 | The Two Marriages |  |
Act 1.
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.
Scene 2.
Room in Bachelor Lodging in Paris.—James Wilson alone. He walks to and fro.To whom her gentle favouring love is given!
Yes: to the very man in all the world
Whom most I hate, and who the most hates me.
Ah! mother was thy debt of deadly vengeance
Bequeathed to me, thy lonely son, in vain?
Can I not strike the father who betrayed
Thy loving trust, and strike his stately wife,
Through their proud son, this man they call my brother;
This cursed, thrice accursed, Edward Raynor?
Can I not strike through him, and strike him through
This haughty beauty; this white-handed Beatrice,
This English maiden, shining here in Paris
Like some fair star that has wandered by mistake
From shining over English cliffs and seas,
And now illumes the valley of the Seine?
Can I not strike and wound him, pierce him perhaps
To death—a death of agony most bitter,
By piercing first the bosom of the lady?
That she has put upon me: I shall see
The features, just now proud in self-command,
And fervent with imperious disdain,
These I shall mark, relax and quiver soon—
My fair pure lady presently shall fall,
For I will find the means of humbling her:
Aye, means of bringing her to the very dust
Of woman's lowest, worst humiliation.
I—I shall be avenged: and through my triumph
Over this woman-soul, whom once I loved—
Once doted on—for whom I would have died;
[His voice and face grow softer for a moment.
But whom I hate now, whom good God! I loathe!
Through my triumphant victory over her,
My mother's victory shall be furthered too,
And our strong other enemies debased.
Ah! Beatrice, poor fool, you little knew me,
When once you thought a woman could undo me!
A plan I have—pen! paper! down it goes.
[He sits down and writes hastily. Rising with paper in hand, which he flourishes about as he walks up and down—
Good! Excellent device! oh cunning father
Of lies and all devices of revenge,
Father of every roguish stratagem,
Parent of all deceit and every wile,
I thy true son, do thank thee, father Satan,
Which must o'erthrow the snow-white innocence
That her contempt for me turned only now
Into a full-flushed rose; ah! burning cheeks
Of woman—swift, indignant, fiery flower!
Soon ye shall flame again—not for one hour,
But through long miseries of disastrous weeks!
Hear, Beatrice, thy lover Satan speaks—
Oh, he will build thee, sweet, a rosecrowned bower,
Like unto that which every maiden seeks,
And round it all impassioned perfumes shower:
Lo! Love despised, Love's shoreless vengeance wreaks!
Or, if there be a shore, let Satan's power
Drive the red tides of vengeance up the creeks.
For him, my rival, let my high disdain
Urge thee towards cliff-tops whence is no retreating,
Where every flower is a flower of pain.
Oh, tender heart, that so canst softly listen
To one well-loved and ever tuneful voice,
Love comes; at his step thou shalt no rejoice.
Oh, Beatrice, once loved—for ever hated,
Thou art a woman, lovely; shall I spare?
Nay rather, just because thou art so fair,
Love's kiss of vengeance lingers, nor is sated.
Because thy lips are roses in an air
Of everlasting summer, I will tear
The scented leaves with rapture unabated.
Scene 3.
In the Champs Elysées, lighted up at night.— Amine and Gustave walking together. Amine is the maid of Beatrice Villiers. Gustave her lover. He has been a lad at a confectioner's shop in the Rue de Rivoli, and has just entered the French army. But he is not, on this occasion, in uniform.Am.
—Well, Gustave, my darling, my beauty,
how splendid you will look in uniform
—quite a Prince—a perfect Napoleon!
The chers pantalons rouges! Far,
far better than your silly, white,
grocery, greasy, tarty things! One
was always afraid (Gustave: Always?)
—always afraid to kiss you then; you
looked so like a boy! I was constantly
my little brother—and the couple of
us for a brother and sister taking a
brotherly and sisterly walk!
Gus.
—So you took care, ma belle, to be caught
kissing one day by the big gendarme
in the Place Vendôme, not to seem
too sisterly, I suppose? Or were those
amiable kisses sisterly ones, petite?
Am.
—Of course they were; what else? As
sisterly as this one
(kisses him)
. But
now, mon brave, mon petit caporal—
now that you are a real soldier, and
will soon be a Field Marshal with the
Cross of the Legion of Honour and
ever so many other crosses, look you—
and two or three wooden arms and
legs and other decorations—splendidly
décoré—
Gus.
—But, Amine, I don't want to be
décoré with wooden arms and legs.
Rather than that, I would not be
decorated at all.
Am.
—Oh, Gustave, Gustave, you have no
spirit at all; you will never do for a
Field Marshal. Don't you know they
all have wooden legs!
