 | The Two Marriages |  |
Scene 1.
Beatrice Villiers and her friend, Dorothea Buchanan.—A Sitting-room in Paris.Bea.
—Do you think he loves me, Dorothea?
Dor.
—Beatrice, I am sure of it. Why, he
was perfectly “spoony” at the ball the
other night. Perfectly blind to any
one else. Your charms are very absorbing,
you know, my dear. But
you have two strings to your bow,
besides. You have made a double
conquest Mr. Wilson is hopelessly
in love with you.
Bea.
—Mr. Wilson! How I hate that man!
Dor.
—Why? Poor fellow, he adores the
very ground you tread upon.
Bea.
—I only wish he would! I wish he
would do anything rather than adore
me!
Dor.
—Oh, Beatrice, you are too hard; he
is very handsome.
Bea.
—I don't think so.
Dor.
—No, I know you have no eyes and less
You are as “spoony” as he is—only
you are a woman, and won't show it.
I can't understand you, Beatrice.
Can't comprehend or fathom the
abysses of your nature at all. Why,
in the name of Providence, don't you
put the poor creature out of his misery
—and yourself as well—and get it all
over. That's what I should do!
Bea.
—I dare say you would.
Dor.
—Of course I would. And now, with
all these horrid rumours of war flying
about, it's just as well to be swift in
one's course of action. There won't
be much time for love-making soon.
Bea.
—That's just the point. It does seem
such a mockery with such a frightful
war impending, and such sounds of
sorrow and trouble in the air, to be
thinking of nothing but love. Besides,
Edward is not half a man yet; he is
a mere boy. He has never done anything.
Dor.
—What, in the name of Fortune, do you
want him to do? Fly to the top of
some mountain for you, and fetch you
the Roc's egg? Perform a pilgrimage,
or go on a crusade and slaughter the
infidels, like the brave knights of old—
all in honour of your fair eyes?
Bea.
—No; but I do want him to learn action,
like a mere, brainless boy. Somehow,
one gets tired of boys.
Dor.
—Well, try Mr. Wilson.
Bea.
—He is worse. He has no capacity for
action in him—except for bad action.
Dor.
—You are bitter.
Bea.
—Not too bitter. He proposed marriage
to me the other night.
Dor.
—And you—?
Bea.
—Heartily refused him.
Dor.
—Well, what was there bad in that?
Was it bad taste to choose you?
Bea.
—No; nothing bad in that, but the man
himself is bad, I am certain—bad to
the core. Women have an instinct of
discernment, I think; they can read
the heart in the face.
Dor.
—In the face! Well, the face is not so
unlike Mr. Raynor's, after all. I have
heard people commenting on the
wonderful resemblance they bear to
one another.
Bea.
—Resemblance!—yes, as a jackal resembles
a lion, or a ferret a greyhound,
or a shrike an eagle! Don't be so silly.
Dor.
—Which is the lion, and which is the
jackal; which is the eagle, and which
is the shrike? The ferret and greyhound
I won't mention.
Bea.
(looking graver, and moving away slightly)
—How can you ask?
[A pause.
(sighing pensively)
—Well, well, Beatrice,
I only wish I had half your chances.
I am doomed, by my father's arrangement,
to enter a nunnery—after a
year or two more of the blue sky and
the sweet summer wind, you know.
Bea.
—True, and I don't think you are one
bit fitted for the life. But, then, you
won't have to stay there for ever, unless
you like. You are only to go
through your novitiate, or whatever
they call it—a course of trial and
training—and then, if you don't like
it, you will be free to soar out again
(as I fancy you probably will), like
some imprisoned butterfly, towards
your blue sky and sweet summer air.
Dor.
—Yes; but all the weary time—years,
perhaps—first! To be shut up in a
nunnery for the sweetest, freshest
days of one's life, while the breezes
are blowing, and the haymakers
mowing, and the green grass growing,
and the bright streams flowing, and
the roses glowing—and the lovers
proposing—outside, eh! It does seem
hard.
Bea.
—Well, my dear, don't think of it. It
will all come right somehow. What
is it Tennyson says?
“Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel,”
and so on.
—Yes; and I hope the turn of Fortune's
wheel will bring me something good
one of these days. But what are you
going to do about this dear Mr. Raynor
—this mere schoolboy as you call
him? Nuns (like priests) always take
a specially deep and considerate interest
in the love affairs of others, you
know—because they can't have any of
their own.
Bea.
—I didn't call him a schoolboy.
Dor.
—Well, this Mr. Raynor. We will consider
that he has just completed
school-life, and arrived at college.
Bea.
—I am going to put him to a test. I
have been thinking of it, and maturing
my plan, while you have been chattering.
I am going to send him to the
Crusades, as you proposed—the modern
Crusades—far fiercer and more sanguinary
than the old ones, by-the-by.
