THE FOURTH ACT
Scene. —A library in the house of Dick Lomas in Portman Square.
Dick and his Valet. Dick is putting flowers into a vase.
Has Mr. Mackenzie come in?
Yes, sir. He's gone to his room.
I expect Mrs. Crowley and Miss Allerton to tea. If any one else comes I'm not at home.
Very well, sir.
And if a caller should ask at what time I'm expected back, you haven't the least idea.
Very well, sir.
We shall want breakfast at eight to-morrow. I'm going down to Southampton to see Mr. Mackenzie off. But I shall be home to dinner. How about those cases in the hall?
Mr. Mackenzie said they were to be sent for this afternoon. They're only labelled Zanzibar. Is that sufficient, sir?
Oh, I suppose so. Mr. Mackenzie will have given the shippers all directions. You'd better bring the tea at once. Mrs. Crowley is coming at four.
Very well, sir.
Mrs. Crowley.
[Going towards her eagerly and taking both her hands.] Best of women!
You seem quite glad to see me?
I am. But where is Lucy?
She's coming later… I don't know why you should squeeze my hands in this pointed manner.
What an age it is since I saw you!
If you bury yourself in Scotland all the summer, you can't expect to see people who go to Homburg and the Italian lakes.
Heavens, how you cultivate respectability!
It's a sensitive plant whose vagaries one has to humour.
Aren't you delighted to be back in town?
London's the most charming place in the world to get away from and to come back to. Now tell me all you've been doing, if I can hear it without blushing too furiously.
My behaviour would have done credit to a clergyman's only daughter. I dragged Alec off to Scotland after that horrible scene at Lady Kelsey's, and we played golf.
Was he very wretched, poor thing?
He didn't say a word. I wanted to comfort him, but he never gave me a chance. He never mentioned Lucy's name.
Did he seem unhappy?
No. He was just the same as ever, impassive and collected.
Really he's inhuman.
He's an anomaly in this juvenile century. He's an ancient Roman who buys his clothes in Savile Row. An eagle caged with a colony of canaries.
Then he's very much in the way in England, and it's much better for him that he should go back to Africa.
This time to-morrow he'll be half-way down the channel.
I'm really beginning to think you're a perfect angel, Mr. Lomas.
Don't say that, it makes me feel so middle-aged. I'd much sooner be a young sinner than an elderly cherub.
It was sweet of you to look after him through the summer and then insist on his staying here till he went away. How long is he going for this time?
Heaven knows! Perhaps for ever.
Have you told him that Lucy is coming?
No. I thought that was a pleasing piece of information which I'd leave you to impart.
Thanks!
She's only coming to indulge a truly feminine passion for making scenes, and she's made Alec quite wretched enough already. Why doesn't she marry Robert Boulger?
Why should she?
Half the women I know merely married their husbands to spite somebody else. It appears to be one of the commonest causes of matrimony.
[With a quizzical look at him.] Talking of which, what are you going to do when Mr. Mackenzie is gone?
Talking of the weather and the crops, I propose to go to Spain.
[Opening her eyes wide.] How very extraordinary! I thought of going there, too.
Then, without a moment's hesitation, I shall go to Norway.
It'll be dreadfully cold.
Dreadfully. But I shall be supported by the consciousness of having done my duty.
You don't think there would be room for both of us in Spain?
I'm convinced there wouldn't. We should always be running against one another, and you'd insist on my looking out all your trains in Bradshaw.
I hope you remember that you asked me to tea to-day?
Pardon me, you asked yourself. I keep the letter next to my heart and put it under my pillow every night.
You fibber! Besides, if I did, it was only on Lucy's account.
That, I venture to think, is neither polite nor accurate.
I don't think I should so utterly detest you, if you hadn't such a good opinion of yourself.
You forget that I vowed on the head of my maternal grandmother never to speak to you again.
Oh, I'm always doing that. I tell my maid that time she does my hair badly.
You trifled with the tenderest affection of an innocent and unsophisticated old bachelor.
Is that you by any chance?
Of course, it's me. D'you think I was talking of the man in the moon?
[Looking at him critically.] With the light behind, you might still pass for thirty-five.
I've given up youth and its vanities. I no longer pluck out my white hairs.
Then how on earth do you occupy your leisure?
For the last three months I've been laboriously piecing together the fragments of a broken heart.
If you hadn't been so certain that I was going to accept you, I should never have refused. I couldn't resist the temptation of saying "No" just to see how you took it.
I flatter myself that I took it very well.
