Chapter 2
HECTOR. [_Turning fiercely to her, roaring madly._] Silence, Jezebel! [_She shrinks back, in alarm, towards the fire._] Your name! Wait a bit, I'll tell you! [_He takes a step towards her--she crouches in terror against the wall._] You shall hear what your name is! Just now I'm dealing with _him._ [_He swings round to_ WALTER.] You there, you skunk and thief! You, you lying hound! I was your best friend. So you've taken my wife, have you? And now mean to go off and marry this girl. That's it? Oh, it's so simple! Here--come here--sit down. Sit down, I tell you. Here, in this chair. Shall I have to drag you to it? I want to keep my hands off you. Here. [WALTER _has moved slowly towards him._ HECTOR _has banged down a chair behind the centre table,_ WALTER _sits in it_--HECTOR _speaks over his shoulder to_ BETTY.] And you--fetch pen and ink and paper--
BETTY. [_In abject panic._] Hector--
HECTOR. [_Turning fiercely and scowling at her._] If you speak to me I'll brain you too. Just you go in there and fetch the things. D'you hear? Go. [_She moves into the other room._ HECTOR _swings round to_ WALTER.] As for you, you're a scoundrel. A rogue, a thief, a liar, a traitor. Of the very worst kind, the blackest. Not an ordinary case of a husband and wife--I trusted you--you were my best friend. You spawn, you thing of the gutter, you foul-hearted, damnable slug!
[BETTY _comes back, dragging her feet, carrying paper and envelopes and a stylograph--she puts them on the table._
HECTOR. Not that stylograph--that's mine--his dirty hands shan't touch it--I could never use it again. Fetch _your_ pen--yours--you belong to him, don't you? Go in and fetch it. D'you hear?
[BETTY _goes into the inner room again._
HECTOR. My wife. And you the man I've done more for than for any one else in the world. The man I cared for, you low dog. Used my house--came here because it was dull at the Club--and took my wife? I don't know why I don't kill you. I've the right. But I won't. You shall pay for it, my fine fellow--you are going to pay--now.
[BETTY _brings a pen and an inkstand; she places them on the table;_ HECTOR _seizes them and pushes them in front of_ WALTER. BETTY _slinks to the other side of the room, and stands by the sofa._
HECTOR. [_To_ WALTER.] Now you write. You hear? You write what I dictate. Word for word. What's the old brute's name?
WALTER. Whose?
HECTOR. Whose! Her father, the sealing-wax man, old Gillingham?
WALTER. [_Staring._] Gillingham?
HECTOR. Gillingham. Yes. What is it?
WALTER. You want me to write to him?
HECTOR. [_Nodding._] To him. Who else? A confession? I've had that. His name?
WALTER. [_Dropping the pen and half rising._] I won't--
HECTOR. [_Springing upon him in a mad fury, and forcing him back into the chair._] You won't, you dog! You dare say that--to me! By Heaven, you will! You'll lick the dust off this floor, if I tell you! You'll go on your hands and knees, and crawl! Sit down, you! Sit down and take up your filthy pen. So. [_Thoroughly cowed,_ WALTER _has taken up the pen again._] And now--his name. Don't make me ask you again, I tell you, don't. What is it?
WALTER. Richard.
HECTOR. Very well, Richard. So write that down. To Richard Gillingham. I have to-day proposed to your daughter, and she has accepted me. Got that? She has accepted me. But I can't marry her--can't marry her--because I have seduced the wife of my friend Hector Allen--
WALTER. [_Appealingly, dropping his pen._] Hector!
HECTOR. [_Frantically gripping_ WALTER _by the throat, till he takes up his pen again._] The wife of my friend Hector Allen--write it--and plainly, you hound, plainly--so--and because I am taking the woman away with me to-night.
BETTY. [_With a loud cry._] Hector!
HECTOR. [_Over his shoulder, watching_ WALTER _write._] Silence, over there, you! Hold your tongue! Go into your room and put on your things--we've done with you here! Take what you want--I don't care--you don't show your face here again. And you--[_he taps his clenched hand against_ WALTER'S _arm_] write. What are you stopping for? How far have you got? [_He peers over_ WALTER'S _shoulder._] Because--I--am--taking-- the--woman--away--with--me--to-night.
