Mrs. Denham.

That was foolish, Undine. Mother would not kill her own little girl.

(Sits down on sofa with Undine. Denham shrugs his shoulders, and sits down at the table to work at his drawing.)

Undine.

But I thought you meant what you said. You oughtn't to say what you don't mean, mother.

Mrs. Denham.

No, my darling, I ought not. But I was angry with you for being disobedient, and I suppose I said more than I meant. I don't remember, Arthur, I don't remember what I said.

Denham.

I quite understand that, dear.

Mrs. Denham.

Will my little girl forgive mother?

Undine.

Yes, you know I'll always forgive you, mother. But you said I had brought shame upon father. (Going up to Denham, bursting into indignant tears.) I don't want to bring shame upon father! (Takes out her handkerchief, and mops her face.)

Denham.

(comforting her) Of course not. But you know you should be obedient to mother, Undine, and keep your promises. Then we sha'n't be ashamed of our little girl.

Undine.

(sobbing) But there's no use promising. Oh, I am so tired! (Yawns.)

Denham.

Well, suppose you go to sleep for a while?

Mrs. Denham.

She can lie on her bed, and I'll put mother's cloak over her. Would you like that?

Undine.

(sleepily) Yes.

(Mrs. Denham leads her away, the handkerchief falls on the floor.)

Denham.

(gets up from the table, takes his pipe, lights it, and sits down again) Everything seems torn up by the roots here. What is to become of that monkey? She has routed her mother, horse, foot, and dragoons, this time. Well, it's a wise mother that knows her own daughter. (Works on again.) Going to drown herself! Perhaps it would have been better if her father had hung himself long ago. There's always that question of: To be or not to be?

(Re-enter Mrs. Denham.)

Mrs. Denham.

She's asleep, Arthur.

Denham.

Poor little ugly duck!

Mrs. Denham.

I suppose you think I have acted very injudiciously?

Denham.

(sighing) Oh, what does it matter what I think? You always act on principle. I must try to get this drawing done.

Mrs. Denham.

Don't send me away, Arthur. You will soon be rid of me altogether.

Denham.

Don't say that, dear. I know you are very miserable about Undine—and other things. So am I. I wonder whether we are all going mad.

Mrs. Denham.

I think I have gone mad.

Denham.

Do you say that in earnest?

Mrs. Denham.

You know there was—something in our family.

Denham.

Oh, nonsense, Constance! For Heaven's sake don't brood over that. There is something in every family, if one only inquires. Your nerves are over-strained. I wish you'd go to bed, and let me have some one to see you. You are looking like a ghost.

Mrs. Denham.

I feel like one. But I am not going to haunt the scene of my crimes any longer. I am going away—going away!

Denham.

Well, I'm going with you, then, to take care of you. We'll send Undine somewhere, and go abroad for a while.

Mrs. Denham.

Oh yes. You can be kind enough, if that were all.

Denham.

Will you never make peace?

Mrs. Denham.

The only peace I can make.

Denham.

What do you mean?

Mrs. Denham.

I shall trouble you no longer.

Denham.

My dear girl, don't talk like that. It is ghastly. Constance, I must go to Fitzgerald with this wretched drawing. I have to give some directions about the reproduction. I sha'n't be long. Promise me that you won't do anything foolish—that I shall find you here when I come back.

Mrs. Denham.

Yes—you shall find me here.

Denham.

That's right. (Goes to settee, and takes up shawl.) And now lie down here, and let me cover you with this shawl.

Mrs. Denham.

Very well. (She lies down.) Arthur!

Denham.

Yes, dear.

Mrs. Denham.

Kiss me once before you go.

Denham.

Oh, if I may! (Kisses her.) My poor Constance! I would give my heart's blood to comfort you. And meanwhile I'll send you a better thing—tea.

Mrs. Denham.

Thank you, dear. You have always tried to be good to me. You could not help being cruel, I suppose.

Denham.

I want to be good to you always. Well, good-bye, and God bless you! (Kisses her.)

Mrs. Denham.

God bless you! (Exit Denham.)

Mrs. Denham.

(listens for a while, then starts up) He had tears in his eyes when he kissed me. Poor Arthur! he thinks we are going to patch it up, I suppose. I am to live on pity—a man's pity, more akin to contempt than to love. Why should he love me? I was not born to be loved, not made to be loved. And yet I wanted love so much. I wanted all or nothing, and I have got pity—pity that puts you in a madhouse, and comfortably leaves you to rot! Oh, my God! is this madness—this horror of darkness that seems pressing on my brain? (A knock at the door.) What's that? Come in! (Enter Jane with tea.) No, not there, Jane—the small table; and bring another cup, will you?

Jane.

Yes, m'm.

(Jane places tea-things, and exit.)

Mrs. Denham.

What have I to do? Ah, yes. (Sits at the table and writes hurriedly. Re-enter Jane with a cup.) Jane, take this note to Mrs. Tremaine's at once. You know the house?

Jane.

Yes, m'm.

Mrs. Denham.

(giving note) Take it at once.

Jane.

Yes, m'm. Was I to wait for an answer, please?

Mrs. Denham.

