SCENE.— Breakfast Parlor in a house in London, handsomely furnished. Fireplace and grate
with lighted fire, L. 1 E.; breakfast table, handsomely appointed, L.; lady's easy- chair and
footstool, up L.; couch, up C., with foot towards R. the audience; small round table, R.; easy
chair and foot-stool R. of it; window, in flat, R., with curtains; Davenport in window with
drawer, C.; chiffonier against flat, R.; door, R. 1 E.; chairs; pictures; clock.
Horace discovered in easy-chair, R., reading newspaper-he is dressed in morning jacket
and slippers.
Horace.
Ten o'clock! This quiet life will be the death of me, and it's all Bunbury's fault! A few
months ago, I said to Bunbury, "I'm thinking of getting married!" "Go in and win, old boy!"
said he, "and take my word for it, it's the best thing you can do." Well, I took Bunbury's
advice: I went in and won, and became the husband of Lydia. Well, you know, I'm not sure that
I hadn't better have gone in and lost! Not that my wife's bad, oh no; she's rather good, in
fact you'll see her directly, and be able to judge for yourselves. The worst of it is—she
don't live—she vegetates. She has no will of her own; she's as mild as a lamb, without
mint-sauce. I've married a mint-sauceless lamb. Not that I object to marriage in the abstract.
I think it would be a very praiseworthy institution— if it weren't so permanent if you could
get out of it, for instance. But you can't, at least, not comfortably. If you could, you'd say
to your wife:—" My darling, times are hard; let's live upon love!" and then you'd never see
any more of her. But nowadays; when you are married, where are you? Why, there you
are! [Rises.] Not that all wives are the same. Some of the lambs
have a good deal of mint-sauce about them, But I like mint-sauce. Look at Caroline Bunbury;
she's in the poetic and sentimental style. I don't know where Bunbury picked her up. Then
there's Maria Jolly—consumptive and interesting style; all complexion and no waist. Lydia's
health
is positively rude! Then, there's Zenobia Masters—fashionable style;
all back hair and no bonnet to speak of. Adela Jones —passionate and jealous style; adores her
David as husband should be adored, and is as savage as a tigress! But then everybody hasn't
Jones's luck. Oh, this quiet life will be the death of me! There's about as much variety in it
as in the existence of a bread-crumb at the bottom of a trowsers pocket. Oh, for a row—my
kingdom for a row! [Goes to side drawer of Davenport, and unlocking it with a key he
carries in his pocket, brings out a MS. book, and sits on chair, L. of Davenport.]
Sole relic of my bachelor days! Journal of my life, sacredly preserved in my private drawer.
Time was, when the events of an evening filled unlimited pages now, the most eventful day is
disposed of in half a dozen lines. [Turning over pages.] No addition to my
index now. If there's one thing I pride myself on more than another, it's my index, which
alphabetically recalls the names and styles of the most fascinating women of my acquaintance.
[Rises and advances book in hand—reads.] "Bunbury—Caroline—style,
poetic—Hastings —Fanny—style, fashionable," et cætera. "Lydia has no style at all! with her,
existence is like a lake without a ripple— a sun without a spot—a bed without a crease!" Now,
that's not bad; I put that down yesterday in the section of my work devoted to reflections.
[Shuts up the book.] A row, a row— my kingdom for a row! Eh? there's my wife's
dress on the stairs——with my wife inside it! Locks book in drawer again, putting bunch
of keys in his pocket. Now, she'll come up and say, "Ready for breakfast, my love?"
Throws himself languidly into easy-chair L. of R. table. Call me a "dear old
boy!" and ask if "her Horry isn't going to give his Lydia a kiss?" What an existence! Will
anybody provide me with a row?
Enter Lydia, from door, R., she goes behind table round to Horace, leaning fondly over
his chair.
Lydia.
Ready for breakfast, my love?
Horace.
Aside.
What did I say?
Lydia.
[Kneeling by his side, affectionately.]
What a dear old boy it is! Isn't Horry going to give his Lydia a kiss ?
