Читать книгу The Benefit of the Doubt; a Comedy in Three Acts - Arthur Wing Pinero - Страница 4

Mrs. Emptage.

Brutes, all of you!

[She hurries out.

Justina.

Confound her!

Claude.

I shall submit to none of her airs. What is a bishop?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Why does she select this occasion——?

Justina.

It’s nearly ten years since she washed her hands of us.

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Exactly eleven years have elapsed since my sister Harriet placed it out of my power to continue on a footing of brotherly intercourse with her.

Claude.

[To Mrs. Twelves, in a whisper.] I know the story.

Justina.

[To him.] Sssh!

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Her behaviour on that one memorable afternoon proved that her marriage to a dignitary of the Church was something worse than a fluke—a sacrilege.

Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

[Quietly to Claude.] What is it?

Claude.

[Quietly to her.] She called him a Bore.

Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

[Going to Justina.] Do you think I could steal downstairs and get away? She used to tell me I was an empty-headed little fool.

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Outrageous!

Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

And predicted I should end badly.

Justina.

Well, you haven’t.

Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

No, but there’s time, she’d say. [Going towards the doors.] I’m off.

Justina.

Sneak!

Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

[Returning hastily.] They’re coming up!

Justina.

Let ’em!

Mrs. Cloys enters, and stands surveying the room. Mrs. Emptage follows her. Mrs. Cloys is about fifty-three, handsome, dignified in bearing, richly but soberly dressed, in manner a mixture of sweetness and acerbity.

Mrs. Cloys.

Justina—is it?

Justina.

[Going to her.] How do you do, Aunt Harriet?

Mrs. Cloys.

[Kissing her, then eyeing her keenly.] H’m! you’re not married yet, I believe?

Justina.

No, I haven’t the slightest inclination that way.

Mrs. Cloys.

Oh, my dear, you still tell fibs, then?

Justina.

Indeed, aunt?

[Justina retires; Sir Fletcher advances. Mrs. Cloys kisses him, then looks him up and down.

Mrs. Cloys.

Well, Fletcher, so they’ve knighted you, have they?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Lord Cranbery was gracious enough to recommend——

Mrs. Cloys.

How much did it cost you?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Cost me!

Mrs. Cloys.

Well, you’ve made money; I suppose you could afford it.

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Pray let us——!

Mrs. Cloys.

Don’t puff yourself out at me, Fletcher.

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

I am doing nothing of the kind, Harriet.

Mrs. Cloys.

Then don’t.

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Er—how is the bishop?

Mrs. Cloys.

Old.

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Old? Let me see—my marvellous head for figures should serve me——

Mrs. Cloys.

Very old.

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Born in——

Mrs. Cloys.

We’re all getting old; that’s why you have the pleasure of seeing me amongst you once more. [Turning to Claude, who bows stiffly.] My nephew? [Shaking hands with him and looking him in the face searchingly.] You’re rather old too. [Sharply.] Who’s that there?

Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

[Who has been hidden by the flowers on the piano-forte, advancing, with a nervous outburst.] Oh, I hope you remember me, dear Mrs. Cloys—Kitty Twelves. I was Kitty Powis, if you recollect.

Mrs. Cloys.

I recollect. Weren’t you at school in Paris with Justina and Theophila, and afterwards——?

Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

Yes. Isn’t this interesting? Quinton, my husband, was confirmed by the Bishop of St. Olpherts! I never discovered it till we’d been married for ages—I mean, weeks and weeks—[gradually quailing under Mrs. Cloys’s gaze]—and then one day—he—he happened to see me kissing the sweetest photograph of you—and and—and——

Mrs. Cloys.

Mrs. Twills, I understood from my sister there was a purely family gathering here this afternoon——

Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

[Offering her hand.] I—I have to go on elsewhere——

Mrs. Cloys.

[Detaining her hand.] My dear, you were extremely old when I last saw you, during your first season, in eighty-something; I pray, now you’re married, that you are—younger.

[They look at each other for a moment longer, then Mrs. Twelves withdraws her hand, and, after nodding to the others in a scared way, goes out silently. Claude follows her.

Mrs. Cloys.

[Sitting on the settee.] Muriel. [Mrs. Emptage comes to her.] We have been on bad terms for many years; let us have done with it. I suggest mutual concessions to disposition and temper.

Mrs. Emptage.

[Sitting.] I am sure I have been more than desirous——

Mrs. Cloys.

You have brought up your children abominably; that was always our most serious point of dissension——

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

I may remind you, Harriet, that Muriel’s cheerful method of training her children has received my sympathy and sanction. On the death of the late Mr. Emptage——

Mrs. Emptage.

My poor dear Herbert——

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

It naturally devolved upon me——

Mrs. Cloys.

Sssh!

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

I am not one of those——

Mrs. Cloys.

