The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013464239 Cornell University Library PR 4454.C2L5 The likeness of the night; a modern play 3 1924 013 464 239 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY THE Joseph Whitmore Barry dramatic library the gift of two friends of Cornell University !934 PR THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT BY THE SAME AUTHOR. ANYHOW STORIES. VERY SHORT STORIES. MRS. KEITH'S CRIME. LOVE LETTERS OF A WORLDLY WOMAN. AUNT ANNE. THE LAST TOUCHES. A WILD PROXY. A FLASH OF SUMMER. MERE STORIES. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT A MODERN PLAY IN FOUR ACTS BY MRS. W. K. CLIFFORD And where the red was, lo the bloodless white, And where truth was, the likeness of a liar, And where day was, the likeness of the night ; This is the end of every man's desire. LONDON ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK 1900 Copyright by The Macmillan Company in the United States of America Rights of Translation Reserved PREFACE This play, which is founded on a short story called " The End of her Journey " that I wrote anonymously for Temple Bar as long ago as 1885, was published in the Anglo-Saxon Review for last March. It has lately been the sub- ject of a controversy upon which I need not enter here. But I wish to state that, since its appearance in print last March (as a refer- ence to the Anglo-Saxon Review will prove) and since the controversy, I have at the request of Mr. Kendal made considerable alterations and additions to the play. " The Likeness of the Night," as it is given in these pagesj was produced at the Royal Court Theatre, Liverpool, on the 18 th of October, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, and Miss Madge VI THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT M'Intosh, playing the chief parts. A transla- tion of it into German, made by Dr. L. Kellner, has been accepted by the Director of the Rai- mund Theater, Vienna, and will shortly be produced there. L. C. 7 Chilworth St., Hyde Park, W., November 1900. DRAMATIS PERSONS Bernard Archerson Ralph Brooke . Mr. Carew Mr. Saunderson Sir George Neville William Kenny Mildred Mary Amy . Mrs. Carew Miss Wilson Mrs. Saunderson Lady Neville Miss Hamilton Eliza A successful barrister, Mrs. Carew's cousin. An engineer. Wife of Bernard Archerson. Mildred's cousin. Friends of Mildred's. A servant. Servants, people on board ship, steward, lascars, &*c. &c. ACT I Mildred's drawing-room in Onslow Gardens. Time : Friday afternoon. ACT II Mary's sitting-room at Hampstead. Time : Morning after last Act. viii THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT III A fortnight later. Deck Saloon on board P- & O. s.s. " The Rajah." Time: Noon. ACT IV Eighteen months later. A drawing-room in Hyde Park Gate. Time: Evening. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ACT I Scene : A drawing-room in Onslow Gardens, well furnished but -prim. Fire in the grate on r. Sofa and door on l. Windows at back of stage. A tea-table on fireplace side. Some flowers and a photograph of Bernard on mantleshelf, &c. Time : Friday afternoon. Amy Grey {about 20, and pretty) and Ralph Brooke {about 23, good-looking) are dis- covered talking. Amy. \_A pause.] I simply can't believe that we are really engaged — it's too wonderful. Ralph. Quite right, darling. I make a point of doubting most things myself. A little unbelief leavens facts so agreeably. 2 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Amy. O Ralph ! You must be serious. Ralph. I never was more so. . . . Well ? Amy. Were you really in love with me all the summer ? Ralph. Yes : and all the spring before it, and all the autumn after it, and all the every moment since I saw you first. [Gets up.~\ But I only looked in for a moment on my way to the Savile. . . . I'm coming back presently to see Mrs. Archerson. Is she better ? Amy. Much better. Ralph. She seemed very ill last night. Amy. I know. So unlucky. Just the one evening when Bernard was dining at home. Ralph. Why is he always out or going away alone ? Of course, a successful barrister hasn't much time, but he has some. Amy. He works late at his chambers, or goes to his Club. Millie says that he doesn't care for the companionship of women, and when he can get away it rests him more to go alone. Ralph. They get on all right, don't they ? Amy. Why yes ! She is devoted to him. What did you and he talk about so late last night ? Ralph. Prospects. . . . And to-day I had THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 3 a talk with Carew — I want to make an income now, dear. . . . Co-operative Stores and other hindrances to debt are starving out the deserving but impecunious. Amy. But Mrs. Carew says you are a genius. [Goes to vase of flowers. Ralph. Of course she does. She has a knack of saying nice things. . . . What are you doing to those flowers ? Amy. Making them look a little more care- less ; Mildred likes things so very prim. Ralph. There is always an air of the gentle spinster lady about her. Amy. [Quickly.] You musn't make fun of her. She is my dear cousin — and I love her. Ralph. Very well, darling, don't be agitated — here she is. [Going forward. Enter Mildred. She is about 32, prim, rather dowdy, reserved, and not attractive in the usual sense. Are you better Mrs. Archerson ? I am so sorry you have been ill. Mildred. [Shaking hands with Ralph.] Yes, thank you, much better, and [Looking 4 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT towards Amy and speaking in a sympathetic voice] — very glad. I wanted to tell you so last night. Ralph. Not altogether shocked at our im- providence ? Mildred. Oh no — money isn't everything. Ralph. Besides, it'll be all right in time. I had a long talk with your husband last night. Mildred. Bernard is so clever. Ralph. Of course he is, and the best fellow in the world as well. [Looks at his watch.] Twenty past four. Mildred. Don't go — [with a little smile"] — and you'll dine with us this evening ? Ralph. I wish I could, but I'm going to the Carews. By the way, they are coming here this afternoon. I must go to the Club for a minute, but I'll return in three-quarters of an hour, if I may ? Au revoir. Mildred. Au revoir. Amy. Make haste back. [Exit Ralph.] [Going up to Mildred and holding out her hands.] I am so happy, Millie. Mildred. [A little formally.] I know — lam very glad. [Goes to vase.] Some one has touched these flowers, they look so dishevelled. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 5 Amy. I did. But you never like the artistic dodges. Mildred. They are so untidy ; I like neatness, and — [smiting] — I don't like slang, dear. Amy. I beg your pardon. ... I put a rose by Bernard's portrait. Mildred. [Goes towards it.] I see. [Turns away with a sigh, opens little work-bag, begins knitting. A pause.] I wish you hadn't per- suaded me to be at home on Fridays, dear. It's nearly half-past four and no one yet except Mr. Brooke, who hardly counts under the cir- cumstances. Amy. They'll come. You put 4.30 to 7 on your cards. You can't expect a little crowd to stand outside waiting as if you were a place of amusement. Mildred. Oh no ; besides I'm not amusing. . . . Bernard said he should come home early : he has an official dinner to-night. Amy. Don't you sometimes wish he stayed at home a little more, or went out with you ? Mildred. [Distantly^] He is too busy, and so few people amuse him. 6 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Amy. Particular Bernard ! ... No wonder you fell in love with him. . . . Was he very devoted when you were engaged ? Mildred. I suppose so. People don't always show how much they feel : it would be very tiresome if they did. Amy. I know ! Forgive me. I'm so in- coherently happy to-day that I have no manners at all. I am slangy and put the flowers wrong, and do everything wrong, just because [Servant announces Miss Wilson. Clock strikes half-past four. Amy makes a little grimace. Miss Wilson is middle-aged, pushing, disagreeable.] Mildred. How do you do, Miss Wilson ? [Puts her work away. Miss Wilson. How do you do, dear Mrs. Archerson ? And Miss Amy ? Amy. How do you do, Miss Wilson ? Miss Wilson. [Looking round.] Mr. Archerson of course is not at home ? Mildred. [Nervously.] Not yet. Won't you sit down ? Miss Wilson. Thank you. [Turning to Mildred.] The Meeting finished at four o'clock, Mrs. Archerson, and I knew you were THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 7 longing to hear about it. It was most profit- able and earnest. Miss Smythe made some excellent remarks about the recreations of work- house women. Mildred. I wish I had been there. They give them so little recreation, yet they want happiness so much — every one wants that. [A Servant brings in tea and arranges it on r.] Miss Wilson. Dear Mrs. Archerson ! you are so kind. [To Amy.] You never come to any of our meetings ? Amy. I am not old enough for meetings yet. Miss Wilson. Not old enough ? Amy. [Smiling.] I mean serious enough. I'm so frivolous. [Goes to tea-table. Miss Wilson. [To Mildred, in a low tone.] I saw Mr. Archerson the other day at Hampstead. He did not observe me Mildred. At Hampstead ? I don't think he knows any one there. Miss Wilson. I am seldom mistaken. [Mildred looks at her puzzled. [Servant announces Mrs. Carew, about 30, a merry rattle, charming, fashionably 8 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT dressed, and Miss Hamilton, about 28. Mildred goes forward. Mrs. Carew. Dear Mrs. Archerson — [shak- ing hands] — I knew I might bring May Hamilton with me. Mildred. How do you do ? I am very glad to see you, and Miss Hamilton too. [Shakes hands, &c. Mrs. Carew. [To Amy, squeezing her hand.