Time of Representation, twenty-five minutes.

ACT II.

Mollen. (Is sitting R. of C. table) I have a few corrections to make for the new edition. Have you your note-book?

Dexter (enters L. U. E. producing it) Yes, sir.

Mollen. Sit down, sit down. (Dexter sits L. of C. table) By the way, you've written that letter for me to Lord Contareen?

Dexter. I have it in there for you to sign, sir, with the others.

Mollen. What date did I fix for his—reappearance, Dexter?

Dexter. (turning up pages) I can give you the exact sentence, sir. (reading) "You have sown the seed, my dear sir, expect its germination in about six weeks. Then I shall invite you to examine the shoots."

Mollen. Yes, that will do! that will do. Couldn't be clearer. Now, Dexter, to return. I don't quite like the sub-title of that new chapter on Marriage, Dexter. Read it.

Dexter. "The Marriage-Course. The First Lap."

Mollen. Exactly. It's too concrete. And suggests other laps to follow.

Dexter. (chuckling) Yes, sir. Lapses.

Mollen. (glancing severely at him over his spectacles) Dexter, this is not the first time you have offended in this fashion. I beg it may be the last.

Dexter. (contritely) Sir—

Mollen. Let me remind you that marriage was not invented merely to give the comic man a chance. Not a word, not a word—we need say no more. (Rise, crosses to bookshelves R. taking out book) I want a new sub-title—something symbolic, tasteful, and yet adapted to the gravity of the situation.

Dexter. How would "stage" do, sir?

Mollen. It savours of the theatre. My work has a large circulation among Nonconformists.

Dexter. "Phase," sir?

Mollen. (across to L. back of table) Invariably associated with the moon, or Napoleon. I seek a word that shall happily suggest the first disillusions of the young couple. Stay, I have it! The "Marriage Links" we will call it—there you have the symbol—and for sub-title:—(down L.) "The First Bunker." (Mollentrave rubs his hands, delighted at his invention)

(Martin the butler enters with Lord Contareen, a well-groomed, vacuous-looking man of forty.)

Mollen. The First Bunk—(sees Contareen reproachfully, crossing to up R. C. front of table) Contareen! You here! That's wrong!

(They shake hands, Dexter rises.)

Dexter. (rising) Shall I go now, sir?

Mollen. Yes, Dexter. You understand that I take you down with me to Swanage to-morrow?

Dexter. Yes, sir—certainly, good-day, sir.

Mollen. Good-day to you.

(Dexter goes up L. Mollentrave turns to Contareen.)

(Up R. C.) It's wrong, my dear fellow—it's wrong! To-day's Friday—she refused you on Wednesday. Too soon!

Contareen. (eagerly) Mollentrave—I—(down R. C.)

Mollen. (emphatically, down C.) I have promised that you shall marry my daughter. I have assured you that I have no doubt whatever as to her affection. Then why this—precipitancy?

Contareen. She refused me very decidedly. (sits on settee R.)

Mollen. My poor Rosamund is a widow. (up L. C. across C. and down R. C.) Also she has had the advantage of correcting my proof-sheets. She has read that passion wins maids, and perseverance widows. She follows the rule. Do the same!

Contareen. I thought—

Mollen. Every siege must be conducted on scientific principles. You should now be back in your trenches. Digging, sir—digging!

Contareen. (eagerly) Look here, Lady Pentruddock has asked me down to her place in Shropshire.

Mollen. Well?

Contareen. Her sister will be there—Muriel, I mean, not Gladys. Muriel has charm.

Mollen. Granted. And then?

Contareen. Your daughter knows Lady Muriel. When she learns that I shall be under the same roof with that fascinating person—eh?

Mollen. (to L. of table C.) I see, I see. Well—(he ponders)

Contareen. If I tell Lady Claude that I—er—accept her decision cheerfully—eh?—and inform her that I—Lady Muriel—don't you think?

Mollen. (judicially) The idea has merit.

Contareen. (humbly) I got it out of the book.

Mollen. Of course. That goes without saying. (sit L. of table C.) Well, no harm can be done. Though a line to me, from Pentruddock Castle would have been better.

