University of Virginia Library

ACT IV

Scene: Sir Tristram Sumner's Reception-room in the Grosvenor Theatre, as in Act III. Hildreth is sitting at a table with letters. Enter Abbot.
Abbot.
Not yet?

Hildreth.
No, Abbot.

Enter Salerne.
Salerne.
Has he come?

Hildreth.
Not yet.

Salerne.
What says your mercury, Abbot?

Abbot.
Zero, zero!

Salerne.
I think myself the play will fail.

Hildreth.
I don't.
The naïvety, novelty, audacity;
The this, the that that people prattle of;
The Bishop's name, the scandal, and the cry,
The noise of the event will bring it off.

Abbot.
I doubt it; and I think Sir Tristram scents
Disaster in the air.

Salerne.
Never before
Do I remember such a slipshod time
As this vile month has been. Sir Tristram's hand
Is out: his eye untrue; such staging, such
A tangled skein, dropped stitches everywhere;
Warped wood and crumbling walls! The play's quite good;
But for the cast, the acting and the scene—
Give me a fit-up company astray
And starving in the potteries, and I'll whip
The top to such a purpose in a week
That this fine Grosvenor corps would drown itself
En masse to see such art in castaways.

Hildreth.
Salerne, you've been with Groom! I know the sound;
That man's a malady; a passing thought
Of him will sometimes start the dullest brain
On venturous speeches.

Salerne.
Start the dullest brain?

Hildreth.
Like mine, I mean.

Salerne.
Ah.—Yes; I've been with Groom.
He's drinking Burgundy in the “Rose and Crown.”
Poor Groom! The one great actor of our time.
Finest since Garrick I should say.

Abbot.
And I.

Hildreth.
Come, come; no treason! Groom is very well;
But we're Sir Tristram's men.

Salerne.
And loyal still!

Abbot.
Oh, loyal enough! Sir Tristram needs it too.
I'd burn his bishop in Smithfield if I could.

[Goes out.
Salerne.
Why is he late?

Hildreth.
You know as much as I.

Salerne.
Infer as much?

Hildreth.
I'll not discuss the matter.

Salerne.
You're too devoted, Hildreth. Some one comes.

Hildreth.
That's not his step.

Salerne.
[Looking out]
The Bishop! Curse his cloth!

[Goes out.
Enter St. James's.
St. J.
Good evening, Hildreth. Is Sir Tristram here?

Hildreth.
Not yet, my lord.

St. J.
At what time is he due?

Hildreth.
He's overdue, my lord.

St. J.
Unlike him that.

Hildreth.
Unlike him? Yes; a month ago.

St. J.
A month?

Hildreth.
May I speak freely?

St. J.
Speak without reserve
If it concerns the welfare of my friend.

Hildreth.
My lord, most intimately. For a month
His leading lady has led him by the nose.

St. J.
Europa Troop: familiar at rehearsal;
But that I thought the method of the stage.

Hildreth.
Oh no, my lord. Sir Tristram kept a state
About him always till the change began.

St. J.
What change?

Hildreth.
The change from promptitude and ease
To absence, fear, perplexity in all
He does.

St. J.
Unjust! Consideration, care,
An artist's terror; but mastery of his work.

Hildreth.
Pardon, my lord. I love him, and I know.
The definite purpose, the consummate skill
That made his management a royal game
Have left him; and he stumbles to the goal,
Which once he reached unerring and direct
As wireless news or planetary light.

St. J.
Fine of you, Hildreth! But I think the play
Replies for all Sir Tristram's hesitance.

Hildreth.
Partly, my lord: the play is difficult.

St. J.
Where is he now?

Hildreth.
None of us know, my lord.
I dread mischance.

St. J.
On what conjecture, Hildreth?

Hildreth.
The vaguest: at his house, no word of him;
And at his club, no word.

St. J.
That means no more
Than this: he was not home nor at his club.

Hildreth.
Yes, but, my lord, the first night of a play!
Not in the history of the theatre—

Enter Sir Tristram
St. J.
No more foreboding, Hildreth!

Sir T.
Gervase! High
On Heaven's dark brow we'll hang your name to-night.
[Looking over the letters.
Bills: invitations. Why should people charge
Each other for the things they need; and why
Should one man want to meet another man?
We know what men are. In a million, one
May have the right to meet his fellows—No;
Not one in twenty millions! Men deserve
Each other's scorn.—There's nothing, Hildreth, nothing.