You didn't. You showed an entire lack of humour. You might have known that a nice woman doesn't marry a man the first time he asks her. It's making oneself too cheap. It was very silly of you to go off to Scotland as if you didn't care… How was I to know that you meant to wait three months before asking me again?
I haven't the least intention of asking you again.
Then why in heaven's name did you invite me to tea?
May I respectfully remind you, first, that you invited yourself …
[Interrupting.] You're so irrelevant.
And, secondly, that an invitation to tea is not necessarily accompanied by a proposal of marriage.
I'm afraid you're lamentably ignorant of the usages of good society.
I assure you it's not done in the best circles.
[With a little pout.] I shall be very cross with you in a minute.
Why?
Because you're not behaving at all prettily.
D'you know what I'd do if I were you? Propose to me.
Oh, I couldn't do anything so immodest.
I have registered a vow that I will never offer my hand and heart to any woman again.
On the head of your maternal grandmother?
Oh no, far more serious than that. On the grave of my maiden aunt, who left me all my money.
What will you say if I do?
That depends entirely on how you do it. I may remind you, however, that first you go down on your bended knees.
Oh, I waived that with you.
And then you confess you're unworthy of me.
Mr. Lomas, I am a widow. I am twenty-nine and extremely eligible. My maid is a treasure. My dressmaker is charming. I am clever enough to laugh at your jokes, and not so learned as to know where they come from.
Really you're very long-winded. I said it all in four words.
So could I if I might write it down.
You must say it.
But what I'm trying to make you understand is that I don't want to marry you a bit. You're just the sort of man who'll beat his wife regularly every Saturday night… You will say yes if I ask you, won't you?
I've never been able to refuse a woman anything.
I have no doubt you will after six months of holy matrimony.
I never saw any one make such a fuss about so insignificant a detail as a proposal of marriage.
Dick. [She stretches out her hands, smiling, and he takes her in his arms.] You really are a detestable person.
[With a smile, taking a ring from his pocket.] I bought an engagement ring yesterday on the off chance of its being useful.
Then you meant to ask me all the time?
Of course I did, you silly.
Oh, I wish I had known that before. I'd have refused you again.
You absurd creature.
[Trying to release herself.] There's somebody coming.
It's only Alec.
Hulloa!
Alec, we've made friends, Mrs. Crowley and I.
It certainly looks very much like it.
The fact is, I've asked her to marry me, and she…
[Interrupting, with a smile.] After much pressure —
Has consented.
I'm so glad. I heartily congratulate you both. I was rather unhappy at leaving Dick, Mrs. Crowley. But now I leave him in your hands, I'm perfectly content. He's the dearest, kindest old chap I've ever known.
Shut up, Alec! Don't play the heavy father, or we shall burst into tears.
He'll be an admirable husband because he's an admirable friend.
I know he will. And I'm only prevented from saying all I think of him and how much I love him, by the fear that he'll become perfectly unmanageable.
Spare me these chaste blushes which mantle my youthful brow. Will you pour out the tea … Nellie?
Yes … Dick.
Well, I'm thankful to say that everything's packed and ready.
I wish you'd stay for our wedding.
Do. You can go just as well by the next boat.
I'm afraid that everything is settled now. I've given instructions at Zanzibar to collect bearers, and I must arrive as quickly as I can.
I wish to goodness you'd give up these horrible explorations.
But they're the very breath of my life. You don't know the exhilaration of the daily dangers – the joy of treading where only the wild beasts have trodden before. Oh, already I can hardly bear my impatience when I think of the boundless country and the enchanting freedom. Here one grows so small, so despicable, but in Africa everything is built to a nobler standard. There a man is really a man; there one knows what are will and strength and courage. Oh, you don't know what it is to stand on the edge of some great plain and breathe the pure keen air after the terrors of the forest. Then at last you know what freedom is.
The boundless plain of Hyde Park is enough for me, and the aspect of Piccadilly on a fine day in June gives me quite as many emotions as I want.
But what will you gain by it all, now that your work in East Africa is over, by all the dangers and the hardships?
Nothing. I want to gain nothing. Perhaps I shall discover some new species of antelope or some unknown plant. Perhaps I shall find some new waterway. That is all the reward I want. I love the sense of power and mastery. What do you think I care for the tinsel rewards of kings and peoples?
I always said you were melodramatic. I never heard anything so transpontine.
And the end of it, what will be the end?
The end is death in some fever-stricken swamp, obscurely, worn out by exposure and ague and starvation. And the bearers will seize my gun and my clothes and leave me to the jackals.
Don't. It's too horrible.
Why, what does it matter? I shall die standing up. I shall go the last journey as I have gone every other.
Without fear?