Horace.
Aside.]
I knew it !
Lydia.
No! Then his Lydia will give her Horry one [Kisses him, she then sits on stool at his
feet in front of him—her back to the audience.] I've got a treat for you this
morning if you're a good boy. I'm going to wait on you myself.
Horace.
Why? Where's the maid?
Lydia.
I've given her leave for the day; she's gone to see her aunt at Aldershott.
Horace.
Oh, at Aldershott? Her aunt is probably in a line regiment! What does she want to go to
Aldershott for? Excitement! I wish I could go to Aldershott.
Lydia.
Does that mean that you're afraid I shan't make you comfortable? Don't be alarmed! Mary got
everything ready before she started. You've got a good fire, you see.
Horace.
[In a melancholy tone.]
I always have.
Lydia.
And I hope your breakfast will be to your taste.
Horace.
[Still more melancholy.]
It always is.
Lydia.
There's a perfect mutton chop for you—just as you like it. [Rises.] It must
be about ready. [Crosses to fireplace, where the chop is on the hob, covered in
dish.]
Horace.
[In despair.]
The old, old story! For three months I have been doing nothing else but eat mutton chops. If
I don't escape from this life of torture— [Rises, and crosses to R. chair at breakfast
table, yawning as he goes.]
Lydia.
Here it is, by the fire; and you never saw it, you blind old darling! [Places it
before him, removing the cover.] Look—under-done, just to the right turn!
Horace.
Under-done——I should think it was! [Aside.] I'll try and get up a row.
Lydia.
Isn't that as you like it? [Pouring out tea, etc.]
Horace.
What!—raw? Do you take me for a boating undergraduate or a tiger from the
Zoological Gardens?
Lydia.
[L., at table—aside.]
If he'd said a bear, now! [Aloud.] Well, never mind,
darling—I'll put it on the fire again, and watch it myself [Rises—goes round behind
table, and sits on his knee] while you go and dress!
Horace.
[Sulkily.]
I suppose I must dress? [Aside.] What an existence!
Lydia.
If the old man doesn't dress, and pretty quickly, he'll be late for his office.
Horace.
As if anybody ever could be late for my office. They say time was made for slaves; and
government clerks are slaves, but it certainly wasn't made for them, in any
offensive sense. There's no earthly use in my being at my office before one, except on
Saturdays, when "Bell's Life" comes in. However, 1 I may as well go and dress. [Rises
and crosses to R.] Fancy having to dress every morning all the rest of my life !
Lydia.
[L. C.]
That's right, darling; the chop shall be all right, and I'll keep your tea warm for you.
Now, don't be lazy but go along, and we'll have the coziest of tête-à-tête
breakfasts
Horace.
Aside.]
Oh! I must escape from this life of torture. Exit Horace, door R.]
Lydia.
[C.]
He's crosser than ever, this morning. Some thing new in the "journal of my life" I should
think. Take care, take care, Master Horace, my stock of patience is very nearly at an end.
Takes a key from her pocket and unlocks drawer in Davenport.] No secrets
between husband and wife— so, with your leave, I'll study the latest efforts of your literary
genius. Produces his book and sits on chair, L. of table, R., reading. "Damn
Bunbury." [Stops suddenly as if shocked, looks round.] Oh, never mind, there's
nobody here, so by all means damn Bunbury. [Reads.] "Lydia doesn't live, she
vegetates. Do I? Not a bad plan for animating me, Master Horace [Reads.]
"Sometimes I think she is like a stuffed woman"— a stuffed woman! [Reads.] "My
life is like a lake without a ripple, a sun without a spot, a bed without a crease; I feel
like a bread-crumb at the bottom of a trowsers pocket." [Shuts the book with a bang,
rises and locks it in drawer—speaks as she does so.] And I cared about this man. But
he shall see, he shall see. I have tried for some time if I couldn't bring him round to
my view of woman's proper character, now he shall realize his. [As she
crosses to table.] You want sentiment— passion—jealousy, do you? You shall have it,
oh! you shall have it. Your chop not cooked enough, isn't it; I'll cook it for
you. [Throws it on the fire.] Ripples on your lake, spots on your sun, creases
on your bed, you shall have enough of them. And if I am a stuffed woman, you shall see how the
stuffing tastes. Here he comes. [Sits L.]