Hildreth.
Sir Tristram, I implore you!

Sir T.
Leave us, Hildreth.
You shall command me when the curtain falls.
You please me always, Hildreth.

[Hildreth goes out.
St. J.
So distraught!
You're like a woman, Tristram.

Sir T.
A woman? True:
Old men are like old women. Don't we know
How age makes neuters of us? All alike
Unhappy; cold and bloodless, curst and shrill!

St. J.
I understand! The black rings round your eyes—
Court mourning for a day of passion, spent
In some shameless bosom! Once you could drain
The fount of energy as genial men
Will do, may do; but when the world appears
Thereafter like a desolate seaboard stripped
At ebb of tide, men must begin to spare
Their native power: the nerves are perilous things
To sport with: palsy a price exorbitant
For passing pleasure: to adventure youth
Throughout one's life—why, Tristram, that's
To burn the candle in the middle too!

Sir T.
I burnt
A torch to-day to Aphrodite: yes;
And burnt it out: the more fool I; for love
Should leave a gathering coal. I know, I know!
But fear not you; my unclogged intellect
Will fling the prophet's part I play to-night
Across the footlights like a shower of stars,
Of falling stars.

St. J.
Distort not hazardous tropes
To evil omens!

Sir T.
Expect no triumph, Gervase.
A stormy night; shipwreck, perhaps.

St. J.
At least
My prologue will compel a tolerant mood.

Sir T.
A paying audience tolerant! Money's worth;
They come to be arrested, entertained.
Your speech will goad a curiosity
Already piqued. The play's a great event,
No doubt; but your success may be the world's
Defeat.

St. J.
The world's defeat?

Sir T.
By which I mean
You come a hundred years before your time.

St. J.
You must not think, nor feel that! Heart and brain
The world is with us, waiting for our word.

Sir T.
The world is waiting always for the word
It must obey, the news it must believe;
But never recognizes what it needs,
And worships only craft and jugglery.
It loves to see a well-known trick performed
Another way, to hear an old lie told
Divertingly in some fresh parable.

St. J.
That's not the great mood, Tristram.

Sir T.
No; it's war:
Behind, the great idea; here, in front,
The petty detail and order of the night.
Remember your prediction: You believe
Terrific war will burst the chrysalis,
The Christendom that hangs in filthy rags
About the eager soul already winged
With crimson plumes and violet, green and gold,
Psyche at last, pure Matter of itself,
Imagination, free of the Universe.
With words and shows equipped we wage great war,
And here to-night deliver battle. Temple!
Enter Temple from the Dressing-room.
Wine,
Heroic brandy, or the water of life? . . .
Champagne for me. . . . Nothing? To toast the play!

St. J.
That's not my mood at all!

Sir T.
Nor is it mine!
The shimmering surface of the player's life
Is all he flaunts when most his soul is stirred.
He turns the silver lining to the world;
The tempest and the darkness where he breeds
His high ostents and subtleties of art
Are hidden. Who can tell what tragic mirth
May occupy the other side of the moon?

St. J.
Fill up for me too, Temple! I forget
In this erect and seminal thought of mine
That men are many-sided. I toast the war
Our play proclaims to-night.

[Temple, having filled two tumblers with champagne, returns to the Dressing-room. Sir Tristram and St. James's drink.
Sir T.
The war of wars!

St. J.
A century, a millennium of war
Against the sin and sacro-sanctity
That holds the world in thrall and hides from man
His true material being.

[Rouse appears at the door of the Reception-room.
Rouse.
The overture,
My lord.

[Disappears.
St. J.
I come, I come.—Strange fear perturbs
Me suddenly.

Sir T.
But that's a certain sign
Of perfect power. The house will welcome you:
We love frank courage still.

St. J.
Courage? What courage?
Having some gift of oratory, I
Deliver my own prologue. Courage once
Took heart in men when those who thought and spake
Were racked and roasted: this attempt
Exacts effrontery: not courage.

Sir T.
Say
Effrontery: you do it; it is yours;
A piece of you: accept it; love it therefore.

St. J.
A shamefulness attends this thing. The house
Will hiss me, Tristram.

Sir T.
No; your fervid voice
Will mould and temper to delight the crude
Anticipation of the audience. Speak
Like one inspired; speak, Gervase, like yourself.
[St. James's goes out.
Now, Temple, quickly!

