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Title: The New Woman: An Original Comedy, in Four Acts

Author: Sydney Grundy

Release date: September 22, 2012 [eBook #40839]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Paul Haxo from page images generously made

available by Google and the Princeton University Library.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEW WOMAN: AN ORIGINAL COMEDY, IN FOUR ACTS ***

THE NEW WOMAN

AN ORIGINAL COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS

BY

SYDNEY GRUNDY

LONDON

PRINTED AT THE CHISWICK PRESS

1894

CHARACTERS.

GERALD CAZENOVE.

COLONEL CAZENOVE.

CAPTAIN SYLVESTER.

JAMES ARMSTRONG.

PERCY PETTIGREW.

WELLS.

SERVANTS.

MARGERY.

LADY WARGRAVE.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

MISS ENID BETHUNE.

MISS VICTORIA VIVASH.

DR. MARY BEVAN.

ACTS 1 and 2: At Gerald Cazenove’s.

ACT 3: Drawing-room at Lady Wargrave’s.

ACT 4: An Orchard at Mapledurham.

PAGE

ACT I.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

5

ACT II.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

40

ACT III.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

69

ACT IV.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

91

THE NEW WOMAN.

ACT I.

SCENE.—GERALD CAZENOVE’S Chambers. A sitting-room, somewhat effeminately decorated. The furniture of the boudoir type, several antimacassars and a profusion of photographs and flowers. The main entrance, R. at back, in the flat. Doors, R. and L., window, L. of flat.

A knock is heard off, as curtain rises. Enter WELLS, L., crosses stage and opens door in flat. Enter COLONEL CAZENOVE and SYLVESTER.

COLONEL.

Is my nephew at home?

WELLS.

No, Colonel; but I expect him every moment.

COLONEL.

Very well; I’ll wait. [Exit WELLS, door in flat.] Bah! what a stench of flowers! [Opens window and throws out a bunch of lilies standing on the table below.] Sit down, Sylvester—if you can find a chair to carry twelve stone.

SYLVESTER.

Really, I feel a sort of trespasser.

COLONEL.

Sit down.

SYLVESTER [sits].

I don’t know Cazenove very well——

COLONEL.

I’m much in the same case. Since he came up to town, I’ve only called upon him once before. By Jove, it was enough. Such a set as I met here!

SYLVESTER.

I understood that he was up the river.

COLONEL.

Came back yesterday. Hope it’s done him good. After all, he’s my nephew, and I mean to knock the nonsense out of him.

SYLVESTER.

Colonel, you’re very proud of him; and you have every reason to be. From all I hear, few men have won more distinction at Oxford.

COLONEL [pleased].

Proud of him? My dear Sylvester, that boy has more brains in his little finger than I have—gout. He takes after his aunt Caroline. You remember Caroline?

SYLVESTER.

Oh, I remember Lady Wargrave well.

COLONEL.

Wonderful woman, sir—a heart of gold—and a head—phew! Gerald takes after her. At Oxford, he carried everything before him.

SYLVESTER [laughing].

And now these women carry him behind them!

COLONEL.

But he’s a Cazenove! He’ll come right side up. We Cazenoves always do. We may go under every now and then, but we come up again! It’s in the blood.

SYLVESTER.

According to my wife—and Agnes is a clever woman in her way——

COLONEL.

Don’t know her.

SYLVESTER.

His cultivated spirit and magnetic intellect are one of the brightest hopes for the social progress of our time—[Laughs.] whatever that may mean!

COLONEL.

Does it mean anything? That is the sort of jargon Gerald was full of, when I saw him last. But he’ll get over it. Intellectual measles. Oxford’s a fine place, but no mental drainage.

SYLVESTER.

I can form no opinion. I hadn’t the advantage of a university training.

COLONEL.

I had. I was rusticated. We Cazenoves always were—till Gerald’s time. But he’ll redeem himself. We Cazenoves have always been men, except one. That’s my sister, Caroline; and, by Jove, she’s the next best thing—a woman.

[Rising, in his enthusiasm—the antimacassar slips on to the seat.

SYLVESTER.

A real woman.

COLONEL.

Caroline’s a heart of gold——

SYLVESTER.

Yes, so you said.

COLONEL.

Did I? I beg your pardon. [Sits on the antimacassar, instantly springs up, and flings it into a corner. Points to that covering SYLVESTER’S chair.] Throw that thing away!

SYLVESTER.

All right. I’m used to ’em. We grow ’em at our house. [Looks round.] I might be sitting in my wife’s boudoir! Same furniture, same flowers, same photographs—hallo, that’s rather a pretty woman over there!

[Crosses.

COLONEL.

A pretty woman, where? [Crosses.] No, not my style!

SYLVESTER.

Ha! ha!

COLONEL.

What are you laughing at?

SYLVESTER.

My wife! I didn’t recognize her.

[Goes about examining photographs.

COLONEL.

Ten thousand pardons! I had no idea——

SYLVESTER.

Bless me, my wife again!

COLONEL [looking].

That’s better. That’s much better.

SYLVESTER.

It’s an older photograph. Agnes was quite a woman when I married her, but she grows more and more ethereal. Philosophy doesn’t seem very nourishing.

COLONEL.

She’s a philosopher?

SYLVESTER.

Haven’t you read her book? “Aspirations after a Higher Morality.”

COLONEL.

The old morality’s high enough for me.

SYLVESTER.

I’ve tried to read it, but I didn’t succeed. However, I’ve cut the leaves and dropped cigar ash on the final chapter. Why, here she is again!

COLONEL.

Three photographs? And you’re not jealous?

SYLVESTER.

My dear Colonel, who am I to be jealous?

COLONEL.

Her husband, aren’t you?

SYLVESTER.

Yes, I am Mrs. Sylvester’s husband. I belong to my wife, but my wife doesn’t belong to me. She is the property of the public. Directly I saw her photograph in a shop-window I realized the situation. People tell me I’ve a wife to be proud of; but they’re wrong. Mrs. Sylvester is not my wife; I am her husband.

COLONEL [taking up a book].

This is what comes of educating women. We have created a Frankenstein. “Man, the Betrayer—A Study of the Sexes—By Enid Bethune.”

SYLVESTER.

Oh, I know her. She comes to our house.

COLONEL.

And has a man betrayed her?

SYLVESTER.

Never. Not likely to.

COLONEL.

That’s what’s the matter, perhaps?

SYLVESTER.

Her theory is, that boys ought to be girls, and young men should be maids. [COLONEL throws down the book.] That’s how she’d equalize the sexes.

COLONEL.

Pshaw! [Takes up another book.] “Ye Foolish Virgins!—A Remonstrance—by Victoria Vivash.”

SYLVESTER.

Another soul! She’s also for equality. Her theory is, that girls should be boys, and maids should be young men. Goes in for latchkeys and that sort of thing.

COLONEL [throws down the book].

Bah! [Takes up a third.] “Naked and Unashamed—A Few Plain Facts and Figures—by Mary Bevan, M.D.” Who on earth’s she?

SYLVESTER.

One of the plain figures. She comes to our house, too.

COLONEL [reads].

“The Physiology of the Sexes!” Oh, this eternal babble of the sexes! [Throws book down.] Why can’t a woman be content to be a woman? What does she want to make a beastly man of herself for?

SYLVESTER.

But my wife isn’t a woman.

COLONEL.

None of them are, my boy. A woman, who is a woman, doesn’t want to be anything else. These people are a sex of their own, Sylvester. They have invented a new gender. And to think my nephew’s one of them!

[Strides up and down, seizes another antimacassar and flings it into another corner.

SYLVESTER.

Oh, he’s young. Don’t despair!

COLONEL.

I don’t despair! Do you suppose this folly can continue? Do you imagine that these puffed-up women will not soon burst of their own vanity? Then, the reaction! then will come our turn! Mark my words, Sylvester, there’ll be a boom in men!

[Rubbing his hands.

Enter GERALD, door in flat.

GERALD.

Good afternoon. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.

[Shakes hands with COLONEL.

COLONEL.

Here you are, at last.

GERALD [shaking hands with SYLVESTER].

How’s Mrs. Sylvester?

SYLVESTER.

I was just going to ask you. You see more of her than I do.

GERALD.

We are collaborating.

COLONEL.

In the Higher Morality?

SYLVESTER.

How are you getting on?

GERALD.

Oh, we are only on the threshold. I finished the first chapter about daybreak.

COLONEL.

That’s how you waste the precious hours of night? Gad, sir, when I was your age——

GERALD.

That was thirty years ago. Things have changed since then.

COLONEL.

And they haven’t improved.

GERALD.

That is a question.

COLONEL.

Oh, everything’s a question nowadays! Nothing is sacred to a young man fresh from Oxford. Existence is a problem to be investigated; in my youth, it was a life to be lived; and, I thank Heaven, I lived it. Ah, the nights I had!

SYLVESTER.

Would it be impertinent to inquire upon what subject my wife is engaged?

GERALD.

Our subject is the Ethics of Marriage.

SYLVESTER.

Of my marriage?

GERALD.

Of marriage in the abstract.

COLONEL.

As if people married for ethics! There is no such thing, sir. There are no ethics in marriage.

GERALD.

That is the conclusion at which we have arrived.

COLONEL.

You are only on the threshold, and yet you have arrived at a conclusion?

GERALD.

So much is obvious. It is a conclusion to which literature and the higher culture inevitably tend. The awakened conscience of woman is already alive to it.

COLONEL.

Conscience of woman! What are you talking about? I’ve known a good many women in my time, and they hadn’t a conscience amongst ’em! There’s only one thing can awaken the conscience of woman, and that is being found out.

GERALD.

I am speaking of innocent women.

COLONEL.

I never met one.

GERALD.

Yet——

COLONEL.

Tut, tut, sir; read your Bible. Who was it had the first bite at the apple? And she’s been nibbling at it ever since!

GERALD.

Well, well, uncle, you don’t often come to see me; so we won’t argue. Can I prevail on you to stay to tea?

COLONEL.

To stay to what, sir?

GERALD.

Tea. At five o’clock, I have a few friends coming. Mrs. Sylvester—[SYLVESTER puts down photograph and turns]—Miss Bethune—Miss Vivash——

SYLVESTER.

And Dr. Mary Bevan?

GERALD.

Yes, I expect Miss Bevan.

COLONEL.

“Naked and Unashamed?”

GERALD.

They may bring Percy with them.

COLONEL.

Percy?

GERALD.

Percy Pettigrew.

COLONEL.

A man? An actual man? A bull amongst that china?

SYLVESTER.

Well, hardly!

COLONEL.

You know him, Sylvester?

SYLVESTER.

They bring him to our house.

GERALD.

Nobody has done more for the Advancement of Woman.

SYLVESTER.

By making a public exhibition of the Decay of Man.

GERALD.

Sylvester, you’re a Philistine. I won’t ask you to stay.

SYLVESTER.

Man the Betrayer might be dangerous, amongst such foolish virgins.

COLONEL.

The danger would be all the other way. I am not sorry I shall have protection. My sister, Caroline, will be here at five.

GERALD.

Aunt Caroline! [A little nervously.]

COLONEL.

I came to announce her visit.

SYLVESTER.

Lady Wargrave has returned to England?

COLONEL.

After ten years’ absence. She has been travelling for her health, which was never too robust; and since Sir Oriel’s death, she has been more or less a wanderer.

GERALD.

I knew she had arrived, but I postponed presenting myself till I was summoned. My aunt has the kindest of hearts——

COLONEL.

A heart of gold, sir.

GERALD.

And a pocket too. Nobody knows that better than I do. Since my parents’ death, she has been father and mother, as well as aunt, to me. But there was always something about aunt that made one keep one’s distance.

COLONEL [in a milder voice than he has yet used].

And there is still, Gerald.

GERALD.

Then I’m glad I’ve kept mine.

COLONEL.

You acted very wisely; I happen to know she wished her arrival kept secret and to descend upon you like a dea ex machinâ. Caroline always had a sense of dramatic effect. But how the deuce did you know of her return?

GERALD.

Oh, very simply. Margery told me.

COLONEL.

Margery!

GERALD.

Aunt wrote to summon her to resume her duties.

COLONEL.

But Margery’s at Mapledurham. Caroline was stopping with some friends in Paris, and Margery was sent on to her father’s.

GERALD.

Six weeks ago.

COLONEL.

Why, you know all about it.

GERALD.

Yes, I was staying there when she arrived. I have been rusticating for the last six weeks. It’s so much easier to write in the fresh air.

SYLVESTER.

You have been writing down at Mapledurham?

GERALD.

That’s what I went for.

COLONEL.

For six weeks?

GERALD.

Six weeks.

COLONEL.

And you have only finished the first chapter?

GERALD.

It’s so difficult to write in the fresh air. One wants to go out and enjoy oneself. And then old Armstrong’s such a jolly old boy.

SYLVESTER.

Armstrong, of Mapledurham? The farmer? Oh, I know him well. I go there for the fishing.

COLONEL.

Then, do you know Margery?

SYLVESTER.

Margery? No.

GERALD.

How that girl sculls!

COLONEL.

Oh, Margery was rowing?

GERALD.

Do you know, uncle, she can almost beat me?

COLONEL.

But what an arm she has!

GERALD.

And when she feathers?——

[Pantomime.

COLONEL.

Ah! when she feathers?——

[Double pantomime.

GERALD.

What a voice, too!

COLONEL.

Hasn’t she!

GERALD.

So musical! When she sings out, “Lock, ho!”

COLONEL [imitating].

“Lock, ho!”

GERALD.

No, not a bit like that—more silvery!

COLONEL.

Not a bit! more silvery!

BOTH [pantomiming].

“Lock, ho!”

SYLVESTER.

Who’s Margery?

COLONEL.

Oh, my dear fellow, just your sort—my sort—well, hang it, every man’s sort! Margery is—oh, how can I explain? If I’d seen a Margery thirty years ago; well, I should never have been a bachelor! Margery is—come, Gerald, what is Margery? Margery is a woman, who—— Well, Margery’s a woman! That’s all Margery is!

GERALD.

Old Armstrong’s daughter. We grew up together. When I was very young, I was considered delicate, and I was sent to the farmhouse at Mapledurham. When I went to Eton, Lady Wargrave took Margery into her service. There she has remained——

COLONEL.

And she is coming with your aunt to-day.