Enter Horace, door R., dressed in morning dress.
Horace.
[Aside, R.]
My shirt was clean, aired, and laid out, there were buttons on both my wristbands; my boots
were blacked, and my hot water was hot. What an existence! Now I begin to
understand what drives men to suicide. [Aloud, sniffing.] What an odd smell of
burning. [Going to table, L.] Now, Lydia, as to that chop.
Lydia.
[Rises, takes chop frow fire with the tongs.]
Here, dear. [Extending it towards him.]
Horace.
[Amazed.]
Eh! What's the joke?
Lydia.
[At top of table.]
There's no joke; I've cooked it
a little more; that's all. [Holding it under his nose, then dropping it on
plate before him.]
Horace.
You've cooked it a great deal more. Why, it's a cinder!
Lydia.
[Comes down, L., holding the tongs in her hand and assuming a sentimental tone and
manner.]
Cinder! no doubt! like the ashes of a wasted life! [Crosses to C., tongs in
hand.] For what is life but a fire that burns out? [Aside.] Poetic and
sentimental style—Caroline Bunbury !
Horace.
[Turning round on his chair in amazement.]
What in the name of———?
Lydia.
[Speaking in an assumed tone as before.]
Horace, do you believe in the immortality of the soul ?
Horace.
Of course! Put down the tongs.
Lydia.
[Dreamily, R. C.]
Oh! for the existence of a soul— bodiless, infinite! To be a passing cloud! a puff of smoke
! To have wings like a swallow!
Horace.
[Rising.]
What are you talking about?
Lydia.
[Still in her assumed tone.]
To be above all earthly needs. No butchers! no bakers! To be reckless of the price of meat!
indifferent as to the exhaustion of coals! To be a soul, in short, with wings, wings, wings!
[Extends her arms in the air, and goes R. and back to C.]
Horace.
[aside.]
She must be flying in her sleep!
Lydia.
[C., in same tone.]
Horace, what do you call the bird with wings of heavenly blue ?
Horace.
Which? a blue bottle?
Lydia.
[Contemptuously.]
Man! I mean yon little flutterer, that haunts the willows by the murmuring stream, that
floats— floats—floats!
Horace.
A parrot! [Lydia moves away with a contemptuous gesture—Horace puzzled.] Not
a parrot? Why do you ask? I want my breakfast. [Sits and begins to break an
egg.]
Lydia.
[Crosses to top of table quickly.]
Horace!
Horace.
My child!
Lydia.
[Behind him at head of table.]
Won't you have your chop? [Places tongs on edge of table.]
Horace.
No, thank you.
Lydia.
[Sweeping his egg away from him.]
I'm sorry you won't have any breakfast! [Horace rises in disgust and sits in chair,
R.] Come and sit by me. No, stop! I shall sit here by you. [Crosses and sits
on stool at his feet.] So let me rest my head upon your bosom, and count the beatings
of your
heart. [Rests her head on his breast, then abruptly.] If I died,
should you marry again?
Horace.
[Aside.]
What a disjointed style of conversation. [Aloud.] Why do you ask such an
extraordinary question ?
Lydia.
What did you say was the name of those birds ?
Horace.
Oh! damn the birds!
Lydia.
Don't say that, because it's not only wrong, but absurd. What a strange thing is life!
[Sighing.]
Horace.
Look here, Lydia, if this is a joke, it's time to drop it. I don't see the fun of it.
Lydia.
The fun of life? Nor do I, which reminds me of death. Oh! this pain —this pain!
[Places her hand to her right side, and sinks on ground at end of couch, so that her
head rests on it aside.] Consumptive and interesting style; Maria Jolly.