I am going to charge him by his love
for me to show some love for that
France which I love so deeply.
You know how I love France, my
ladies of old gave their true knights
their colours to wear in the battle and
sent them forth, to send him forth to
fight for my country. France is my
country. N.B.—I don't think he'll go.
Dor.
(much sobered, speaking seriously)
—But
if he does go?
Bea.
—He won't, my dear—but if he does, I
shall know there is more in him than
I fancy; he will have turned out a
truer hero than I take him for. I
might even be disposed to entertain
the thought of marrying him—afterwards.
Dor.
—Afterwards!
Bea.
—Yes; afterwards. Dorothea, why do
you look so serious? I see. You are
beginning to practise already for a nun.
Dor.
—Beatrice! He might go, and—might
not come back.
Bea.
—Nonsense, dear; look at the bright
side. Besides, I tell you he won't go.
Mr. Raynor.
Bea.
—Oh, dear, what shall we do; here he
is. Dorothea, love, hide in that
corner, behind those screens—do,
dear, to oblige me. I'll give you a
lesson in managing lovers. Now you
shall hear him sent off to the war. I'll
give him his commission—in the cavalry
well. Are you hidden, Dorothy?
Dor.
—Yes; but I don't like it.
Bea.
—Hush, hush!
(To the servant.)
Bring
Mr. Raynor in. Here he comes.
[Enter Raynor, flushed and anxious-looking.
Ray.
—Beatrice!
Bea.
—Sir!
Ray.
—I am come to bring all this to an
end, Beatrice. Yes—you may start—
but I am in earnest this time; and I
mean to have an answer. I cannot
bear this sort of thing any longer.
You know how I love you, sweet,
sweet, my sweet. You know that my
whole heart is yours. Don't—don't,
for God's sake play with me any
longer. Can you love me?—or can you
not?
Bea.
(who has listened, half-tearful, half-smiling.)
—Sir, that question of yours
needs some consideration before one
can answer it.
Ray.
—You have had long enough to consider
—months—years. Beatrice, you
must answer, and you must answer
now.
Bea.
—Must?
Ray.
—Must.
Bea.
—Who will make me?
Ray.
—Beatrice, Beatrice, you were created to
torture and enslave the souls of men,
enslave me. Now that you are so
thoroughly carrying out the purposes
for which you were created—and a
tiger's soul thrust into that fair spotless
body of yours—I trust you are satisfied.
Bea.
—Quite. What a poetical description!
Ray.
—Good-by, then, Beatrice. If you have
nothing more to say to me, I am going.
Bea.
—One moment, sir. I have a thought.
If you want to win me, will you fight
for me?
Ray.
—Fight? what do you mean?
Bea.
—Will you fight for my country—for
France? Or is all your love-making
to be done, like the love-making of the
poets, with fine words and pens and
paper?
Ray.
—What do you mean?
Bea.
—What I say! Will you cease to be
passionate?—women get tired of that
—and it is so easy for some men—
and boys
(yawning)
—and become
practical. Don't stay in Paris running
after a woman's love, when the work
of a man is soon to be done on the
frontier. There will be a war (I know
many of the Ministers, and can speak
with authority)—there will be a war and
a terrible one. Go and fight.
Ray.
—You are in earnest?
—I am. I do not change. I say what
I mean.
Ray.
—By Jove! you are the first woman,
then, that ever did so! But I will
go, and go gladly.
Bea.
—You will?
Ray.
—I will. Your country is my country.
I am an Englishman, heart and soul,
but I will love France, and fight for
her to the best of my power (if I can
get into the French army by any
means) for your sake. And when I
return—if I return, I mean—I shall
have my reward?
Bea.
—Perhaps.
(Their eyes meet. He sees, or
thinks he sees, that she loves him, and
turns away smiling.)
Ray.
—Good-by, Beatrice. I think I know how
I can get a commission—through some
friends of mine. Indeed, I am sure I
can. Good-by. I shall not see you
again before I start. May I kiss your
hand?
[She hesitates.
Bea.
—Yes.
Ray.
—God bless you.
Good-by, Beatrice; my one love, my
own darling. God bless you. Remember
your promise.
[Exit.
Dor.
—Oh, Beatrice, what have you done?
You will never see him again.
Bea.
—Oh, my God! how I love him.
[She presses her hand upon her heart, and plucks nervously at her tight girdle.
Dor.
—Ah, pluck at your girdle, Beatrice;
pluck at your girdle. It is too tight
round your heart, is it not? Women
always find their zones too tight, just
after they have broken the heart of
another.
Bea.
—Oh, Dorothy, Dorothy, I never thought
he would go. Has he gone? Is it
too late?
Gone, gone, my love! my love! Too
late.
[She faints.—Scene closes.
| The Two Marriages | |