sent back on foot, and she’s downstairs begging for a morsel of water; and, oh, Mr. Wilfrid, the poor thing looks so weak and ill!
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Ill! Where is she?
[He goes into the villa, as Leslie slowly ascends the garden steps. The serenade is heard again.]
Leslie.
No, Pietro mustn’t sing to me while he is gone. My home shall never be bright and cheerful when its dear master is away.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
[From the house.] Leslie! Leslie!
Leslie.
Will? [Wilfrid comes from the villa with Janet Preece, who looks weary and feeble. Taking Janet’s hand.] Oh! Wilfrid!
Wilfrid Brudenell.
It’s our little friend of the London railway station!
Janet Preece.
No, no—I am only Mrs. Stonehay’s servant—little better. She has threatened to send me away, because she says I am self-willed and won’t obey her. But I—I can’t walk; I’m not over-strong. What shall I do!
[She falls back fainting; Wilfrid catches her in his arms. Leslie kneels beside her, loosening the strings of her bonnet.]
Leslie.
Oh, poor girl! Why, she is no older than I. Ah, Will, she sha’n’t want a shelter! Priscilla! Priscilla!
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Priscilla!
Leslie.
Oh! the carriage! [She runs quickly to the balustrade and looks out into the distance.] It’s there! [She beckons thrice.] Dunstan—come back to me! Come back to me!
END OF THE SECOND ACT.