Horace.
[Concerned.]
Are you in pain?
Lydia.
No, the pain's in me. Ah, here, in my heart! [Her hand on her right
side.]
Horace.
No, no; excuse me. Anatomically speaking, that's your liver. Don't be fanciful.
Lydia.
My liver? How vulgar! but no doubt you are a better judge of the liver than of the heart.
Ah!—I've broken something, I know—something internal.
Horace.
See a doctor.
Lydia.
[Sadly.]
A doctor. It's too late far that; yesterday he might have been in time, but now
[Rises languidly, while Horace rises and sits on end of couch, as she goes to her own
drawer in the Davenport, and produces an account book.] But don't be uneasy, Horace,
I have left my accounts in excellent order. Look at them. [Extends the book towards
him.]
Horace.
I don't want to look at them.
Lydia.
[Stamping her foot.]
I wish you to look at them. It is my last dying request.
Horace.
Oh, very well. [Takes book, aside, touching his forehead.] I begin to suspect
where the something broken is. Let's see. [Opens book and reads.] "Eighteenth,
radishes fourpence; Twentieth, spring chickens, four shillings and eightpence halfpenny;
Twenty-first, a horse!" A horse? What, to eat?
Lydia.
No, to ride. A capital bargain; go on.
Horace.
Twenty-third, pepper; twenty-fourth, a saddle!" What—of mutton?
Lydia.
No. Leather.
Horace.
Yes; but they often call it mutton.
Lydia.
Nonsense! go on—a saddle——
Horace.
"And harness!" What do you want with a saddle and harness ?
Lydia.
For the horse, of course. You don't suppose I ride barebacked ?
Horace.
[Enraged—rises, and crosses, R.]
I've had enough of this. I don't choose you to ride at all —barebacked or otherwise. I can't
afford it.
Lydia.
[C.]
What a mean huckster is man! But never mind that [Assuming a fast manner] my
pippin! I'll afford it for you. [Aside.] Zenobia Masters—masculine style!
Shan't I look the cheese in the park?
Horace.
[R., Horrified.]
Pippin! cheese! This is intolerable! I must have changed my wife in the cloak room last
night!
Lydia.
[In assumed dashing fast style.]
The sooner we have a turn-out in the Row, the better, old boy! [Digging his
ribs.] My tit's a spanker! I give you my honor; a real stunner, and no mistake! Won't
we make the dust fly, unless the bobbies run us in! [Aside.] I don't think I
know any more.
Horace.
[R.]
Here, drop it, drop it! [Advances, with his hand extended.] I can't stand it
any longer!
Lydia.
[L. C.]
Ah, he wants to strike me!
Horace.
Good gracious!
Lydia.
Mamma! Where's mamma? [Going up, L.]
Horace.
[C.]
She doesn't happen to be in the house, for a wonder. Listen, Lydia! You have sworn to obey
me!
Lydia.
When?
Horace.
At the Hymeneal altar, of course.
Lydia.
At the fiddlestick! I never swore to obey you in my life.
Horace.
Not to "love, honor and obey?"
Lydia.
Not I! The clergyman did mention something of the kind, but my wreath was scratching me at
the time, and I wasn't attending. Obedience, indeed! Other women may obey, I shan't. Idle!
Horace.
I tell you that you owe me obedience.
Lydia.
Oh, and honor?
Horace.
Yes, and honor! [Sits R. of table L.]
Lydia.
Ah! It's about the only honor you'll ever get; and as to the owing obedience, I suppose the
best thing I can do is imitate my husband in all things, is it not? [Sits at table,
L.]
Horace.
Certainly, a most excellent sentiment.
Lydia.
Very well. Then I'll do as you do when you anything.
Horace.
What's that?
Lydia.
Shan't pay it!
Horace.
Then I shall exercise the rights of a husband, and compel you. Where's your horse?
Lydia.
Where the deuce should he be? in his stable, to be sure.
Horace.
I shall dispose of him to the nearest cabman.