BETTY. [_Beside herself, wringing her hands._] Hector, Hector--
HECTOR. [_Savagely, as he makes a half-turn towards her._] You still there? Wait a bit. I'll come to you, when I've finished with him. If you haven't gone and put on your things, you shall go off without them. Into the street. You'll find other women there like you. [_He turns back to_ WALTER.] Here, you, have you written? [_He looks over_ WALTER'S _shoulder._] Go on--I'm getting impatient. Go on, I tell you. I--am--taking--the--
[WALTER _is slowly writing down the words,_ HECTOR _standing over him;_ BETTY _suddenly bursts into a peal of wild, uproarious laughter, and lets herself fall into a chair to the left of the card-table._
HECTOR. [_Madly._] You!
[_He leaves_ WALTER, _and almost springs at her._
BETTY. [_Brimming with merriment._] Oh, you old donkey! _How_ we have pulled your leg!
HECTOR. [_Staring at her, stopping dead short._] You--
BETTY. [_Through her laughter, choking._] Hector, Hector! Conventional situations! The usual stodge! The lover and husband! You goose, you wonderful old goose!
[WALTER, _with a mighty effort, has pulled himself together, and roars with laughter too. He jumps up._ HECTOR _is standing there blinking, paralysed._
WALTER. [_Merrily, to_ BETTY.] Oh really, you shouldn't. You've given it away too soon!
BETTY. Too soon! He'd have strangled us. Did you ever see such a tiger?
WALTER. [_Chuckling hugely._] He didn't give the lover much chance to stand up to him, did he?
BETTY. And _wasn't_ he original! Dog, hound, villain, traitor!
WALTER. To say nothing of Jezebel! Though, between ourselves, I think he meant Messalina!
BETTY. And I was to go into the street. But he did let me fill my bag!
WALTER. I think the playwrights come out on top, I do indeed. [_He goes to_ HECTOR, _and stands to left of him._] Hector, old chap, here's the letter!
BETTY. [_Going to the other side of_ HECTOR, _and dropping a low curtsey._] And please, Mr. Husband, was it to be a big bag, or a small bag, and might I have taken the silver teapot?
[HECTOR _has been standing there stupid, dazed, dumbfounded, too bewildered for his mind to act or thoughts to come to him; he suddenly bursts into a roar of Titanic, overwhelming laughter. He laughs, and laughs, staggers to the sofa, falls on it, rocks and roars till the tears roll down his cheeks. He sways from side to side, unable to control himself--his laughter is so colossal that the infection catches the others; theirs becomes genuine too._
BETTY. [_With difficulty, trying to control herself._] The letter! Old Gillingham! "His name, scoundrel, his name!"
WALTER. [_Gurgling._] With his hand at my throat! Sit there, villain, and write!
BETTY. "I'll deal with _you_ presently! Wait till I've finished with _him!_"
WALTER. "Into the street!" At least, they _do_ usually say "into the night!"
HECTOR. [_Rubbing his eyes and panting for breath._] Oh, you pair of blackguards! Too bad--no, really too bad! It was! I fell in, I did! Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, what a nightmare! But it wasn't right, really it wasn't--no really! My Lord, how I floundered--head and shoulders-- swallowed it all! Comes of reading that muck every day--never stopped to think! I didn't! Walter, old chap! [_He holds out his hand._] Betty! My poor Betty! [_He draws her towards him._] The things I said to you!
BETTY. [_Carelessly eluding the caress._] At least admit that you're rather hard on the playwriting people!
HECTOR. [_Getting up and shaking himself._] Oh, they be blowed! Well, you _have_ had a game with me! [_He shakes himself again._] Brrrrr! Oh, my Lord! What I went through!
BETTY. It _was_ a lark! you should have seen yourself! Your eyes starting out of your head! You looked like a murderer!
HECTOR. By Jove, and I felt it! For two pins I'd have--
BETTY. And Mary Gillingham! _That's_ the funniest part! That you could have thought _he_ was engaged--to _her!_
[_Involuntarily the smile dies away on_ WALTER'S _face; he turns and stares at her; she goes on calmly._
BETTY. When she happens to be the one girl in this world he can't stand!
WALTER. [_With a movement that he can't control._] Betty!
BETTY. [_Turning smilingly to him._] No harm in my telling Hector--he scarcely knows her! [_She swings round to_ HECTOR _again._] Why, Walter simply _loathes_ the poor girl! That's what made it so funny! [_At the mere thought of it she bursts out laughing again, and goes on speaking through her laughter._] And I tell you--if you ever hear he's engaged to _her_--why, you can believe the rest of the story too!
HECTOR. [_Laughing heartily as he pats_ WALTER _on the shoulder._] Poor old Walter! And, d'you know, I was quite pleased at the thought of his getting married! I was! [_He turns to him._] But it's better, old chap, for us--we'd have missed you--terribly! [_With another pat on_ WALTER'S _shoulder, he goes to the fire, and drops in the letter._] Mustn't leave _that_ lying about! [_He turns._] Well, by Jove, if any one had told me.... And drinking to him, and all!