~\ I know all about it, and will come and reproach you properly in a moment. What am / to do when Charlie is out ? Amy. It shan't make any difference. [She Laughs and retreats towards Miss Wilson, who waits by the fireplace. Mrs. Carew. Not make any difference ! Oh! ... [To Mildred.] It's brilliant of you to start a day, Mrs. Archerson. Now, one will know when to find you. I shall come every week. Miss Wilson. [Coughing and coming for- ward.] I think we have met before, Mrs. Carew ? Mrs. Carew. [Coldly.] How do you do, Miss Wilson ? [Turns away and sits down on sofa on l. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 9 Miss Wilson. Humph. Enter Ralph. Mrs. Carew. [Nodding to him.'] I thought you would turn up. Ralph. Of course you did. [Crosses to Amy, who is standing with Miss Wilson by the tea-table. Amy. You have not been long ? Ralph. Didn't go ; turned the horse's head and flew back. [Aside to Amy.] Have taken it very badly, darling. [Miss Wilson coughs. Amy. [Introducing.] Mr. Brooke, Miss Wilson and Miss Hamilton. Ralph. [Aside to Amy.] Miss Wilson is rather a plain sight. Mrs. Carew. [To Mildred.] I must go and speak to them, I have not seen Ralph since it happened. [Goes up to tea-table.] I was so glad to hear the news, you dear innocents. It was, of course, only what I expected. [To Amy.] We shall be related you know, and immensely fond of each other. Charlie was quite excited. He is coming in presently. Amy. [Gratefully.] Thank you, dear Mrs. Carew. Will you have some tea ? io THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mrs. Carew. I am longing for some — and you must call me dear Clara. [Turns to Mildred. [Business of tea. Miss Wilson. [Elaborately to Ralph.] I think I understand what Mrs. Carew means, Mr. Brooke. You must allow me to add my sincere congratulations to those Ralph. Thank you, thank you. [He turns to Amy. Miss Hamilton and Miss Wilson talk together. Mrs. Carew and Mildred come down stage together. Mrs. Carew. Amy is your cousin, you see, dear Mrs. Archerson, and Ralph is mine. We'll call them our mutuals. They will make a de- lightful couple. I don't quite know how they are going to live, but that's a mere detail, unless she has money ; he, of course, has none, clever young men never have : it all goes to the fools — by way of compensation I suppose — but he writes brilliantly. Did you see his article in The Say all Review last month ? Mildred. No, I never read it. I have no time for magazines, I fear. Mrs. Carew. It's not a frivolous magazine you know. It's horribly serious, costs half a THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT n crown ; that always has a sobering effect. [Sits down.] We have been shopping all day. Mildred. It is very tiring. Miss Wilson. [Looking round at her.] And very unprofitable, Mrs. Carew. Mrs. Carew. Perhaps that's why it is so delightful. [Turns away. Miss Wilson fastens her- self on to Miss Hamilton. Enter Mr. and Mrs. Saunderson. They are both middle-aged, and rather pompous. Servant announces them. Mrs. Saunderson. [Shaking hands.] How do you do, Mrs. Archerson? I insisted on bringing my husband, because this is your first day. Mrs. Carew. [To Amy.] That sounds as if he will never do it again — one of the things one would rather have left unsaid. Mr. Saunderson. [To Mildred.] I don't often pay visits, but my wife told me that on this occasion — [to Amy, who hands him some tea] — thank you — that on this occasion I must come with her. 12 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mrs. Carew. And you were delighted to do so. Mr. Saunderson. Of course. Mrs. Saunderson. How do you do, Mrs. Carew ? I didn't see you. Mrs. Carew. I flourish, but I am worn out with buying clothes. [Turning to Mildred.] We are going to Gibraltar in a fortnight by the P. & O. I wish we could make up a larger party. If you and Mr. Archerson would come Mildred. Bernard wants me to go to the Riviera. I have not been strong lately Mrs. Carew. Much better come with us to Gibraltar. It's warmer than the treacherous Riviera, and the Guards are there. Sunshine and a majority of the other sex do one so much good. Servant. Lady Neville. Enter Lady Neville, a fashionable lady of any age. Lady Neville. Only just for a minute, Mrs. Archerson. [Shaking hands."] I was so sorry to hear that you had not been well. Mildred. But I am better Servant. Mr. Carew. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 13 Enter Mr. Carew. Mrs. Carew. [To Amy.] Charlie is de- lighted to come — [aside to Ralph] — and I hope his manners are better than Mr. Saunderson's. Mildred. How do you do, Mr. Carew ? It's so kind of you to come. Mr. Carew. Delighted, I assure you. How do you do, Miss Amy ? [Nods to Ralph.] On duty, eh ? How do you do, Mrs. Saunderson ? [To Mr. Saunderson.] Capital speech of Balfour's in the House last night? Cut the ground from under everybody's feet, though it obviously bored him to do it. Mr. Saunderson. It's difficult not to be bored after forty — the illusions generally vanish. Luckily a sense of responsibility steps in, and if a thing ought to be done, we do it as a matter ot duty. Mrs. Carew. Your sex should follow the example of mine, and never be forty till you are fifty, and then only if you can't help it. As for duty, it's " a shocking thing to do " — that's a quotation from a classic. Mr. Carew. Well, dear, you never do it — that's to your credit. i 4 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mrs. Carew. Charlie is so sarcastic. Mr. Carew. Not at all ; I was paying you a compliment. [To Mildred.] I saw you yester- day, Mrs. Archerson, but you wouldn't look at me. Were you taking Archerson to get a little fresh air at Hampstead ? Mildred. Hampstead ! — You saw us, where ? Mr. Carew. At Finchley Road Station. I was going on, but you got out. Mildred. What time was it ? Mr. Carew. In the afternoon. I only saw your back, but I nodded to Archerson. I don't think he saw me. Mildred. I didn't go out all day, and Bernard is too busy just now to go anywhere. Mr. Carew. Oh, but Mrs. Carew. {Placidly looking up from her seat and speaking to Mildred.] Charlie is always making mistakes. [Signs to her husband. Mr. Carew. I'm very short-sighted. A blind horse can see a mile farther than I do. Mildred. You said you nodded to us ? Mr. Carew. Nodded to the wrong person — generally do. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 15 Mrs. Carew. People who get out of trains are so much alike. Miss Wilson. [Aside to Mildred.] Are you quite well, dear Mrs. Archerson ? You look so pale. Mildred. [Coldly.] I am quite well, thank you. Mrs. Carew. I have been telling Mrs. Archerson, Charlie, that she ought to come to Gibraltar with us. Mr. Carew. [To Mildred.] An excellent idea. Amy ought to come too. Amy. Oh, I couldn't afford it. Mrs. Carew. [To Amy.] The world is full of benevolent, but badly managed fathers. Amy. My father is benevolent enough, but he is only a poor parson. Mrs. Carew. A delightful thing to be, my dear — so picturesque. [Aside to her husband.'] Then there'll be no money there. Servant enters with lights, &c. Mr. Carew. [Aside to his wife.] I shan't be able to stay long. What are you going to do ? Mildred. [Who sees thai he is going.] 1 6 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Don't go yet, Mr. Carew, you have only just come. Mrs. Carew. I fear he must ; but I should like to stay a little longer if I may . . . [Mil- dred turns her face towards window, as if she were listening to something without. Mrs. Carew says to Ralph.] Yes, yes, Ralph, I know what you want ; I shall be delighted to ask Amy to dine. Mildred. [With an air of suppressed ex- citement^ Mr. Carew, I heard Bernard's hansom stop. I know the sound with which he throws open the doors. Wait and see him. Mr. Carew. Of course I will. Mrs. Carew. [To her husband."] Charlie, that woman has more in her than we think. Enter Bernard Archerson ,~ Mildred. [Her face lighting up a little.] Bernard . . . Mr. Carew was just going. Bernard. [To Mr. Carew, shaking hands.] How are you, old man ? There's Mrs. Carew. ... So glad I am not too late. Mrs. Carew. So am I. I have been telling your wife about a little scheme of ours. Bernard. You must tell me about it. I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 17 know it is a good one. Ah, how do you do, Miss Wilson ? [She intrudes herself on his notice.] Doing good as usual ? Miss Wilson. I am quite well, thank you, Mr. Archerson. It is a long time since we met. Bernard. Much too long. [To his wife, in a low voiced] Are you better, Millie ? Mildred. Much better. Miss Wilson. [To Miss Hamilton.] He is a delightful man — but so dangerous to us women. Bernard. [To Mrs. Saunderson.] I saw your little daughter in the carriage, Mrs. Saunderson ; how pretty she is ! Why, Lady Neville, not going because I have come home ? [Shakes hands. She is preparing to go. Lady Neville. Oh no, Mr. Archerson, but it's getting late and I am afraid of this cold wind. Good-bye, Mrs. Archerson. Mildred. Good-bye. [Bernard escorts her to the door. Exit Lady Neville. Bernard. [Crossing stage to Mr. Carew.J Carew, you are a lucky man. I wish I could find time to go to tea with Mrs. Carew. Mr. Carew. [Laughing.'] No doubt. 1 8 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT There's a fatal attraction about another man's wife. Mrs. Carew. Charlie, you will shock Mrs. Archerson. [Bernard turns to speak to Miss Hamilton. Mr. Carew. [Aside to his wife."] Not a bad idea ; she might come out on the other side. Mrs. Carew. You are an atrocious person. Bernard. [Hears the last words.'] What has he done ? Mrs. Carew. [Laughing.'] Everything. He would be so dull if he hadn't. Bernard. I wish all women were like you. Mrs. Carew. Then I should not be unique. [Goes to Mildred, who is by the fireplace, and says to Miss Hamilton in passing.] I can't bear that horrid Miss Wilson. Go and worry her if you can, May. Miss Hamilton. [To Miss Wilson.] Miss Wilson, I know you help Mrs. Archerson in her good works. Do tell me a little about your meetings. Miss Wilson. I shall be delighted to tell you all about them. [They go to back of stage. Ralph and Amy come forward. He evidently going. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 19 Mrs. Carew. I wonder if Amy would come and dine to-night ? Could you do without her, Mrs. Archerson ? Mildred. Of course — [With a smile] — I will — if she would like to go. Ralph. [To Amy.J Get ready early and I'll call for you in a hansom. Good-bye, Mrs. Archerson, and thank you for all your kindness. Amy. Millie is always an angel. Mrs. Carew. Don't — [Mildred looks up] — be one always, dear Mrs. Archerson. It cuts you off from so much. [Exit Ralph. Amy slips out of the room after him. Mrs. Saunderson. Good-bye, Mrs. Archer- son. I have been here a long time, and must have tired you out. Good-bye. [To Mr. Archerson.] It is quite an event to have seen you. Bernard. I didn't deserve such good luck. Mr. Saunderson. Good-bye, Archerson, we must talk it over another time. The seed of many great movements is planted in an accidental meeting of this sort. Bernard. Of course it is — and the sowers have a good time while it's growing ; and a 20 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT good time is everything — [half gravely] — the main thing in life. [Exit Mr. and Mrs. Saunderson. There are left on the stage Mr. and Mrs. Carew, Mildred and Bernard, and at the back talking together Miss Hamil- ton and Miss Wilson. Bernard Archerson and Mr. Carew stand and then sit down together at l. of stage. Mrs. Carew and Mildred sit down by fireplace on other side of tea-table on the r. Mr. Carew. I wanted to see you, Archer- son, about this engagement in our family. I had a talk with Ralph this morning. As far as I can make out he and Amy haven't a penny between them. Bernard. Unlucky, isn't it ; but he is clever. I read an article of his the other day that was downright literature. Mr. Carew. A man can't live by literature. Bernard. No, I suppose not ; rather a shame though. Literature lives by men, and one good turn deserves another. Now, a secretaryship would be the sort of thing — give him some money and not take all his time. Couldn't you manage it, Carew ? THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 21 Mr. Carew, Well, it's possible. [They sit down.'] That company of which I am a director is going to do great things. There's a fortune in that mine. Bernard. No doubt of it, old man. There's a fortune in lots of mines. The difficulty is to get it out of them. Mr. Carew. Luck has been rather against us of late. For one thing, Miller, our Secretary, is such an ass. He has a brother who is City Editor of the The Morning Waker. Miller said he'd write us up for a hundred shares. I felt bound to refuse them, so I'm blest if he didn't go and write us down — probably opened a bear account the day before. We ought to get rid of Miller. Bernard. Put in Ralph. Mr. Carew. Well, I have thought of that lately. The worst of it is, he is rather by the way of being your clever young Oxford man, and knows nothing about the mining world. Bernard. He'll write all the more brilliantly about it. Nothing makes a man so dull as knowledge of his subject. Mr. Carew. And then he hasn't any money. 22 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT We expect our Secretary to take a few hundred shares. Bernard. I'll take the qualifying number of shares and they shall be considered Amy's. [Half aside."] She's Millie's cousin, and a charming girl. Mr. Carew. Well, I have one virtue Bernard. It must be rather lonely, old man. Mr. Carew. That's true. I must look about for another to keep it company. It's very good of you, Archerson, 'pon my word it is — I was going to say my one virtue consisted in not losing time. I should like to show you a plan of that mine. I brought it with me, but left it downstairs. Bernard. Let's go and look at it in the study. [They get up.] Probably I shan't be any wiser after seeing it, but that doesn't matter. Mr. Carew. Of course not. [To his wife.] Clara, I won't wait for you. You'll see me at dinner-time. Good-bye, Mrs. Archerson. [Exit Mr. Carew and Bernard. Miss Hamilton and Miss Wilson comedown stage and sit on sofa to r. Mrs. Carew. [To Mildred.] Let me sit THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 23 down for five minutes more. [They sit down by fire.] I was worn out when I came in, and wish- ing I had been born a grandmother, when dis- tances were short and fashions long-lived. . . . Perhaps time will make amends, but it won't be the same thing. . . . Our grandmothers must have looked so picturesque, that I wonder our grandpapas were not beguiled into constancy for the rest of the day, by merely seeing them at breakfast time. Mildred. [Nervously.] Do you think men are constant, or that anything a woman does or looks has an effect on her husband, say three years after marriage ; that he notices Mrs. Carew. Three years ! Why, it has an effect thirty years after, and he always notices. If a husband changes it is generally because his wife has grown ill-tempered or monotonous — Mildred. How is she to avoid being mono- tonous ? Mrs. Carew. She can alter her dress, her moods, her manner — her everything in fact, just as often as she changes her mind. In that respect a woman's mind sets an excellent ex- ample to follow in her conduct towards the other sex. 24 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mildred. [After a pause. ~\ A woman wants her husband to be in love with her, not merely kind and affectionate, but Mrs. Carew. Of course, and so he is, un- less she manages badly. Charlie is as much in love with me as the day we married, and I mean him to remain so till the day I die, and — and — for a considerable time afterwards. Mildred. But if — he — grew careless ? Mrs. Carew. I should nip it in the bud, for fear of getting my heart broken. Mildred. But how? Mrs. Carew. I can't tell you ; but I should — or run away. Mildred. [Looking shocked.] Oh, but Mrs. Carew. Well, or die. There can't be anything to shock you in dying, dear Mrs. Archerson ? Mildred. Bernard is so much taken up with his work, he has no time for anything else. Mrs. Carew. He is becoming famous ; his name is always in the papers. How proud you must be of him ! [Looks up at mantelpiece^ What lovely roses. Did some kind friend send them from Nice ? THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 25 Mildred. No, they came from the florist's. Bernard ordered some to come in every week. Mrs. Carew. [Arranging her cloak and pre- paring to go.~\ Well, I call that being an atten- tive husband. Miss Wilson. Good-bye, Mrs. Archerson, I fear I must go. I wanted a talk with you, but I must come some other time — and soon. [Turning to Mrs. Carew.] It has been such a pleasure to meet you again, Mrs. Carew. Mrs. Carew. So glad you found it one. Miss Wilson. May I come and see you one day ? Your friend is deeply interested in the account I have been giving her of our meetings. Mrs. Carew. I am sure she is. So kind of you to wish to come. Good-bye. . . . [Exit Miss Wilson looking puzzled. To Mildred.] I can't bear that woman, and I don't mean her to come to my house. Ralph said he'd call for Amy. I wish you would come and dine too ? I know your husband is going to a function. Mildred. Not to-night, I am not very well. Bernard is often out, so that Mrs. Carew. Wise woman to let your hus- band have his fling. He is sure to return, like 26 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT bread cast upon the waters, after many days, and settle down to domesticity — you'll find it dull but soothing. Good-bye. Miss Hamilton. Good-bye, Mrs. Archer- son ; so kind of you to let me come. Mildred. Come again. [Mildred is left alone on the stage; she stands as if dazed, and starts when Ber- nard, evidently in high spirits, enters. Bernard. Well, Millie, here we are. So glad you're better. Mildred. I am much better. Bernard. That's all right. Let's have a little talk before I go and dress. I am going to that dinner to old Masters you know — at the Metropole. [Sits down. Pause. She stands looking at him.'] Tell me all about your visitors. Who came first. Mildred. [Sitting down.] Miss Wilson. Bernard. Confound her. Who next ? Mildred. Mrs. Carew. Bernard. That's better. Mildred. She said I ought to very proud of you. Bernard. Of course! [gaily]. So you are, aren't you ? THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 27 Mildred. [Nods.] She says your name is always in the papers. Bernard. Evidently looks for it, eh ? Mildred. I didn't see it this morning. Were you in any case yesterday ? Bernard. Yesterday — rather a slack day yesterday — consultations all the morning, Library in the afternoon, Bar Committee at five Mildred. Library in the afternoon? Bernard. Let me see. No. That's a mis- take ; in the afternoon I had an engagement. [Pause.] I say, Millie, now that Amy is en- gaged, she won't want to go to the Riviera ? [Sits down. Mildred. Couldn't you go, Bernard ? Bernard. Impossible just now. Mrs. Carew would miss my name in the paper. Besides, I should be rather on my beam-ends — unless we went to Monte Carlo, of course. Mildred. To Monte Carlo ? The gaming- tables are there ? Bernard. [Laughing.] And I should be certain to try my luck, so you had better keep me away for the good of my soul. Mildred. [After a pause.] Bernard? 