For all the world like the wicked baronet: Once aboard the lugger and the girl is mine!
Don't you want men to remember you?
Perhaps they will. Perhaps in a hundred years or so, in some flourishing town where I discovered nothing but wilderness, they will commission a second-rate sculptor to make a fancy statue of me. And I shall stand in front of the Stock Exchange, a convenient perch for birds, to look eternally upon the various shabby deeds of human kind.
And is that really everything? I can't help thinking that at the bottom of your heart is something that you've never told to a living soul.
Why do you want to know so much?
Tell me.
I daresay I shall never see you again. Perhaps it doesn't much matter what I say to you. You'll think me very silly, but I'm afraid I'm rather – patriotic. It's only we who live away from England who really love it. I'm so proud of my country, and I wanted so much to do something for it. Often in Africa I've thought of this dear England, and longed not to die till I had done my work. Behind all the soldiers and the statesmen whose fame is imperishable, there is a long line of men who've built up the Empire piece by piece. Their names are forgotten, and only students know their history, but each one of them gave a province to his country. And I, too, have my place among them. For five years I toiled night and day, and at the end of it was able to hand over to the Commissioners a broad tract of land, rich and fertile. After my death England will forget my faults and my mistakes. I care nothing for the flouts and gibes with which she has repaid all my pain, for I have added another fair jewel to her crown. I don't want rewards. I only want the honour of serving this dear land of ours.
Why is it, when you're so nice really, that you do all you can to make people think you utterly horrid?
Don't laugh at me because you've found out that at heart I'm nothing more than a sentimental old woman.
[Putting her hand on his arm.] What would you do if Lucy came here to-day?
I have always lived in polite society. I should never dream of outraging its conventions. If Miss Allerton happened to come, you may be sure I should be scrupulously polite.
Is that all? Lucy has suffered very much.
And do you suppose I've not suffered? Because I don't whine my misery to all and sundry, d'you think I don't care? I'm not the man to fall in and out of love with every pretty face I meet. All my life I've kept an ideal before my eyes. Oh, you don't know what it meant to me to fall in love. I felt that I had lived all my life in a prison, and at last Lucy came and took me by the hand and led me out. And for the first time I breathed the free air of heaven. Oh God! how I've suffered for it! Why should it have come to me? Oh, if you knew my agony and the torture!
Mr. Mackenzie.
[Springing up.] Go away. Don't look at me. How can you stand there and watch my weakness? Oh God, give me strength… My love was the last human weakness I had. It was right that I should drink that bitter cup. And I've drunk its very dregs. I should have known that I wasn't meant for happiness and a life of ease. I have other work to do in the world. And now that I have overcome this last temptation, I am ready to do it.
But haven't you any pity for yourself, haven't you any thought for Lucy?
Must I tell you, too, that everything I did was for Lucy's sake? And still I love her with all my heart and soul…
Here is Lucy!
Miss Allerton!
Ah, my dear Lucy. So glad you were able to come.
[Giving her hand to Dick, but looking at Alec.] How d'you do?
How d'you do? [He forces himself to talk.] How is Lady Kelsey?
She's much better, thanks. We've been to Spa, you know, for her health.
Somebody told me you'd gone abroad. Was it you, Dick? Dick is an admirable person, a sort of gazetteer for polite society.
Won't you have some tea, Lucy?
No, thanks!
[Trying on her side also to make conversation.] We shall miss you dreadfully when you're gone, Mr. Mackenzie.
[Cheerfully.] Not a bit of it.
[Smiling.] London is an excellent place for showing one of how little importance one is in the world. One makes a certain figure, and perhaps is tempted to think oneself of some consequence. Then one goes away, and on returning is surprised to discover that nobody has even noticed one's absence.
You're over-modest, Alec. If you weren't, you might be a great man. Now, I make a point of telling my friends that I'm indispensable, and they take me at my word.
You are a leaven of flippancy in the heavy dough of British righteousness.
The wise man only takes the unimportant quite seriously.
[With a smile.] For it is obvious that it needs more brains to do nothing than to be a cabinet minister.
You pay me a great compliment, Alec. You repeat to my very face one of my favourite observations.
[Almost in a whisper.] Haven't I heard you say that only the impossible is worth doing?
Good heavens, I must have been reading the headings of a copy-book.
[To Dick.] Are you going to Southampton to see Mr. Mackenzie off?
I shall hide my face on his shoulder and weep salt tears. It'll be most affecting, because in moments of emotion I always burst into epigram.
I loathe all solemn leave-takings. I prefer to part from people with a nod and a smile, whether I'm going for ever or for a day to Brighton.