Gus.
—And wooden lips, some of them, too,
Amine dear, I suspect. No man with
a wooden leg can kiss well; he can
only take it off to beat his wife with.
That is the real use of a wooden leg
subjection, and her steel-clapper of a
tongue into silence.
Amine
(draws her arm out from Gustave's).
—Gustave! I do not love you. You are a
brute. I will never marry a brute.
Gus.
—What! not when he is going to be a
Field Marshal, wooden leg and all?
I was just telling you about the true
uses of a wooden leg. Here, little
one, nibble a bit of my chocolate—
from the best tin in the shop, I assure
you, upon the honour of a French
soldier! Stay, I will myself bite it—
moi-même. I have the strong teeth.
Now, Amine, darling, I will give you a
lesson in the art of la guerre. Vive la
Guerre! Vive l' Amour! Vive l' Amine!
A bas les Prussiens! You are the
Prussians—I am Napoleon: Napoleon
the First, or Napoleon the Third, it
is all one. Now I will show you how
the Prussians—bêtes that they are—
are to be caught and beaten; not like
wives, with wooden legs, but like
rascals, with steel bayonets.
Am.
—But, Gustave, darling, let us be serious.
You are going to be a great soldier,
you know, and I am to be very proud
of you. You will no longer be laughed
at as the pastry-cook's garçon of the
Rue de Rivoli; you will be admired
and worshipped. All the girls will
fall in love with you; you will forget
poor Amine!
Gus.
—Never—
(melodramatically)
—while I
have a bit of chocolate in the world,
I will share it with thee—with thee.
Am.
—Nonsense. Do you know I may see you
again before very long, after all? My
mistress, Mademoiselle Villiers, is
about to journey with her father, the
Grand Monsieur, to their château in
the country; she departs almost at
once. There will be fighting in that
part of the country, they say; she is
a brave Mademoiselle to go at all—
but ah, bah! it is like the English!
And her papa will have to leave her,
He can only take her to the château;
he cannot stay long. I don't think he
likes it much, but pretty Mamselle
will have her own way! So you see,
Gustave, we may meet again. I may
see you kill a Prussian, with my own
eyes.
Gus.
—My dear, keep “your eyes” for
Frenchmen; you have killed enough
Frenchmen “with your own eyes”
already, besides an Italian or two, and
a Pole—a real beauty, the last! Do
not invade Germany; à Berlin is our
business.
Am.
—Bah! bah! you know what I mean. I
may see you with your own hands kill
a Prussian or—ah! I forgot, I may
see you wounded; killed, perhaps,
under my very eyes. Oh, Gustave! I
did not think of that; that is very
different.
Gus.
—Dear Amine, I was “killed under your
very eyes,” sweet black eyes! when
first I fell in love with you; leaped
in love with you, rather, as we fiery
young Parisians do! Now “kill me
under your very lips!”
But why this sudden departure,
Amine, of your Mademoiselle for her
Paris?
Amine
(puts her head close to him, and whispers.)
—I will tell you a secret, Gustave, if you
will promise to keep it for ever and ever.
Mademoiselle is in love; in love with
the handsome young English milord,
Monsieur Edouard Raynor. She adores
him. They have quarrelled, Gustave;
quarrelled sadly. I overheard their
voices in the drawing-room. He goes
to the war, so I think, and she—why
look you, to be as near to him as she
can—she follows. Just what I am
doing for you, Gustave, mon ami!
Gus.
—Quarrelled?—have they?—what a pity!
The handsome young Monsieur and
Mademoiselle who used to eat so many
tarts and sweets in my shop that I
ever wondered at the marvellous midday
appetite of the English! I am so
sorry. But it is well for us, too—for
you and me, Amine; for now that
your mistress is leaving Paris for the
country, as you say, we may meet,
though I wish you were farther off
from all the fighting and bloodshed
that may shortly take place.
Am.
—No; it will be well with me. I shall
be where a brave French girl should be
in time of trouble—not far from the
sound of the battle. But, Gustave,
as we pass home—it is late, and I
must go now—that song we learnt the
other day about Love and War. Our
farewell song it will be, darling—we
shall not meet again in Paris. Come
—there is no one about—not a solitary
sergent de ville.
Gus.
—Bien—let us sing; it is a good song to
sing before parting.
[They advance and sing.
Amine-
We part, but we shall meet again
When the sound of war is over—
Me to thy breast thou then shalt strain,
O, soldier, knight, and lover!
Together-
When the sound of war is over,
In happy days we twain
Shall surely meet again—
When the sound of war is over!