Lydia.
You will ?
Horace.
I will!
Lydia.
Quite done—have you? [Horace nods—she snaps her fingers.] There,
that's my answer. I expect my horse here directly.
Horace.
I am glad of it; for I shall tell him my mind.
Lydia.
That won't take long!
Horace.
Enraged.
You shan't ride—you'll ruin us both
Lydia.
I shan't! I've got a capital seat.
Horace.
Yes; but you can't keep it.
Lydia.
Bah!
Horace.
Booh! Look here I can't afford a horse; and I won't!
Lydia.
How mean! Your country pays you two hundred pounds a year!
Horace.
How far do you think we can go on that?
Lydia.
I don't want to go any further than the Park. Then look at your private means.
Horace.
Yes; exceedingly mean, and peculiarly private— so private, that nobody knows anything of
them!
Lydia.
Then, think of mamma's allowance to me.
Horace.
Generous mamma! Thirty pounds a year—ill paid!
Lydia.
And you talk of not having money! It's lucky for you mamma's not here!
Horace.
Well, it is —unusually lucky!
Lydia.
Don't abuse my mother!
Horace.
I won't.
Lydia.
And pay for my horse.
Horace.
I shan't! Money or no money. I've none for you [Rises to R. C.]
Lydia.
With a scream, advancing to L. C.
Ah! he acknowledges it !
Horace.
Acknowledges what?
Lydia.
You've got some for somebody else. Horace, you're
in love with another woman! [Aside.] Adela Jones—passionate and
jealous style.
Horace.
Stuff and nonsense, one is quite enough.
Lydia.
You are! you are! a little bird told me that you were deceiving me.
Horace.
[Crossing to corner, L.]
Then I wouldn't give much for the chance of that little bird in a future state.
Lydia.
[L. C.]
That's the second time you've damned a bird to-day. It is too silly. Horace crosses
towards deer, R.] Where are you going?
Horace.
To my office.
Lydia.
[Running up to door, R., placing her back to it.]
Not yet. It isn't near one, and there's no "Bell's Life" to-day. [Horace in despair
crosses to chair at breakfast table, and drops into it—following him up, and in a tone of
great severity.] You came home late last night, after leaving me at Lady Glossop's.
Where did you go?
Horace.
[In chair, L.]
I went to the club.
Lydia.
Easy to say that. We know what that means. What
things men are !
Horace.
I tell you I went to the club! I played a couple of games at billiards with Bunbury—a
hundred up.
Lydia.
Show me your purse.
Horace.
What for?
Lydia.
Show me your purse, and be quick about it.
Horace.
Very well—there!
Lydia.
There were five and twenty shillings in it last night, [Examines it.] Now
there are twenty-two! [With great solemnity.] What have you done with those
three shillings?
Horace.
Well—I—
Lydia.
Don't descend to prevarication, and think before you speak.
Horace.
I tell you I played two games.
Lydia.
And lost, of course. You haven't even the merit of winning at your games of
chance.
Horace.
Billiards is not a game of chance.
Lydia.
Do you mean to call it a game of skill? In Bunbury's case it may be, but not in yours. Well,
two games, one shilling! Isn't that right? What then?
Horace.
Then ———
Lydia.
[Sharply.]
Make haste !
Horace.
Well—sixpence for a brandy and soda.
Lydia.
No doubt; I know your partiality for intoxicating drinks.
Horace.
Brandy and soda is not an intoxicating drink.
Lydia.
Then you must have taken something else besides. Well?—then—
Horace.
Then—then—I—let me see. [Lydia stamps her foot impatiently.] Then I gave
threepence to a beggar as left the club.
Lydia.
Threepence to a beggar, and grudges his own wife a horse! What things men are!
Horace.
Well—
Lydia.
[Vehemently.]
That makes one shilling and ninepence; there is still one and threepence to account for.
What did you do with THAT?
Horace.
Hang me if I remember.
Lydia.
You don't remember? Horace! you gave it to the woman you love! [Goes R.]