BETTY. If you'll fetch me that glass of Hock now, I _will_ drink to him, Hector. To Walter, the Bachelor!
HECTOR. [_Beaming._] So we will! Good. I'll get it.
[_He bustles into the dining-room._
BETTY. [_Moving swiftly to_ WALTER.] Well, now's your time. One thing or the other.
WALTER. [_Savagely._] You fiend!
BETTY. I'll go and see her to-morrow--see her constantly--
WALTER. Why are you doing this?
BETTY. You've ruined my life and his. At least, _you_ shan't be happy.
WALTER. And you imagine I'll come back to _you_--that we'll go on, you and I?
BETTY. [_Scornfully._] No--don't be afraid! You've shown yourself to me to-day. That's all done with--finished. _His_ friend now--with the load off you--but never _her_ husband. Never!
[HECTOR _comes bustling back, with the bottle of Hock, and a wine-glass that he gives to_ BETTY--_she holds it, and he fills it from the bottle._
HECTOR. Here you are, my girl--and now, where's my whiskey? [_He trots round to the side table, finds his glass, and_ WALTER'S--_hands one to_ WALTER.] Here, Wallie--yours must be the one that's begun--I didn't have time to touch mine! Here. [WALTER _takes it._] And forgive me, old man, for thinking, even one minute--[_He wrings him by the hand._] Here's to you, old friend. And Betty, to you! Oh, Lord, I just want this drink!
BETTY. [_In cold, clear tones, as she holds up her glass._] To Walter, the Bachelor!
[_She drains her glass;_ WALTER _has his moment's hesitation; he drinks, and with tremendous effort succeeds in composing his face._
HECTOR. [_Gaily._] To Walter, the Bachelor! [_He drinks his glass to the dregs and puts it down._] And now--for a game.
WALTER. I think I--
HECTOR. [_Coaxingly._] Sit down, laddie--just one rubber. It's quite early. Do. There's a good chap. [_They all sit:_ HECTOR _at back,_ BETTY _to the left of him,_ WALTER _to the right--he spreads out the cards--they draw for partners._] As we are--you and Betty--I've got the dummy. [_He shuffles the cards_--BETTY _cuts--he begins to deal._] That's how I like it--one on each side of me. Also I like having dummy. Now, Betty, play up. Oh, Lord, how good it is, how good! A nightmare, I tell you--terrible! And really you must forgive me for being such an ass. But the way you played up, both of you! My little Betty--a Duse, that's what she is--a real Duse! [_He gathers up his cards._] And the gods are kind to me--I've got a hand, I tell you! I call NO TRUMPS!
[_He beams at them--they are placidly sorting their cards. He puts his hand down and proceeds to look at his dummy, as the curtain falls._
CURTAIN
A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED....
THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY
MR. HARRISON CROCKSTEAD LADY ALINE DE VAUX
_Produced at the Garrick Theatre on March 27, 1904_
A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED....
SCENE _The conservatory of No. 300 Grosvenor Square. Hour, close on midnight. A ball is in progress, and dreamy waltz music is heard in the distance._
LADY ALINE DE VAUX _enters, leaning on the arm of_ MR. HARRISON CROCKSTEAD.
LADY ALINE _is a tall, exquisitely-gowned girl, of the conventional and much-admired type of beauty. Put her in any drawing-room in the world, and she would at once be recognised as a highborn Englishwoman. She has in her, in embryo, all those excellent qualities that go to make a great lady: the icy stare, the haughty movement of the shoulder, the disdainful arch of the lip; she has also, but only an experienced observer would notice it, something of wistfulness, something that speaks of a sore and wounded heart--though it is sufficiently evident that this organ is kept under admirable control. A girl who has been placed in a position of life where artificiality rules, who has been taught to be artificial and has thoroughly learned her lesson; yet one who would unhesitatingly know the proper thing to do did a camel bolt with her in the desert, or an eastern potentate invite her to become his two hundred and fifty-seventh wife. In a word, a lady of complete self-possession and magnificent control._ MR. CROCKSTEAD _is a big, burly man of forty or so, and of the kind to whom the ordinary West End butler would consider himself perfectly justified in declaring that her ladyship was not at home. And yet his evening clothes sit well on him; and there is a certain air of command about the man that would have made the butler uncomfortable. That functionary would have excused himself by declaring that_ MR. CROCKSTEAD _didn't look a gentleman. And perhaps he doesn't. His walk is rather a slouch; he has a way of keeping his hands in his pockets, and of jerking out his sentences; a way, above all, of seeming perfectly indifferent to the comfort of the people he happens to be addressing. The impression he gives is one of power, not of refinement; and the massive face, with its heavy lines, and eyes that are usually veiled, seems to give no clue whatever to the character of the man within._
_The couple break apart when they enter the room;_ LADY ALINE _is the least bit nervous, though she shows no trace of it;_ MR. CROCKSTEAD _absolutely imperturbable and undisturbed._
CROCKSTEAD. [_Looking around._] Ah--this is the place--very quiet, retired, romantic--et cetera. Music in the distance--all very appropriate and sentimental.