Contareen. Perhaps. But still—I say, you're backing me up?

Mollen. I'm supporting you admirably. I have repeatedly expressed my delight at her having refused you.

Contareen. (staggered) I say!

Mollen. I dwell with satisfaction on the prospect of not seeing you again—

Contareen. Look here!

Mollen. And have more than once hinted at a past that is probably strewn with forlorn Nancies and Janes—

Contareen. (aghast—rise) By Jove!

Mollen. "To kindle the flame of love in the feminine bosom"—I quote from the fifteenth chapter—(he presses the bell) "the third party should vehemently, and persistently, denounce the person whom he desires to see enthroned."

Contareen. But still!

Mollen. Leave it to me, my dear fellow, leave it to me! I tell you it works like a charm!

(Cont. re-sits settee R.)

(Martin comes in R.)

Mollen. Inform Lady Claude that Lord Contareen is here, and ask her to be good enough to descend.

Martin. Yes, sir. (he goes)

Mollen. Now see—when Rosamund comes, I shall retire into the back room there, and write a letter. I shall give you three minutes. Then you take your leave.

Contareen. Quite so. Three minutes will do!

Mollen. And remember—be sprightly! Not a trace of acidity! Persiflage is good—in moderation—Bring in Lady Pentruddock's sister—but don't drag her in! You understand?

Contareen. Perfectly, perfectly. Oh yes, I see. Gad, Mollentrave, I've always done what you told me. But those Nancies and Janes, you know—

Mollen. Tut, tut, women like a dash of colour! Now mind—your visit to-day is merely a p. p. c. card—the whistle that heralds the shunting of the train—

Contareen. Quite so. (whistle) I must remember that.

Mollen. (rise, cross to R. C.) Your line is delicacy. You feel it only due to her, and so forth. Your tone must be soft, mellifluous—a south wind rustling over orange trees. Orange trees, mark you—not cypresses!

Contareen. (rise) Exactly. Orange trees—not cypresses. I see.

Mollen. (takes Cont. across L. C.) Take no notice of her confusion. Be bland, respectful. Retire gracefully. (Cont. crosses to L. front of Mollen.) A gentle pressure of the hand. No more.

Cont. (L.) I'll do it. I'll do it! You're wonderful, Mollentrave, but I say—

Mollen. (L. C.) H'sh! (up L. C. to top of table)

(Lady Claude enters R. with book)

Lady C. (down C.) How are you, Lord Contareen?

Contareen. (down C.—suddenly smitten with confusion) I'm very well, thank you, Lady Claude—never was better, never was better!

(He looks to Mollentrave away L. a step)

Mollen. (up C. top of table—to Lady Claude) My dear, you will excuse me—I have a line to write to—to—oh yes, to Balsted, of course, about the train to-morrow. We take the 11.20—he may as well join us. Your pardon, Contareen—I shall not be a moment.

(Lady C. puts book away R.)

(Mollentrave goes into the inner room L. U. E. rubbing his hands.)

Contareen. (disconcerted) Balsted! the lawyer fellow!

Lady C. (smiling) The great barrister—yes. He is coming to Swanage.

Contareen. The deuce he is! Old friend of yours, isn't he?

Lady C. (sit R. of C. table, sitting) I have known him a number of years.

Contareen. Confound it, ain't he a bachelor? (To L. of table C. from L.)

Lady C. He was when I last saw him.

Contareen. And how long ago was that?

Lady C. I should think an hour and a half.

Contareen. (very perturbed) (sit L. of C. table) Eh? Quite so, quite so. No concern of mine, of course, and all that. Well, what I had to say—the fact is that I—confound Balsted—he's put me off!

Lady C. (wondering) Put you off? Off what, Lord Contareen?

Contareen. You see, I didn't know you were going to have visitors at Swanage.

Lady C. (smiling) Well, that's not unnatural, is it? We've such a large place there!

Contareen. (eagerly) I suppose you wouldn't like me to—

Lady C. After what has occurred, perhaps—

Contareen. (pleading) I've only asked you once, you know—

Lady C. (emphatically) But I do most earnestly beg you to believe that my decision is final, and irrevocable.