[Knock at door in flat. Re-enter WELLS, followed by MRS. SYLVESTER, with a small portfolio.

WELLS.

Mrs. Sylvester!

[Exit, door in flat.

MRS. SYLVESTER [stops short on seeing SYLVESTER.].

Jack!

SYLVESTER.

This is an unexpected pleasure. [A cold matrimonial kiss.] Colonel Cazenove—my old Colonel. Mr. Cazenove I think you know.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Well, of course, Jack! How ridiculous you are! Should I be here if I didn’t know Mr. Cazenove?

SYLVESTER.

I haven’t the least notion. I only know you wouldn’t be at home.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I was in all the morning.

SYLVESTER.

I had business at the Horse Guards. I shall be home to dinner, though.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Oh dear, I wish I had known that. There’s only mutton.

SYLVESTER.

The same mutton?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

What do you mean by same?

SYLVESTER.

I mean the mutton I had yesterday.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Did you have mutton yesterday?

SYLVESTER.

No matter; I’ll dine at the club.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Thank you, dear.

SYLVESTER.

Good-bye. [Kiss.] Good-bye, Mr. Cazenove.

COLONEL.

I will come with you. [To GERALD.] I am due at your aunt’s.

GERALD.

But I shall see you again presently?

COLONEL.

If I am visible behind Caroline. Madam, your servant. [Aside to SYLVESTER.] Cheer up, Sylvester! I’ll join you at the club, and we will wind the night up at the Empire.

[Exit after SYLVESTER, R. of flat.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

That is so like a man! Doesn’t say he’s coming home, and then expects six courses and a savoury!

GERALD.

There is a difference between cold mutton and six courses, to say nothing of the savoury.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

It is a fine distinction, and in no way affects the validity of my argument.

GERALD [smiling].

You mean, of your statement.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Husbands are all alike. The ancient regarded his wife as a slave, the modern regards her as a cook.

GERALD.

Then they are not alike.

MRS. SYLVESTER [emphatically].

A man thinks of nothing but his stomach.

GERALD.

That is another proposition.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

You’re very argumentative to-day. I haven’t seen you for six weeks, and you’ve come home in a nasty, horrid temper!

GERALD.

I have been working so hard.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Why is your face so brown?

GERALD.

Well, of course, I went out.

MRS. SYLVESTER [takes his hand].

And why are your hands blistered?

GERALD.

I had a few pulls on the river; and being out of training——

MRS. SYLVESTER [innocently].

Were you stroke?

[Holding his hands.

GERALD.

Not always.

[Bites his lip.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

On, then you weren’t alone?

GERALD.

I met an old friend up the river.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Now I understand why you didn’t write to me.

[Drops his hand and turns away pettishly.

GERALD.

About the book? [She gives him a quick glance.] Oh, I had nothing to say, except that I was getting on all right. I’ve written the first chapter.

[Produces MS.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

And I’ve written the last. [Opening portfolio.] Connoting the results of our arguments.

GERALD.

But where are the arguments?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

We’ll put those in afterwards. [GERALD looks at her.] That’s how Victoria always writes her novels. She begins at the end.

GERALD.

But this is a work of philosophy.

MRS. SYLVESTER [pouting].

Oh, you are disagreeable!

GERALD [putting MS. aside].

Don’t let us talk philosophy to-day. I want to talk to you about something else.

MRS. SYLVESTER [cheerfully].

Yes!

GERALD.

I have something to tell you.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Interesting?

[Smiling.

GERALD.

I’m in love.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Oh!

[From this point her manner changes.

GERALD.

Yes, in love, Mrs. Sylvester—in real love.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

What do you call real love?

GERALD.

Something quite different from what we had supposed. We’ve been on the wrong tack altogether. We have imagined something we have labelled love; we have put it into a crucible, and reduced it to its elements.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

And we have found those elements to be, community of interest and sympathy of soul.

GERALD.

But unfortunately for our theory, the thing we put into the crucible wasn’t love at all.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

How do you know?

GERALD.

I didn’t, till last week.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

It was at Mapledurham you made this discovery?

GERALD.

At Mapledurham.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

And your friend?

GERALD.

She was the revelation.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I thought it was a woman.

GERALD.

That word just describes her. She is a woman—nothing more or less. Away went all my theories into air. My precious wisdom was stripped bare before me, and in its nakedness I saw my folly. Not with laborious thought; but in one vivid flash I learned more than I ever learned at Oxford.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Really?

GERALD.

A woman! that is what one wants—that’s all. Birth, brains, accomplishments—pshaw! vanities! community of interest—sympathy of soul? mere dialectics! That’s not love.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

What is, then?

GERALD.

It defies analysis. You can’t put love into a crucible. You only know that there is something empty in you; and you don’t know what fills it; but that’s love. There’s no mistake about the real thing.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Is she good-looking?

GERARD.

In my eyes.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

A lady?

GERALD.

In social station, beneath me. But what’s social station?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

This is infatuation. Some riverside coquette——

GERALD.

Simplicity itself.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Of course you think so; but you don’t know women. The simple woman hasn’t yet been born. This isn’t love, Mr. Cazenove. This is the temporary victory of the baser side of your nature. The true alliance is the union of souls.

GERALD.

Of man and woman.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

But of soul and soul; not a mere sensual temptation.

GERALD.

Nor is this. A week ago I thought so. I know better now.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Happily the weeks are not all over yet. In a few more you will have forgotten her as completely as she will have forgotten you.

GERALD.

In a few more, I hope that she will be my wife.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

You contemplate a mésalliance?

GERALD.

There is no mésalliance where there’s love.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

You, of whom everyone expects so much, to throw away your opportunities, and to begin your life hindered and hampered by a foolish marriage.

GERALD.

If she will only marry me.

MRS. SYLVESTER [looks at him, pained].

I may still be your friend?

[Offers him her hands, which he takes a little reluctantly.

Re-enter WELLS.

WELLS.

Lady Wargrave.

[Exit.

Enter LADY WARGRAVE leaning on the COLONEL’S arm. She walks with a crutch-stick, and is followed by MARGERY, who carries a cushion. MRS. SYLVESTER retires up, so that she is not immediately seen by LADY WARGRAVE.

GERALD [a little tentatively].

My dear aunt!

[They shake hands.

LADY WARGRAVE.

You may kiss me.

[He kisses her, then casts a glance of gratitude at MARGERY. Meanwhile MARGERY has prepared a chair for her, into which she is placed by GERALD and the COLONEL, who is now subdued and deferential, in marked contrast to his last scene. MARGERY takes up her position in the background.

COLONEL.

I was so fortunate as to meet the carriage.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Theodore was late as usual.

COLONEL.

Only ten minutes, Caroline; but, as you know, time, tide, and your aunt wait for no man.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Now, Gerald, let me look at you. Your face to the light, please. [GERALD stands for inspection. She takes a long look through her eye-glass.] I don’t like that necktie.

GERALD [smiling and bowing].

It shall be changed to-morrow, aunt.

LADY WARGRAVE.

To-day. [GERALD bows. She takes another look.] That will do, Gerald. [GERALD salutes. She drops her glasses.

COLONEL.

Stand at ease! Dismiss!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Theodore, this is not a barracks!

COLONEL.

True. [Bows.] Peccavi!

LADY WARGRAVE [addressing GERALD].

I need hardly say with what pleasure I have followed your career at Oxford. It is worthy of a Cazenove.

COLONEL.

Brilliant—magnificent!

LADY WARGRAVE.

It is worthy of a Cazenove; that is all.

[COLONEL subsides, bowing.

GERALD.

Yes, aunt, I flatter myself——

LADY WARGRAVE.

Don’t do that. You did your duty. Nothing more.

GERALD.

By the way, did you receive my poem?

LADY WARGRAVE.

Poem?

GERALD.

That won the Newdigate. I sent you a copy—to Rome.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Ah, I remember; I received the document. Tell me, were there many competitors?

GERALD.

A dozen or so.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Is it possible that Oxford can produce eleven worse poems than yours?

GERALD.

My dear aunt!

[COLONEL turns aside, chuckling, and finds himself face to face with MARGERY, laughing; both become suddenly serious.

MRS. SYLVESTER [advancing].

It is a work of genius—none but a true poet——

LADY WARGRAVE [half rising. MARGERY steps forward to help her].

I ask your pardon. Gerald, you haven’t introduced me!

GERALD.

Forgive me, Mrs. Sylvester—forgive me, aunt, but in the excitement of seeing you——

LADY WARGRAVE.

Sylvester!

COLONEL.

Wife of my old lieutenant. Captain now.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Wife of Jack Sylvester! I am pleased to meet you. I have known your husband almost from a boy. But I don’t see him.

[Looking round.

GERALD [confused].

He has just gone.

[LADY WARGRAVE looks from one to another. Slight pause.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Mr. Cazenove and I are collaborating.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Oh! Captain Sylvester’s wife is collaborating with you?

GERALD.

On the ethics of marriage.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Viewed from the standpoint of the higher morality.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Ah! [Drops back into her seat, helped by MARGERY.] That will be a very interesting work.[MARGERY retires up.] Did you do very much down at Mapledurham?

GERALD.

Not very much, I’m afraid.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Mr. Cazenove met a friend up the river.

LADY WARGRAVE.

A friend? Margery, you didn’t tell me that.

MARGERY [advancing, and with a slight curtsey].

I didn’t know, my lady.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

An old friend.

COLONEL.

Perhaps the old friend was Margery herself?

MRS. SYLVESTER [perplexed and curious].

Your maid was at Mapledurham?

LADY WARGRAVE.

Her father lives there. Theodore, don’t you think Margery looks all the better for her holiday?

COLONEL [with enthusiasm].

If it is possible——

LADY WARGRAVE.

Theodore! [Aside to him, stopping his mouth with her fan.]

COLONEL [subsides].

Peccavi! [Sotto voce.]

LADY WARGRAVE.

Doesn’t she look brown?

GERALD.

Well, up the river everybody does. It was hot weather, too.

LADY WARGRAVE.

It must have been. You should have seen her hands. They were all over blisters.

COLONEL.

Ah, that was the rowing!

[Pantomime as before.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Margery! [MARGERY casts down her eyes.] You were rowing?

MARGERY.

Sometimes, my lady.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Stroke. [Looking at GERALD.]

[LADY WARGRAVE, watching MRS. SYLVESTER, motions to MARGERY, who retires up.

COLONEL [aside to LADY WARGRAVE].

Caroline, you took the water very neatly.

LADY WARGRAVE [aside to COLONEL].

The higher morality has caught a crab.

MRS. SYLVESTER [gathers up MS. into her portfolio].

I will not trespass any longer, Mr. Cazenove. No doubt, your aunt has much to say to you.

GERALD.

But won’t you stay to tea?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Thanks. Captain Sylvester dines early.

COLONEL [aside].

At the club!

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Good day to you, Lady Wargrave. [LADY WARGRAVE is about to rise.] Pray don’t rise. [Bows to the COLONEL and goes to door in flat where GERALD is waiting for her.] Don’t trouble; I know my way.

[Exit.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Poor Sylvester! He was such a nice boy! [GERALD comes down.] Gerald, can Margery wait in the next room?

[GERALD opens door R. Exit MARGERY R.

GERALD [returning].

And how have you been, aunt? You never mentioned your health in your letters. Are you better?

LADY WARGRAVE.

I mustn’t complain; but Providence is really most unjust. Here am I, who have lived a life of temperance, in my old age——

COLONEL.

Middle age, Caroline!

[Bowing.

LADY WARGRAVE [smiling].

A chronic invalid; while this old transgressor who has denied himself nothing [COLONEL grins], and committed every sin in the Decalogue [COLONEL chuckles], is as hale and as hearty as I am infirm.

COLONEL.

Never felt better, never!

LADY WARGRAVE.

But how have you been, Gerald? We belong to the past——

COLONEL.

Caroline!

LADY WARGRAVE.

You belong to the future, and the future belongs to you.

GERALD.

Oh, I’ve been all right!

[A little recklessly.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Quite sure you suffer from nothing?

GERALD.

What do you mean?

LADY WARGRAVE.

Your letters have told me a great deal—more than perhaps you know; but I have read them very carefully; and when you asked me to come home——

GERALD.

I didn’t, aunt.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Between the lines.

GERALD [laughing].

What did I say to you between the lines?

[Kneeling by her.

LADY WARGRAVE.

You told me that you had learned everything Oxford has to teach worth learning, and that you were in danger of becoming—well [laying her hand on his head]—shall we say, tête montée?

COLONEL.

Yes, Caroline! I should certainly say, tête montée.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Cure yourself, Gerald. Knowledge is not wisdom [stroking his head]. Forgive me, dear; but I have known so many men who have never survived the distinctions of their youth, who are always at Oxford, and even in their manhood play with rattles. Now, forget Oxford—go into the world—lay books aside, and study men.

COLONEL.

And women.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Yes—and women.

[Knock without.

GERALD [rising].

Just what I’m doing!

[Female voices in altercation. Re-enter WELLS, door in flat.

WELLS.

Miss Bethune, Miss Vivash.

Enter ENID and VICTORIA, in hot argument. They take opposite sides of the stage and continue the discussion without taking the slightest notice of anybody. LADY WARGRAVE looks from the one to the other in amazement. Exit WELLS, door in flat.

ENID.

I can’t agree with you! Say what you will, I can’t agree with you!

VICTORIA.

That doesn’t alter the fact. A woman has just as much right to a latchkey as a man.

ENID.

But a man has no right to a latchkey.

VICTORIA.

That’s ridiculous!

ENID.

Rudeness is not argument!

VICTORIA.

Why make distinctions?

ENID.

I make no distinctions. I admit that a woman has just as much right to come home with the milk as a man: but I say, a man has no right to come home with the milk; and I say more—no woman who respects herself has any desire to come home with the milk!

VICTORIA.

Bother the milk! It isn’t a question of milk. It’s a question of making artificial distinctions between the sexes.

ENID.

I say that there ought to be no distinction! Why should a man be allowed to commit sins——

VICTORIA.

And woman not be given an opportunity?

ENID.

Then do you want to commit sins?

VICTORIA.

I want to be allowed to do as men do.

ENID.

Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself; there!

VICTORIA.

I only say, I ought to be allowed.

ENID.

And I say that a man, reeking with infamy, ought not to be allowed to marry a pure girl——

VICTORIA.

Certainly not! She ought to reek with infamy as well.