You're very hard.
Dick has been teaching me to take life flippantly. And I have learnt that things are only serious if you take them seriously, and that is desperately stupid. [To Lucy.] Don't you agree with me?
No.
It's so difficult to be serious without being absurd. That is the chief power of women, that life and death are merely occasions for a change of costume: marriage a creation in white, and the worship of God an opportunity for a Paris bonnet.
It's growing late, Dick. Won't you take me round the house?
I'm afraid my luggage has made everything very disorderly.
It doesn't matter. Come, Dick!
[To Lucy.] You don't mind if we leave you?
Oh, no.
Do you know that our friend Dick has offered his hand and heart to Mrs. Crowley this afternoon?
I hope they'll be very happy. They're very much in love with one another.
[Bitterly.] And is that a reason for marrying? Surely love is the worst possible foundation for marriage. Love creates illusions, and marriages destroy them. True lovers should never marry.
Will you open the window? It seems stifling here.
Certainly. [From the window.] You can't think what a joy it is to look upon London for the last time. I'm so thankful to get away.
To-morrow at this time I shall be well started. Oh, I long for that infinite surface of the clean and comfortable sea.
Are you very glad to go?
[Turning to her.] I feel quite boyish at the very thought.
And is there no one you regret to leave?
You see, Dick is going to marry. When a man does that, his bachelor friends are wise to depart gracefully before he shows them that he needs their company no longer. I have no relations and few friends. I can't flatter myself that any one will be much distressed at my departure.
[In a low voice.] You must have no heart at all.
[Icily.] If I had, I certainly should not bring it to Portman Square. That sentimental organ would be surely out of place in such a neighbourhood.
[Gets up and goes to him.] Oh, why do you treat me as if we were strangers? How can you be so cruel?
[Gravely.] Don't you think that flippancy is the best refuge from an uncomfortable position. We should really be much wiser merely to discuss the weather.
[Insisting.] Are you angry because I came?
That would be ungracious on my part. Perhaps it wasn't quite necessary that we should meet again.
You've been acting all the time I've been here. D'you think I didn't see it was unreal when you talked with such cynical indifference. I know you well enough to tell when you're hiding your real self behind a mask.
If I'm doing that, the inference is obvious that I wish my real self to be hidden.
I would rather you cursed me than treat me with such cold politeness.
I'm afraid you're rather difficult to please.
Oh, you're of iron. Alec, Alec, I couldn't let you go without seeing you once more. Even you would be satisfied if you knew what bitter anguish I've suffered. Even you would pity me. I don't want you to think too badly of me.
Does it much matter what I think? We shall be so many thousand miles apart.
I suppose that you utterly despise me.
No. I loved you far too much ever to do that. Believe me, I only wish you well. Now that the bitterness is past, I see that you did the only possible thing. I hope that you'll be very happy.
Oh, Alec, don't be utterly pitiless. Don't leave me without a single word of kindness.
Nothing is changed, Lucy. You sent me away on account of your brother's death.
I hated you then, and yet I couldn't crush the love that was in my heart. I used to try and drive you away from my thoughts, but every word you had ever said came back to me. Don't you remember? You told me that everything you did was for my sake. Those words hammered at my heart as though it were an anvil. I struggled not to believe them. I said to myself that you had sacrificed George coldly, callously, prudently, but in my heart I knew it wasn't true. [He looks at her, hardly able to believe what she is going to say, but does not speak.] Your whole life stood on one side and only this hateful story on the other. You couldn't have grown into a different man in one single instant. I came here to-day to tell you that I don't understand the reason of what you did. I don't want to understand. I believe in you now with all my strength. I know that whatever you did was right and just – because you did it.
Thank God! Oh, I'm so grateful to you for that.
Haven't you anything more to say to me than that?
You see, it comes too late. Nothing much matters now, for to-morrow I go away.
But you'll come back.
I'm going to a part of Africa from which Europeans seldom return.
[With a sudden outburst of passion.] Oh, that's too horrible. Don't go, dearest! I can't bear it!
I must now. Everything is settled, and there can be no drawing back.
Don't you care for me any more?
Care for you? I love you with all my heart and soul.
[Eagerly.] Then take me with you.
You!
You don't know what I can do. With you to help me I can be brave. Let me come, Alec?
No, it's impossible. You don't know what you ask.
Then let me wait for you? Let me wait till you come back?
And if I never come back?
I will wait for you still.
Then have no fear. I will come back. My journey was only dangerous because I wanted to die. I want to live now, and I shall live.
Oh, Alec, Alec, I'm so glad you love me.