Contareen. (humbly, rise) I don't think I made it quite clear to you to what extent I ad—

(Mollentrave coughs loudly from the inner room.)

Contareen. (quickly) To what extent I ad—ad—advocate! Funny, isn't it! (up stage C. a step) Besides, we're too old, and that sort of thing—

Lady C. (puzzled) I beg your pardon—

Contareen. (top of table C.) Oh, nothing, nothing—a joke that's all—mere persiflage! What I wanted to say was—to break it—h'm delicately—that I was going away too—to Lady Pentruddock's, you know—

Lady C. Indeed? I hope you will have a most pleasant time.

Contareen. Thanks—sure to, sure to! Seems that her sister's there—Muriel, you know, not Gladys. Fine woman, Muriel.

Lady C. (indifferently) Very.

Contareen. (artfully) Old friend of mine—and I fancy that she—she—you see—well, I—and I rather want to—eh, don't you think?

Lady C. (clapping her hands) Admirable! Oh, I'm so glad!

Contareen. (quickly) Nothing done yet, of course! There still is time—

Lady C. Time?

Contareen. My visit to-day is merely a kind of—whistle, you know. 'Bout ship, eh? You don't mind?

Lady C. Mind? I! My dear Lord Contareen, I assure you—

Contareen. You've no objection, I mean, to my going down there?

Lady C. Far from it! Indeed, I should most strongly recommend a change of scene. (rise and away R.)

Contareen. (cunningly, down L. to C.) And of actors, Lady Claude, eh, of actors? Ha, ha! I'm anxious of course, that you shouldn't think me—(he pauses)

Lady C. (Impatiently, sit on sofa R.) Think you what, Lord Contareen?

Contareen. Not regard it as sudden, eh? Too abrupt and that sort of thing?

Lady C. On the contrary, I shall be delighted!

Contareen. (R. C. disconcerted) Oh! delighted!

Lady C. I assure you! I have the greatest respect for Lady Gladys—

Contareen. Muriel, Muriel—not Gladys—

Lady C. Your pardon—I should have said Lady Muriel. Let me declare to you, most earnestly and sincerely, that you have my very best wishes for your success.

Contareen. Of course I've said nothing yet—but once down there—weak man, charming woman—

Lady C. Let us know as soon as it's settled! And I will congratulate you, with my whole heart! Believe it, Lord Contareen!

(Mollentrave comes in, L. U. E. and goes to top of table C. with a discreet preliminary cough.)

Contareen. (Looks round to L.) Just going, Mollentrave—just going, Lady Claude—au revoir!

Lady C. Good-bye. And my love to Lady Muriel!

Contareen. (up R. C.) Quite so, quite so. Good-bye, Mollentrave. I'm afraid I've made an awful hash—

Mollen. (up R. C. on his L.) Good-bye, my dear fellow—good-bye. (in his ear) She's piqued—she's piqued! Spade-work—nothing like it! (aloud) Good-bye!

(Contareen goes R. Mollentrave returns to the centre of the room, rubbing his hands.)

Lady C. (very earnestly) Papa, don't practise on me!

Mollen. (blandly) My child?

Lady C. There are so many specimens for you to play with! Look on me as an exception—a freak, if you like. But I, at least, am not a rule of three sum!

Mollen. (sitting on stool C. patting her hand) My dear Rosamund!

Lady C. (rise) How could you imagine that such an inane, idiotic creature as that—

Mollen. It is certainly strange that he should go to Pentruddock. Your resentment is justified.

Lady C. (up R. and across back of table to down L. C. scornfully) Resentment!

Mollen. I shouldn't be in the least surprised if Lady Muriel secured him!

Lady C. Oh, she may have him, with all my heart, and all my sympathy too!

Mollen. (slyly) Of course, my dear, I'm aware that you don't care for him. How could you?

Lady C. (down L. smiling in spite of herself) You refuse to believe me? I cannot convince you?

Mollen. (stroking her condescendingly) My dear—

Lady C. (L. C.) After all that has happened! After what you have seen of my life! And you really believe that I ever could care for this man! That I, a creature with a heart and soul, am pigeon-holed in your book, and bound to conform to its maxims!

