THE FOURTH ACT.
THE BEGINNING OF A NEW LIFE.
The scene is Hugh Murray’s private sitting-room in an old-fashioned Holborn hotel, comfortably and solidly furnished, but with an antiquated look about the place. It is evening, the lamps are lighted and the fire is burning. Hugh is playing a plaintive melody upon the piano, and watching Leslie, who sits with a listless air.
Leslie.
Mr. Murray.
Hugh Murray.
Yes?
Leslie.
Wilfrid is very late.
Hugh Murray.
He will be back soon.
Leslie.
With the worn, hopeless look upon his face which makes my heart ache so. Do you guess why the poor boy is out and about from morning till night?
Hugh Murray.
Do I guess?
Leslie.
Ah, you do guess. You know that my brother is searching for Janet Preece.
Hugh Murray.
Something of the kind has crossed my mind. Why does he look for her here?
Leslie.
He ascertained that she left Florence before we hurried out of that dreadful city; but she has not returned to her home in the country, and so he prays that the whirlpool has drawn her to London again and that he may find her.
Hugh Murray.
Does he confide in you?
Leslie.
No, poor fellow—but I know, I know, I know. Oh, it’s horrible that he can’t forget her—horrible!
Hugh Murray.
Hush! you must try not to think.
Leslie.
I do try—I do try. How long have my brother and I been here? I can’t reckon.
Hugh Murray.
You left Florence ten days ago; you’ve been sharing an old bachelor’s solitude almost a week.
Leslie.
Dear friend, your solitude must be far better than such dismal company.
Hugh Murray.
Better! No.
Leslie.
Ah, yes. I wanted Wilfrid to be with me when I told you—but, I leave you early to-morrow.
Hugh Murray.
To-morrow!
Leslie.
Yes. I’ve written to my old schoolmistress at Helmstead begging her to take me again—not to learn; I’ve nothing more to learn! But I want to sit amongst the girls again, to walk with them, and to run down to the brook with my hands in theirs as I did—only six weeks ago. Only six weeks ago.
Hugh Murray.
And Wilfrid?
Leslie.
Wilfrid has promised to visit me very often, as he used to. So everything will be as it was—just as it was.
Hugh Murray.
I knew you could not remain in this dreary hotel, but still—why so suddenly?
Leslie.
Because I’ve been thinking that if he should try to see me—you know whom I mean?
Hugh Murray.
Yes.
Leslie.
If he should try to see me again it is to you he would first come to ascertain my whereabouts.
Hugh Murray.
And surely you would grant him an interview?
Leslie.
Not yet! I’m not cruel—I used not to be cruel—only I’m not ready to meet him yet.
Hugh Murray.
When will you be prepared to meet him?
Leslie.
How can I tell? I am like a dead woman dreaming after death. What good would it do him to look upon a soulless woman!
Hugh Murray.
Is there no hope left for him?
Leslie.
Yes, a miracle—when there is hope for me.
[Wilfrid enters, looking very weary and careworn.]
Leslie.
Wilfrid dear.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Well, Les. [He kisses her listlessly.]
Hugh Murray.
You look fagged, my boy.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Hallo, Murray. I am a bit done to-night.
Hugh Murray.
Walking?
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Flying like a blind bat, from one quarter of London to another. I’ve got some business in hand, and no one will do more than gape or laugh at a fellow when he’s in terrible earnest. This cursed city! It soaks up the poor and the helpless like a sponge; but I’ll wring it dry yet—you’ll see if I don’t—you’ll see——
[He twists the arm-chair round and sits facing the fire.]
Leslie.
[To Hugh, in a whisper.] I told you so—he is searching for her.
Hugh Murray.
Yes.
Leslie.
What should I do if he found her!
Hugh Murray.
Nothing. Leave everything to chance.
Leslie.
Chance!
Hugh Murray.
Chance is a fairer arbiter of our lives than we imagine. You are terribly ill. [She shakes her head.] I have written into the country for some fruit for you; it should have arrived by this time, with this morning’s bloom on it. I’ll go and enquire. [She offers her hand, which he merely touches.] Poor Will’s fast asleep. [He goes out.]
Leslie.