28 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Bernard. Madame ? Mildred. When you married me, did you love me very much. Bernard. [Startled."] What on earth makes you suddenly ask that. Mildred. Amy told me to-day that Mary Vivian gets a letter from Herbert every morning. Bernard. I hope it's a nice one. Mildred. You only wrote to me once a week. Bernard. Not a letter-writing man. Mildred. [Almost eager.] I know you liked me, of course ; but were you ever — in love with me. [Quickly.] Being in love is different. And do you care for me now, Bernard ? Do you ? Bernard. [Anxiously ; looking at her.] What does all this mean ? Mildred. You are so seldom at home — as for going out together Bernard. Too busy, my dear. Mildred. But you never seem to care. You are very kind ; you let me do as I like ; you never find fault ; but I feel as if you lived your life without me — as if it were absorbing you more and more — sometimes I wonder if I were very ill whether you THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 29 Bernard. My dear, you will be very, very ill, and at once, if you go on in this way. You silly little woman ! [Laughing. She gets up ; he puts his arm round her waist and kisses her in a kindly but not lover-like manner.~\ What is the matter with you? I expect very few people spoon after seven or eight years of marriage. Mildred. [Quickly.'] It's not that. I only want to know that you care — that you think of me sometimes — when you are not here. Bernard. [Gravely.] We were never very sentimental, and I can't be ; but I should be an idiot if I didn't know that you were a thousand times too good for me. I often think that. Mildred. No — no. Bernard. You ought to have married some one worthy of you : an East-end parson with a large parish, or a Bishop. Now a Bishop would have suited you down to the ground, Millie ? Mildred. Oh no, you are better than any one, it is only Bernard. That you are not well ; but you are the best woman on earth, that's why I am not fit company for you, being merely a scoundrel. Give me a little tea. I must pull myself together — may have to make a speech at 30 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT this dinner to-night, and to-morrow means Willoughby and Cartwright ? Mildred. [Going to tea-table .] Willoughby and Cartwright ? What is that ? Bernard. Why, the great case I am so anxious about ! Comes on at ten-thirty o'clock to-morrow morning. A stupid day, Saturday, for opening it, but it's the first in the paper, and can't be helped. Mildred. Will it go on long ? Bernard. Can't tell that, but anyhow the Court rises at two to-morrow. I'll tell you what we'll do in the evening — no, to-morrow I must dine out — on Monday I'll get a box and take you and Amy to the play. Mildred. Yes ; if you think there is any- thing that Bernard. Is not improper, eh ? I'll try and find something that won't hurt us ; and we'll have a spree. I believe you'd like one. Mildred. I like anything with you. Bernard. Oh, do you ! Remember that time I took you to the Francais when we were on our honeymoon ? Thought you'd think anything there all right.. Never saw any one so shocked in my life. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 31 Mildred. I can't see the good of repre- senting immorality. Bernard. Shows us what it is like. Mildred. But we should try to contemplate only what is good. Bernard. My dear child, three-quarters of the world is bad — for want of a better word — not because it is wicked, or wishes to be so, but because it is — merely human. ... If we only contemplate what is good, we shall have to go about in blinkers and often shut our eyes then. It is better to see it all — saves us the trouble of finding out for ourselves at first-hand. Mildred. I can't bear you to talk in this way. Besides you don't mean it ? Bernard. Of course not ; it is only non- sense, but nonsense is often — the froth of wisdom. [Pulls out cigar ette-case.~\ You must let me smoke after this exciting conversation. Mildred. Bernard, were you at Finchley Road Station yesterday ? Bernard. [With a start.] Yes, certainly. What then? Mildred. Mr. Carew said he saw you there. He thought I was with you, but I told him he was mistaken. 32 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Bernard. Quite right. He is an idiot. [Takes up cup. Mildred. You have spilt your tea. Bernard. Too many cigarettes ; they make one nervous. I shall get those seats for Mon- day. Mildred. Why did you go to Finchley Road ? Do you know any one there ? Bernard. Of course. I didn't go for a country stroll. No time for that sort of thing. I see many people you know nothing about, and have to go to all sorts of places occasionally. . . . That reminds me, Bolton says there is nothing like a sea voyage for any one who is run down. I was telling him about your faint last night. Mildred. Do you want to get rid of me ? Bernard. [Looks at her.] No, of course not. Why should I want to get rid of you? Such an odd thing to say ! [He pokes the fire. Mildred. The Carews are going to Gib- raltar in a fortnight, by the P. & O. ; they wanted us to go with them. Bernard. Why shouldn't you go ? You like Mrs. Carew. Mildred. I will if you like. You can THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 33 send me to the end of the world if it pleases you. [Crosses stage. Bernard consternated. Bernard. [Following her.~\ What is the matter now ? I wish I hadn't to go to this confounded dinner to-night. [A pause. Mildred. [With almost grim tenderness.] Don't send me away. I couldn't bear it — I want to stay here — I want you Bernard. [Evidently touched?] All right, dear, you shall do just as you like. You only want cheering up. Women always run down every now and then. . . . Enter Am y in evening dress. Bernard. Why, here's Amy ! Going out, Amy ? You are very smart. Amy. To the Carews with Ralph. Bernard. [To Mildred.] Doesn't she look nice ? Mildred. Yes ; but that cloak is too thin, dear. Amy. It's quite warm enough. The other one is ugly. [To Bernard.] Ralph said you were so kind to him. 3 34 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Bernard. Only gave him some good advice. Easiest thing in the world. Mildred. I shall be back directly. [Touches Amy's arm.~] Wait for me. [Exit Mildred. Bernard. [To Amy.] Mildred isn't very well. I wonder what's the matter with her. Amy. I think it is — because you are out so much. Bernard. Oh no. She has her philan- thropy — workhouse old women and that sort of thing, you know — the things she likes best. Amy. But she loves you Bernard. All the same, I am only one of her duties, and natural objects of affection. . . . She is happy and satisfied enough in her own way. A little excitement would do her good, perhaps. . . . We are going to the play on Monday if I can drop on a highly edifying drama — a drama is the thing, you know — four acts, with the villain handcuffed and the lovers married, at the end. We'll invite Ralph, and have a little dinner somewhere first. If we win our case to-morrow, I'll give you and Mildred a diamond crescent each. Amy. O Bernard, you are a dear ! THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 35 Bernard. Or a bangle. She might think a crescent showed a sneaking sympathy with the pagan. ... I must go and dress ; it is getting late. [Looks at his watch.] Here she is — with a shawl. [As Mildred enters. Amy. Dear thing, why did you Bernard. [To Mildred, half tenderly?^ Kind little woman. Good-bye, Amy. [Exit Bernard. Mildred. That cloak was too thin. [Putting shawl round Amy. Amy. How good you are ! But I was really warm enough. There's Ralph's knock ; I'll run down to him. [Kisses Mildred.] Good- bye, dear Mildred, there's nothing in the world like being engaged. I don't mind if we are not married till we are ninety. <, [Exit Amy. [Mildred stands by the fire ; pause ; rings the bell. Enter Servant. Mildred. Take away ; and put a lamp on the table near me. Servant. Yes, ma'am. [Mildred sits down in an easy -chair. Servant puts a lamp on little table near her, extinguishes all other lights except two candles on mantleshelf, takes away 36 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT tea-things, makes the room quite straight and prim again.] Mildred. Oh, Warren ! Servant. Yes, ma'am. Mildred. Miss Amy dines out to-night as well as Mr. Archerson. Tell cook to send me up a little soup at eight o'clock. I shall not want anything else. I won't go down to the dining-room. Servant. Yes, ma'am. [Exit Servant. Mildred. [Getting up and standing by the fire.~\ I am glad Amy has no money ... I wish I had been poor ... I wish I had never . . . never had a farthing. . . . And yet it helped Bernard through all those difficult days. . . . [Takes up his photograph, which is in a frame on mantelpiece.] I wonder what he was thinking of when this was taken ; he looks so happy. Enter Bernard in evening dress. Bernard. Why, what are you doing ? Mildred. [Primly.] I was looking at your portrait. Bernard. [Laughing.] Much better look at me. I hope you are going to have a sensible dinner and a nice quiet evening. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 37 Mildred. Oh yes. Bernard. [Still lingering.] Can't think why you don't get an exciting novel. Mildred. It's such useless reading. Bernard. Not the old chaps — Scott, you know, and Fielding. Perhaps Tom Jones wouldn't exactly suit you, but you might try Ivanhoe again, that's proper enough. Mildred. I don't think the scenes between Rebecca and the Templar are very proper. Bernard. Well — The Vicar of Wakefield. Mildred. \JVith a little smile.] The story of a woman's fall. Bernard. Oh, good Lord ! So's the book of Genesis, and a man's too. It isn't the facts that shock you, it's the labels you put on 'em. I believe, if you came across a woman who had done all the things you think worst for the sake of some one else — a woman always does it for some one else's sake, and a man for his own — you'd be an angel to her. Mildred. I don't know. Bernard. And you'd find an excuse for the man too. Mildred. [Looking up at him.] I don't know. [Shuddering.] 