Mollen. (fatuously) On the contrary—I—

Lady C. (up and down L. C.) Is it his title appeals to you—his houses, his money? Years ago, I was obedient—my husband, too, had a title—and you know how dearly I paid for it.... Weave no webs round me! The fly has grown wary—and it has had the advantage, too, of studying the wiles of the spider!

Mollen. I quite admit, my dear, that Contareen's change of attitude is reprehensible—very. And I have not the least doubt—

Lady C. (smiling sorrowfully) You are incorrigible!

Mollen. My dear child! Since I tell you—

Lady C. Ah—I see that I shall have to provide you—with material for a new chapter!

Martin. Sir Joseph Balsted.

Mollen. (eagerly) Balsted! (rise and across to R.)

Sir J. (R. C.) Mollentrave,—awful—the little idiot imagined you were proposing for me!

Mollen. (sitting R.) No! No!

Sir J. She thought you meant me!

Mollen. Balsted, how could you! Why, when I left the room she had accepted Everard!

Sir J. And I sent the boy to her—he comes back, pale as a ghost—and says she's engaged—to ME! (sit R. of C. table)

(Lady Claude up L. and down L. convulsed with laughter. Both men turn to her.)

Mollen. (reproachfully) My dear Rosamund, your hilarity is misplaced.

Lady C. (contritely but still choking, sit L. by work table) I'm very sorry—

Mollen. Our friend has unfortunately entangled himself in a most serious dilemma—

Sir J. I! That's good! You did the proposing!

Mollen. You heard me—you even complimented me!

Sir J. (rise) It flashed across me at the time—you never mentioned his name!

Mollen. (with an indulgent smile) Not mention his name! I!

Sir J. If she had accepted Everard, would she, one moment after, have consented to marry me?

Mollen. Do not excite yourself, my dear Balsted! What happened, I see it, was this. I dug the hole, and gave you the tree to put in. You popped in the wrong one!

Lady C. What happened, Sir Joseph, after you heard the news?

Sir J. (to Lady C.) I rushed on here at once. (to Mollen.) You've got me into this scrape—get me out!

Mollen. My dear friend, my services are of course at your disposal. But, truly, how could you? The affair was so simple!

Sir J. Well, one thing's certain at any rate—she's not in love with Everard—

Mollen. (shaking his head) That's not certain at all!

Sir J. (impatiently) What! When the little fool's in love with me!

Mollen. That's not proved.

Sir J. Not proved! When she wants to marry me!

Mollen. Didn't I tell you she was an invertebrate sentimentalist? You forgot that. Had you left her undisturbed in the belief that you meant Everard, she'd have gone to the altar with Everard. You persuaded her I had spoken for you—she switched her love on to you. That's the case in a nutshell.

Sir J. Preposterous!

Mollen. There you may trust my, let us say, wider experience. But tell me, Everard! He did not undeceive her?

Sir J. No—heroics! She loves you, he says to me—uncle, she loves you! He seemed to take it for granted I must love her! And he hoped—we'd be happy! You'll go now—at once?

Mollen. I'm willing of course. Only let us first, calmly, review the situation.

(Sir J. sits R. of C. table.)

Assume that I tell your ward bluntly of her mistake—well, what's the result?

Sir J. That I'm free!

Mollen. Yes! But at what cost!

Sir J. Cost! What do you mean?

Mollen. The situation of which you complained this afternoon will remain, will it not? And intensified—a million times. Nay, it will have become—impossible!

Sir J. All this is beyond me! he turns appealingly to Lady Claude! Lady Claude!

Lady C. It is beyond me too, Sir Joseph—but papa knows—he is infallible!

Mollen. The girl has confessed her love for you. A love, mark you, that does not exist, but that my explanation will call into being!

Sir J. (pettishly) Absurd!

Mollen. But it's true! Her feeling for you, at present a mere wayward infatuation, will at once swell into romantic passion. She'll begin to wither—

Sir J. Wither?