ENID.

Victoria!

[Knock without.

VICTORIA.

What is the difference between man and woman?

ENID.

There is no difference!

Re-enter WELLS, door in flat.

WELLS.

Dr. Mary Bevan.

[Exit WELLS.

Enter DR. MARY BEVAN.

VICTORIA.

Why should a woman have children and a man have none?

ENID.

But a man has children!

DOCTOR.

Only vicariously.

VICTORIA.

Here’s Dr. Mary!

[Rushing up to DOCTOR. ENID has rushed up to the other side of her.

DOCTOR [pragmatically].

But I am not without hope that, when the attention of science is directed to the unequal incidence of the burden of maternity, some method of re-adjustment may be devised.

LADY WARGRAVE [who has risen].

Pardon me, ladies; but if you are about to consult your physician, you would no doubt prefer to be alone.

[They turn and see her for the first time.

VICTORIA.

Pray, don’t move.

GERALD.

My aunt, Lady Wargrave. Colonel Cazenove.

DOCTOR.

These matters are best discussed openly. A morbid modesty has too long closed our eyes. But the day of awakening has come. Sylvester, in her “Aspirations after a Higher Morality,” Bethune, in her “Man, the Betrayer,” Vivash, in her “Foolish Virgins,” have postulated the sexual problem from every conceivable point of view; and I have myself contributed to the discussion a modest little treatise——

ENID.

No, no, not modest!

VICTORIA.

Profound!

DOCTOR.

“Naked and Unashamed!”

ENID.

Man has done all the talking up to now——

VICTORIA.

He has had things all his own way——

DOCTOR.

And a nice mess he’s made of them!

ENID.

Now it is our turn.

VICTORIA.

We mean to put things right!

DOCTOR.

Man has departed. Woman has arrived.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Excuse my ignorance, but I have been away from England for so many years. Can this be the New Woman I have read about?

COLONEL.

Everything’s New nowadays! We have a New Art——

ENID.

A New Journalism——

VICTORIA.

A New Political Economy——

DOCTOR.

A New Morality——

COLONEL.

A New Sex!

LADY WARGRAVE [smiling].

Ah!

DOCTOR.

Do you object to modernity?

LADY WARGRAVE.

I’ve only one objection to new things; they are so old.

VICTORIA.

Not the New Woman!

LADY WARGRAVE.

No; she is generally middle-aged.

[COLONEL turns to GERALD, to hide his chuckles.

ENID.

Then, do you take Man’s part in the discussion?

LADY WARGRAVE.

I take no part in it.

DOCTOR.

Do you deny that Woman has arrived, Man has departed?

LADY WARGRAVE.

I don’t wonder at it. But Man has an awkward habit of coming back again.

TRIO.

Never!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Then Woman will go after him.

[COLONEL roars out aloud—the Women survey him with disgust.

Re-enter WELLS, L., and whispers to GERALD.

GERALD.

Tea is quite ready, ladies!

ENID.

Ah! a cup of tea!

[Exit L., followed by VICTORIA, DOCTOR MARY and WELLS.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Theodore, your arm. These ladies interest me. Besides, they sadly want a chaperone.

COLONEL.

They want a husband—that’s what they want, badly!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Gerald, call Margery. [GERALD goes to door R.] Well, they are looking for one.

[Glancing after GERALD.

COLONEL.

And they’ve found you, Caroline.

[Exeunt both, laughing, L. Each time the door, L., is opened, a babel of female voices is heard from within, and such phrases as “Peter Robinson’s,” “Swan and Edgar’s,” “Stagg and Mantle’s,” are distinctly audible above the clink of teacups, etc.

Re-enter MARGERY, R.; she goes straight to LADY WARGRAVE’S chair, and is about to carry the cushion into the room, L., when GERALD, who has stood back, watching her, advances.

GERALD.

Margery! [MARGERY drops the cushion and turns.] Thank you! God bless you!

MARGERY.

For what, sir?

GERALD.

You have not told my aunt.

MARGERY.

Of course I haven’t told her! [Slight pause.] May I go?

GERALD.

Not yet. Margery, can you ever forgive me?

MARGERY.

For being a man? Oh yes!

GERALD.

Can you ever respect me again?

MARGERY.

I do respect you, sir.

GERALD.

Not as I do you, Margery. You don’t know what you did for me that day. If you had rounded on me, I should not have cared—but to be silent—to do nothing—to forgive me!

MARGERY.

I had a reason for forgiving you.

GERALD.

What?

MARGERY.

That’s my business.

GERALD.

But, Margery, you do forgive me?

MARGERY.

Don’t let’s talk about it.

GERALD.

Really forgive me?

MARGERY.

Really!

GERALD.

Prove it to me.

MARGERY.

How can I?

GERALD [still holding her].

Be my wife!

MARGERY [recoiling].

Mr. Cazenove!

GERALD.

My name is Gerald.

MARGERY.

Mr. Gerald!

GERALD.

Gerald! Call me so, Margery.

MARGERY.

I couldn’t, sir. Don’t ask me!

GERALD.

Then you refuse me? [MARGERY is silent—he turns away.] Well, I don’t deserve you.

MARGERY [approaching him.]

Oh, don’t think I mean that! Do you suppose you are the only man that’s ever made love to me? It’s a man’s business to make love; and it’s a woman’s business to stop him—when he makes love too hard. But if we can’t be lovers, Mr. Gerald, we can be friends.

GERALD.

It’s got past friendship with me, Margery. Since I came back to town, everything’s changed. My pursuits all feel so empty and so meaningless; every woman I meet seems different from what she was: and oh, how different from you!

MARGERY.

Gentry are different. We’re different breeds. That’s why we can’t be lovers.

GERALD.

We can be man and wife!

MARGERY.

Isn’t that being lovers?

GERALD.

In my case, it would be!

MARGERY.

Hush! Mr. Gerald, that’s impossible. My lady will be asking for me. Let me go!

GERALD.

Not till I’ve told you how I love you, Margery. Seeing you again is breathing the pure air. It seems a younger and a sweeter world, now you have come again. Nothing else matters. All my life beside appears a folly and a waste of time. My real life was lived with you down yonder, out in the fields, and rambling through the woods and listening to the music of the weir. The life that we began together so pleasantly, cannot we live together to the end? I was quite honest when I said I loved you. And couldn’t you love me,—just a little bit?

MARGERY.

You oughtn’t to ask that!

GERALD.

I mean to have an answer.

MARGERY.

Please, Mr. Gerald, don’t! It makes it very hard for me——

GERALD.

Answer me! Could you love me, Margery?

MARGERY.

Oh, what’s the use of asking? You only want to make me tell a lie.

GERALD.

Answer me!

MARGERY.

I have answered you!

GERALD.

Margery, then you do!

MARGERY.

That is what made it easy to forgive you. Now let me go.

GERALD.

Not till you’ve said that you will be my wife.

MARGERY.

Oh, Mr. Gerald.

GERALD.

Gerald! say Gerald!

MARGERY.

It’s no use. I can’t!

GERALD.

Say you will marry me!

MARGERY.

If you will let me call you “Mr. Gerald.”

[Embrace.

COLONEL [off, opens door L.].

Margery! where are you?

Re-enter L., just as MARGERY is withdrawing from GERALD’S arms, stands thunderstruck. Exit MARGERY, L.

GERALD.

It’s all right, uncle.

COLONEL.

All right, you call it? Look here, you young cub! None of your higher morality with Margery!

GERALD.

I tell you, it’s all right. Margery’s going to be your niece—my wife.

COLONEL.

Margery, your wife! [Slight pause.] You’re a damned lucky dog!

GERALD.

That I am, uncle!

COLONEL.

’Gad, sir, you’re a man; and I thought you were a monkey. I congratulate you!

GERALD [shaking hands].

You don’t object then?

COLONEL.

I thought a Cazenove would come right side up.

GERALD.

But what will aunt say?

COLONEL [suddenly collapses].

I was forgetting Caroline!

GERALD.

She must be told.

COLONEL.

But cautiously. Courage! I’ll back you up!

GERALD.

I’ll tell her now!

COLONEL.

Stay! Don’t do anything rash! I wouldn’t risk a private interview. Safety in numbers.

GERALD.

I will tell them all!

COLONEL.

Sht! what a bomb-shell! Courage!

GERALD.

Courage, yourself! You’re shaking all over.

COLONEL.

No matter. I’ll stand by you!

LADY WARGRAVE [opening door, L.].

Gerald!

COLONEL.

Form square! Prepare to receive cavalry!

[Retires up.

Re-enter LADY WARGRAVE, L.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Where are you? Why have you deserted me? To leave me at the mercy of that crew! My poor, dear, Gerald! however did you get into this set?

GERALD.

It was my poem did it.

LADY WARGRAVE.

I thought, that crime would bring its punishment. Now, they’re upon the marriage service! As though that concerned them! Gerald, if you marry any of that tribe, you’ll really break my heart!

[COLONEL comes down R. of GERALD.

GERALD.

I hope I shall never do that!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Marry a woman, whatever else she is.

COLONEL [aside to GERALD].

Courage!

GERALD.

Or isn’t, aunt!

[Effusively.

COLONEL [aside to GERALD].

Caution!

[Retires up.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Or isn’t!

The door L. is thrown open, and re-enter DR. MARY, ENID, and VICTORIA, all talking, followed by MARGERY, who takes up her original position at the back.

DOCTOR.

“Obey,” forsooth!

VICTORIA.

To promise to love is ridiculous, for how can one control the mysterious expansions of the heart?

DOCTOR.

It is the brain that loves. A still more complicated mechanism.

ENID.

It is impossible to honour a man who has invariably lived a revolting, ante-nuptial life——

VICTORIA.

But to “obey!”

[COLONEL works down stage, interested.

DOCTOR.

Lady Wargrave, even you surely wouldn’t promise to “obey” a man?

LADY WARGRAVE.

Not till he asked me, certainly.

COLONEL.

Ha! ha!

[The trio turn on him; he retires up.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Gerald, I must be going.

DOCTOR.

So must I.

ENID.

And I.

DOCTOR.

I have a clinical lecture——

VICTORIA.

I have an engagement.

GERALD.

One moment, ladies! Stay one moment, aunt! Before you go I want to tell you all of my engagement.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Your engagement, Gerald?

GERALD.

Yes, I am going to be married.

[Pause.

ENID [with jealousy].

To Agnes Syl—? Oh, I forgot; she’s married.

LADY WARGRAVE.

To whom?

[All stand expectantly.

GERALD.

To Margery.

[All stand transfixed. Exit COLONEL, door in flat.

DOCTOR.

Mr. Cazenove, I offer you my congratulations. Having a clinical lecture to deliver, you will excuse me if I say good afternoon.

ENID.

Wait for me, Doctor. [Exit DR. MARY, door in flat.] You have my best wishes.

[Exit, door in flat.

VICTORIA.

And thank you for the plot of my next novel.

[Exit, door in flat.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Gerald, is this a trick?

GERALD.

No, aunt; it is the truth.

LADY WARGRAVE.

And you, a Cazenove! It is out of the question! I won’t permit it! I forbid it, Gerald!

GERALD.

But, my dear aunt, you said only just now——

LADY WARGRAVE.

No matter!

GERALD.

Marry a woman——

LADY WARGRAVE.

Don’t repeat my words! A Cazenove marry Margery! Ridiculous!

GERALD.

But, aunt——

LADY WARGRAVE.

Silence! You said just now, you hoped that you would never break my heart. Well, Gerald, you have broken it. A Cazenove!

[Exit, door in flat. MARGERY takes up the cushion, and is about to follow.

GERALD.

Put that thing down. [She puts it down.] You are mine now; not hers.

MARGERY.

Yes, Mr. Gerald.

GERALD [sits, drawing her to him].

For better, for worse, Margery.

MARGERY.

For better, for worse.

GERALD.

You are not frightened?

MARGERY.

Not now, Mr. Gerald.

GERALD.

Then call me, Gerald.

MARGERY.

Gerald!

[Dropping on her knee by his side.

GERALD.

You’re not afraid to make those promises!

MARGERY.

No, Gerald!

GERALD.

To love—to honour.

MARGERY.

And obey!

[Looking up at him.

ACT II.

Twelve months have elapsed.

SCENE.—Study at GERALD’S, opening upon a little boudoir, through curtains which are drawn across part of the stage at back. Doors, R., and L.U.E. Mantelpiece, between doors, R.

GERALD discovered, seated at a writing table, with his back to the curtains, writing busily. MARGERY’S head appears through the curtains, which she holds closely round it, so that only her face is visible. She watches GERALD for a few moments, with a broad smile on her face.

MARGERY.

Bo!

[Withdraws her head.

GERALD [starts and looks round].

Margery, of course!

[Resumes his writing. A peal of laughter behind the curtains, and MARGERY’S head reappears, laughing. GERALD throws down his pen.

MARGERY [running in].

Did I startle you?

GERALD.

Not much; I’m getting used to it.

MARGERY.

Well, don’t be cross!

GERALD.

I’m not cross, dear; but these repeated interludes make composition rather difficult.

MARGERY.

Oh, bother! you’ve been all the morning at that stupid book, and I’m so happy, I can’t help it. Kiss me, and say that you forgive me!

GERALD.

Of course I forgive you!

MARGERY.

Kiss me, then!

GERALD.

My dear——

MARGERY.

Gerald! will you kiss me?

GERALD [kisses her].

How many times does that make?

MARGERY.

Only three this morning. You used to like kissing me.

GERALD.

Yes, dear, but——

MARGERY.

What?

GERALD.

This isn’t writing my book.

MARGERY.

No, but it’s being happy, and that’s worth all the books that ever were written.

GERALD.

Yes—being happy—that’s the great thing.

[Sighs.

MARGERY.

Why do you sigh?

GERALD.

Did I sigh?

[Smiling.

MARGERY.

Yes.

GERALD.

I didn’t know I sighed. Writing’s hard work.

MARGERY.

Then put the book away! [Thrusts the MS. aside.] I’ve such news for you!

GERALD.

News?

MARGERY.

Such good news. Guess what it is. I’ll give you three tries.

GERALD [deprecatingly].

Margery!

MARGERY.

You’ll never guess!

GERALD.

Then what’s the use of trying?

MARGERY.

Because I want you to guess wrong.

GERALD.

I shan’t do that!

MARGERY.

You will! I’m sure you will!