[As Sir Tristram crosses to his Dressing-room Europa Troop enters, dressed for her part.
Europa.
Tristram! Tristram! See
How beautiful I am! Not dressed yet! Fie!
Kiss me; my bosom. Are you tired of me?
I pout then! Dear, to-day: so good you were
That I can think of nothing in the world
But to be yours; and you must come to-night!
My love is inexhaustible: as like
Irradiant metal that scatters momently
Its multitudinous lustre, as summer-time
Is like the month of June: the more it spends
The more it has to spend: [Opens the door of the Business-room and turns up the light.]
And, dear, I need
Some money; men with bills molested me
As I came up the stairs; the attendants here
Relax their duties sadly: I believe
They're not above a bribe.

[Sir Tristram closes the door of his Dressing-room, and takes from the secret drawer in the Business-room some bank-notes, which he hands to Europa.
Europa.
How much?

Sir T.
The whole!
You've had it all. This was a treacherous hoard,
And rightly spent on you. In any way
Of honest business, or dishonest art,
It had been worse than lost, like fairy gold
That turns to shreds of flint when daylight kills
Its phantom glory. It was wisely spent.
We have obliged each other.

[Sir Tristram enters his Dressing-room, and speaks from it unseen.
Europa.
How hard you are!
Harder than me. But you will come to-night?

Sir T.
Perhaps. You know this splendid play will fail.

Europa.
Our parts will save it, Tristram; you and I.
What chiming prattle do we love to hear—
“The play is nothing; but the acting? Ah,
“Sir Tristram! Oh, Europa!” Stupid plays
Are what we want, with skeletons to drape
In flesh and blood of us. You'll come to-night?

Sir T.
If the play fails?

Europa.
Can't I console you, Tristram?

Sir T.
If it succeeds?

Europa.
You triumph in my arms.

Sir T.
Not tired of me?

Europa.
Not nearly! Hateful word!
Are you tired, Tristram?

Sir T.
A little, of myself.

Europa.
Come home with me to-night, and you shall fall
In love with Tristram Sumner. I have charms
Beyond belief to make men love themselves.
You come?

Sir T.
I come.

Europa.
The coda, Tristram! Quick!
Clang, clash, sapristi, pomb! The overture
Is over. I must hear St. James's speak
His prologue.

Sir T.
Do. And send me word at once
How they receive him.

Europa.
I shall send my love
A message of episcopal debuts,
Episcopal debuts, episcopal—

[Goes out.
Enter Lady Sumner.
Sir T.
[Still from his Dressing-room]
That some one?

Lady S.
Yes.

Sir T.
Who is it?

Lady S.
One you wished
Never to see again.

Sir T.
My wife!

Lady S.
That was.
I came in haste. I had a deep resolve;
But all my purpose crumbled as I passed
Europa Troop in the corridor.

Sir T.
[At the door of his Dressing-room]
Who else!
What other actress could you hope to meet?
She takes the heroine in our play to-night.

Lady S.
Your mistress, Tristram: I could tell at once.

Sir T.
After the play: I cannot see you now.

[Withdraws into the Dressing-room.
Lady S.

“Do you know that Warwick Groom and
Martha Sackville were lovers? She visited him
every night in his dressing-room at the Parthenon
when he played Romeo—”

Sir T.
[Entering the Reception-room and closing the door of the Dressing-room.]

Give me that letter!

Lady S.

It's bitten in my brain.—
“—And the reason why he insisted on beginning the
fourth act with the fifth scene of the third act was
the reason you guess at once: it gave them time.
But that was not the only place in the play where
they performed their private intermede. How this
was managed? Ask old Odham, Groom's dresser.”

Sir T.
You stole that letter.

Lady S.
I stole it.

Sir T.
Give it me.

Lady S.
I burnt it in the forest: the flame of it
Was like a passion-flower.

Sir T.
That crude account
Of nauseous lust!

Lady S.
Nothing is nauseous men
And women do in any mood at all.
But to be old and done—that's nauseous; worse
Than death. Why can't we die by taking thought?

Sir T.
Who wrote it?

Lady S.
Odham himself. I knew his hand.

Sir T.
How was this managed? Um? You won't? You must!
Odham, being ill and bribed, you took his place,
A substitute, in male attire?

Lady S.
I did!
How have you guessed it, Tristram?

Sir T.
Could there be
A way besides as simple—and secure!
The infantile device of Cupid, blind
Betrayer of himself! Old Odham spied:
He saw you in Warwick's arms between the acts.
A pleasant memory!