38 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Bernard. [Uneasily.] Well, don't be low- spirited ; and try not to take things too seriously, it is one of the worst mistakes that any one can make, especially a woman. There's a tip for you — [laughing] — but it's true — men are selfish beggars, the best as well as the worst, they like to be amused — to see smiles. [And then half aside.] If women would only remember that, constancy might be a litde more frequent. . . . Good-bye, dear. [Putting his hand on her shoulder, then goes towards the door ; looks back and says : J I wish you would think over that plan of going to Gibraltar with the Carews, it would do you a world of good. [Exit Bernard. Mildred. [Looking at the door by which he has gone out, and speaking at first with a flicker of passion and then relapsing into a dull tone.] There is no one like him — there never was — no one in the world. ... I wish he knew — if he only knew ! My heart seems to be full of fire, but when the words from it come to my lips they seem tame and meaningless — they never hit him, he never feels them, I bore him and worry him, and I know it. He wants me out of sight. There is something going on. ... I hear it — THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 39 and feel it — though it seems to be behind a drawn curtain. . . . And I begin to understand his excuses, his absences, and Mr. Carew's mistake. . . . [Pause. Sits down.] Perhaps, after all, it is only his work. . . . Men often take their wives as a matter of course, part of their lives ... If I could be sure that — that there is no one else ... I wish I could laugh and talk as other women can — as Mrs. Carew did this afternoon — but I can't . . . Something tightens round my heart and makes me dumb . . . Perhaps he thinks me cold ... I have always been ashamed to let him see . . . Oh ! to be loved as other women are, and to hear his voice just once full of love, of lover's love, not mere kindness and affection. [Pause.] If — if I only had a child it would be different — so dif- ferent. [Pause.] Could . . . some one have been with him yesterday ? I was afraid to ask him that . . . He would have put me off with a joke. [Shudders.] How I hate jokes ! Perhaps it was only Mr. Carew's mistake — Enter Servant with letters on a tray. Servant. Post, ma'am. Mildred, Thank you. [Takes letters.^ 4 o THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT [Exit Servant. Mildred sits down by the table with the lamp on it and looks at the addresses. There are two or three cir- culars and one letter. She opens the letter and reads aloud. Mildred. [Reads.] " Mr. and Mrs. Paton Green request the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Archerson's company to dinner at 8 o'clock on Tuesday, the 17th." I wish Bernard would accept, they are nice people. [Puts the card on mantelpiece. Opens one of the circulars and reads.] " A bazaar will be held at Kensing- ton Town Hall." I must try and get some things for it. [Opens another circular and reads.] " Cottage Homes for destitute children. A pound a month will keep a child in board, lodging, and clothes." The children must be helped. [A pause, sighs, and takes up circular again, turns over the leaves, goes on reading.] "List of patrons and donors: Mrs. Marshall, Talbot Road, £1 ; the Rev. Samuel Coxe, The Vicarage, Elmtree, ^5 " — perhaps he had to stint his family to give it ; " Miss Wilkinson, Grosvenor Square, 10s. " — probably she is rich, she might have given more ; " Mrs. Pearson, Albert Villas, Chiswick, £1 is. ; Mrs, Archer- THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 41 son, 5 Finchley Road Terrace, Hampstead, £3." Finchley Road ! Hampstead ! [Rues to her feet, stands as if petrified.'] Archerson ! There are no other Archersons in London. Bernard said so when we were married. [Takes up the circular again.] Mrs. Archerson ! . . . [Stands still for a moment^ .This is what it all means — this — this I knew ! — I — knew. CURTAIN ACT II Scene : Mary's sitting-room at Hampstead, small, very pretty and artistic ; an unfinished portrait of Bernard Archerson on an easel. On mantelshelf on r., small photo- graph of him, same as one that Mildred has. At a writing-table Mary sits with some account-books, looking through them. She is about 28, pretty, charming, simple, a lady, grave but happy in her manner. She is very simply dressed, wears ' wedding-ring, but no trinkets. Time : Next morning. Mary. Six and two and seven, that is — let me see, fifteen. I never can make my books right. I wonder why we used so much coffee last week. Berry said once that civilised men were divided into two classes — those who took their coffee black and those, who didn't. I am THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 43 glad I can take mine black. But two pounds in a week is absurd, even strong as he likes it. . . . Two and four . . . that fire is going out. . . . [Looks at clock.] Eleven o'clock. He is in Court. I wish I could see him in his wig and gown. [Goes to mantelshelf, takes up Bernard's photograph^ It is just like you, it has your dearest look of all, the look that means " I love you." [Goes to window.] It's clearing up, I ought to go out. I must tell Eliza — and finish these books. [Rings. Enter Eliza. Eliza. Yes, ma'am. Mary. Eliza, I forgot to tell cook just now that we'll have some Russian toast after the sweet to-night, — but she must make the toast at the last moment or it won't be crisp, — then the little strips of olives and the fish laid lightly on the top. Mr. Archerson is very particular about the savoury. [Goes back to her books.] Eliza. Yes, ma'am. [Arranges fire and lingers. Mary. [Looking up.] What is it, Eliza ? Eliza. If you please, ma'am, Jim is down- stairs. 44 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mary. Yes ? Of course, Jim is your sweet- heart. He should come when your work is done. Eliza. Yes, ma'am, he knows that ; he's only come to ask if you would let me go to see his mother. She is ill, and it doesn't seem as if she would ever get better. Mary. Poor soul ! You shall go this after- noon. I'll make you up a little basket from the store-cupboard. Eliza. Thank you, ma'am. There's no one like you for feeling. ... I don't like to say it, ma'am, but Jim says I'm to give notice. Mary. [Startled.] To give notice ! Why ? What does he mean ? Eliza. He wants to get married. I said you'd be angry, but Mary. [Smiling and relieved?^ To get married ! I thought it would come to this, Eliza. Eliza. It generally does, ma'am, if they're steady, and you are careful who you take up with. Mary. I hope he's earning good wages ? Eliza. He's out just now, ma'am ; that's why he thought it would be a good chance THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 45 to get married. He'd have more time than if he was in work. Mary. But don't you think it would be prudent to wait till he has a place ? Eliza. Yes, ma'am, I daresay it would, but I'd like to marry him now while he's nothing ; it'll show him that I like him for himself. Besides, I might help to keep things going a bit, and he'll not be losing courage, and perhaps go off and marry some one else for her bit of wages saved. Mary. You are quite right, Eliza. Fight your battle together, and even if you lose it, you will still be together. Eliza. Yes, ma'am, that's what I say. Mary. [Evidently amused.] Then it's agreed that you leave me this day month to marry Jim. [Turns to her books again.] Don't forget to tell cook about the toast. Eliza. No, ma'am, and thank you. I wouldn't leave you for the world but for marryin' Jim. [Exit Eliza. Mary. [Shutting up her books.] If only we had risked poverty together ? [Looking towards portrait.] It was my fault, Berry ; I should have trusted you and waited. But now, at any 46 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT rate, you are happy. You shall always be happy, my darling, if love can make you so. [Goes to the piano, begins to play and sing a line or two of some simple home -like song.'] Enter Eliza with flowers and note. Eliza. If you please, ma'am, these have just come. Shall I bring some water ? Mary. Oh yes ; yes, please, do. How lovely ! [Exit Eliza.] Dear old man. [Kisses the note and reads aloud :] " My darling, I picked out each one of these flowers for you myself, and send them to tell you that I love you, as I will tell you again to-night when I am with you. Dinner at eight. Just going into Court. Your Berry." . . . He is always thinking of me, and yet it is always when he is most good and dear that — [Pause] . . . I'm doing what is right, the biggest right, and that which will help him most. . . . [Stops, looks over her shoulder and hesitates.] If only something would not follow me so — something that seems to be entreating me to stop — to turn back. I don't know what it means, only that it is there, though I make myself deaf and dumb to it. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 47 1 1.1 5 ; he has been in Court this quarter of an hour. Perhaps he is speaking Enter Eliza with water for flowers. Eliza. Is there anything else you want, ma'am. Mary. No, thank you. [Exit Eliza. Mary. [Lingering over the flowers.] These shall go here, and these here, and these by his dear portrait. . . . They are lovely ; and how cosy the room looks ! [Stops by the door, looks round.'] I must go. [Exit. Eliza enters with a log, puts it on the fire, looks at the portrait. Eliza. It's wonderful. . . . But 'tisn't only with paint, she can do it with just a pencil and a bit of paper. ... I saw some on her writing- table this morning. . . . [Goes to the table, takes up some odd bits of drawing-paper and looks at them.] She'd draw anything from the cat to the postman, and as like as if it was them- selves. I wish she would do Jim. . . . My ! but I wouldn't like to ask it. . . . If she did, I'd like it coloured. [Goes back to portrait on 48 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT easel and looks at it.] It's very like him. Might be just himself sitting painted there. I only wonder why it is he goes away so much. It isn't like being married, and her so sweet. What I think is that they are married on the sly, and there's property. . . . There's a lot of harm done by property ; more than people guesses. [Goes up to the portrait and looks at it again.] He's got a fine colour in his eye. . . . Depend upon it . . . it's' property, and he doesn't dare to come home to live reg'lar till it's settled. Then it is most likely he'll take her away, and they'll be that grand they'll hardly know each other. [A ring at the bell is heard. Eliza astonished?^ Why, that's the front door ! Who can it be at this time of day ? Somebody to ask if somebody lives here as doesn't, I suppose. {Exit. Re-enters, followed by Mildred in bonnet and long cloak. Eliza [To Mildred.] Only, ma'am, I assure you, Mrs. Archerson never sees any visitors at all. Mildred. [Looking dazed and strange.] I am not a visitor — I have come on business, and [Sees Bernard's portrait on easel. Stops. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 49 Eliza. Well, ma'am, I'll see. [Follows Mildred's eyes, and says grandly:] That's master's portrait you're looking at. . . . It's beautiful. Mildred. Who did it? Eliza. Missis did it. . . . [Stands proudly silent for a moment.] Couldn't you tell me your business, ma'am? Mildred. No, that is impossible. Eliza. What name shall I say ? Mildred. [Hesitating.] There is no name — I will not keep her long — but I must see her. Eliza. [Doubtfully.] Well, I'll tell her. Perhaps you'll sit down, ma'am. [Exit Eliza. Mildred. [Alone.] Bernard ! [Looking at portrait on easel.] Yes, it is Bernard ! . . . what can it mean ! What can it — can it mean — and what is this woman to him ? — I am afraid to think — I dread to know — [a shudder]. In a moment the curtain will be drawn aside and all the months of tears give up their harvest. [Turns away quickly from the portrait and says :] I cannot bear it — I cannot stay. [Stops be- wildered. A paused] If she is — what I think — what I dread — she cannot dream that I should come, it's such a desperate thing to do. [Looks 4 50 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT round the room, sees Bernard's photograph on mantelshelf, goes slowly towards it, then stops and says bitterly :] The same one that I have. . . . This is what the happy look on his face means. ... I cannot stay here . . . and yet ... I must see her. Enter Mary, looking young and sweet and innocent. Mildred stares at her in blank surprise. Mildred. I want to see . . . Mrs. Archerson ? Mary. [Uneasily.] I am Mrs. Archerson. Mildred. You — I thought — [trying to re- cover] — I didn't know Mary. You wish to see me ? Mildred. Yes — I want to see you on business. . . . Mary. Will you kindly explain ? Mildred. [Nervously pulling out circular.] I ought to apologise. ... I believe you take an interest in things that help women and children. There is to be a bazaar Mary. [A sigh of relief] Oh yes, indeed I do — a great deal of interest. Mildred. [Bringing out every word with THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 51 difficulty.] There is to be a bazaar. [Handing her a paper.] I thought you would read the circular. I have come » Mary. I will read it — [takes it in both hands and turns it over] — but I never go to bazaars or sell at stalls or do anything of that sort. Mildred. No, I did not want that — [Stops with a gasp, seeing Mary's hands, and says aside :] She has a wedding-ring- Mary. [In a happy business-like tone.] This bazaar is to be at Kensington ; why should you come to us at Hampstead? We have our own poor women and children here. Mildred. It doesn't matter where they live if they want help. Mary. No, it doesn't matter where they live if they want help. . . . How did you get my address, or know that I was interested in charities ? Mildred. I found it in a list of donations to Cottage Homes for children. Mary. [Surprised^] Of cottage homes for children — a printed list ? Mildred. Yes ! " Mrs. Archerson, three pounds — " Mary. I did give three pounds once — 52 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT [puzzled and dismayed~\ — for a delicate child ; but I did not mean my name to appear — I didn't dream it would be printed in any list. . . . [Aside.] How dreadful ! [Mildred turns from looking at Mary to Bernard's ■portrait on the easel. She goes a few steps towards it. Mary. [Who thinks Mildred is going.] I am sorry, but I am afraid I can't do anything. [Stops, an expression of alarm comes over her face, says in a doubtful voice as Mildred goes nearer to the picture:] — Why are you going towards that picture — do you want to look at it ? Mildred. Yes, I want to look at it. Who is it ? Mary. [Alert, yet not wholly alarmed.] It is — some one — I know. Mildred. The servant said "it was master's portrait." Mary. Yes, it is master's portrait. Mildred. Is it your husband ? Mary. [After a pause.] Yes — [says it as if against her wilT]. Mildred. Bernard Archerson? [They look at each other in silence.] THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 53 Mary. {Frightened.'] Yes. It is Bernard Archerson. Mildred. It is very like — [as if repeating to herself] — It is Bernard Archerson. Mary. Do you know him ? [Mildred nods.] Have you known him long ? Mildred. I have known him always. He does not dream that I am here. Mary. You have known him — in his home? Mildred. Yes, in his home. I know them both. [A little cry comes from Mary's lips.] You are no dupe, then ? You knew that he married nearly eight years ago ? [Her voice has grown bitter.] Mary. [In terror.] Yes, I knew. But who are you and why have you come here ? You are not his wife ? Mildred. I came — because — because this is a matter of life and death to her. Mary. Did she send you ? Mildred. I came of my own accord. Mary. But who are you — tell me that — who are you ? Mildred. I am her friend. Mary. What is your name ? 54 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mildred. My name doesn't matter. Mary. But when did you find this out ? Have you known it long ? Mildred. No. I saw the list and the name. Mary. Have you come straight from your own house, or have you seen her since you knew ? Mildred. I have come straight from my own house. Mary. [With a cry of relief."] Then she does not know yet. You must never tell her. It would break her heart. I would rather die, I think, than that she should know ! Mildred. [Surprised and bitter?^ You are very considerate. Mary. \_Almost fiercely, brushing away her tears.] You don't understand. Wait — you must let me get calm. You are a stranger, it is so difficult. You say you know him and her, and know them well ? Mildred. Yes, I know them well. Mary. Then you know that he married her for her money ? Mildred. For her money? Only for her money ? THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 55 Mary. [Firmly but gently!] He didn't love her. She is kind and good and all that, but he doesn't love her — he never did. He loved me always. Mildred. Always? Mary. Yes, before he had even seen her. Mildred. [Staggering.] Before he had even seen her ? Mary. Yes. I tell you because you say you are her friend. Do you know her better than any one else ? Mildred. Better than any one else. [Mary clasps her hands in despair!] Why did he not marry you, if he loved you even before he had seen her ? Mary. I was poor — it was impossible. Mildred. Why was it impossible ? Mary. Because — [stops and puts her hand to her forehead, bewildered] . . . Oh, what shall I do ? . . . How can I explain my whole life to a stranger ? Mildred. I am not a stranger to them. Mary. And perhaps, if I don't make you understand, you will go back and break her heart . . . Mildred. [As if she had not heard.] If 56 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT you had had money would he have married you and not her ? Mary. Yes, yes. We had neither of us a penny. He had left Oxford in debt ; I was only a drawing -mistress in a school ... we waited and waited. There were debts — he was worried and distracted — but he did not tell me everything. I thought he had left off loving me, and wanted it broken off . . . there were all sorts of misunderstandings. ... I thought he had changed altogether. I gave up my pupils and went away secretly . . . and wanted never to see him again. I made him miserable, he told me so afterwards ; he was desperate and did not care what he did. He imagined that with marriage he might still make a career — Mildred. \As if to herself?^ I see, he married because he thought her money would help him to make a career. And she thought he loved her. Mary. But he did not know that I cared for him still ; it seemed as if I had vanished from his life for ever. She loved him and — but I cant go over it all. Only I want you to under- stand. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 57 Mildred. That is what I want — to under- stand. Mary. Tell me again, are you so very intimate with her Mildred. I have told you that. I can't go on repeating it. So he married the other woman, whom he never loved at all. And did you go on seeing each other all the time. [Despairingly, not bitterly. ,] Mary. [Indignantly.'] Why no — no. What do you take me for ? What do you think ? We had parted nearly a year before he married — [unable to go ori\. Mildred. Yes, and then — Mary. One day by accident, more than two years after his marriage, we met. I had nearly died in the three long years between. It was like heaven to see him again, and though he tried to hide it, I saw that he loved me just as he always had. Oh, you cannot think what it was to meet — the misery, the joy — and both seemed stronger than we ourselves were ! We struggled against it — Heaven knows we did — but we only loved each other more because of the time we had been apart. [She grows gradually happier as she says 58 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT this, and Mildred stands staring at her. Mildred. His wife loved him, — she does — perhaps as much as you. Mary. She loves him in an even, passionless manner — as so many women love their husbands, not as I do. He is just my life and light and all the world, as I am his. Mildred. How do you know that- she loves him in an even, passionless manner ; did he tell you so ? Mary. He told me nothing — only that he had loved no woman but me, and the rest I divined, I saw it and felt it — everything is not said in words. Mildred. No ! Everything is not said in words, and love, the greatest love of all, is hidden from our sight, and only told in deeds. Perhaps she loves him more than you. Mary. No — no — she cannot. Mildred. I know her. And then you met and Mary. We met — and went on meeting and parting — it was maddening. At last — [in a low voice in which there is fear and for a moment a touch of surprise and despair] — Oh, you make me THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 59 so ashamed — and afraid — there is something about you that makes me feel — as I might if she came At last — he said we must be together ; that his wife should never know, never suffer . . . [recovering]. You must not think that he does not see every bit of gentleness in her, he does ; but it is not love, it is only affection, which is so different. Mildred. Yes — so different — and there is her money. Mary. That was something to him once. Now he is well off, it is nothing to him, but he would not pain her for all the world. Mildred. [Hardly able to drag out her words.'] He is only unfaithful to her every moment of his life. Mary. [Impatiently and proudly.] He was unfaithful to me when he married her. He was mine first ! The tragedy of it is that she loves him. Tragedy often walks abreast with happiness, so well disguised we do not even dream that it is there. She does not dream it. She is his wife before the world Mildred. And the rest does not trouble you. Mary. Not trouble me ! If you could only 60 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT know how I have thought of her, dreamt of her, ached for her ! You must not think that I regret, for I do not. What is her wrong, or what the world would call my " honour," com- pared with the work my love may help him to do, and the happiness it puts into his life ? I think that some day he will be a great man — [looks up with the smile of a visionary at Mil- dred] — that love will help him to become one. Mildred. [Quickly.] Is greatness nourished on falsehood and vice ? Mary. [Indignantly.'] It is not vice. Mildred. [As if she had not heard her.] Is happiness born of dishonour and deception ? And why should not his wife's love help him to greatness ? Mary. She is different altogether. She does not even care about his work — she is interested in other things. Mildred. She has been — it is true [remorse- fully] ; she thought that men and women's interests were far apart, but that it made no difference — And you ? Mary. [Looking up.] I love him so, and his love is mine, and his work and all his thoughts are mine too — my life too — only I long more THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 61 than he ever can for himself for all best things in the world to be his. They shall be, if love can gain them — or give him strength to win them. Mildred. Does he suppose that she will never find this out ? Mary. She never will if we can help it. How can she? I use his name, but that is all. It may be dangerous, but I could not bear not to do that, for — [in a low frightened voice~\ — there are — the children — his and mine. [Mildred gazes at her in bewilderment. A little sound escapes her lips. Mary. [Goes on quickly.] I go nowhere, know no one ; we are seldom seen together. The name is not in the Directory ; it is by a mistake that it was in that list, and will be im- mediately withdrawn. It is in no other place at all. Even this house is taken in another name. How is she to know unless you tell her ? [Puts out her hand towards Mildred's arm, but Mildred shrinks back.] And I entreat you, be silent ; you cannot make his heart go from me to her, and I dread to think what she would suffer if she knew. Mildred. [With a desperate look at the door.] 62 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT And does it never strike you that you are dragging down the man you think, you love so much — she is his wife, remember. Mary. [Sweetly but firmly.'] No ! I am his wife — and the woman of his heart. That is my justification. Marriage is the joining together of two lives that for ever become one. I am a part of his life, she is a woman outside it. Mildred. [Cowering and desperate.] Out- side it — outside it. [Suddenly.] Are you ever jealous of her ? Mary. Jealous ! I have his heart's best love — why should I be jealous ? [Goes to fire- place, takes his portrait from the shelf, and, as if speaking to it, says tenderly :] My dear life, who loved me always. Mildred. Did he send you those flowers ? Mary. Yes, he sent them an hour ago. [Kisses them.] He chose every one of them himself . . . Mildred. Had you no friends, no relations, no one to prevent Mary. No one. We came from Australia when I was little, my father and I. After his death I lived alone, giving drawing -lessons. That is my history ; there is none to whom I THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 63 need give account of myself, if that is what you mean. I only live for him. And think — think how close is the tie between us ! Why, if he and she went their separate ways to-morrow, none save themselves would suffer ; nothing outside them would be changed ; it is different with us. Mildred. Yes — yes, she is worse than a woman who is dead. Mary. [With a cry.~\ Oh, don't say it ; I would rather creep away and die than that she should know, and yet nothing — nothing in this wide world can take his love from me and make it hers. Mildred. It is she who should creep away and die. Mary. But she will never know — never — unless you tell her. [As Mildred moves to- wards the door.] Promise — promise that you never will. Mildred. [Indignantly.] I cannot. Mary. It would kill her to know, and it would ruin him. You wrung it from me, you forced me to speak. Oh, promise me you will be silent. Think what she would suffer — and he too. [Pause.] Oh, promise 64 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mildred. [Hesitating.] I will be silent on one condition — that you are ; that you do not tell him of my visit. Mary. But I never had a secret from him in my life. I could not bear to have one. Mildred. [Bitterly.] It is not so much to bear. Mary. [Still entreatingly .] But nothing can part us — nothing in the world. You will do no good by telling her. Mildred. Nor you — [opening the door, motioning Mary back into the room] — by telling him. You can choose. [Pause.] Mary. I must promise, if that is the only price of your silence. Mildred. It is the only price. Mary. Then I promise. [Mildred leans against the door as if about to fall. Mary goes forward. Mildred shrinks from her. Mildred. Go back ! go back ! You think that what you are doing is right. It may be so. To me it seems the deepest sin. Which it is, God knows, and He will prove. For all people, and of all deeds, there comes a Day of Judg- ment. It will come of what you are doing — a THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 65 day when all will be made plain. No one escapes ; nothing is overlooked. [While she speaks, Mary cowers and hides her face, Mildred's head drops in woe- stricken manner on her chest, and she goes noiselessly from the room. When Mary looks up she is horror-struck for a moment, then flies to the door. Mary. She is gone — gone. [Returns to the room. A paused Who could she have been ? Could she have been ? — no ! she couldn't have borne it. . . . Oh, if I could make some terrible atonement, could bear some awful agony that would rack my soul and buy happiness for her. . . . [Pause.] Whatever happens, the world will forgive him ; it is only hard on the woman. . . . All that she said is true. Oh, Great God ! — it is true ! I see it — it is true. I have had everything — his first love and his best. ... It is worse than if I had killed her. [Throws herself on the sofa and hides her face, .] Enter Eliza with small postal packet on a tray. Starts on seeing Mary. Eliza. Are you ill, ma'am? Is anything the matter ? 