GERALD.

I’m sure I shan’t, because I am not going to guess at all.

MARGERY [grimaces].

Cross again! You’d better not be, or you know the penalty!

GERALD.

Come! what is the good news?

MARGERY.

That’s the good news.

[Gives him a card.

GERALD [with real pleasure].

Margery!

MARGERY [pouting].

You might have guessed!

GERALD.

A card from Lady Wargrave! And addressed to you!

MARGERY.

Asking us to a party at her house.

GERALD.

Don’t say a party, Margery!

MARGERY.

Well, isn’t it a party?

GERALD.

Call it an At Home.

MARGERY.

Oh, that’s another lesson! Never call things by their right names, it’s vulgar!

GERALD.

This is an olive-branch, and no mistake! So aunt is thawing at last.

MARGERY.

Stop a bit, Gerald!

GERALD.

Wait a moment, Margery!

MARGERY.

Is that another lesson? Never use one syllable when two will do? Very well, Gerald, I’ll remember that. But what do you mean by olive-branch?

GERALD [looks at her, and sighs again].

Oh, never mind!

MARGERY.

Yes, tell me. I want to make sure as I go along.

GERALD.

An overture—a sign of reconciliation—like holding out your hand.

MARGERY.

Ah, now I understand! But what a funny thing to call it—olive-branch!

[Bursts into a peal of laughter.

GERALD [shivers slightly and goes over to the mantelpiece. Aside].

It didn’t sound like that in Mapledurham! [Conquering himself, returns to her.] I’m so glad aunt’s come round. You don’t know how it’s worried me—her estrangement.

MARGERY.

They’ve all come round now. They’ve all recognized me. Oh, I’m so happy, Gerald! It isn’t half as hard to be a lady as I thought!

GERALD [thoughtfully].

Of course you’ll have to answer this!

MARGERY.

Of course!

GERALD.

Show me the answer when you’ve written it!

MARGERY.

Oh, I shan’t spell it wrong!

GERALD.

No, dear, but——

MARGERY.

I know what you mean. I might use all short words instead of long ones. [GERALD laughs.] Don’t be afraid: I’ll pick the longest in the dictionary. [Kisses him.] Ah, Gerald, dear! short words were good enough for you once!

[Archly.

GERALD.

I dare say.

MARGERY.

Yes; when you said, “I love you, Margery!” Say it again!

GERALD.

Margery, what nonsense!

MARGERY.

That’s what I like—nonsense. Say it again!

GERALD [with effort].

I love you, Margery. [Sits, and resumes his pen.] Now, let me get on with my work!

MARGERY [goes L. Aside]

Somehow it didn’t sound like that in Mapledurham. [Brightly.] Well, I suppose his head’s full of his book. I wish mine was of mine. Oh, those French verbs! and what’s the use of them? Why isn’t English good enough for England?

Enter WELLS, L.

WELLS.

Captain Sylvester.

[GERALD flings down his pen in despair. Exit WELLS, L.

Enter SYLVESTER.

MARGERY.

Ah, I’m so glad you’ve come! [Crosses to him.] I wanted somebody to talk to. Gerald’s so busy!

[Takes SYLVESTER’S hat and stick.

SYLVESTER.

Busy? then I’m afraid I intrude.

GERALD [resignedly].

Oh, not at all! [Sees MARGERY at back, who has put SYLVESTER’S hat on, very much askew, and is marching up and down with the stick under her arm.] Good gracious, Margery!

[MARGERY laughs. SYLVESTER laughs. GERALD goes up, snatches the hat and stick, and turns to put them down.

MARGERY.

Cross again! [As GERALD turns again, he finds himself face to face with her, holding her mouth out.] Penalty!

GERALD.

It is for Captain Sylvester to forgive you.

SYLVESTER.

Anything. Mrs. Cazenove can do no wrong. [Bows. MARGERY curtseys.] But where’s Agnes? Happening to pass this way, I thought I might perhaps give her a lift home.

MARGERY.

Oh! Gerald expects Mrs. Sylvester——

GERALD.

Later on, later on!

SYLVESTER.

Then may I wait for her?

GERALD.

Oh, certainly! [Taking up MSS.] If you’ll excuse me going on with my work. I’ve been a good deal interrupted.

[Goes to door, R.

SYLVESTER.

By all means, if I may talk to Mrs. Cazenove!

[GERALD bows stiffly and exit, R., watched by MARGERY, who makes a grimace to audience.

MARGERY.

I believe Gerald’s jealous!

SYLVESTER [laughing].

Of me?

MARGERY [laughs].

Just fancy anyone being jealous of you! [Laughs loudly, then stops suddenly.] Hush! I forgot! We mustn’t make so much noise. Clever people don’t like noise.

SYLVESTER.

Music is noise to some people. I like it!

MARGERY.

Ah, but then you’re not clever!

SYLVESTER [laughing].

I’m afraid not!

MARGERY.

There’s a pair of us!

SYLVESTER.

And what a pleasure it is to meet somebody who’s not clever. Mrs. Cazenove, I think cleverness is the most boring thing in the world. This planet would be quite a pleasant place but for the clever people.

MARGERY.

Do you mean my husband?

SYLVESTER.

I was thinking of my wife; she’s one of them. I’m not. I’m only Mrs. Sylvester’s husband.

MARGERY.

Are you sure you’re that?

SYLVESTER.

I have always been under that impression.

MARGERY.

A husband who isn’t master of his wife isn’t half a husband.

SYLVESTER.

I am content to be a fraction!

MARGERY.

But you’re a cipher.

SYLVESTER.

You’re frank, Mrs. Cazenove.

MARGERY.

I only say to your face what everybody says behind your back.

SYLVESTER.

What do they say?

MARGERY.

That Mrs. Sylvester’s too much alone.

SYLVESTER.

Never. She’s always with your husband!

MARGERY.

Well?

SYLVESTER.

As long as you don’t object——

MARGERY.

Object? Not I! But that’s a very different thing!

SYLVESTER.

How so?

MARGERY.

I am my husband’s wife, and I am not afraid of any woman in the world.

SYLVESTER.

You have no need to be. [With admiration.] And in your pre-eminence resides my safety, Margery.

MARGERY.

I’m not Margery now!

SYLVESTER [seriously].

I ask Mrs. Cazenove’s pardon. [In a casual tone] You don’t object to the collaboration, then?

MARGERY.

I think it’s fun! They are so serious over it. As if the world depended on a book! As if there were no Providence or anything, and they two had to keep creation going by scratching upon little bits of paper! I love to watch them, biting at their pens, and staring at that little crack up there. [Looking at the ceiling. SYLVESTER looks also.] I often think to myself, you may well look—there’s something there that’ll keep the world going round, just as it is, long after your precious book is dust and ashes.

SYLVESTER.

Then you do watch them, Margery—Mrs. Cazenove?

MARGERY.

Oh, often, from my room. [Indicates curtains.] But I can scarcely keep from laughing all the time. Some day I mean to have such fun with them! I mean to steal in here, [business] and put my head out, so—and just when they are putting the world right, say Bo!

[Runs back, and bursts into a peal of laughter. SYLVESTER laughs also.

Re-enter WELLS, L.

WELLS.

Miss Vivash!

[Exit WELLS, L.

Enter VICTORIA.

VICTORIA.

Good morning, dear. [Kisses MARGERY.] What! Captain Sylvester! you here, and Agnes not?

MARGERY.

Mrs. Sylvester is coming!

VICTORIA.

No need to apologize! A wife is just as much entitled to entertain another woman’s husband as a husband to entertain another man’s wife. You’re getting on, dear. That’s philosophy!

MARGERY.

Gerald is in the next room!

VICTORIA.

Then it’s not philosophy!

MARGERY.

I’ll go and wake him up.

[Exit, R.

VICTORIA.

Humph! [Sits.] Well, how long do you give it?

SYLVESTER.

Do you mean philosophy?

VICTORIA.

The Cazenove ménage. Another six months? These love-matches are honeymoon affairs. When once that’s over, there’s an end of everything.

SYLVESTER.

But is it over?

VICTORIA.

Everybody’s talking. Cazenove is bored to death.

SYLVESTER.

I don’t think his wife is.

VICTORIA.

Ah, that will come in time; and when it does, I mean to take Margery in hand. She is neglected shamefully. She hasn’t discovered it yet, but all her friends have.

SYLVESTER.

They’re generally first in the field.

VICTORIA.

If a husband ignores his wife, the wife is entitled to ignore her husband. What would a man do under the same circumstances?

SYLVESTER.

Is not the question rather, what a man ought to do?

VICTORIA.

That is Utopian. We must take the world as we find it.

SYLVESTER.

I’m afraid Mrs. Cazenove won’t be an apt pupil.

VICTORIA.

No spirit—no proper pride. But things can’t go on as they’re going long. Margery is on the edge of a volcano. I give it six months.

SYLVESTER.

Is it as bad as that?

VICTORIA.

Never at home—and when he is—“in the next room.” Never takes her anywhere, and I don’t wonder at it. Margery is too gauche for anything. But what could be expected, when a man throws himself away in that manner? Bless me, there were other women in the world!

SYLVESTER.

Oh, plenty, plenty.

VICTORIA.

Unluckily, he’s found that out. [Aside.] That’s one for him!

SYLVESTER.

Indeed!

VICTORIA [gives him a glance of contempt, and produces a cigarette case].

Do you mind tobacco?

SYLVESTER.

Not at all. I like it.

Re-enter MARGERY, R.

If Mrs. Cazenove——

MARGERY.

Gerald’s so busy, will you please excuse him?

VICTORIA.

Certainly. Will you join me?

[Offers case.

MARGERY.

Thank you, I can’t smoke.

VICTORIA.

Then you should learn at once.

[Puts a cigarette in her mouth.

Could you oblige me with a light? [SYLVESTER strikes a match.] Thanks.

[Lights up at the wrong end of a gold-tipped cigarette. MARGERY stands, arms akimbo, surveying her.

MARGERY.

Do you like smoking?

VICTORIA.

No, but I smoke on principle!

SYLVESTER.

On the wrong principle!

VICTORIA.

I beg your pardon. Men smoke cigarettes.

SYLVESTER.

Yes, but they light them at the other end.

[VICTORIA takes the cigarette out of her mouth and looks at it. MARGERY and SYLVESTER burst out laughing. She throws it away viciously.

Re-enter WELLS, L.

WELLS.

Miss Bethune.

[Exit WELLS, L.

Enter ENID.

ENID.

How are you, dear? [Kisses Margery.] Victoria!

[Goes to Victoria, who presents her cheek.

SYLVESTER [to MARGERY].

Now you have company, I’ll say good-day. I’ve waited for my wife quite long enough!

MARGERY [with outstretched hand].

But you will come and see me again soon?

[ENID and VICTORIA exchange glances.

SYLVESTER [holding her hand, and in a lower voice].

Shall you be in to-morrow?

MARGERY [frankly].

Yes. [SYLVESTER smiles and presses her hand; she sees her mistake.] If Gerald is.

[ENID and VICTORIA are exchanging whispers.

SYLVESTER [drops her hand; aside].

Women are like Bradshaw—a guide and a puzzle!

[Exit, L.

ENID.

Does Captain Sylvester often call, my dear?

MARGERY.

He has done lately.

ENID.

Quite a change for him! He must occasionally meet his wife!

VICTORIA [who has gone to the mantelpiece for a match].

Now that that man has gone——

[Lights another cigarette.

ENID.

Victoria!

VICTORIA [offering case to MARGERY].

Can’t I prevail on you?

MARGERY [takes one].

Well, I don’t mind trying.

[Lights hers from VICTORIA’S, VICTORIA putting the case on the table.

ENID.

How can you, Margery? I call it shocking! To take a nasty, evil-smelling thing like this [taking a cigarette out of VICTORIA’S case]—and put it to your lips—brrh! [Shudders, but puts it in her mouth. MARGERY presses her burning cigarette against it till it is alight.] Don’t, Margery, don’t! I call it horrid—most unladylike!

MARGERY.

Now puff!

[All three sit and puff vigorously. MARGERY perched on table.

VICTORIA.

Well, dear, and how are you getting on?

MARGERY.

Oh, famously!

ENID.

I hope you’ve taken my advice to heart!

VICTORIA.

And mine! Have you a latch-key yet?

MARGERY.

Oh, yes!

ENID.

Margery, you shock me!

MARGERY.

Well, you’re easily shocked!

VICTORIA.

You have a latch-key?

[Triumphantly.

MARGERY [simply].

Yes, we have a latch-key!

BOTH [in different tones].

We?

MARGERY.

What would Gerald do without one?

VICTORIA [with contempt].

Gerald!

MARGERY.

When he comes home late.

ENID.

Does he come home late?

VICTORIA.

All men do!

ENID.

Before marriage. Would that were all they did. [Mysteriously.] Has he told you everything?

MARGERY.

He’s told me everything I’ve asked him.

VICTORIA [with curiosity, putting down cigarette].

What have you asked him?

MARGERY.

Nothing!

ENID.

Margery! [rises] it’s such women as you on whom men prey!

[Turns off.

VICTORIA [rises].

And it’s such men as him that women marry!

[Turns off.

MARGERY.

When they get the chance! [Grimace at audience.

Re-enter WELLS, L.

WELLS.

Colonel Cazenove.

[ENID hides her cigarette behind her back; MARGERY flings hers away, jumps down and runs to meet him. Exit WELLS, L.

Enter COLONEL.

MARGERY.

Uncle!

[Flings her arms round his neck, and gives him three smacking kisses. COLONEL smiles all over his face. ENID and VICTORIA exchange shrugs.

COLONEL.

Bless me! what a smell of tobacco! [Looks about, sniffing, sees VICTORIA.] Ah, the foolish—beg pardon!—Miss Vivash! [Bow.] Dear me, something burning!

[Sniffs. VICTORIA sits again.

ENID [confused].

Yes, Mr. Cazenove—the next room

COLONEL [seeing her].

Man the Be—— Miss Bethune, I think?

[Holds out his hand. ENID has to change the cigarette into her left hand behind her back; shakes hands, then turns to wipe the nicotine from her lips, unconsciously presenting the turning cigarette to COLONEL’S eyeglass. MARGERY laughs. COLONEL grins at audience.

COLONEL.

I thought something was burning. [ENID throws cigarette into the grate, and covers her face. COLONEL lifts his finger.] And you said Mr. Cazenove!