[_She leaves him, and sits, quietly fanning herself; he stands, looking at her._] You seem perfectly calm, Lady Aline?
ALINE. [_Sitting._] Conservatories are not unusual appendages to a ball-room, Mr. Crockstead; nor is this conservatory unlike other conservatories.
CROCKSTEAD [_Turning to her._] I wonder why women are always so evasive?
ALINE. With your permission we will not discuss the sex. You and I are too old to be cynical, and too young to be appreciative. And besides, it is a rule of mine, whenever I sit out a dance, that my partner shall avoid the subjects of women--and golf.
CROCKSTEAD. You limit the area of conversation. But then, in this particular instance, I take it, we have not come here to talk?
ALINE. [_Coldly._] I beg your pardon!
CROCKSTEAD. [_Sitting beside her._] Lady Aline, they are dancing a cotillon in there, so we have half an hour before us. We shall not be disturbed, for the Duchess, your aunt, has considerately stationed her aged companion in the corridor, with instructions to ward off intruders.
ALINE. [_Very surprised._] Mr. Crockstead!
CROCKSTEAD. [_Looking hard at her._] Didn't you know? [ALINE _turns aside, embarrassed._] That's right--of course you did. Don't you know why I have brought you here? That's right; of course you do. The Duchess, your aunt, and the Marchioness, your mother--observe how fondly my tongue trips out the titles--smiled sweetly on us as we left the ball-room. There will be a notice in the _Morning Post_ to-morrow: "A Marriage Has Been Arranged Between--"
ALINE. [_Bewildered and offended._] Mr. Crockstead! This--this is--
CROCKSTEAD. [_Always in the same quiet tone._] Because I have not yet proposed, you mean? Of course I intend to, Lady Aline. Only as I know that you will accept me--
ALINE. [_In icy tones, as she rises._] Let us go back to the ball-room.
CROCKSTEAD. [_Quite undisturbed._] Oh, please! That won't help us, you know. Do sit down. I assure you I have never proposed before, so that naturally I am a trifle nervous. Of course I know that we are only supers really, without much of a speaking part; but the spirit moves me to gag, in the absence of the stage-manager, who is, let us say, the Duchess--
ALINE. I have heard of the New Humour, Mr. Crockstead, though I confess I have never understood it. This may be an exquisite example--
CROCKSTEAD. By no means. I am merely trying to do the right thing, though perhaps not the conventional one. Before making you the formal offer of my hand and fortune, which amounts to a little over three millions--
ALINE. [_Fanning herself._] How people exaggerate! Between six and seven, _I_ heard.
CROCKSTEAD. Only three at present, but we must be patient. Before throwing myself at your feet, metaphorically, I am anxious that you should know something of the man whom you are about to marry.
ALINE. That is really most considerate!
CROCKSTEAD. I have the advantage of you, you see, inasmuch as you have many dear friends, who have told me all about you.
ALINE. [_With growing exasperation, but keeping very cool._] Indeed?
CROCKSTEAD. I am aware, for instance, that this is your ninth season--
ALINE. [_Snapping her fan._] You are remarkably well-informed.
CROCKSTEAD. I have been told that again to-night, three times, by charming young women who vowed that they loved you. Now, as I have no dearest friends, it is unlikely that you will have heard anything equally definite concerning myself. I propose to enlighten you.
ALINE. [_Satirically._] The story of your life--how thrilling!
CROCKSTEAD. I trust you may find it so. [_He sits, and pauses for a moment, then begins, very quietly._] Lady Aline, I am a self-made man, as the foolish phrase has it--a man whose early years were spent in savage and desolate places, where the devil had much to say; a man in whom whatever there once had been of natural kindness was very soon kicked out. I was poor, and lonely, for thirty-two years: I have been rich, and lonely, for ten. My millions have been made honestly enough; but poverty and wretchedness had left their mark on me, and you will find very few men with a good word to say for Harrison Crockstead. I have no polish, or culture, or tastes. Art wearies me, literature sends me to sleep--
ALINE. When you come to the chapter of your personal deficiencies, Mr. Crockstead, please remember that they are sufficiently evident for me to have already observed them.