[Bending over Wilfrid.] Tired to death. Will, my dear brother, you are the only one left me now and you are drifting away from me. Your heart is no longer mine and your thoughts are no longer mine. It’s so hard to lose husband and brother at once! Come back to me—come back to me!
[Janet, looking very poor and ill, appears at the door.]
Leslie.
Oh! Janet!
Janet Preece.
Mrs. Renshaw.
Leslie.
How do you come here?
Janet Preece.
I’ve been keeping near you since you left Florence. Days ago I found out you were here, through watching your brother and Mr. Murray. If I’d sent my name up to you you’d have refused to see me, so I’ve been waiting my opportunity to steal into the hotel while the porter was absent. Don’t turn me away till you’ve heard me!
Leslie.
Sit down, while I think for a moment.
Janet Preece.
Thank you.
Leslie.
[To herself, looking at the arm-chair in which Wilfrid is sleeping concealed from view.] Chance has brought them together again and Mr. Murray says that chance is a just arbiter. I’ll neither unite them nor keep them apart. Chance shall do everything for me. Well? Speak low, please.
Janet Preece.
[Pointing to door.] Your brother is not in there?
Leslie.
No. What do you want of me?
Janet Preece.
To tell you this. I’m going out to Australia in company with some poor farming people from down near home; I met them by chance here in London and it’s settled. We sail from Plymouth the day after to-morrow, and there’s an end o’ me.
Leslie.
Can I—do anything—to help you?
Janet Preece.
Oh, no, no. But before I go I’ve got to ease my mind of something that you must listen to. It’s this. I’ve parted you from your husband. Haven’t I? Haven’t I?
Leslie.
Yes.
Janet Preece.
Well, then, its only just to him that you should know this. It’s I that tempted him, not he that led me on; and I’ve lied to you in letting you think the man was to blame instead of the woman. I’m worthless, part of the rubbish of the world, and was so before I met him, and he’s a better man than you think for. There!
Leslie.
Janet, do you think I don’t see through the falsehood you’re telling me?
Janet Preece.
The falsehood!
Leslie.
You’re trying to heal my sorrow with a fable. It’s useless; I have heard the truth from my husband’s lips.
Janet Preece.
Ah, then, in pity for me, take him back! Don’t let me go to my grave knowing that I’ve ruined your life for you. Try to blame me more! Try to blame me more!
[Wilfrid stirs in his sleep.]
Leslie.
Hush!
Janet Preece.
We’re not alone!
Leslie.
My brother.
Janet Preece.
[In a whisper.] He has not heard me. I’ll go.
Leslie.
Janet, I’ll not keep the truth from you! Wilfrid loves you still.
Janet Preece.
Oh, no!
Leslie.
He has been searching for you for days past, and he is there now worn with trouble and anxiety for you.
Janet Preece.
Oh, don’t tell me! don’t tell me!
Leslie.
It would be a reproach to me if I let you go in ignorance; and now, Janet, I—I leave the rest to you.
Janet Preece.
God bless you for the trust you place in me! You needn’t fear me. Good-bye.
Leslie.
Ah, Janet, I am so perplexed. We are both in trouble—both in trouble.
Janet Preece.
In years to come, when I am only a mere speck in his life, you’ll tell him, won’t you?
Leslie.
Yes, yes.
Janet Preece.
[Irresolutely.] You’ll let me look at his face once more for the last time? [Leslie nods her head. Looking at Wilfrid.] Good-bye. [To Leslie.] He need never know.
[She slowly bends over Wilfrid and kisses him upon the forehead. As she draws back behind the chair Wilfrid opens his eyes and sees Leslie standing before him.]
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Leslie, dear, I was dreaming and you woke me with your kiss. [Janet steals out.] What’s that? [Hugh enters, carrying a basket of fruit.] Oh, it’s Murray.
Leslie.
[In an undertone to Hugh.] Lend me some money—some money. By-and-by I’ll tell you why I want it.
Hugh Murray.
[To Leslie.] Gold or notes?
Leslie.
Either—both.
[He hands her some money from a cabinet, and she goes out.]
Hugh Murray.
Wilfrid.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Yes?
Hugh Murray.
Quick, man; before your sister returns! I must tell you. Renshaw is coming here to-night.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Renshaw!