ENID.

Well, it wasn’t a story. He is in the next room.

COLONEL.

So man has not a monopoly of the vices!

ENID.

We’re none of us perfect!

COLONEL.

No, [rubbing his hands] thank Heaven! It’s the spice of the old Adam that makes life endurable!

MARGERY [again embracing him].

Oh, I’m so happy, uncle!

ENID [aside].

Wish she wouldn’t do that!

MARGERY.

Oh, so happy!

COLONEL.

So am I, Margery. What did I always say? Caroline’s a heart of gold. I knew she would come round. I always said I’d stand by you and Gerald.

MARGERY.

Uncle!

COLONEL.

I always said so!

MARGERY.

You ran away!

COLONEL.

Yes, but I said so. Then you have got her card?

MARGERY [nodding her head].

Yes!

[Jumps up and gives him another kiss.

ENID [aside, jealously].

I do wish she wouldn’t!

COLONEL.

My doing, Margery—my doing!

ENID.

I have a card as well!

COLONEL.

My doing, Miss Bethune!

ENID.

I’ve just been ordering my gown!

COLONEL [gallantly].

I trust it will be worthy of the wearer.

[Bows. ENID smiles.

MARGERY.

Have you a card, Miss Vivash?

VICTORIA [who has sat very quietly, now rises].

If you’ll excuse me, dear, I’ll say good-morning!

MARGERY [shakes hands].

Must you go?

[Exit VICTORIA, L.

MARGERY.

Excuse me, uncle. Gerald doesn’t know you’re here!

[Exit, R.

COLONEL.

Miss Vivash?

ENID.

Don’t trouble, Colonel! She resents an escort. I have no patience with Victoria. Trying to be a man!

COLONEL.

And making only a succès d’estime!

ENID.

I like a woman to be womanly!

COLONEL [aside].

The best of ’em.

ENID.

I don’t mean weak—like Agnes. She goes to the other extreme. Do you know, I’m getting very anxious about Agnes!

COLONEL.

Mrs. Sylvester?

ENID.

Haven’t you noticed anything? Of course not! You men never do!

COLONEL.

I am afraid I must plead guilty!

ENID.

Haven’t you observed how much she and your nephew are together?

COLONEL.

But they’re collaborating.

ENID.

Ah, Colonel, when a man collaborates with a woman, a third person ought always to be present.

COLONEL.

To protect the man?

ENID [tapping him, playfully].

You are incorrigible!

COLONEL [cheerfully].

I always was, and at my age reformation is out of the question!

ENID.

Oh, you are not so old as all that!

COLONEL.

Guess.

ENID.

Fifty!

COLONEL [pleased].

Add six to it!

ENID.

Six!

COLONEL [aside].

She might add eight.

ENID.

I don’t believe it, Colonel.

COLONEL [aside].

Quite the best of ’em! [Sits.] So you have appointed yourself the third person?

ENID.

It’s time someone did.

COLONEL.

A sort of Vigilance Committee, eh?

ENID.

I simply take the interest of a friend in Agnes.

COLONEL.

And what is the result of your observations?

ENID.

I have come to a terrible conclusion.

COLONEL.

You alarm me!

ENID.

That she is a poor, tempted creature.

COLONEL.

Bless me! I never regarded her in that light before. I thought the boot was on the other leg. [Corrects himself hurriedly.] Foot!—foot! [Indicating ENID’S, which she is carefully showing; aside.] Very neat foot she has!

ENID.

Men always stand by one another, so should women. Agnes must be protected against herself!

COLONEL.

Then it’s herself, after all? I thought you meant my nephew.

ENID.

So I do. She is the moth—he is the candle.

COLONEL.

Really!——

ENID.

Oh, you men, you men! You’re all alike—at least, I won’t say all!

COLONEL.

Say all, say all! It really doesn’t matter!

ENID.

No, no, I won’t say all!

COLONEL.

You say so in your book!

ENID [pleased].

You’ve read my book?

COLONEL [evading the question].

“Man, the Betrayer?”

ENID.

Well, you know, Colonel, one has to paint with a broad brush.

[Pantomime.

COLONEL.

Yes, when one paints with tar! [Aside.] Very nice arm, too! [Aloud.] Look at your title!

ENID.

“Man, the Betrayer!”

COLONEL [aside].

Don’t know any more!

ENID.

A mere figure of speech!

COLONEL [admiring her].

Figure?

ENID.

Mere figure!

COLONEL.

Damned fine figure, too!

[To himself, but aloud.

ENID.

Colonel!

COLONEL.

Ten thousand pardons! I was thinking of something else. Pray forgive my bad language!

ENID.

Oh, I’m used to it! Victoria’s is much worse!

COLONEL.

Miss Vivash!

ENID.

Vulgar-minded thing! Learned French on purpose to read Zola’s novels. I don’t suppose that even you have read them.

COLONEL.

Oh, haven’t I? Every one!

ENID.

I don’t believe it, Colonel!

COLONEL.

I’m a shocking old sinner! I never professed to be anything else!

ENID.

I simply don’t believe it! You men exaggerate so! You make yourselves out to be so much worse than you are. Whereas we women pretend to be so much better. That’s the worst of us! We are such hypocrites! Oh, if you knew as much about women as I do——

COLONEL [aside, much interested].

Now I’m going to hear something. [Meanwhile MARGERY has crept in, R., behind them. She flings her handkerchief over the COLONEL’S eyes, and ties it in a knot behind his head, then skips away from him. Rising.] You rascal! It’s that Margery! I know it is! Where are you? [Groping about, MARGERY evading him, and in shrieks of laughter.] Margery, if I catch you!

MARGERY.

But you can’t!

[ENID has risen to evade the COLONEL, who is groping all over the room—a sort of blind man’s buff—all laughing.

COLONEL [seizing ENID].

I’ve got you!

[Kisses her. ENID shrieks. MARGERY roars. COLONEL tears off the handkerchief and stands aghast.

Re-enter WELLS, L.

WELLS.

Lady Wargrave.

[Sudden silence. Exit COLONEL, R. ENID runs out, C., in confusion.

Enter LADY WARGRAVE, L., and comes down.

[Exit WELLS, L. ENID re-appears C., and runs across stage behind LADY WARGRAVE, and off, L. MARGERY stands confused, not knowing how to greet LADY WARGRAVE.

LADY WARGRAVE [putting out both hands].

Margery! [Holding both MARGERY’S hands].

MARGERY.

Oh, Lady Wargrave!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Aunt. I’ve called to make amends to you.

MARGERY.

Amends?

LADY WARGRAVE.

For my neglect. [Kisses her.] Forgive me, Margery, but your marriage was a shock to me. However, I’ve got over it. Perhaps, after all, Gerald has chosen wisely!

MARGERY.

Thank you for your kind words. I knew you had got over it.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Of course! you had my card.

MARGERY.

I knew from uncle, too. How good of him to bring it all about!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Theodore!

MARGERY.

I mean, to reconcile you!

LADY WARGRAVE.

My dear Margery, your uncle has never presumed to mention the subject?

MARGERY.

Oh, what a story he has told us! he said it was his doing.

LADY WARGRAVE.

No doubt. When you know Theodore as well as I do, you will have learnt what value to attach to his observations!

MARGERY.

Won’t I pay him out?

[Shaking her fist.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Never mind your uncle. Tell me about yourself—and about Gerald. I hope your marriage has turned out a happy one.

MARGERY.

Yes—we’re as happy as the day is long.

LADY WARGRAVE.

That is good news. Then you haven’t found your new position difficult?

MARGERY.

Oh, I’m quite used to it! I’m not a bit shy now. Of course I put my foot in it—I make mistakes sometimes; but even born ladies sometimes make mistakes.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Yes, Margery. [Bending her head slightly.] And Gerald?

MARGERY.

Is the best husband in the world to me. Of course, he’s very busy——

LADY WARGRAVE.

Busy?

MARGERY.

With his book; and sometimes I can’t help annoying him. That’s nothing. We haven’t had a real cross word yet.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Does he write very much?

MARGERY.

Oh, morning, noon, and night. He’s always got a pen in his hand. I often say I wonder he doesn’t wear the ceiling out with looking at it.

[Laughs.

LADY WARGRAVE.

That isn’t writing, Margery.

MARGERY.

No, but it’s thinking—and he’s always thinking.

[Falls into a reverie.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Do you go out much?

MARGERY.

We went out a good deal at first, but we got tired of it. I like home best; at any rate, Gerald does. I rather liked going out. Oh, I’m quite a success in society.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Indeed?

MARGERY.

Of course, aunt, I’m not clever; but I suppose I’m witty without knowing it!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Witty?

MARGERY.

At any rate, I make the people laugh. Isn’t that being witty? Then I laugh as well, although I don’t know what I’m laughing at, I’m sure! [Laughs.] Oh, everybody laughs at me—but Gerald. And he’s thinking of his book!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Do you have many visitors?

MARGERY.

Oh, yes! Miss Vivash—Miss Bethune—Dr. Mary—Mrs. Sylvester—and uncle. They’re often coming. As for Mrs. Sylvester, she almost lives here!—oh, and Captain Sylvester, he’s taken to calling lately!

LADY WARGRAVE.

In future, dear, you’ll have another visitor. I see I have neglected you too long. And you must come and see me. We’ll go out together.

MARGERY.

Oh, that will be nice! Then you have quite forgiven me?

LADY WARGRAVE.

But not myself!

MARGERY [embracing her].

Oh, why is everyone so good to me?

Re-enter GERALD, R., followed by COLONEL.

GERALD.

Aunt, this is kind of you! but you were always kind.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Not always. I ought to have paid this visit earlier. I made a mistake, Gerald, and I have come to acknowledge it.

COLONEL [laying his hand on LADY WARGRAVE’S shoulder in an access of enthusiasm].

Caroline, you’re a trump!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Theodore!

COLONEL.

No other word for it! I always said you’d come round!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Never!

COLONEL.

Always!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Theodore, you never said so!

COLONEL.

To myself.

[Turns off.

GERALD.

Better late than never, aunt. And thank you for the card for your At Home.

[Talks to LADY WARGRAVE.

MARGERY.

Oh, uncle, you’re a shocking old story, aren’t you?

COLONEL.

What have I been saying now?

MARGERY.

You said it was your doing!

COLONEL.

So it was!

MARGERY.

Aunt vows you’d nothing to do with it at all!

COLONEL [taking MARGERY aside].

Caroline’s a heart of gold; but your aunt must be managing! So I let her manage, and I manage her.

MARGERY.

You?

[Smiling.

COLONEL.

But I do it quietly. I influence her, without her knowing it. Sheer force of character. Chut! not a word! [Backing away from her, signalling silence; backs into LADY WARGRAVE.] Ten thousand pardons!

[Bows profusely.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Really, Theodore!

[MARGERY goes up, stifling her laughter; he shakes his handkerchief at her.

Re-enter WELLS, L.

WELLS.

Mrs. Sylvester!

Enter MRS. SYLVESTER; she hesitates, on seeing LADY WARGRAVE. Exit WELLS, L.

GERALD.

Pray come in, Mrs. Sylvester. You know my aunt.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I think we’ve met before.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Yes, at my nephew’s chambers. I remember perfectly. You were engaged upon some work or other.

GERALD.

It’s not finished yet. I am so interrupted!

[Glancing at MARGERY who has crept down behind COLONEL.

MARGERY [whispering in COLONEL’S ear].

Who kissed Miss Bethune?

[COLONEL starts guiltily; MARGERY roars.

GERALD [angrily].

Margery!

[MARGERY runs out, L.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Not finished yet!

MRS. SYLVESTER.

But we have made great progress.

LADY WARGRAVE.

And are you satisfied with what you have done?

GERALD.

It is certainly interesting.

LADY WARGRAVE.

It is not enough for me that a work of my nephew’s should be interesting! Tell me, as far as you have gone, do you think it is worthy of a Cazenove?

GERALD.

It is the work of my life.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

And of mine!

LADY WARGRAVE.

As far as you have gone. But what is to be the end of it?

GERALD.

Ah, we’ve not got there yet.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Would you admit a third collaborateur?

MRS. SYLVESTER [alarmed].

Who?

LADY WARGRAVE.

An old woman.

GERALD.

Lady Wargrave’s joking!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Oh, I could put an end to it, I think!

MRS. SYLVESTER.

We don’t know what the end will be ourselves.

LADY WARGRAVE.

There I have the advantage. If I can help in any way, my experience is always at your service. Meanwhile, I fear I am another interruption. Theodore, your arm!

GERALD [follows them to door, L.].

Thank you so much for coming.

[Holding his hand out.

LADY WARGRAVE [taking it].

And for going?

[Exit with COLONEL, L.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

What does she mean?

GERALD.

Thank her for going?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

And the end of it?

GERALD.

Aunt always talks in riddles!

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Is it a riddle?

GERALD [avoids her eyes].

Come, let us get to work. I’ve done hardly anything today. It’s first one interruption, then another.

[Sits.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

We should be quieter at our house.

GERALD.

There’s your husband!

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Always a husband!

GERALD.

Or a wife. Ah, me!

[Sits with his head between his hands, staring at vacancy; MRS. SYLVESTER watching him sympathetically.

MRS. SYLVESTER [comes and kneels by him].

Gerald! [He starts slightly.] You are not happy. You have realized the truth.

GERALD.

What truth?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Your marriage was a mistake from the beginning.

GERALD.

Not from the beginning. It started right enough, but somehow it has taken the wrong turn.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

It was wrong from the first. Mine was the true ideal. The thing that you thought love was a mere passion—an intoxication. Now you have come back to your better self you feel the need of sympathy.

GERALD.

No, no; my love was real enough, and I love Margery still; but love doesn’t seem to bear the wear and tear of marriage—the hourly friction—the continual jar.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

There is no friction in true marriage, Gerald. You say you love your wife, and it is good and loyal of you to deceive yourself; but you can’t deceive me. Haven’t I made the same mistake myself? I was a thoughtless, inexperienced girl, Jack was a handsome, easy-going man. We married, and for a year or two we jogged along. But I grew up—the girl became a woman. I read, I thought, I felt; my life enlarged. Jack never reads, never thinks—he is just the same. [Rising.] I am not unhappy, but my soul is starved—[goes to mantelpiece and stands looking at him]—as yours is!