Horace.
[Rises.]
Lydia! Approaches her.
Lydia.
Don't come near me, vile betrayer! Is the creature pretty?
Horace.
Goes up to fire.
There is no creature !
Lydia.
And my life is given to this man! What a piece of work is man, as Hamlet says. He marries
you against your will—
Horace.
[Suddenly approaching her, L. C.]
Come, I say—
Lydia.
Don't interrupt me; and ten months afterwards, he wastes all the wealth which a liberal
country pours into his lap, in quarterly payments, in diamonds which shine—who knows where—on
satins which adorn who knows whom? While to the wife who sits at home to mend his shirts, and
guard his honor, he brings home—at two o'clock in the morning—the "Pall Mall Gazette!"
[Goes R. then turns quickly on him.] Horace, what have you done with that one
and threepence ?
Horace.
This is unendurable. [Crosses to L. corner, suddenly making a bolt for the door,
R.] Good-morning!
Lydia.
[Rushes up behind table to R., and confronts him.]
You are going to see Aurelia! [Falls on her knees, clasping his hands.] Do
you love Aurelia well?
Horace.
[Walking backwards to L. C., as Lydia follows still on her knces.]
I don't know anybody of the name.
Lydia.
[Still on her knees, imploringly.]
What has she done to make you worship her so? Tell me, tell me! that I may turn her own arms
against her —that I may learn from my rival how to win you back again. Never go to her any
more, and I will forgive you the past, and never ask her for that one
and three! Send back her letters. Where are her letters ?
[Puts her hands into his breast coat pocket, takes one out, and crosses to L.
corner.] Ha, here is one!
Horace.
[Goes up to couch, and sits.]
Read it, for goodness' sake, and satisfy yourself.
Lydia.
I will. [Opens letter and reads.] "Be a good fellow, and lend me that blue
frock coat of yours.—Yours, Roderick."
Horace.
There, you see!
Lydia.
[L.]
Roderick! nobody is called such a name now. I see it all! she writes to you under an alias,
to guard against accidents, and disarm suspicion.
Horace.
I assure you, Roderick is a fellow in our office. How can he be a woman, and want a blue
frock coat?
Lydia.
She means to follow you in the disguise of a man. Perhaps she will try to enter this house
as a butler! Oh! the craft of that woman! [Sits crying, R.]
Horace.
[Crosses to her.]
Now look here, Lydia, as a gentleman, and a government clerk—I give you my word of
honor—[Lydia sobbing hysterically.] I repeat I give you my sacred word. [Lydia crying.]
Lydia—I—oh! confound it. [Crosses in a passion to his chair at table, L.] If
there is one thing I hate more than another, it is a jealous woman!
Lydia.
[Sobbing.]
Who—oo—oo—ever would have thought Is this co—co—could happen when I married you.
Horace.
[L.]
Who—oo—oo, indeed? I wish somebody had told us. Your parents said you were an angel; and
they may be right, for I never saw one, only if they are, the idea of that article in which I
have been brought up is singularly imaginative, that's all. It strikes me that your parents
let me in for it.
Lydia.
[Sobbing, R.]
That's right. Insult the mother in the daughter's presence. Heartless!
Horace.
[Smashing an egg.]
Go on. Don't mind me.
Lydia.
[Rises quickly.]
I don't. Do I bore you? [Crosses over to L., behind screen.]
Horace.
Well—you do rather.
Lydia.
[Behind him.]
You are thinking of Aurelia ?
Horace.
[Turning around on her.]
I am, there!
Lydia.
He confesses and glories in his shame. [Fiercely— as she seizes the tongs from
table.] And shall I leave him to this woman? Never! [Brandishes the tongs
above her head.]
Horace.
[Rises precipitately to R.]
Come, I say, no practical jokes.
Lydia.
Taking L. corner, flourishing the tongs.]
Ha, ha! coward! He's afraid to die.
Horace.
[R., shouting.]
Put down the fire irons!
Lydia.