Mollen. Fade on the stalk! Refuse her food—live on poetry and tea! Be a martyr! Then anÆmia acts in. Doctors, nurses, cures—and all the time, mind you, she's hugging an imaginary grief!

Sir J. (Impatiently) But, why, in the name of Heaven—

Mollen. Heaven only knows. I didn't make women—I have merely observed them. If you don't believe me, ask Rosamund.

Lady C. (demurely) Sir Joseph knows, I always agree with Papa.

Mollen. (rise and up R. C.) And, mark you, more, when I tell her you meant the nephew, she at once proceeds to hate the nephew.

Sir J. (feebly) Hate him!

Mollen. Inevitably.

Sir J. Lady Claude!

Lady C. Papa means that her vanity will be piqued.

Sir J. Vanity!

Mollen. Complacently the essential ingredient of a young woman's affections.

Lady C. The book says she will demand an eternity to pass.

Mollen. A feminine figure of speech that resolves itself into months! But think of those months with her sighing, dying, crying! (down R. C.)

Sir J. (groaning) What a catastrophe!

Mollen. (up R. of Sir J.) You're sure—quite sure—you won't marry her?

Sir J. (angrily) Mollentrave! (rising) If this is all the help you can give me—

Mollen. (forcing him back in his chair) Alternatives! I merely suggest alternatives! You don't marry—that's settled, agreed. But I see no reason why you should not be—engaged!

Sir J. (rising, Mollen. sits him again) Engaged! You're mad!

Mollen. (round back of C. table) Secret engagement! You tell her—paternal again—you give her a month to reflect. Secrecy all round—except us. You bound—she free.

Sir J. How does that help me?

Mollen. Follow me closely. (to L. of table C.) During that month you become—senile.

Sir J. Senile! Why, hang it, I'm only forty-five!

Mollen. And she's nineteen! Strip off your limelight—to her you're Methuselah! (sitting L. of C. table.)

Sir J. (protesting) I—

Mollen. (breaking in impetuously) My dear friend, you don't really imagine that she loves you? Whatever's real in her loves Everard—or any other good-looking young fellow of his age whom she chances to meet. What she admires in you is your talent, your position, your power. Very well, take them off!

Sir J. (blankly) How can I?

Mollen. I've told you—be senile. Fidgety, crotchety—sensitive to draughts—dyspeptic—adore your food. Flannel nightcap—false teeth—

Sir J. (indignantly rising) I haven't!

Mollen. Imagine you have.

(Sir J. re-sits.)

Speak of them often! Boil your milk! Retire at nine, have your paper warmed. Tell her you mean to resign the House, give up the Bar, live in the country, ten miles from a station, and write a book on Constitutional Law!

Sir J. All that, eh?

Mollen. And dictate to her five hours a day! Find fault with her spelling—be always finding fault!

Sir J. Lively for both of us! But look here—seeing that she has lived with me for a year, and I haven't been senile—

Mollen. (with a petulant gesture) Tut, tut, tut! Hitherto, you've concealed your—little ailments! But, now that you've won her, are sure of her, you show yourself—as you are! (rise) Oh, it's simple enough! And so much for frontal attack. (a step) As for skirmishes, we'll ask Rosamund to be good enough to flirt with the nephew—

Sir J. (turning to her) To flirt—you?

Lady C. (merrily) The poor boy will need consolation. And if I can be of service—

Mollen. (up to L. of table C. with a flourish) Within two days she has the boy at her feet! Then your bride becomes jealous. Your tyranny offends her—she begins to see you are old. Romance drops off like paper from a damp wall. Everard's coolness piqued her—she proceeds to discover that she loves Everard. You in dressing gown and slippers—he young Greek god. And, after a month's steady digging—we arrive—at—the real girl!

Sir J. A month....

Mollen. May be less, may be less! Finally, explanation—you discover her in tears—you play the noble Roman, release her unconditionally, Rosamund sends Everard to her—you join their hands. Slow music. Curtain. See?

Sir J. (rise and down R.) I don't like the idea of an engagement, even though it be secret. But look here—if I did this—how about Everard? What should I say to him?