[Pause. MARGERY’S face appears between the curtains at the back, wearing a broad smile. She grimaces at them, unobserved, and remains there; then looks at GERALD with a long face of mock sympathy.

GERALD.

Well, we must make the best of it!

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Yes, but what is the best? [MARGERY grimaces at her.] Is our mistake so hopeless, irremediable? After all, is not true loyalty loyalty to oneself?

GERALD [looks at her].

You think so?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Or what becomes of our philosophy?

GERALD.

Yes, what becomes of it?

[Another pause. MARGERY laughs almost audibly. During the next passage the laugh subsides into an expression of perplexity.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

What is a promise when the heart’s gone out of it?

GERALD.

Surely it is a promise.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

To an empty phrase must one sacrifice one’s life? Must one stake everything on the judgment of one’s youth? By the decision of a moment must one be bound for ever? Must one go through the world “with quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth?” Does one not owe a duty to oneself? There can be but one answer!

GERALD [absently].

Margery! [MARGERY winces as if struck—quite serious now. Then with energy.] But, Agnes, Margery is impossible! She’s no companion to me! I am all alone! Her very laughter grates upon me! There’s no meaning in it! It is the laughter of a tomboy, of a clown! And she will never learn! She’s hopeless, Agnes, hopeless! [MARGERY drops back horror-struck, but her face disappears only by degrees. MRS. SYLVESTER lays her hand on him. Another pause. The curtains close.] What is one to do? [Rising.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

We are face to face with the problem! Let us confront it boldly. Gerald, do you love me?

[A thud behind the curtains. GERALD starts guiltily. Pause. They stand looking at one another.

GERALD [in a whisper].

What was that? [Goes up cautiously and draws curtains back, discovering MARGERY stretched senseless on the floor.] Margery!

ACT III.

A Fortnight Later.

SCENE.—Drawing-room at LADY WARGRAVE’S. Main entrance C., Conservatory R. Entrance, L., to an inner room. Fireplace, R., up stage, near which is LADY WARGRAVE’S chair, with the cushion of Act I.

The stage is discovered half-filled with Guests, who stand and sit in groups, including COLONEL, CAPTAIN and MRS. SYLVESTER, and GERALD. LADY WARGRAVE is receiving her guests. A buzz of general conversation; and a band is heard playing in the inner room, loudly at first, but softly after the picture is discovered.

SERVANT [at entrance C.].

Miss Vivash and Mr. Pettigrew!

Enter VICTORIA, followed leisurely by PERCY, a very young man who is always smiling to himself, unconsciously.

VICTORIA [going straight to LADY WARGRAVE and grasping her hand].

Good evening, Lady Wargrave, I have taken the liberty of bringing a friend whose name is no doubt known to you—Mr. Percy Pettigrew.

[PERCY bows distantly, smiling.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Pettigrew, did you say?

PERCY.

Percy Bysshe Pettigrew.

[Smiling.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Of course! two of your names are quite well known to me; it is only the surname that is unfamiliar.

PERCY [smiling].

Pettigrew!

[Turns off.

GERALD.

One of my Oxford friends.

LADY WARGRAVE [aside to him].

One of those who are always at Oxford?

VICTORIA.

His “Supercilia” are quoted everywhere.

LADY WARGRAVE.

His——?

GERALD.

A column Percy does for “The Corset.”

VICTORIA.

A newspaper devoted to our cause.

GERALD.

“The Corset” is Percy’s organ.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Ah, his rattle!

SERVANT.

Dr. Bevan.

DR. BEVAN [shakes hands with LADY WARGRAVE].

I hope I am not late; but I was detained at the hospital. Most interesting case, unhappily unfit for publication.

SERVANT.

Miss Bethune.

[Exit SERVANT.

Enter ENID.

COLONEL [to SYLVESTER].

The best of ’em! [ENID shakes hands with LADY WARGRAVE.] Ah, what a pity, what a pity, Sylvester!

SYLVESTER.

What is a pity, Colonel?

COLONEL.

That such a figure should be wasted!

SYLVESTER [in a matter of course voice].

I prefer Mrs. Cazenove’s.

[Turns off. COLONEL eyes him curiously. The other Guests should be so arranged that each man is surrounded by a little group of women.

PERCY [the centre of one group, lolling lazily, always smiling with self-complacency, suddenly sits up and shivers].

No, no! don’t mention it. It bores me so.

[Shivers.

CHORUS.

And me!

[All shiver.

VICTORIA.

The stage has ever been Woman’s greatest foe.

GUEST.

For centuries it has shirked the sexual problem.

SYLVESTER [who has strolled up].

But doesn’t it show signs of repentance?

PERCY.

The theatre is dying.

SYLVESTER.

Death-bed repentance, then. That’s the one problem it discusses.

GUEST.

It is the one problem in life.

PERCY.

The theatre is dying! Dixi!

[Leans back again.

DOCTOR.

The novel will sweep everything before it.

SYLVESTER.

You mean, the female novel?

DOCTOR.

Nothing can stop it.

SYLVESTER.

No, it stops at nothing.

DOCTOR.

Nor will it, till the problem is solved. That solution, I venture to predict, will be on the lines of pure mathematics.

SYLVESTER.

Really?

[Smothering a yawn.

DOCTOR.

I put the proposition in this way. The sexes are parallel lines.

SYLVESTER.

Which are bound to meet.

DOCTOR.

I must not be taken to admit, that there is any physiological necessity.

VOICES.

Certainly not.

DOCTOR [to LADY WARGRAVE, who is passing].

I am sure, Lady Wargrave must agree with us.

LADY WARGRAVE.

What is that, Doctor?

DOCTOR.

That there is no physiological necessity——

LADY WARGRAVE.

To discuss physiology? I am quite of your opinion.

[Passes on.

ENID [who is in a group surrounding COLONEL].

That’s where we differ. What is your view, Colonel?

COLONEL.

My dear Miss Bethune, there is no occasion for Man to express any view, when Woman expresses them all. First, you must reconcile your internal differences.

VOICE.

But we can’t.

COLONEL.

To begin with, you must make up your minds whether you wish to regenerate us or to degrade yourselves.

ENID.

Regenerate you, of course.

COLONEL.

Miss Vivash prefers the alternative.

ENID.

That is Victoria’s foible.

COLONEL [gallantly].

I can admit no foible in a lady.

ENID.

At any rate, we are agreed on the main point—the equality of the sexes.

COLONEL.

That, alas, is impossible.

VOICE.

Impossible?

COLONEL.

Whilst Woman persists in remaining perfect.

VICTORIA.

Cannot Man emulate her?

COLONEL.

I am afraid his strength is only equal to the confession of his unworthiness.

ENID.

You would confess that? Then you agree with me, that a woman is entitled to know the whole of a man’s past?

LADY WARGRAVE [who has joined them].

Would it not be more useful if she knew something of his future?

ENID.

Women have futures; men have only pasts.

DOCTOR [still in SYLVESTER’S group].

It stands to reason—pure reason—there ought not to be one law for women and another for men.

SYLVESTER.

You mean, that they ought both to be for women?

DOCTOR.

I mean, that the institution of marriage is in urgent need of reconsideration.

SYLVESTER.

The sooner, the better.

DOCTOR.

I am glad you think so.

SYLVESTER.

When the institution of marriage is reconsidered, man will have another chance.

[Exit, R.

LADY WARGRAVE [who has joined PERCY’S group].

What do I think of the New Woman? There is no New Woman; she is as old as Molière.

[Stands listening, amused.

CHORUS.

Molière!

VICTORIA.

A pagan!

PERCY.

A frank pagan. For pure art we must go to Athens.

CHORUS.

Athens!

PERCY.

Or the Music Halls. Have you seen Trixy Blinko?

CHORUS.

Trixy—oh, charming—sweet!

PERCY.

In her alone I find the true Greek spirit. What were the prevailing characteristics of Hellenic culture? [A sudden silence.] Breadth and centrality, blitheness and repose. All these I find in Trixy.

CHORUS.

Little dear!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Somewhat risquée, isn’t she?

PERCY.

To the suburban mind.

[LADY WARGRAVE bows and turns off.

SERVANT enters, L.

SERVANT.

Signor Labinski has arrived, your ladyship.

[Exit, L. LADY WARGRAVE speaks to one or two of the Guests, and the company disperse, most of them going off, L., but a few, C., and others into the conservatory. During this general movement, the music off, is heard louder. COLONEL is left with DR. MARY.

COLONEL.

Nonsense, my dear Doctor—— The fact’s just this. The modern woman is prostrated by the discovery of her own superiority; and she is now engaged in one of those hopeless enterprises which we have regretfully abandoned. She is endeavouring to understand herself. I offer her my respectful sympathy.

[Bows and sits, C.

DOCTOR [sits by him].

The truth amounts to this: the one mitigating circumstance about the existence of Man is, that he occasionally co-operates in the creation of a Woman.

COLONEL.

His proudest privilege! The mystery to me is, that you ladies haven’t found it out before.

Re-enter ENID, C.

DOCTOR.

Yes, but you shirk the question!

[COLONEL is fanning himself, helplessly.

ENID [aside].

A man in distress! I must help him! [Advancing sweetly.] What were you saying, Doctor?

[Sits on the other side of COLONEL.

COLONEL [aside].

Bethune! the best of ’em!

DOCTOR.

You know, from your own experience, that marriage is not a necessity.

COLONEL.

No, it’s a luxury—an expensive luxury.

ENID.

Oh, surely that depends upon the wife.

DOCTOR.

It is she who has to associate with him.

ENID.

And considering what his past has been——

COLONEL.

Suppose it hasn’t!

DOCTOR.

But it always has!

ENID.

I should be sorry to think that.

DOCTOR.

Take the Colonel’s own case.

COLONEL [alarmed].

Doctor!

DOCTOR.

Do you deny that you have had a past?

COLONEL.

Oh, a few trifling peccadilloes!

ENID.

Then you must never marry.

COLONEL.

Am I to have no chance of reformation?

ENID.

It is your own fault.

DOCTOR.

Entirely.

COLONEL.

One moment, my dear ladies! Excuse me pointing out, that, in the last resort, there must always be a female accomplice!

ENID.

Poor, tempted creature!

COLONEL.

Tempted by a man!

DOCTOR.

We all have our weak moments.

[Sighs.

ENID.

All of us!

[Sighs. As the pair sit with their eyes cast down, silent, COLONEL looks from one to the other in dismay, then steals off, R.

COLONEL [at door].

Getting dangerous!

[Exit, R. When they look up, each with a languorous glance, they find themselves languishing at one another; both rise.

ENID [putting her arm round DOCTOR’S waist].

My dear, we are missing the music!

[Exeunt, L.

Re-enter MRS. SYLVESTER and GERALD, C. Movement of other Guests across stage, during music.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Where have you been? I have seen nothing of you. What have you been doing?

GERALD.

Thinking.

MRS. SYLVESTER [jealously].

Of whom?

GERALD.

Of Margery.

[Movement of MRS. SYLVESTER.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Has she said anything?

GERALD.

No, not a word.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Of course, she heard?

GERALD.

What did I say? What did I do? What must she think of me? I can’t bear this suspense. For the last fortnight, she’s been another woman. So grave—so thoughtful—so unlike herself. There is no laugh to grate upon me now. What would I give to bring it back again?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Is it she only who has changed?

GERALD.

Ever since I saw that figure on the ground, I can see nothing else. And it is I who brought it to the dust—I, who had sworn to cherish it. Yes, you are right; I too am different; I see things from a different point of view. And when I think of Margery’s young life, so full of hope and joy—Margery, who never asked to be my wife—Margery, whom I compelled to marry me—with all the joy crushed out of her—I feel too much ashamed even to ask forgiveness. And as I watch her move about the house—silent and sorrowful—I ask myself, how much did Margery give up for me? I took her from the station of life in which she was born, and in which she was happy. I set her in another and a strange one. Was mine the only sacrifice? How much of friendship and of old association did she resign for my sake? My life continued as it was before—I had my old friends and my old pursuits. What had she? Nothing—but my love. And I took it away from her. Because she made a few mistakes, and a few people laughed—a few more didn’t call—and I mistook a light heart for an empty head. What do all these things matter? what is a man worth who sets such things above a love like hers?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

This is pure pity, Gerald.

GERALD.

Pity for myself.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

She was no wife for you. She could be no companion.

GERALD.

If she was no companion, did I make her one?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Need you tell me all this?

GERALD.

Yes, Mrs. Sylvester, it’s best I should. I came to tell it you.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Not Agnes now!

GERALD.

Forget my folly, and forget your own.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Mine was no folly. I, at least, was sincere; the love that isn’t based on sympathy is a mere passion.

GERALD.

And the love that has no passion in it, isn’t worth the name!

MRS. SYLVESTER.

That’s your idea?

GERALD.

And what is yours? Let us be frank.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Oh, frankness, by all means.

GERALD.

Forgive me; but we’re face to face with truth. Don’t let us flinch from it. We have both made the same mistake—not in our marriages, but in despising them. What we want in a partner is what we lack in ourselves. Not sympathy only, but sex. Strength requires gentleness, sweetness asks for light; and all that is womanly in woman wants all that is manly in man. You think your husband is no mate for you. What I have missed in Margery, have you not missed in him?

MRS. SYLVESTER [after a pause].

I understand you. It is over.

GERALD.

It is for you to say. We have gone too far together for either of us to turn back alone. I have not only made my own hearth desolate, but yours. I owe you all the reparation I can make. I only want you to know the truth. What is left of my life you may command, but my heart is not mine to bestow.

MRS. SYLVESTER [turns up, to hide her emotion, and tries to go into the room, L., but half-way she falters and puts out her hand].

Gerald!

[He goes to her and offers her his arm. Exeunt GERALD and MRS. SYLVESTER, L. Other Guests cross the stage. Enter MARGERY, C. Finding herself opposite LADY WARGRAVE’S chair, takes a long look at it, then moves the cushion, and gradually gets into her old position behind it. Music heard off, softly, during this passage.

MARGERY.

Yes, this is how it ought to be. It looks a different world altogether—the real world—the world, when Gerald loved me!

[Comes down and sits, in a reverie.

Re-enter SYLVESTER, R.

SYLVESTER.

Alone, Mrs. Cazenove? It isn’t often that I find you alone. I’ve seen nothing of you lately. You’ve always been out when I’ve called.

MARGERY.

I was in once.

SYLVESTER.