[Throwing them down, up C.]
Live then, Heliogabalus. [Crosses to C., as if going R.] I shall go home to
my mother.
Horace.
[Going up, and meeting her behind table, R.]
Do, do!
Lydia.
Now you want to turn me out of doors.
Horace.
Good gracious, no! Stop if you like.
Lydia.
Likely, isn't it. [Very calmly.] With my nerves, it is unmanly to torture me
in this way.
[Going to fire.]
Horace.
[C.]
Say it's me.
Lydia.
I will! [Suddenly screaming.] Oh! my head, my head! [Throws herself
into easy-chair up L.) Give me some vinegar! Get me some sal-volatile, and Aurelia's
address. Ah!
Horace.
[In consternation, rushes towards her over to L. of the chair, bending over
her.]
Lydia, my darling! [Frantically giving her all sorts of things to smell, the mustard,
pepper, etc.] Try and command yourself, and I'll do anything you like. Ha! she's
fainted! Good heavens! [Gloomily] Perhaps it's just as well.
Lydia.
[In chair, recovering.]
Where am I? Was it a dream—a hideous dream? [Sitting upright, and gazing into his
face.] Horace, of what have I accused you? What right had I, of all people, to accuse
you of infidelity?
Horace.
What on earth are you talking about?
Lydia.
[Rising dreamily.]
Nothing, nothing. [Crosses slowly to C.] You have deceived me.
Horace.
Advances to L. C.]
Never!
Lydia.
[R. C., reproachfully.]
Don't say that —the woman called Roderick, you know. Don't speak ill of me to Roderick when
you see her this afternoon; for you have a good heart at the bottom, and would regret it when
you returned and found me—Ah, I am rightly punished!
Horace.
Uneasily, going towards her.
What for?
Lydia.
Mysteriously.]
Hush. [Embracing him, R. C.] Good-bye, Horace. Let us part friends. Good-bye,
for ever! Let me look my last upon those dear eyes—that open brow— that shapeless nose. You
see, I smile. Farewell, farewell! my brother! [Exit romantically, door, R.]
Horace.
[Advances, C., looking after her.]
Well, this life of excitement will be the death of me. Oh, Bunbury, Bunbury!
was it for this I married? I, who hoped to find in marriage a life of calm and
blissful monotony—a tranquil existence, without storm or ripple. [Noise off,
R.] That comes from the kitchen. Lydia, I suppose, is engaged in destroying the
cooking utensils. I wonder what she meant by being punished? I begin to think it
wasn't for nothing that Mary was sent to see her aunt in the line. I must find out the truth
of this, and I will! Ah, here she comes. She shall think I am gone out.
[Hides behind curtain of window.]
Enter Lydia, her hair hanging down, and a white wrapper over her she carries a cup in her
hand.
Lydia.
[Aside.]
Impassioned and romantic style! I see you, behind that curtain! [Advances,
C.] If I don't give you passion and romance enough to last you the rest of your life!
[Aloud, and in a tragic tone.] All this must end! [Horace puts his head
out—looking wistfully at her.] Grant me courage, heaven! Where is the teaspoon? [Goes
to chair, R. of table, L.]
Horace.
[Rushing forward, C.]
Lydia, what are you doing?
Lydia.
[Coolly.]
Still here? I thought you had joined Roderick!
Horace.
[C.]
What is the meaning of all this? tell me !
Lydia.
[At table.]
Certainly! [Stirring the liquid with the spoon.] I am going to poison myself—
I love another!
Horace.
Bewildered.]
Yes, of course I'm another.
Lydia.
[Dreamily.]
You're another! No, no, I loved him before I married you —before ever I met you.
Horace.
And you never told me.
Lydia.
I forgot. [Puts cup and spoon on table.] There are so many things to think of
when you get married. [Rises.]
Horace.
His name?
Lydia.
[As she crosses in front to R. corner.]
Alphonso!
Horace.
What a name! His profession!
Lydia.