Hugh Murray.
I received this note from him five minutes ago—a few lines telling me he has returned to England and entreating me to see him to-night.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
You’ll not meet him!
Hugh Murray.
Why not? The man is suffering; I can read that in his handwriting.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Suffering! Let him taste such suffering as he has dealt out to others. Is my sister not suffering? Is Janet Preece not suffering? Am I not suffering?
Hugh Murray.
Wilfrid, my boy, Wilfrid; there’s something better to do than to be revenged.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
How easy it is, Murray, for an onlooker to be charitable!
Hugh Murray.
Hush, my boy! Don’t you see that there is no future for her except one of reconciliation with her husband?
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Reconciliation!
Hugh Murray.
Her ideal is destroyed, her illusions are gone, but time will send Renshaw’s sins further and further into the distance, and habit will teach her never to look back.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Murray, you don’t know! You argue like a lawyer who has to patch up a mere wrangle between husband and wife.
Hugh Murray.
I don’t know!
Wilfrid Brudenell.
You don’t know what it is to have the heart plucked out of you and trampled upon!
Hugh Murray.
Wilfrid, be silent!
Wilfrid Brudenell.
How can you, living your level, humdrum life, gauge the penalty paid by those who love what is worth so much and yet so little! Ah, Murray, wait till you love and lose, as we have lost!
Hugh Murray.
Wait! [Leslie enters unnoticed.] Wait! Do you think you can read me a lesson in despair? Come to me when your boy’s passion has grown cold and I’ll describe to you the agony of a man’s hungry, hopeless, endless devotion.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Murray!
Hugh Murray.
I love your sister! I have loved her from the moment I first saw her in the school-garden at Helmstead; but I loved her too reverently to disturb the simplicity of her childhood, and I waited. I waited! Waited for him to scorch into her cheeks the first flame of consciousness—waited for her to make him her idol—waited for him to break her heart! Waited for this!
[He sits with his face buried in his hands.]
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Murray—forgive me. I never thought of this. If we could have been brothers!
Hugh Murray.
Sssh! It is always as it is now, Will. Women love men whose natures are like bright colours—the homespun of life repels them. They delight to hear their fate in the cadences of a musical voice, thinking they are listening to an impromptu; it’s too late when they learn that the melody has been composed by Experience and scored by other women’s tears. [Leslie reveals herself.]
Wilfrid Brudenell.
My sister!
Hugh Murray.
Mrs. Renshaw! I fear—you have heard.
Leslie.
Yes.
Hugh Murray.
I never meant you to know; I meant to carry it with me silently and patiently. The sorrow is mine—mine only.
Leslie.
I—I can say nothing—nothing. Good-night. We will not meet to-morrow—I shall be gone early.
Hugh Murray.
Good-night.
Leslie.
I shall never cease to pray for your good fortune. God bless you, Mr. Murray!
[Leslie gives Hugh her hand, then she and Wilfrid go out together. There is a knock at the door. A servant brings Hugh a card.]
Hugh Murray.
Yes. [The servant goes out.]
Hugh Murray.
Renshaw.
[The servant ushers in Dunstan Renshaw, who looks broken and walks feebly.]
Dunstan Renshaw.
Speak to me, Murray.
Hugh Murray.
You look ill. Sit down.
Dunstan Renshaw.
I have been ill, in Florence, and haven’t had strength to struggle back to England till now.
Hugh Murray.
I’m sorry. What do you want of me?
Dunstan Renshaw.
Friendship. If you’re not my friend I haven’t one in the world. Murray, you know where she is?
Hugh Murray.
Yes—I know.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Tell me—tell me!
Hugh Murray.
I can’t tell you. I—I may not tell you.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Ah! I appeal to you. Exact any promise from me—be as hard on me as you please—only tell me, tell me! [Hugh is silent.] Ah, you don’t know what you’re doing. I am mad. Night and day I see nothing but her face as it looked on me when she sent me from her; night and day I hear nothing but that one word “Go,” the last she spoke to me. The word won’t let me sleep; it beats so on my brain. Another word, a simple message, from her might drive it out. Only tell me where she is! My wife, Murray—my wife!
Hugh Murray.
I would tell you of my own will. But I can’t break faith with her.