CROCKSTEAD. [_Without a trace of annoyance._] That is true. I will pass, then, to more intimate matters. In a little township in Australia--a horrible place where there was gold--I met a woman whom I loved. She was what is technically known as a bad woman. She ran away with another man. I tracked them to Texas, and in a mining camp there I shot the man. I wanted to take the woman back, but she refused. That has been my solitary love affair; and I shall never love any woman again as I loved her. I think that is all that I have to tell you. And now--will you marry me, Lady Aline?
ALINE. [_Very steadily, facing him._] Not if you were the last man in this world, Mr. Crockstead.
CROCKSTEAD. [_With a pleasant smile._] At least that is emphatic.
ALINE. See, I will give you confidence for confidence. This is, as you suggest, my ninth season. Living in an absurd milieu where marriage with a wealthy man is regarded as the one aim in life, I have, during the past few weeks, done all that lay in my power to wring a proposal from you.
CROCKSTEAD. I appreciate your sincerity.
ALINE. Perhaps the knowledge that other women were doing the same lent a little zest to the pursuit, which otherwise would have been very dreary; for I confess that your personality did not--especially appeal to me.
CROCKSTEAD. [_Cheerfully._] Thank you very much.
ALINE. Not at all. Indeed, this room being the Palace of Truth, I will admit that it was only by thinking hard of your three millions that I have been able to conceal the weariness I have felt in your society. And now will you marry me, Mr. Crockstead?
CROCKSTEAD. [_Serenely._] I fancy that's what we're here for, isn't it?
ALINE. [_Stamping her foot._] I have, of course, been debarred from the disreputable amours on which you linger so fondly; but I loved a soldier cousin of mine, and would have run away with him had my mother not packed me off in time. He went to India, and I stayed here; but he is the only man I have loved or ever shall love. Further, let me tell you I am twenty-eight; I have always been poor--I hate poverty, and it has soured me no less than you. Dress is the thing in life I care for most, vulgarity my chief abomination. And to be frank, I consider you the most vulgar person I have ever met. Will you still marry me, Mr. Crockstead?
CROCKSTEAD. [_With undiminished cheerfulness._] Why not?
ALINE. This is an outrage. Am I a horse, do you think, or a ballet-dancer? Do you imagine I will sell myself to you for your three millions?
CROCKSTEAD. Logic, my dear Lady Aline, is evidently not one of your more special possessions. For, had it not been for my--somewhat eccentric preliminaries--you _would_ have accepted me, would you not?
ALINE. [_Embarrassed._] I--I--
CROCKSTEAD. If I had said to you, timidly: "Lady Aline, I love you: I am a simple, unsophisticated person; will you marry me?" You would have answered, "Yes, Harrison, I will."
ALINE. It is a mercy to have escaped marrying a man with such a Christian name as Harrison.
CROCKSTEAD. It has been in the family for generations, you know; but it is a strange thing that I am always called Harrison, and that no one ever adopts the diminutive.
ALINE. That does not surprise me: we have no pet name for the East wind.
CROCKSTEAD. The possession of millions, you see, Lady Aline, puts you into eternal quarantine. It is a kind of yellow fever, with the difference that people are perpetually anxious to catch your complaint. But we digress. To return to the question of our marriage--
ALINE. I beg your pardon.
CROCKSTEAD. I presume that it is--arranged?
ALINE. [_Haughtily._] Mr. Crockstead, let me remind you that frankness has its limits: exceeding these, it is apt to degenerate into impertinence. Be good enough to conduct me to the ball-room.
[_She moves to the door._
CROCKSTEAD. You have five sisters, I believe, Lady Aline? [ALINE _stops short._] All younger than yourself, all marriageable, and all unmarried?
[ALINE _hangs her head and is silent._
CROCKSTEAD. Your father--
ALINE. [_Fiercely._] Not a word of my father!
CROCKSTEAD. Your father is a gentleman. The breed is rare, and very fine when you get it. But he is exceedingly poor. People marry for money nowadays; and your mother will be very unhappy if this marriage of ours falls through.
ALINE. [_Moving a step towards him._] Is it to oblige my mother, then, that you desire to marry me?
CROCKSTEAD. Well, no. But you see I must marry some one, in mere self-defence; and honestly, I think you will do at least as well as any one else. [ALINE _bursts out laughing._] That strikes you as funny?