Mollen. (to bottom of C. table) Let him believe—as he already believes—that you admire what's-her-name—but mention the month's probation. Hint darkly at possibility of happy ending. (to R. C. L. of Sir J.) Bring Everard down to Swanage—I answer for the rest!

Sir J. (hesitating) It sounds plausible—though it's a fearful undertaking! But, before deciding, I should like a word with Lady Claude. Will you allow me?

Mollen. Certainly, certainly. I'll smoke a cigarette down-stairs—my habit, before dressing. (cross up R.) You'll find habits useful by the way—I've one or two that I'll tell you. I'll see you before you go!

(He retires cheerfully humming a tune, R.)

Sir J. (to L. C.) Lady Claude, I've asked for this because—I scarcely know where I am, or what I'm saying! Your father rattles on—he seems convincing—he may be right—but my instinct tells me that, in this fearful muddle, you are the surer guide!

Lady C. I?

Sir. J. You! If I spoke rather cynically this afternoon—if I have grown to think rather hardly of women—remember that there was one whom I—loved—and she—wouldn't have me!

(Lady Claude makes a gesture.)

Oh, don't be alarmed—I won't drag up the past. No doubt, then, I was merely a wild, impetuous youngster, like my poor Everard to-day. But—I have not forgotten—how deeply I—felt it.... And here I seem, through my carelessness, to have created sorrow for two young lives.... I'm a selfish man, of course—I've shown it plainly enough!—but still I've tried—honestly tried—to do my duty—by both of them.... Now I am urged to play an odious comedy—for it is odious, is it not?

Lady C. Deception can never be pleasant.... You have all my sympathy.

Sir J. I need it, I need it! Women, after all, are an unknown quantity to me. Your father has compiled a series of tables, has dissected and analysed—he may be right, I don't know—but I want you to guide me! You, and you only!

Lady C. (gently) What can I tell you? (rise and cross C. and sitting on stool)

Sir J. (L. C.) In the first place, this. Is it not rather my duty promptly to undeceive the girl, at any cost? Have I the right to—play with her affections?

Lady C. (hesitating) Sir Joseph—

Sir J. Remember, I loved her father. He entrusted his daughter to me, his old friend.... To-day, when I think of him!

Lady C. You want my honest opinion?

Sir J. I do.

Lady C. Then what I have to say is said in a very few words. One should not trifle with the heart of a girl!

Sir J. What am I to do?

Lady C. It is you, and you only, who can decide.

Sir J. Tell me what you think!

Lady C. The poor child has probably long adored you in secret. She will have read sentiment into your very least words—

Sir J. (with sudden recollection) Ha! the flowers on my table, day after day!

Lady C. Laid there by her each morning, fondly, tenderly—

Sir J. Advise me! I will follow you, blindly!

Lady C. Do what is kindest!

Sir J. If I undeceive her—the picture your father has drawn—and your father understands women—

Lady C. What he says may be true of ninety-nine out of a hundred—there is always the hundredth.

Sir J. The hundredth—yes—I don't know—I know her so little! The disillusioning process might be effective?

Lady C. It might. One cannot tell.

Sir J. (eagerly) Then shall I do it? Shall I?

Lady C. You must know best.

Sir J. (with deep feeling) Rosamund, I am appealing to you—for your help!

Lady C. (very earnestly, rise) Then, no! I would do the honest, the straightforward thing!... Go to her yourself, tell her—of the mistake—but oh, so softly, so gently, (C.) that her poor little heart shall rest itself upon yours, and not feel—too ashamed! Point out how unwise it would be! Be so full of pity that the wound ... shall be scarcely a bruise.... Be so tender, so human, that her poor little tears shall freshen her heart, and not scald it.... And let there be tears in your heart too—and no trace of—laughter.... There! That is my advice. But I may be wrong....

Sir J. No, you are right—I feel it! I go at once. (round back of table to up R. C.) You will tell your father. (coming down C. to R. of Lady C.) And, my dear friend, my very dear friend, I—thank you!

(He takes her hand, which she allows for a moment to rest in his. Suddenly Mollentrave's voice is heard outside. Sir Joseph falls back. The door opens and Mollentrave enters, perking and smiling, followed by Margaret.)