Gustave-
We part, but we shall surely meet,
Soft happy days shall find us,
The wings of sorrow shall retreat,
Let us face the fate assigned us.
Chorus.
Amine-
One last sweet kiss to deepen bliss,
Lest I be broken-hearted,
That I may know you left me so—
That thus my king departed!
Chorus.
Gustave-
Yes; this last kiss to seal our bliss,
My sweet—my queen and lady;
For then I go far from Love's glow,
Towards dark descents and shady.
Chorus.
[They embrace most fervently, and the scene closes.
Scene 4.
In the country, not far from the seat of war. Room in the château of Mdlle. Villiers. Beatrice alone. She rises and paces the room. She speaks, while continuing her walk.But nearer also to all fateful dreams,
Closer to terror both by night and day.
Heaven, how I love him! He will never know—
Never—no never through this wretched life
Of weary days and miserable hours
How once a woman loved his very soul.
Aye, his sweet soul—I saw it in his face,
Transfigured as with sorrow and with love,
The day he left me—left me! When I drove,
Hurled, hunted rather, his true heart away.
I saw his very soul—and it was sweet.
Oh, brave, true spirit of one brave, noble man,
What has a woman lost, who thus has lost
The priceless, full possession of thyself?
No other soul will love mine—no true heart
I crawl a lonely woman to my grave—
Lonely—a grievous, miserable woman;
A poor, sick-hearted, feeble, wan-cheeked woman.
Lonely, sick, wan-cheeked—for what is a woman
Without the flush upon her cheeks of love?
What is she but a desolate, sorry flower,
Pale by the wayside—white upon a bank,
With petals that the wild wind tears and blows
Far over meadows, topping eerie cliffs,
Out to the sunless breakers of despair?
Love flushed, indeed, but flushed with pain of scars,
Smitten by swords; rose-red—but thus from battle.
Oh, love, my darling! here am I, but what,
What can I do? A woman may not help
Till warriors need her in the last extreme;
She may not fight—she is not called until
Death stands with her at the forlorn bedside—
Then is she sent for—complimented, perhaps,
So swift in ministry, so soft in tendance—
This she may do, but nothing, nothing more.
The dying spirit she may soothe and bless,
But only help the living at a distance.
By prayers, I think they say—those fittest means
A woman may with decency employ,
But other means she may not: far away,
Sitting at home, she marks the sound of battle,
But may not help a lover till that lover
From head to foot streams, tideway-like, with blood.
For France—my lovely France of flowers, to-day?
Why may not I, an English maiden, draw
A steel-blue brand, like passionate Joan of Arc,
And strike for very love of this sweet land
As glorious and as virginal a blow?
Ah, mad—most wild—unwomanly, no doubt—
Here come the tears that do unnerve the arm:
Men must be strong because they cannot weep.
Which, had I but the chance, would urge me on,
A maiden breast amid the maiden steel,
Force me to mingle, singing, with the mass
Of surging combatants, and sting my soul
Into hot, blood-stained action, till my palm—
This palm my lover called the lily-palm,
The very flower of lilies—white no longer,
Became an orange lily, or a rose,
Streaked from war's spouting waterfalls of blood.
Oh, I—the English maiden, young and fair,
And soft and sweet and simple—with the eyes
That men write sonnets to—oh, I could dance
Along the glittering rows of armed men;
Laugh with the laughter of the combatants,
Charge with the neighing horses, white with foam,
Yearn with the yearning spirit of battle—smite
Till twenty foes before my feet lay dead.
Then turn and greet my lover with a kiss
That should be soft as ever, albeit my lips
Might kiss an alien crimson to his mouth.
That ride like laughing gods upon the waves
Of battle or of any strenuous deed
A woman—trust me—can appreciate more,
Can enter into more than any man.
A man but acts; a woman thinks and loves,
Ponders, takes heed, lays up within her heart.
The mirthful ecstacy of mingled swords,
Could but a woman fight, she would enjoy
Far more than any man—since in one stroke
Her soul would love some lover, and would smite
Some enemy of that fair lover dead:
For woman is all soul, and wholly love.
Buoyant like some fair rose upon the waves
Of rippled, sanguine battle she would ride
With heart the whiter as her hands waxed red,
And soul the softer and the more intent
Upon the tender ways and dreams of love,
As all her bright face gladdened and took fire—
Yea, all the perfume of her inmost spirit
Would float like odours from the trampled flowers
Above the battle-field, and make the spot,
Before so hideous with entangled wrath,
Like Love's fair dwelling-place—like Love's soft bower.
[She sinks, exhausted with her passion, upon a chair near one of the windows, and looks out over a beautiful country view. She sees soldiers approaching, bearing a wounded man on a litter.