Lady S.
I have faced it all.

Sir T.
Why are you come?

Lady S.
I came like destiny,
Prepared and armed with power and purpose, gained
In the forest. But I met your mistress: fate
Of worlds and women is shifted by such straws.

Re-enter Hildreth.
Sir T.
Back to the forest, then.—What is it, Hildreth?

Hildreth.
St. James's triumphs.

Sir T.
And without offence?
No protest?

Hildreth.
None. A section seemed at first
In tune for ribaldry; but soon his clear
Goodwill, the nerve and music of his voice,
His gracious looks and speech secured the house.
The gallery points his periods with applause;
The stalls sit purring like a catshow charmed
With extra cream or chin adroitly scratched;
And women from the boxes lean and listen
Like cows across a gate at milking-time.

Sir T.
The house is fused then?

Hildreth.
Mob at once, well pleased
With anything.

Sir T.
And well begun's half done!
The prologue's over?

Hildreth.
No. I meant to note
The finish; but Europa Troop despatched
Immediate news. She said—

Re-enter Europa Troop.
Europa.
Too soon, too soon!
Oh, Tristram!—Pardon, madam—Applause has whirled
St. James's to the skies. He stands entranced,
With face uplifted like a seraph, pealing
Material music, from his prologue worlds
Away. Into the nebula! The house
Sits up and holds its breath.

Re-enter Abbot.
Abbot.
Sir Tristram, come!
In Heaven's name come! St. James's spreads himself
Worse than we ever heard him; miles beyond
The limits of the play! He must be stopped!

Re-enter Salerne.
Salerne.
You've told him?

Abbot.
Yes. The Bishop's broken loose,
Discoursing Matter like a thunderstorm;
A thick brocade and silvery web of rain,
With crash of bells and bolts, while through the loom
A random shuttle of golden lightning plays—
As Warwick might have said.

Salerne.
Amenity
To what is happening! “All is Matter, all,”
The Bishop cried, when from the gallery dropped
A question like a bomb, “Hi! What price God?”

Sir T.
Olympus felt itself neglected. Well?

Salerne.
Then all the blasphemy we've heard him speak
Came trolling forth, “The shutters of the mind;
“A fire-proof curtain: ghastly cul-de-sac;
“A last excuse; sublime taboo; a tip;
“A patent medicine: an accepted lie.”
“Atheist!” they cry, “blasphemer!” scourging him
To reckless opposition. There he stands
At every lull in the tempest knelling out
His dogma like a tocsin. What to do
Surpasses me!

Enter Mark Belfry.
Belfry.
God! Crowds believe in God!
My cats, Sir Tristram, what a fool you are!
A fighting parson crossed the floats and all
The stalls came after bellowing—men I mean.
The pittites followed and the gallery boys
Are breaking forms and shying splinters. “God!
“For God!” they roar, parson and moneylender,
Broker and banker, counterjumper, peer.
The women, too; they all believe in God;
Duchesses, milliners, wives and prostitutes,
They scream for God. God pays! you bet! God pays!
They'll wreck your theatre, Tristram; but I'll buy it!
The Grosvenor? Yes; in ruins! I want it. Name
Your figure, Tristram.

Sir T.
Where's St. James's?

Belfry.
Dead,
I guess, by this time; trampled into pulp.

[Lady Sumner sinks fainting on the couch unnoticed by the others.
Sir T.
My Gervase! God forbid! Abbot, Salerne,
Darken the theatre. Let the orchestra
Strike up a blaring march. We'll clear the stage,
And play St. James's play. Come after me!

Belfry.
Cash, Tristram, cash! You know you're ruined. Name
Your price. I want the Grosvenor Theatre—and I'll—

[Sir Tristram goes out, followed by everybody except Lady Sumner.
Enter Warwick Groom.
Groom.
Martha! To meet you here! . . . Sleeping? A swoon!

[He raises her to a sitting posture, and she begins to revive. As she breathes with difficulty he unfastens her cloak, and finds her dressed like a boy.
Lady S.
Oh, Warwick, are we dead? My throat is parched
Enough for hell.
[He breaks the neck of a bottle of champagne, fills a tumbler, and gives her to drink]
Alive still in the world
Of lust and lush! Oh, Warwick, strike me, hurt me!
My withered fancy flounders in the mire;
My memory chooses words I never loved,
Ideas foreign to my prime. Pure pain,
Absorbing every sense, would clean my soul.—
Is this the Parthenon or the Grosvenor, Warwick?