Sssh, sssh, sssh!

Mrs. Emptage.

Your twenty years of married life may have taught you how to manage a husband, Harriet, but——

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Heaven has blessed you with no offspring.

Mrs. Emptage.

And the world isn’t all deans, and canons, and bishops and things——

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

A department of society you were thrown headlong into——

Mrs. Emptage.

By the merest chance, as you well know——

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Without, I fear, possessing every qualification for the—ah—the exalted station which—which——

Mrs. Emptage.

And—and—and——

Mrs. Cloys.

[To Mrs. Emptage.] There, there! Don’t, I say. Have done with it? At any rate, we’re grey-haired women now—I am, and you ought to be——

Mrs. Emptage.

Now, Harriet——!

Mrs. Cloys.

And judgment has overtaken you——

Mrs. Emptage.

Judgment!

Mrs. Cloys.

This terrible calamity that has befallen your girl Theophila. Oh, how is it going to end?

Mrs. Emptage.

My dear Harriet, it has ended.

Mrs. Cloys.

Has the case——?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Mrs. Allingham’s petition is dismissed—dismissed.

Mrs. Emptage.

My daughter has emerged triumphantly——

Mrs. Cloys.

Thank God! [Rising.] Muriel——

[Mrs. Emptage rises; Mrs. Cloys kisses her on both cheeks, then turns away.

Mrs. Emptage.

You will see Theo and her husband in a few minutes. They are staying with me just now. “Weak, giddy mother,” am I, Harriet? My child flies to me in her trouble, nevertheless.

Mrs. Cloys.

[Wiping her eyes.] The dear bishop will be so rejoiced. Not a newspaper has been taken at the Palace this week. [Resuming her seat.] It has hit us hard. How did it all come about?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

In this way. I——

Mrs. Emptage.

[Sitting again.] Why, we’ve all known Jack Allingham for years——

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

[Sitting.] A good fellow—little dull, perhaps—little prosy——

Mrs. Emptage.

[Glancing at Justina.] At one time we thought he was rather inclined to pay ’Tina——

Justina.

What rot, mother!

Mrs. Cloys.

Oh!

Mrs. Emptage.

However, he married this creature, Olive Harker—daughter of a Major Harker——

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

“Crummy” Harker—stout man——

Justina.

Four years ago this month.

Mrs. Emptage.

Yes, in the summer of the year in which Theo was married to Fraser of Locheen.

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

My extraordinary chronological faculty ought to serve me here. Theophila and Locheen were married in the March, Jack Allingham and Miss Harker in the following June; I took the chair that year at no less than three public dinners——

Mrs. Emptage.

Of course, when the two couples settled down in London the usual exchange of visits began. But from the first it was quite evident that Mrs. Allingham resented her husband’s friendship for Theo.

Mrs. Cloys.

Why should Mrs. Allingham have resented it?

Justina.

Olive was always a jealous cat—person.

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

John is some months younger than his wife, I may tell you. No marriage can turn out happily when the balance of age drops ever so slightly on the woman’s side. My observation——

Mrs. Cloys.

Rubbish!

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

I know my world, Harriet.

Justina.

What was it that Olive said about that, ma?

Mrs. Emptage.

When the wife is older than the husband every fresh little line in her face becomes an acute pain to her, just as if it were cut into her flesh, and renewed daily, with a knife. Those are Mrs. Allingham’s own words.

Mrs. Cloys.

Poor wretch!

Mrs. Emptage.

In her storms with Jack she used to rave out these things, and Jack would repeat them to Theo.

Mrs. Cloys.

What business had he to do that, pray?

Mrs. Emptage.

Well, his home had become such a hell that he fell into the way of rushing round to Lennox Gardens, to Theophila and Alec, to obtain relief from his worries.

Justina.

He gradually became a sort of third in Lennox Gardens, you know, aunt.

Mrs. Cloys.

A sort of third?

Mrs. Emptage.

The house-friend who is continually running in and out——

Justina.

The man who has dined with you almost before you know it, as it were.

Mrs. Cloys.

Oh! And is this all?

Mrs. Emptage.

All?

Mrs. Cloys.

All the justification a jealous woman has for seeking to divorce her husband?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Not divorce, Harriet; she wasn’t entitled to ask for that. Mrs. Allingham has been suing for judicial separation.

Mrs. Cloys.

Well, well——!

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Accuracy with me is a perfect mania. Oh, yes, that’s all. With the exception of the—the——[With a wave of the hand.] However——!

Mrs. Cloys.

Exception?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

I was thinking of the bézique part of the case.

Mrs. Emptage.

[Impatiently.] Yes, yes; but that’s of no consequence now.

Mrs. Cloys.