Only once.

MARGERY.

It was enough.

SYLVESTER.

You are cruel.

MARGERY.

Are you looking for your wife?

SYLVESTER [laughs].

Agnes and I go very different ways.

MARGERY.

I think you’re going the same way, both of you.

SYLVESTER [still laughing].

But in opposite directions. Mrs. Cazenove, you’re quite a philosopher. Why have you grown so serious all at once?

MARGERY.

I’m older than I was.

SYLVESTER.

Only a fortnight since you were all vivacity.

MARGERY.

One can live a long time in a fortnight.

SYLVESTER.

I hope these ladies haven’t converted you.

MARGERY.

Yes; I am a new woman.

SYLVESTER [laughs].

Your husband has been reading you his book!

MARGERY.

A good deal of it.

SYLVESTER.

What is it all about? If I am not too curious.

MARGERY.

It’s about love.

SYLVESTER.

I thought it was about marriage.

MARGERY.

Aren’t they the same thing? He says they are, and I agree with him. And then he says [half to herself] that, when the love is gone, so is the marriage—and I think he’s right!

[Loses herself in thought.

SYLVESTER [gazes at her for some moments, then unable to restrain himself].

Ah, Margery! if Heaven had given me such a wife as you——

MARGERY [rises].

Heaven didn’t, and there’s an end of it.

SYLVESTER [rises].

Forgive me! how can I help admiring you?

MARGERY.

Can’t you admire me without telling me? It’s well to make the best of what we have, instead of trying to make the worst of what we haven’t.

SYLVESTER.

I must be silent!

MARGERY.

Or not talk in that way.

[Moves away.

SYLVESTER [following, in an outburst].

Gerald doesn’t love you [movement of MARGERY]—oh, you said that just now! you mayn’t know that you said it, but you did! My wife doesn’t love me—I don’t love my wife—and yet I must say nothing.

MARGERY.

What’s it to me that you don’t love your wife?

SYLVESTER.

I love you, Margery.

MARGERY.

I knew that was coming.

SYLVESTER.

Honestly love you! I admired you always. It was an empty admiration, perhaps—the admiration a man feels for twenty women—but it grew solid; and the more you repulsed me, the more you attracted me. You mayn’t believe me, but at first I wanted you to repulse me; then it got past that; and when I saw you sitting there alone—living over in your mind your wasted life—I loved you, and the words sprang to my lips. Nothing could keep them back! I love you, Margery—nobody but you! Why should your life be wasted? Why should mine?

MARGERY.

Well, have you finished?

SYLVESTER [seizing her].

No!

MARGERY.

I can guess the rest. You say Gerald doesn’t love me, you don’t love your wife, and your wife doesn’t love you; but you forget one thing—that I don’t love you either.

SYLVESTER.

Not now, but by-and-by. Margery, I would make you love me—I would teach you!

MARGERY.

So, I’m to learn to be unfaithful, is that it? As one learns music? No, Captain Sylvester! Suppose two people are so much in love that they can’t help it, Heaven is their judge, not me. But to begin to love when they can help it—not to resist—to teach themselves to love—that’s where the wrong is, and there’s no gainsaying it.

SYLVESTER.

Suppose your husband left you?

MARGERY.

I would have no other!

SYLVESTER.

Why not?

Re-enter GERALD, L.

MARGERY.

Because I love him, and I don’t love you!

[MARGERY’S back is towards GERALD, so that she doesn’t see him; but SYLVESTER is facing him and sees him.

GERALD [coming down to MARGERY].

What has he said?

MARGERY.

Nothing for your ears!

SYLVESTER.

Yes, for all the world’s! I’ll tell you!

MARGERY.

I forbid you! Leave me with my husband.

[SYLVESTER hesitates a moment, then exit, C.

GERALD.

Margery, speak! I have a right to know.

MARGERY.

You have no right!

GERALD.

You will not tell me?

MARGERY.

No!

GERALD.

Then he shall!

[Advances on her.

MARGERY.

Stand back! You shall not go!

GERALD.

What, you defend him?

MARGERY.

Against you, I do! Who are you to question him? Are your own hands clean?

GERALD [drops back as if struck].

Margery!

MARGERY [holding out her hand].

Good-bye!

GERALD.

Good-bye?

MARGERY.

I’m going home.

GERALD.

To Mapledurham?

MARGERY.

We’ll say good-bye now.

GERALD.

Here—Margery?

MARGERY.

You needn’t be afraid. There’ll be no scene; I’ve done with tears.

GERALD.

You’re [chokes] going to leave me?

MARGERY.

Yes.

GERALD.

For a few days, you mean?

MARGERY.

I mean, for ever. Gerald, I’ve had enough of half a home and only half a heart. I’m starving, withering, dying here with you! They love me there! Let me go back to them! Oh, what a world it is! To think that one can get the love of any man except the man one loves!

GERALD.

You have it, Margery!

MARGERY [fiercely].

I haven’t.

GERALD.

If you only knew——

MARGERY.

I know I haven’t! what’s the use of words? Do you think a woman doesn’t know when she’s not loved, or is? When you first said you loved me, down in the fields yonder, do you suppose you took me by surprise? You had no need to swear. I knew you loved me, just as certainly as I know now you don’t!

GERALD [much moved].

Oh, what a scoundrel I was, Margery!

MARGERY.

No man’s a scoundrel to the woman he loves. Ah, it was easy to forgive your loving me. But I’ll do something that is not so easy. I will forgive you for not loving me. It’s been a struggle. For the last fortnight I haven’t said a word, because I wasn’t master of myself, and I didn’t want to speak till I’d forgiven you. I wasn’t listening, Gerald. Heaven knows I would have given all the world not to have heard a word; but when you spoke my name, I couldn’t move. The ground seemed slipping underneath my feet, and all the happiness of all my life went out of it in those three words, “Margery’s hopeless, hopeless!”

GERALD.

Don’t! don’t! you torture me!

MARGERY.

Yes, Margery is hopeless. Every scrap of hope has gone out of her heart. I heard no more. It was enough. There was the end of all the world for me. [GERALD groans.] But it was well I heard you. I should have gone blundering along, in my old madcap way, and perhaps not found it out till I had spoilt your life. It’s well to know the truth; but, Gerald dear, why didn’t you tell it me instead of her? Why didn’t you tell me I was no companion? I would have gone away. But to pretend you loved me, when you didn’t—to let me go on thinking you were happy, when all the time you were regretting your mistake—not to tell me, and to tell someone else—oh, it was cruel, when I loved you so!

GERALD.

How could I tell you, Margery?

MARGERY.

How could you tell her? How could she listen to you? I forgive you, Gerald—I didn’t at first, but now I understand that there are times when one’s heart is so sore, it must cry out to somebody. But she——

GERALD.

It was my fault!

MARGERY.

You are mistaken there. It was your voice that spoke them, but the words were hers. It’s she who’s robbed me of your love! It isn’t I who’ve lost it; she has stolen it!

GERALD.

No, no!

MARGERY.

Be careful, or she’ll steal your honour too. Don’t trust to her fine phrases. She deceives herself. She wants your love, that’s what that woman wants: not to instruct the world—just to be happy—nothing more or less; but she won’t make you happy or herself. If I am no companion, she’s a bad one!

GERALD.

You wrong her, Margery—indeed, you do! I was the culprit——

MARGERY.

Have some pity on me! Don’t let the last words I shall hear you say be words defending her! Think what she’s done for me! Think how you loved me when you married me—think what our two lives might have been, but for her—think what mine will be! for mine won’t be like yours. Your love is dead, and you will bury it, but mine’s alive—alive!

[Breaks down.

GERALD.

And so is mine!

MARGERY [springs up].

Don’t soil your lips with lies! I’ve borne as much as I can bear. I can’t bear that!

GERALD.

If you will only listen——

MARGERY.

I have heard too much! Don’t speak again, or you will make me hate you! My mind’s made up. I have no business here! You are above me. I’m no wife for you! I’m dragging you down every day and hour.

GERALD.

Margery! you shall not go!

MARGERY [flinging him off].

To-night and now! Good-bye!

[Rushes into conservatory, R.

GERALD.

What right have I to stop her?

[Goes up, leans upon chair. Re-enter SYLVESTER, C.

SYLVESTER.

Now, Mr. Cazenove, I am at your service.

GERALD.

You are too late.

[Exit, C.

SYLVESTER.

So, he won’t speak to me. But I will make him. If he thinks I am caught, like a rat in a trap, he’s made a mistake. There’ll be a scandal—well, so much the better! Better that they should know the truth all round.

Re-enter MRS. SYLVESTER, L.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Ah, you are here! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.

SYLVESTER.

Looking for me?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I want you to take me home.

SYLVESTER.

I’ve something to say to you. Sit down.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Not to-night. I’m tired.

SYLVESTER.

Yes, to-night. What I’m going to say may be everybody’s property to-morrow. I choose that you should know it now.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I don’t understand you.

SYLVESTER.

But you shall. I’ve often heard you say that a loveless marriage is no marriage. Well, ours is loveless enough, isn’t it?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

It has been.

SYLVESTER.

It is! I’ve never understood you; and if there was any good in me, you’ve never taken the trouble to find it out.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I can’t bear this now.

SYLVESTER.

You must. Don’t think I’m going to reproach you. I take all the blame on myself. What if I were to tell you that you’ve made a convert to your principles where you least expected it?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

What do you mean?

SYLVESTER.

That it’s best for us both to put an end to this farce that we’re living. I mean, that I love another woman.

MRS. SYLVESTER [rising].

You!

SYLVESTER.

Perhaps that seems to you impossible. You thought, perhaps, that I was dull and stupid enough to go on with this empty life of ours to the end. I thought so too, but I was wrong. I love this woman, and I’ve told her so——

MRS. SYLVESTER [with jealousy].

Who is she?

SYLVESTER.

And I would tell her husband to his face

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Then she is married?

SYLVESTER.

As I tell you.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Who is she, I say?

SYLVESTER.

Margery.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Margery! Are you all mad, you men? What is it in that woman that enslaves you? What is the charm we others don’t possess? Only you men can see it; and you all do! You lose your senses, every one of you! What is it in her that bewitches you?

SYLVESTER.

What you’ve crushed out of yourself—your womanhood. What you’re ashamed of is a woman’s glory. Philosophy is well enough in boots; but in a woman a man wants flesh and blood—frank human nature!

MRS. SYLVESTER [laughing, hysterically].

A mere animal!

SYLVESTER.

A woman.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Well, you have found one.

SYLVESTER.

Yes.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Take her, then! go your way!

SYLVESTER.

I will.

[Exit, C.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

This world was made for such as you and her!

Re-enter MARGERY, R., cloaked.

We have no place in it—we who love with our brains! we have no chance of happiness!

MARGERY.

What chance have we? we, who love with our hearts! we, who are simply what God made us—women! we, to whom love is not a cult—a problem, but just as vital as the air we breathe. Take love away from us, and you take life itself. You have your books, your sciences, your brains! What have we?—nothing but our broken hearts!

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Broken hearts heal! The things that you call hearts! One love is dead, another takes its place; one man is lost, another man is found. What is the difference to a love like yours? Oh, there are always men for such women as you!

By degrees re-enter omnes, R., L., and C., gradually, except GERALD.

MARGERY.

But if the love is not dead? if it’s stolen? what is our lot then—ours, whose love’s alive? We, who’re not skilled to steal—who only want our own——

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Not skilled to steal! have you not stolen mine?

MARGERY.

I have one husband, and I want no other!

[Murmurs.

LADY WARGRAVE [restraining her].

Calm yourself, dear!

MARGERY.

I have been calm too long!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Remember, you are my niece.

MARGERY.

That’s what I do remember! [Murmurs continue.] I am Gerald’s wife! That’s what she doesn’t forgive me! [Addressing MRS. SYLVESTER.] You call yourself a New Woman—you’re not New at all. You’re just as old as Eve. You only want one thing—the one thing every woman wants—the one thing that no woman’s life’s worth living without! A true man’s love! Ah, if we all had that, there’d be no problem of the sexes then. I had it once. Heaven help me, I have lost it! I’ve done my best—it isn’t much, but it’s the best I can. I give it up! If you have robbed me of his love, my own is left to me; and if the future’s yours, the past is mine. He loved me once, and I shall love him always!

[Exit, C.

ACT IV.

A Month Later.

SCENE:—An orchard at Mapledurham. Farmhouse at back, C. Paths off, R. and L. front. A cluster of trees, R., at back. A few stumps of trees to serve as seats.

MARGERY discovered, standing on a ladder placed against one of the trees, gathering apples, which she throws into a basket below. She is dressed in peasant costume.

Enter ARMSTRONG, C.

ARMSTRONG.

Margery!

MARGERY.

Yes, dad!

ARMSTRONG [comes underneath the tree and roars with laughter].

Here’s a slice of luck! That fellow in London wants the grey mare back again!

MARGERY [who has come down].

The grey mare, father?

ARMSTRONG.

Old Dapple! you remember her?

MARGERY.

Of course! but what about her?

ARMSTRONG.

Bless me, haven’t I told you? I sold old Dapple to a chap in London.

MARGERY [reproachfully]

You sold old Dapple?

ARMSTRONG.

She’s too good for hereabouts. True, she’s a splint on the off leg, but what’s a splint? I sold her without warranty, and buyer took her with all faults, just as she stood.

MARGERY.

Well, dad?

ARMSTRONG.

Darn me, if the next day he didn’t cry off his bargain!

MARGERY [thoughtfully].

Poor Dapple!

ARMSTRONG.

Oh, says I, if you’re not satisfied with her, I am. So, there’s your money; give me back my mare. An Armstrong doesn’t stand on warranties.

MARGERY.

No, daddy dear, and you don’t mind the splint?

ARMSTRONG.

But Margery, you should have seen the screw he got in place of her! Ha, ha! she was all splints!

MARGERY.

He’s found that out?

ARMSTRONG.

And wants the old mare back! at my own price!

MARGERY.

This is good news! For we were getting hard up, weren’t we, father?

ARMSTRONG.

Ay, farming isn’t what it used to be; and now that you won’t let me take in visitors——

MARGERY.

I never stopped you.

ARMSTRONG.

How about Captain Sylvester?

MARGERY.

Oh, him!

ARMSTRONG.

He’s an old customer; and always seemed a civil-spoken gentleman enough.

MARGERY.