Groom.
The Grosvenor, Martha.

Lady S.
Something is happening here.

Groom.
Something abnormal for the stage! I passed
Unnoticed in the tumult!

Lady S.
Listen, Warwick,
As if you were the Universe itself.
No one would give an ear, or understand;
But you will, Warwick; I belong to you;
You had the bloom and scent, the flower of me.
I think of that unhallowed, holy week
A hundred times a day, a hundred times.
You were my lover, Warwick, and my friend;
My child, my doll: I used to dress you, dear.
I live in that: that wonder-working time,
When all my senses and my soul, aroused
From the sweet slumber of virginity,
Became one instinct and ardour of womanhood.
Lay your proud head upon my bosom, love—
My faded bosom.—Now, my dear, now, now!
If we could fall asleep and never waken.—
Why did I marry Tristram! Why? Not once
Have you demanded that.

Groom.
Because I guessed.
He showed me to you—

Lady S.
Hush! He did: and more—
He told me you were any woman's man.

Groom.
That was true, too.

Lady S.
But you adored me, Warwick?
You had a passion for me, a passion, Warwick?

Groom.
I loved you then as truly as I love
You now; haggard and worn, or fresh and sweet,
You were and are the woman of my choice;
You only, Martha.

Lady S.
And you, my man of men.
Give me some wine again. Will you not drink?
[They drink; and Lady Sumner sings.
My voice is cracked; but, Warwick, do you know,
There's not a happier woman in the world.
You wonder at my dress? Sit here by me:
I'll tell you pleasantly the whole romance.
And smoke! Do you remember how we quarrelled
About tobacco? You loved it best, you said—
To plague me, Warwick: better than women or wine.
But when I wept you tossed a box away
Of Delicadedzas worth their weight in gold.
[While Groom turns to the cabinet to choose a cigar, Lady Sumner pours the contents of the vial into her wine. Groom then sits beside her.
This is the story, Warwick. My husband knew:
Blackmail, or wanton mischief, Odham meant,
And wrote him; but he died, old Odham did,
If you remember, on my wedding-day.
My husband never told me. A month ago
I found old Odham's letter, and knew by it
The fire and fuel of my husband's hate.
My husband loved me long; and I loved him,
Although I married him in a pique at you:
People are made that way: a man and woman
That pig together come to love each other.
Blister my tongue! It is not I that speak—
Only the ruins of me, the broken bits.—
My husband's love being dead and mine being dead—
That kind of love dies out, and when it dies
It's dead indeed, in women: dead love being turned
To festering jealousy and hate in him
By reason of the letter he ignored
When I was young and queen of hearts—I used
To think it beautiful of me to keep
Myself for Tristram: I had, you know,
A thousand lovers, Warwick: is it true
I was as tempting as they said and sang?

Groom.
All men adored you, Martha: doubt it not.
Your shape, your walk, your talk, your mouth, your eyes,
Body and soul, all men desired you, dear.

Lady S.
I shall die happy, Warwick.—My husband's hate,
My horror of myself were killing me,
When Gervase came, my cousin Gervase; he
Whose play it is to-night. Did some one say
They're trampling him to death? But that can't be!

Groom.
Oh, that's impossible!

Lady S.
I dreamt it, Warwick.—
My cousin Gervase, bishop and genius, best
Of angels always, with a wonderful
Injunction from the Universe, a most
Authentic mandate, severed us; and me
He carried to the forest, there to clothe
My naked fancy with the Universe,
A sinless, Godless Universe of his.
It seems to me a matter of little moment
Whether there is a God or not; but Sin
Is great—the greatest: all is death save Sin:
That is my message, Warwick! Every one
Must have a message now: the only way
To individualize. Warwick, have you
A message?

Groom.
I have a message, Martha: one
I shall deliver shortly.

Lady S.
Tell it now.

Groom.
Not now; and not to you.

Lady S.
In everything,
My dearest love, you shall be absolute Warwick,
And tell me not, or tell me as you choose.

Groom.
I see how much you need to talk. My heart
Is listening: speak your heart out, child.