Bézique?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Allingham and Theophila happen, both of them, to be fond of cards. And when Fraser was away in Scotland——

Mrs. Cloys.

Away in Scotland? Not with Theophila?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

No, no; she loathes Locheen.

Mrs. Cloys.

I see. When Mr. Fraser was in Scotland and his wife was by herself in London——

Mrs. Emptage.

Then a little harmless bézique helped to kill the time.

Mrs. Cloys.

Theophila and Mr. Allingham killed time together?

Mrs. Emptage, Justina, Sir Fletcher.

[In various tones.] Yes—yes—yes.

Mrs. Cloys.

Where was the time killed?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

In Lennox Gardens.

Mrs. Cloys.

At Theophila’s house, in her husband’s absence. Is that all?

Mrs. Emptage.

Absolutely all.

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

All the bézique part of the case. You see, the lawyers separated the case against Theophila into three divisions.

Mrs. Cloys.

Three! Number One?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

The House-friend, as aforesaid.

Mrs. Cloys.

Two?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Bézique—as aforesaid.

Mrs. Cloys.

Three?

Mrs. Emptage.

I repeat, surely all this doesn’t matter now!

Mrs. Cloys.

Number Three?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Tannhäuser.

Mrs. Cloys.

In Heaven’s name, what——!

Justina.

That was nothing. Alec Fraser was in Scotland as usual——

Mrs. Cloys.

As usual!

Mrs. Emptage.

No, no—as he is often obliged to be.

Justina.

Alec was in Scotland, and Theo had been to the opera with pals——

Mrs. Cloys.

With——!

Justina.

Friends, to hear Tannhäuser. She had sent her servants to bed, and let herself in with her latchkey. As she was closing the front door she caught sight of Jack Allingham on the other side of the way.

Mrs. Emptage.

He had had one of his terrible scenes with his wife; they lived round the corner, in Pont Street——

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

And a most charming house theirs was. I always say, with regard to Pont Street——

Mrs. Cloys.

[Sternly.] Fletcher!

Mrs. Emptage.

Jack was in a dreadful state of distress; pacing the streets like a maniac, in fact——

Justina.

He’s a very old friend of all of us——

Mrs. Emptage.

More like a brother than a——

Justina.

And Theo begged him to come in——

Mrs. Emptage.

To calm himself. Simply an impulsive, warm-hearted act on her part.

Justina.

And it wouldn’t have mattered in the least if that devil of a wife hadn’t suspected——

Mrs. Emptage.

And planted her maid outside Theo’s house—set of spies!——

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Till three in the morning——

Mrs. Emptage.

When Theo turned Jack out.

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Not four in the morning, as Mrs. Allingham’s blundering counsel tried to establish. Ha, ha! Sir John Clarkson bowled him over there! Three, sir—not four!

Mrs. Cloys.

[To Sir Fletcher.] Be quiet! be silent!

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

Upon my word, Harriet——!

Mrs. Cloys.

[To Justina, who rises.] Go away! You can sit by and assist at the telling of a story of this nature, single woman that you are! [Justina walks away.] What did I prophesy? Years ago, what did I prophesy? [To Mrs. Emptage.] Now, pray, how do you like seeing your children dabbling their hands in this—this pig-pail?

[Claude enters.

Claude.

Fraser and Theo——

Mrs. Emptage.

[Rising.] Ah!

Claude.

Just come in.

[Mrs. Cloys walks away; Claude joins Justina.]

Mrs. Emptage.

[Repressing her excitement.] Sssh, sssh, sssh! Let nobody make a fuss; Alec hates a fuss!

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

No fuss, but some one ought to play “See the Conquering Hero——!” Theo is so fond of a little fun—genuine fun!

[He seats himself at the piano and fingers out the air laboriously. Theophila and her husband enter. She is an elegantly-dressed, still girlish, woman of seven-and-twenty; he a good-looking, undemonstrative man of about five-and-thirty. Both are pale, weary-looking, and subdued. Fraser is gloved and frock-coated; Theophila is in her bonnet and cape.

Mrs. Emptage.

[Her hands twitching.] Well, pet?

Theophila.

[Kissing her mother in a spiritless way.] Well, mother dear?

[Theophila goes to Justina and Claude and kisses them, silently.

Mrs. Emptage.

[Shaking hands with Fraser.] A hundred thousand congratulations, Alec.

Fraser.

[Biting his lip.] Thanks. [Standing at the further end of the piano, to Sir Fletcher.] Do you mind not playing?

Sir Fletcher Portwood.

[Rising and singing.] “See the Conquering He—ro co—o—o—o—o—o—um—ms—!” Not hero—heroes. No, hero and heroine!

[Theophila comes to him and kisses him in the same impassive fashion.

Theophila.

[Quietly.] Much obliged to you for sticking to me, the last two days, uncle.