What? is the old sick terror coming true?
Ah! fighting, battle, wrath, and crimson hands
Of urgent maiden—where, where are ye now?
I am again a woman. I am afraid!
[A pause. They come nearer.
The figure and the face—why do I tremble?
Oh, Edward! Edward! Edward! is it thou?
Oh, all my strength forsakes me.
[She clutches a chair wildly.—Knocking at the door outside and confusion.—She rings violently.—To the servant.
Bring that man here.
Servant.
—Yes, my lady.
[Soldiers enter with litter.
Wounded Officer.
—Beatrice!
Bea.
—Edward!
[End of scene—which closes dramatically, on the contrast between Beatrice's lonely impassioned war-utterances and her natural sweeter feminine terror at the sight of her lover, pale and wounded.
Scene 5.
The same room in the château.—Beatrice and the Officer alone together. She is working or reading by his side; he is resting on a sofa, still weak from his wound, but evidently much better. His face, however, is still heavenly bandaged and a good deal concealed.Bea.
—But so soon, Edward?
Off.
—It is not soon, when one is in love—or
in hate.
Bea.
—In hate! you never used to talk about
hate, Edward; that is a new word
from you, surely.
[He is slightly confused, but quickly recovers himself.
Off.
—Ah! but one learns all about hate in
fighting, you see; the sword soon
teaches. Well, you have driven me
to this miserable war; you said “Will
you fight for me?” and I said “Yes,”
and now I have fought for you and
for France sufficiently I think, having
very nearly got killed in doing it, and
I want my reward. You promised,
you know; will you give it me? I
have got well with wonderful rapidity
through your good nursing, and it is
perfectly evident also that, though I
am so much better—quite well enough
to be married in fact—I shall not be
events. France must fight her own
battles now, without the aid of my
sword-arm, whatever that may be
worth. Love, when will you marry
me? To-day?
Bea.
—To-day! Perfect simpleton! Of
all goosey men I think you are the
most goosey! A silly baby! You
forget about dress and preparations,
and orange blossoms, and blossoms of
bridesmaids and friends, and a big
snow-topped wedding-cake—the most
indispensable adjunct of all, from a
lady's point of view—and—and—and
all sorts of things!
Off.
—Well, as to the dressing, you have
done enough of that in dressing my
wound so tenderly and efficiently, I
think
(he kisses her)
; and as to the
orange-blossoms, are there not flowers
enough in the garden
(he looks from the
window)
—besides your own lips, the
softest blossoms of all?
Bea.
—Nonsense! there must be better blossoms
than those, to make anything of
a wedding. Still, the circumstances
are exceptional, and I am ready to
take into my earnest consideration,
sir, your somewhat alarming proposal.
I owe you a good deal, I admit
(speaking very earnestly, and looking
,
for my silly girlish conduct
in Paris, and I am anxious, love,
to make what reparation I can. I do
want to make you happy.
Off.
—It lies in your power to do that, very
easily.
Bea.
—I will do what you tell me. Make
me do what you want. You must
carry me off by force, like the
strong lovers of old—like Queen
Mary and Bothwell. I shall pretend
to tremble, and hate you, and resist;
but you must not mind that, you
know, that will be all nonsense. Make
me marry you.
Off.
—Good, sweet. You shall marry me—I
like this game and I flatter myself I
can play well at it!
(this half aside).
You shall marry me to-morrow!
Bea.
—Sir, you will not be a very charming
husband, nor have you, let me tell you,
been a very lovely suitor, with your
head all bandaged up and hidden
in that way, and all scarred too!
(Passing from laughter and badinage to
a more tender mood)
—I am sorry they
have hurt you and spoilt you so!
Do you know you are very ugly now,
and you used to be so handsome:
sometimes I hardly recognise you.
What is the
matter?
Off.
—Only my wound, dear. It twitches a
good deal sometimes.
Bea.
—Sometimes I hardly know you, and
the priest when he marries us—yes,
to-morrow, if you like, you most
violent and reckless and foolish of
lovers—the priest when he marries
us, will hardly be able to see your
face. You are not a pretty lover!
Off.
—You are handsome enough for both. I
am satisfied.
Bea.
—Am I so handsome still? Ah, Edward,
I have suffered a great deal in this
short time, since we met in Paris,
and suffering has taught me much. I
feel so old!
Off.
—You will be young and happy again
soon, darling. I will make you happy.
The time to which I have looked forward
all my life with great throbs of
intense passion has come at last—at
last. Kiss me.
(She leans over his
couch and obeys).
| The Two Marriages | |