Dunstan Renshaw.
She has not softened towards me then a little—a little, Murray?
Hugh Murray.
Man, you must have patience.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Patience!
Hugh Murray.
You must wait.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Wait! It is a hundred years since I lost her—a hundred years, and she has not softened towards me just a little.
[He sits gazing vacantly upon the ground.]
Hugh Murray.
[To himself.] Surely she would pity him if she saw him now, and if I can reconcile them it is my duty. I’ll do my best; it will be my consolation to have done my best. [To Dunstan.] Where are you going when you leave me to-night?
Dunstan Renshaw.
Let me rest here, in your room, for a few hours.
Hugh Murray.
Have you left your hotel?
Dunstan Renshaw.
I am staying nowhere; I have been walking the streets till I came here.
Hugh Murray.
I’ll order you a room in this house.
Dunstan Renshaw.
No, no. It’s only here I can rest. I shall rest here.
Hugh Murray.
Why here?
Dunstan Renshaw.
Because I shall feel sure that a friend’s eyes will look on me in the morning.
Hugh Murray.
Ring for what you want, otherwise the servants won’t disturb you.
Dunstan Renshaw.
[To himself.] Won’t disturb me—won’t disturb me. No.
Hugh Murray.
I’ll leave you now. Good-night.
Dunstan Renshaw.
You will not tell me where she is?
Hugh Murray.
Till I have her permission, I cannot.
Dunstan Renshaw.
You mean that, guessing I should follow her, she has taken precautions to avoid me—to avoid me? Your face answers me.
Hugh Murray.
[To himself.] She will relent—I know she will relent.
Dunstan Renshaw.
I shan’t see you again to-night, Murray.
Hugh Murray.
No—you’ll not see me. Good night.
Dunstan Renshaw.
Good-bye.
Hugh Murray.
[To himself.] But you shall see her; I know she will relent. [He goes out.]
Dunstan Renshaw.
Fool! fool! Why couldn’t you have died in Florence? Why did you drag yourself all these miles—to end it here? I should have known better—I should have known better. [He takes a phial from his pocket and slowly pours some poison into a tumbler.] When I’ve proved that I could not live away from her, perhaps she’ll pity me. I shall never know it, but perhaps she’ll pity me then. [About to drink.] Supposing I am blind! Supposing there is some chance of my regaining her. Regaining her! How dull sleeplessness makes me! How much could I regain of what I’ve lost! Why, she knows me—nothing can ever undo that—she knows me. Every day would be a dreary, hideous masquerade; every night a wakeful, torturing retrospect. If she smiled, I should whisper to myself—“yes, yes, that’s a very pretty pretence, but—she knows you!” The slamming of a door would shout it, the creaking of a stair would murmur it—“she knows you!” And when she thought herself alone, or while she lay in her sleep, I should be always stealthily spying for that dreadful look upon her face, and I should find it again and again as I see it now—the look which cries out so plainly—“Profligate! you taught one good woman to believe in you, but now she knows you!” No, no—no, no! [He drains the contents of the tumbler.] The end—the end. [Pointing towards the clock.] The hour at which we used to walk together in the garden at Florence—husband and wife—lovers. [He pulls up the window-blind and looks out.] The sky—the last time—the sky. [He rests drowsily against the piano.] Tired—tired. [He walks rather unsteadily to the table.] A line to Murray. [Writing.] A line to Murray—telling him—poison—morphine—message—— [The pen falls from his hand and his head drops forward.] The light is going out. I can’t see. Light—I’ll finish this when I wake—I’ll rest. [He staggers to the sofa and falls upon it.] I shall sleep to-night. The voice has gone. Leslie—wife—reconciled——
[Leslie enters softly and kneels by his side.]
Leslie.
Dunstan, I am here. [He partly opens his eyes, raises himself, and stares at her; then his head falls back quietly. Leslie’s face averted.] Dunstan, I have returned to you. We are one and we will make atonement for the past together. I will be your Wife, not your Judge—let us from this moment begin the new life you spoke of. Dunstan! [She sees the paper which has fallen from his hand, and reads it.] Dunstan! Dunstan! No, no! Look at me! Ah! [She catches him in her arms.] Husband! Husband! Husband!
THE END.
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