Too civil!

ARMSTRONG.

That’s more than you were, Margery. You’d scarce say a word.

MARGERY.

He came for no good.

ARMSTRONG.

There’s no harm in trout fishing—unless it’s for the trout.

MARGERY.

I was the trout.

ARMSTRONG.

You? Go on! That’s the way with you girls! You think all the men are after you. I’m sure he said nothing to hurt you.

MARGERY.

But he has written since.

ARMSTRONG [scratches his head].

I didn’t know he’d written.

MARGERY.

Nearly every day.

ARMSTRONG.

Those letters were from him? I thought they were from——

[Hesitates.

MARGERY.

No! From Captain Sylvester.

ARMSTRONG.

Of course you haven’t answered them?

MARGERY.

Only the last.

ARMSTRONG.

I shouldn’t have done that.

MARGERY.

Yes, you would, dad!

ARMSTRONG.

Well, you know best. You always went your own way, Margery, and it was always the right road.

MARGERY.

Where shall I put these apples?

ARMSTRONG.

Nay, I’ve the broadest shoulders. Give me a hand; I’ll take ’em.

[MARGERY helps him to put the basket on his shoulders. Exit, C.

MARGERY.

Dear old dad! We leave our parents, and we return to them; they let us go, and they take us back again! How little we think of their partings, and how much of our own!

[Sits, R.

Enter SYLVESTER, L. front.

SYLVESTER.

I saw you in the apple-tree, and took a short cut.

MARGERY.

You got my message then?

SYLVESTER.

How good of you to send for me! So then my letters have had some effect?

MARGERY.

I sent for you because I want to speak to you.

SYLVESTER.

And I to you. Margery, I’ve left my wife.

MARGERY.

Yes, so I heard.

SYLVESTER.

She was no wife to me. For years our marriage has been a mockery, and it was best to put an end to it. Now I am free.

MARGERY.

Because you’ve left your wife?

SYLVESTER.

It’s no use beating about the bush. Things have gone too far, and I’m too much in earnest. She loves your husband. It is common talk. I’ve shut my eyes as long as possible, and you’ve shut yours; but we both know the truth.

MARGERY.

That you’ve deserted her!

SYLVESTER.

What if I have?

MARGERY.

Go back.

SYLVESTER.

Back to a wife who is no wife!

MARGERY.

Back to the woman you promised to protect, and whom you left when she most needed you.

SYLVESTER.

Because I love you, Margery!

MARGERY.

That love won’t last long. Love can’t live on nothing!

SYLVESTER.

There is no hope for me?

MARGERY.

No, not a scrap!

SYLVESTER.

Then what do you propose? To sacrifice your life to an idea—to be true to a phantom? You owe no faith to one who is unfaithful. Think! You are young—your real life lies before you—would you end it before it’s begun? A widow before you’re a wife?

MARGERY.

I am a wife, and I shall not forget it. If I have lost my husband’s love, at least I’ll save his honour. A public scandal mayn’t mean much to you, but it means your wife’s ruin—it means Gerald’s. Gerald shall not be ruined! You shall go back to her!

SYLVESTER.

Is it a challenge?

MARGERY.

Challenge or not, you shall! It is ignoble to desert her so! You are a coward to make love to me! If her love was unworthy, what is yours? Is it for you to cast a stone at her? See! Read your letters! [Producing a packet.] Letters to me—love-letters! Letters to a woman you didn’t respect in her grief and persecuted in her loneliness—a woman who would have none of you—who tells you to your face you’re not a man! Your love’s an insult! take the thing away!

[Turns off. Pause.

SYLVESTER.

Do you propose to send those to my wife?

MARGERY.

No! but I want to make you realize you need more mercy than you show to her. These letters were written for my eye alone; to open them was to promise secrecy.

SYLVESTER.

Why have you kept them, then?

MARGERY.

To give them back to you.

[Gives him the packet. Another pause.

SYLVESTER.

Margery, everything you say and do makes it more hard to go away from you.

MARGERY.

You’re going, then?

SYLVESTER.

Your words leave me no choice.

MARGERY.

Where are you going? to her?

SYLVESTER.

I don’t know yet. I don’t know if I’m welcome.

[Playing with the packet, mechanically.

MARGERY.

That rests with you. You say, she’s been no wife to you; but have you been a husband to her?

SYLVESTER.

Why do you take her part? She’s injured you enough.

MARGERY.

Yes; she has injured me; but now I know what it is to live without love, and to want it, I can pardon her. Can’t you? [Goes to him and gives him both her hands.] Forgive her, Captain Sylvester—freely as I do you—give her the love that you have offered me—and you will find your wife’s a woman just as much as I am.

SYLVESTER.

Margery—I may call you “Margery?”

MARGERY.

I’m “Margery” to everybody now.

SYLVESTER.

If there were more women like you, there would be fewer men like me.

[Exit, L.

MARGERY [looks after him, then goes, R. front and looks again].

He’ll go back to his wife; and if she isn’t happy, it’s her fault.

[Exit, R.

Re-enter ARMSTRONG, showing out, C., LADY WARGRAVE and the COLONEL.

ARMSTRONG.

This way, my lady. I’ll send Margery to you.

[Exit ARMSTRONG, R.

COLONEL.

This must be put right, Caroline.

LADY WARGRAVE.

I mean to put it right.

COLONEL [severely].

A Cazenove living apart from his wife!

LADY WARGRAVE.

It is sad—very sad.

COLONEL.

More than that, Caroline—it’s not respectable.

LADY WARGRAVE.

That doesn’t trouble you.

COLONEL.

It shocks me. The institution of marriage is the foundation of society; and whatever tends to cast discredit on that holy “ordnance” saps the moral fibre of the community.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Did you say, “ordnance?”

COLONEL.

I did say, “ordnance.” It was a slip of the tongue.

LADY WARGRAVE.

You are not used to ordinances.

COLONEL.

What do you mean, Caroline? Wasn’t I baptized—wasn’t I confirmed?

LADY WARGRAVE.

There is another ceremony which, during a somewhat long career, you have systematically avoided.

COLONEL.

A mere sin of omission, which even now it is not too late to repair. I am a young man still——

LADY WARGRAVE.

Young man?

COLONEL.

Comparatively. And everything in the world is comparative. What cannot be undone in the past can at least be avoided in the future.

LADY WARGRAVE.

What is the matter with you, Theodore? You have suddenly become quite a moral martinet, and have developed such a severity of aspect that I scarcely know my own brother.

COLONEL [aside].

Shall I tell her? Dare I? Courage!

LADY WARGRAVE.

I think I liked you better as you were. At any rate, I was used to you.

COLONEL.

How peaceful it is here, Caroline—how sylvan!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Yes, it’s a pretty little place enough.

COLONEL.

It might have been created expressly for the exchange of those sacred confidences which are never more becoming than when shared between a brother and a sister.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Good gracious! you are growing quite sentimental! I have no confidences to make.

COLONEL.

But I have.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Theodore! What fresh iniquity—?

COLONEL.

Caroline, I am going to be married.

[Blows his nose vigorously.

LADY WARGRAVE [astounded].

Married!

COLONEL.

To-morrow.

LADY WARGRAVE.

To whom, pray?

COLONEL.

Miss Bethune.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Give me my smelling salts.

COLONEL [gives her them].

Enid! Pretty name, isn’t it? Enid!

[Smiling to himself.

LADY WARGRAVE.

No fool like an old fool!

COLONEL.

Fifty-six.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Eight.

COLONEL.

But don’t tell Enid, will you?

LADY WARGRAVE.

There are so many things I mustn’t tell Enid!

COLONEL.

No, Caroline; I’ve made a clean breast of it.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Quite a clean breast of it?

COLONEL.

Everything in the world is comparative.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Then, Miss Bethune has renounced her opinions?

COLONEL.

Oh, no; she’s too much of a woman for that.

LADY WARGRAVE.

How can she reconcile them with your enormities?

COLONEL.

My peccadilloes? Oh, she doesn’t believe them—or she pretends she doesn’t—which is the same thing. She says we men exaggerate so; and as for the women, you simply can’t believe a word they say!

[Chuckles in his old style.

LADY WARGRAVE.

At any rate, she means to marry you?

COLONEL.

Upon the whole, she thinks I have been rather badly used.

[Chuckles again.

LADY WARGRAVE.

To marry! after your experience!

COLONEL.

Way of the world, my dear. My poor old adjutant! went through the Mutiny unscathed, and killed in Rotten Row!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Well, it was quite time that you had a nurse!

[Rising and going R. front to meet MARGERY.

COLONEL.

Caroline’s taken it very well. Nothing like courage in these matters—courage! “Nurse” was distinctly nasty; but that’s Caroline’s way.

Re-enter ARMSTRONG, R., followed by MARGERY.

ARMSTRONG.

Found her at last, my lady.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Leave us together, Armstrong.

[MARGERY drops a curtsey.

ARMSTRONG.

Come with me, Colonel. If you’ll step indoors, I’ll give you a glass of ale that’ll do your heart good.

COLONEL [putting his arm through ARMSTRONG’S].

Caroline takes it very well.

[Quite forgetting himself.

ARMSTRONG.

My lady’s very welcome.

COLONEL [hastily withdrawing his arm].

No, no, no! I was talking to myself. [Exit ARMSTRONG, C., roaring. Aside, glancing at LADY WARGRAVE.] Nurse!

[Exit, C.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Margery, I’ve come to scold you.

MARGERY.

Yes, my lady.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Aunt. Come and sit down by me. [Draws her towards seat under the tree, L. LADY WARGRAVE sits—MARGERY at her feet.] Yes, Margery, to scold you. Why did you not confide in me? If you had only told me of your troubles, this would never have happened. It was undutiful.

MARGERY.

No, aunt. There are some troubles one can confide to nobody—some griefs which are too sacred to be talked about.

LADY WARGRAVE.

And is yours one of them? You are young, Margery; and youth exaggerates its sorrows as well as its joys. Nothing has happened that cannot be put right, if you will only trust me and obey me.

MARGERY.

I owe my obedience elsewhere.

LADY WARGRAVE.

And do you think that you have paid it?

MARGERY.

Yes.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Gerald desired you to leave him?

MARGERY.

No; but I read his thoughts—just as you used to say I could read yours—and I obeyed his wishes.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Then if he wished you to return, you would come back?

MARGERY.

Not if he’d been talked over; not if he asked me to go back to him because he thinks it his duty, or I want him. I don’t want duty; I want love.

LADY WARGRAVE.

You wouldn’t see him, if I sent him to you?

MARGERY.

What is the use of seeing him? You can send Gerald, but not Gerald’s heart. I have done all I can—I can’t do any more. I’ve saved his honour—I’ve resigned his love. All I ask is, to be left alone with mine.

[Turning away.

[LADY WARGRAVE rises, and as GERALD advances, retires into the house, C.

GERALD.

Margery!

MARGERY.

Gerald!

GERALD.

I am not here to ask you to come back to me. How can I say what I have come for? I have come—because I cannot keep away from you. To ask for your forgiveness——

MARGERY.

You have that.

GERALD.

And, if it’s possible, some place in your esteem. Let me say this, and I will say no more. If, for a little space, my heart strayed from you, Margery—if, for a moment, words escaped my lips which cannot be recalled, that is my only infidelity. You understand me?

MARGERY.

Yes.

GERALD.

That’s what I came to say—that’s all!

MARGERY [giving him her hand].

Thank you for telling me.

GERALD [holding her hand].

Not all I want to say, but all I must. I am no longer a free man. My lips are sealed.

MARGERY.

What seals them?

GERALD.

Haven’t you heard? Sylvester’s left his wife—and it is all my doing.

MARGERY.

No, it is his.

GERALD.

His?

MARGERY.

I may tell you now. He left his wife, not through your fault or hers, but to make love to me.

GERALD.

He has been here?

MARGERY.

But he has gone.

GERALD.

Where?

MARGERY.

To his wife. I sent him back to her.

GERALD.

Then, I am free!

MARGERY.

Yes, Gerald.

GERALD.

Free to say how I love you—how I have always loved you! Yes, Margery, I loved you even then—then when I spoke those unjust, cruel words; but love’s so weird a thing it sometimes turns us against those we love. But when I saw you, there upon the ground, my heart turned back to you—no, it was not my heart, only my lips that were unfaithful! My heart was always yours—not half of it, but all—yours when I married you, yours when you said good-bye, and never more yours, never as much as now, now I have lost you.

MARGERY.

You have not lost me, if you love me that much!

[Throwing her arms round him.

GERALD.

Margery!

LADY WARGRAVE and COLONEL re-enter, quietly, C., and stand, looking on, at back, amongst the trees.

GERALD.

My wife again!

MARGERY.

But, Gerald, remember I am nothing more. I don’t think I shall ever be a lady.

GERALD.

Always in my eyes!

MARGERY.

No, not even there. Only a woman.

GERALD.

I want you to be nothing less or more—only a woman!

[About to kiss her. LADY WARGRAVE, at back, bows her head, with her fan half spread before the COLONEL’S face. GERALD kisses MARGERY.

CURTAIN.

CHISWICK PRESS:—CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.

Transcriber’s Note

This transcription is based on images scanned by Google from a copy made available by the Princeton University Library.

The following changes to the text were noted:

- Throughout the text, dashes at the end of lines have been normalized.

- p. 31: Re-enter MARGERY, R., she goes straight…—Changed comma after “R.” to semicolon.

- p. 46: We musn’t make so much noise.—Changed “musn’t” to “mustn’t” as “mustn’t” is the preferred spelling elsewhere in the text.

- p. 63: Enter MRS. SYLVESTER, she hesitates, on seeing LADY WARGRAVE.—Changed comma after “SYLVESTER” to semicolon.

- p. 78: Yes, Mrs. Sylvester, its best—Changed “its” to “it’s”.

- p. 84, last line: It was enough—Added period to end of sentence.

The html version of this etext attempts to reproduce the layout of the printed text. However, some concessions have been made, particularly in the handling of stage directions enclosed by brackets on one side. When these fit on a line, they were printed flush right. When they did not, they were printed on the next line. For the purposes of this transcription, these stage directions were all placed on the next line, indented the same amount from the left margin, and coded as hanging paragraphs.

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Table of Contents

CHARACTERS.

THE NEW WOMAN.

ACT I.

ACT II.

ACT III.

ACT IV.

Transcriber’s Note

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