No, Jane; no answer. (Exit Jane.) She will be here directly. She must come—and I? Yes—yes. There is no other way of quitting the wreck for me. The key? (Searches her pockets.) Yes! (She goes to the cupboard, opens it, and takes out a small bottle, places it on the tea-table, and looks at it; then takes out the stopper, and smells the poison.) It smells like some terrible flower. (Re-stops and replaces the bottle.) And now to arrange—to arrange it all decently. (Pushes the couch behind the screen, returns to the table, and pours out a cup of tea.) My throat is parched. (Drinks eagerly.) Poor Arthur! He will be sorry—perhaps he will understand a little now. (She pours the contents of the bottle into the cup.) The Black Cat had a friend; I am not so fortunate. It is a survival of the fittest, I suppose. The world was made for the sleek and treacherous. (She replaces the bottle in the cupboard, then returns, and lays the keys on the table.) Yes, my little Undine, mother is tired too—so tired! Oh, sleep, sleep! If it were but eternal sleep—if I could be sure I should never wake again! No more life. And yet I want to live. Oh, my God, I want to live! (Paces to and fro, mechanically putting things in order; sees Undine's handkerchief on the ground, and picks it up.) Undine's little handkerchief, still wet with her tears—the last human thing on the brink of the abyss. Poor little rag; it will give me courage to face the darkness. (Kisses it, and thrusts it into her bosom, then goes back to the table.) Perhaps I do think too much of things—even of death. And now! (Takes up the cup and shudders.) Who said "Poor Constance"? (Puts it down again, and presses her hands to her ears.) There are voices in my brain—voices that burn like the flames of hell. Sleep, sleep—we must cheat the madness. (Takes the cup, and passes R, as if to go behind screen.) How awfully things look at you when you're going to die! I did not know this. There's Demeter with Undine's wreath of daisies withered on her head. My life has withered with them, since that day she made the libation. She forgot the speedwell for me. Mother! Mother! Mother! This is my libation! (Drinks the poison, and lets the cup fall.) It is done! (She stands a moment perfectly still.) My God! not sleep, but horror! Quick! Quick! (Staggers behind the screen, and throws herself on the couch, where she is hidden from the audience.) Arthur! Arthur! Oh! save me! Arthur—oh! (Moans and dies.)

(A pause, then enter Denham and Mrs. Tremaine.)

Denham.

Constance! I left her here on the sofa, and now—Constance! She must have gone to her room—she sometimes does. Have some tea, won't you?

(They approach the tea-table.)

Mrs. Tremaine.

I don't know why I have come here, I am sure. I never meant to see this place again; and yet, here I am, like the good-natured fool I always was.

(He places a chair for her by the table.)

Denham.

It was awfully good of you to come. That's such a strange letter for Constance to have written. She asked you to come here at once, for my sake and your own?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes. It's a mad kind of letter. (She sits down.)

Denham.

I am very uneasy about her.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Well, what's that to me?

Denham.

Nothing, of course. Blanche, we have been living in hell since yesterday.

Mrs. Tremaine.

I daresay. I have not been in Paradise, I assure you. What are you going to do? (Pours out some tea.)

Denham.

I don't know.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(puts in sugar) Will she—stay with you?

Denham.

What else can she do?

Mrs. Tremaine.

(stirring her tea) Then I wish you joy of the menage. You don't seem to have gained much by making a fool of me.

Denham.

You have renewed the world for me. The mere thought of you is sunshine. Here we have always been at loggerheads with life.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Then why—? (Sips her tea.) Bah! Upon my word, Arthur Denham, that woman has drained you of your manhood like a vampire, made you the limp coward that you are.

Denham.

Not a word against Constance, or I shall hate you, Blanche. No—I am haunted by a ghost.

Mrs. Tremaine.

A metaphorical one?

Denham.

The ghost that came to Hamlet in the shape of his father—duty. It is a trick of my British bourgeois blood, I suppose.

Mrs. Tremaine.

What duty? To that internal Mrs. Grundy we call conscience? To the thing called Society? To the sacred bond of marriage? Her own principles are against you there. No—she holds you in some deeper way than this.

Denham.

It is true—she does.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(rising) Is it because you love her that you abandon me? If so, say so; and I shall understand that I am a toy goddess, nothing more.

Denham.

She loves me.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Ah! a woman's love can blight as terribly as a man's—almost. Well, I like you none the worse for this curious spice of loyalty. It is so rare in a man.

Denham.

No—not so rare. Don't let us talk any more about it now. I think you begin to understand. But where can she be? I seem to feel her presence here. (He looks behind the screen, then thrusts it aside, showing Mrs. Denham lying dead on the couch.) Blanche! Blanche! Look here! Is she—?

Mrs. Tremaine.

She has fainted—let me—!

Denham.

(throws himself down beside the couch and puts his finger on her wrist) Oh my God! Dead! Dead!

Mrs. Tremaine.

No, no, no! It is too terrible! Let us try if——(Attempts to open dress, then recoils in horror.) And I had begun to hate her—yes, to hate her. My poor good Constance!

Denham.

But how—? (Rising.) Is she dead, Blanche?

Mrs. Tremaine.

(mastering her agitation) Yes, dear, dead! She has taken poison. See here! (Picks up the cup.) What a horrible death! Her face is awful!

Denham.

Oh, Constance, why did I leave you? I had a vague fear of something—but not this! (Throws himself down again, and stoops to kiss her.) Ha! Prussic acid! No help! No hope! Yet she is warm. (He starts up.) Could we—? But death is a matter of seconds with that infernal stuff. Blanche, Blanche, I have killed her!

Mrs. Tremaine.

I claim my share in the guilt.

Denham.

No, no. Leave me! Let the dead bury their dead!

Mrs. Tremaine.

If you wish me to leave you, dear, I will go.

Denham.

Yes—for God's sake, go! (She moves towards the door.) But, Blanche, don't leave the house. I can't bear this alone.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(returns to him) You know, dear, I am yours always. Oh, don't hate me! I dare to say it in this presence. (She kisses his hand. He shrinks from her.) Now I can go. (She goes to the door and looks back as Denham kneels and clasps the body in his arms.) Will he hate me now? (Exit Mrs. Tremaine.)

Denham.

Constance! I meant to have kept you from all the thorns of life! It was fate! It was fate!

CURTAIN.



* * * * *

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