A professor of ordnance ! Ordnance! Cannon! He's a billiard-marker. He was young, beautiful,
and I loved him.
Horace.
[C.]
A young and beautiful billiard-marker! How degrading! Crosses over to L.]
Lydia.
He would have given you forty-nine points in fifty, and you wonder why I loved him.
[In a melancholy tone.] He
is gone—gone to America, to make a name and cannons; while I am bound to another.
At this moment, perhaps, he lies lost, is dying in the boundless desert, in the grip of the
hyæna, or the mountain ape!
Horace.
[R.]
I sincerely hope he does.
Lydia.
My place is by his side. [Goes towards Horace, now up R., behind table.] Give
me gold that I may follow him. What shall I do for gold? Ah! my jewels will give me the means.
[Going R.]
Horace.
Intercepting her.
My presents to you!
Lydia.
You taunt me with your paltry gifts. There is no reasoning with passion, no meum
and tuum in love. Do you mean to let me poison myself?
Horace.
No. You shan't stir from this room,
Lydia.
Then I will poison myself: first lodging a complaint against you for the
offence with the nearest magistrate. [Horace moving from door, crosses in front of
table to C.— Lydia up R.] Ha! you recoil. Then I am free!—free to rejoin Alphonso!
[Exit romantically by door, R.]
Horace.
[C. lost in bewilderment.]
Oh! all this is Bunbury's fault. There is no use in getting a character with your wife. No
woman could have brought a better than she did. If I had known Alphonso, I might have referred
to him, but I didn't. Let me examine the situation calmly. Lydia loves Alphonso, a
professional gentleman, whose social status depends on the frequent and careful enunciation of
the sentence, "Yellow or red——green's your player." As a duellist, a degrading adversary; as a
co-respondent, an insolvent one. What is to happen to me? Now, for the first time, I feel what
it is that drives men to suicide. And only this morning I was so entirely happy, so contented
with my lot in life. [At this moment Lydia appears at door, R., as at first.]
Ah, well if I could only hear Lydia say as she used—[Sighs.]
Enter Lydia, and comes round to his side quietly as at commencement.
Lydia.
Ready for breakfast, my love?
Horace.
Eh? [Starts in astonishment.]
Lydia.
[Kneels as at first.]
What a dear old boy it is. Isn't Horry going to give his Lydia a kiss? No? then I shall give
you one. Why, you haven't had a morsel to eat, and it's so late. [Rises and goes up to
chiffonier, R. as Horace rises, and crosses to L., rubbing his eyes, bewildered.]
Have a glass of sherry and a biscuit before you start for your office. Ah! what
a goose I am. Mary has got the key of the cellaret, and I don't expect her till
dinner, so there's no sherry for you.
Horace.
[L., aside.)
It strikes me I must have drunk it all. Goes to L. corner.]
Lydia.
Never mind, I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go up the river and have a little dinner at
Richmond.
Horace.
At Richmond? By Jove, I've been dreaming the oddest dream!
Lydia.
Haven't you money enough? Get it from your drawer there, and if you haven't got your key,
take mine. [Showing it goes to drawer and holds up the MS. laughingly.]
Horace.
Phew!—your key—my drawer—the journal of my life! Caroline!— Maria!—Zenobia! I have not been
dreaming. Where are the tongs? [Picks up the tongs, takes the MS. from her with them
and puts the book on the fire, then throwing them down, advances to C.] My darling,
what can I do to show my penitence?
Lydia.
[C.]
Have something to eat, then go and do your duty to your country.
Horace.
[Holding out his arms.]
Lydia!
Lydia.
Embracing him.]
Horace!
Horace.
I've had a lesson that I shan't forget.
Lydia.
Unlike most lessons that you've learned as yet.
Horace.
A happier couple nowhere shall be found;
Lydia.
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
We'll drown the journal.
Horace.
Willingly! I vow
To offer no more kingdoms for a row;
The newest of new leaves here to turn over,
And live as Husbands ought to live—
Lydia.
In Clover!
CURTAIN.