Lady S.
I roamed the forest day and night and fixed
My fancy in the nebula at first.
Profound relief it was to breathe no more
The breath of man and woman, love and hate,
Desire, despair, Heaven, Hell, and God, and Sin:
To be pure soullessness awaiting chance,
My cousin told me of, when all the orbs
That hang about the Sun, and me and mine
Shall fall into its bosom, or other radiant
Passion of Matter impregnate space anew.
But life was not so easily rebuked:
I had that letter; and through the nebula,
As potent rays will pierce substantial things,
It seared itself upon my heart and brain.
My sin tormented me; and everywhere
Nothing but Sin I saw: concupiscence
Of insect, bird, and beast: bloodstained besides;
Not only foxes, weasels, falcons, rats,
But blackbirds, thrushes, robins drenched with blood
Of helpless prey and raving drunken songs.
In candelabra where the scented oil
Of honeysuckle burned, I found a crowd
Of shameless couples, male and female, paired—
A brothel of midges, Warwick; in tender bells
Of chaste convolvuluses spider-wolves
Attacked unhappy bees; and once I saw
A cheerful skylark chewing a grasshopper
That wriggled like a man being sawn asunder.
I thought of business, policy, pleasure, war,
Where folk devour each other; and in a flash
I understood that it must still be so:
No man or woman can ever lift a foot
Except to tread and splash in someone's heart.
And out of that my dazzling message sprang,
That Life is the Sin of the Universe. You see?
We do not sin; we are Sin, Warwick. Yes!
It makes the whole world beautiful, I think.
The Sin is great and splendid, deep and high,
Exquisite Sin: physicians feel like this,
Studying a perfect fever, or some disease
It palsies one to think of. Life is Sin,
The wonderful wild Sin of the Universe.—
[Rises, and walks to the door and back.
Where was I, Warwick?

Groom.
[Rises]
In the forest, Martha.
Why did you leave it?

Lady S.
For a purpose, high
And tender. I took upon myself the Sin
Of the Universe as far as the Universe has sinned
In me; repented of it, and straightway came
To Tristram, intending to confess and be
Forgiven. First I went home, and dressed myself
Once more in these, the wrappage of my sin,
My special sin, my passionate, wilful sin:—
We are the sin of the Universe; but Sin
Itself can sin? Perhaps; I cannot tell.

Groom.
You kept these?

Lady S.
In a wardrobe, fresh as spring
With yearly lavender. A fitting garb
Of penitence it seemed; a punishment,
A pang, indeed, to show myself to him,
My husband, in the vesture of my love!

Groom.
And did you not?

Lady S.
No, Warwick, for I met
His mistress at the door, and gentleness
Became malignity.

Groom.
But afterwards?
What end did you propose?

Lady S.
My death, my death!
Oh, love, I wish to die: I mean to die—
Alone, without regret. That week of Sin
I came here to repent envelopes all
The past and all the future in a cloud
Of glory. At the sight of you my mind,
And that imagination which I am—
Let me remember that: the Universe
Is pure imagination conscious in us:
Most beautiful! The Universe becomes
That week of passionate Sin and hides my soul
As in the pristine fire. Take off my cloak.
[She advances to the centre of the room. Groom follows and removes her cloak.
Am I not beautiful again?

Groom.
As fresh
As hawthorn buds, desirable as wine
In summer droughts and molten calentures,
As sweet as bread and meat to starving men!
What miracle is this?

Lady S.
The miracle
Of Life triumphant. Drink to Life and Love.
[They drink.
It stings a little! . . . Help me, Warwick! Oh!

[He supports her to the couch, and she sits.
Groom.
You've taken poison? Have I drunk it, too?

Lady S.
No, Warwick; I took it all. I want to die.
Help me; embrace me; hold me! Oh, what pain!
Let me lie down.
[He lays her on the couch.
Inflexible as love,
Death rends and hurts at first; but soon its way
Is like a summer voyage in the south.
What bells are these? That music in the air?
I know!—the stealthy hansoms jingling past
With doors half open, nightly traps to catch
Adventurous lovers. Cafés disengage
Self-centred diners fed and flushed to dream
Of deeds of love in glimmering theatres,
The woman and the man, till it be time
To take each other sweetly. Kiss me, Warwick.
You have your arms about me?

Groom.
Yes.

Lady S.
I die
Wrapped round about with youth and love and life.
The earth is like a chariot of fire
Wheeling into the Sun. Good night.

[Dies.
Groom.
Good night.
Nothing is wonderful since all is wonder.
[He covers Lady Sumner's body with her cloak. Then he takes from his breast-pocket a long sheath-knife.
Now for my message.

[Goes out.