5 66 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mary. [Starting and standing up.] No, no, it is nothing ; my head is bad, I want to be alone. What is that ? Eliza. Why, it was left next door by mis- take. You see, ma'am, you never have any letters, so perhaps the postman didn't know the name. Mary. [Aside.] Is it something else? [Clutches and opens it.] This is it. [Turns over the leaves in despair.] Eliza, last summer I gave you some money for your brother's child to go to these Homes. Eliza. Yes, ma'am, it did her a lot of good. Mary. But did you tell any one — did the people at the Home know Eliza. Why, yes, ma'am, of course. You know, I went first and asked them to take Sarah for less, but they wouldn't ; and when I went back with the money I said you had given it to me, and they were to keep her as long as they could. They asked me your name, and I said, " Mrs. Archerson." Mary. [Half dazed.] I see — and they printed it. Eliza. I didn't think there was any harm, THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 67 ma'am, and I liked them to see there was some one who took an interest in Sarah. Mary. Yes — yes — I understand — only It doesn't matter — that will do. Eliza. I am sure I am very sorry. Mary. It doesn't matter. [Turns away.~\ Eliza. [About to go.] Jim told me to say, ma'am, we'd like to be married on Valentine's Day, if it's all the same to you. Mary. Yes — yes — it's all the same to me. Go — Eliza — go — I want to be alone. Eliza. I hope you'll soon be better, ma'am, I do. [Exit Eliza. Mary. [Looks round, goes up stealthily to the piano, closes it, returning across the room, stops looking at the door, and says in a whisper:] It is terrible — she has changed everything. [With a groan.] It is all over — I feel as if there had been a death — the childless woman sitting alone by her fireside while he came here and loved me — me — she'll know at last — she'll know Oh, dear God — be merciful, and keep it from her. Think what she would suffer, and be merciful. Think what she would suffer — I would rather that the pains of hell itself racked me than that she should know. . . . Who could 68 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT that woman have been ? She said she was not his wife, and yet — he — no — no — she would have, betrayed herself. She couldn't have been so calm. [Looking round and shivering.] Two hours ago I was happy — and confident — and uplifted, and now — everything is different — oh, if she knows — if she knows Hark ! Bernard's knock ! [Listens paralysed with fear.] Oh ! why has he come ! — What can have happened Enter Bernard, excited and pleased. Goes forward as if to embrace her. With a gesture of fear, she draws back. He must be quite like a devoted lover in this scene, in contrast to his manner with Mildred. Bernard. [Triumphant.] Mollie Mary. Why have you come ? Why have you come now? Bernard. My darling I came to tell you Mary. To tell me ? To tell me what ? Bernard. That it's all over. [In surprise."] Don't look so frightened, dear. Willoughby and Cartwright is all over ; never saw such a fizzle-out. Wish you had been there, it was first-rate. Caxton Rorke opened admirably, THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 6 9 got in a rather risky point about the salmon- nets on old Cartwright's lawn. Precious sharp practice, but the chief took it like a bird. They couldn't make anything of our witnesses, broke down, and compromised in the Judge's private room. I knew how glad you'd be . . . Why, Mary, what is the matter ? Are you ill, my darling ? Mary. Oh no, no. Tell me more about it. Why have you come now ? Bernard. We have won — won our case, sweetheart. I thought you would be glad. You Were so excited about it. Mary. I am — only I am ill. Bernard. 111? What is the matter? Mary. Nothing, nothing. Tell me what the case was about ? Bernard. What it was about ! Why, we have gone over it so often Mary. Oh yes, now I remember. Willoughby and Cartwright. What has happened ? Bernard. I have been telling you — we opened fire very effectually I thought [She staggers ; he goes forward as if to take her in his arms, but she pushes him away, and sits down cowering on the sofa. 70 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mary. [Desperately.] Berry, I can never bear to ask questions or to talk about her ; but to-day I want to know where is she ? Is she at home ? Is she well ? Bernard. [Still bewildered by her manner.] She is at home — she has been ill lately Mary. Is she able to go out ? Bernard. No, I think not ; that is, I did not see her this morning. She was not well enough to come down. Mary. You are sure she is at home ? Bernard. Yes, of course I am. [He speaks of Mildred reluctantly.] Mary. I think she knows. Oh ! I am sure she knows ! Bernard. What do you mean ? Mary. Wait — look ! [Takes up charity list.] I gave Eliza some money to send her niece to these Homes. She told them I did, and they put the name here Bernard. [Looking at it, and disconcerted.] By Jove ! — it must be taken out. Lucky Mildred didn't see it. Mary. Perhaps she has ! Bernard. [Reassuringly, but still anxious.] When did this thing come ? THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 71 Mary. I have only just had it, but it was left next door by mistake this morning. Bernard. This morning ? then I know she hasn't got it, for Amy remarked there was nothing for her by post, and these things — [look- ing at the list] — are all sent out at the same time. You see her address is not down, so they prob- ably would not send it to her. It's all right — but we must be careful. You mustn't let any one get hold of the name. Mary. I never use it outside the house. You don't think she can have seen it or that she knows? Bernard. I am certain she does not know. Mary. [Creeping up to him.'] Berry, I feel as if a great light had been thrown on what we are doing — everything I have should be hers Bernard. Nonsense, sweetheart — it is dif- ferent altogether. [Takes her hands and looks at her.] You have nothing that could be hers. We can't go over that again Mary. One day we shall shudder to remem- ber and pay the bitter penalty. Bernard. That's impossible, and if there is a penalty we will pay it . . . but don't let's think of that. When the ship is out at sea, it's 72 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT no good flinching at the waves or waiting to be wrecked ; it's better to steer on. All things have their price in one form or another. Life and death and happiness are all born with pain. Be a philosopher, my dear, and see it. Mary. [Looks up at him, putting her head down on his shoulder. With a weary laugh, looks up and goes on ;] There are some words — I don't s know where I heard them — they came back to me just now, as if it were God's voice speaking : " All sin is dogged, and though that which follows it may lag, it never loses the track." Some day it will overtake us — [stand- ing up and speaking almost solemnly] — quite surely it will overtake us. Bernard. [Shudders. ~\ All nonsense and excitement, my darling ; but you are making me feel very creepy. Be reasonable and put your foolish head down here again. [Holds her. - ] The fault has all been mine. Mary. No — no — mine, not yours. Bernard. It is mine. I ought never to have married her. But you had gone out of my life, and a man must have a home — some one, something — to go back to, to hold his life together, to give him responsibilities THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 73 Mary. I know — I know. Bernard. It was time that I had them. She cared for me, she was gentle and good, and I knew that her fortune would help me. When a man is not in love, all these things weigh with him ; and I did what hundreds of men have done before and will do again, though that is no excuse for me. And in the two years in which she and I faced, each other every morning at breakfast, and every night at dinner, and sat by the fireside afterwards, with nothing to say to each other — blankly looking across the space between us — those years before we met again, Mollie — I had time to find out that if one is not in love it is possible to be deadly lonely in the company of the best woman on earth, no matter what obligations bind you to her. I would have given her anything — done anything for her; but — there we were, face to face with each other — for this world and the next — worse for me than for her, for I knew the hopelessness and felt the boredom of it in a way that she did not. It paralysed me, deadened me, maddened me ; but it went on just the same, day after day, month after month. Then I saw you once more 74 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mary. Yes, and I brought this sin upon your head. Bernard. Nonsense — you have made me a better man — better to her really — [half aside] — because I am ashamed of myself — perhaps better to any poor beggars who come my way. Be- sides, think what a help you are to my work. Mildred has other interests — poor people, church- going, meetings — all manner of things that please her, but that bore me to death. . . . Think how I coached, you up in Cartwright and Willoughby ; why, you knew the brief by heart. Mary. [Consoled.] Yes, I did, every bit of it. Bernard. Of course you did ; if you hadn't been so keen I shouldn't have got it up till I went into Court. Mary. [Recovering.] Yes, yes, tell me that I help you — that I am good for your work — that I make your life better and not worse — that I have made you care for the highest things, not the lowest. Bernard. I'll say it a dozen times, if you like. Mary. [She gives a long sigh of relief, then THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 75 with a sudden desperation looks up and says in a calm but almost beseeching voice:] Bernard, promise me that, if ever she does find you out, you will go away from me, that you will never see me more — that you will make me, and not her, suffer. Bernard. Why should you want to surfer because you love me ? Mary. Something makes me say it almost against my will. If she ever knows there will be — must be — bitter suffering somewhere. I shall hunger for it. Promise that it shall be mine — that if ever she finds out you will never see me more ! Bernard. [Surprised and firm!] Dearest child, this is nonsense. I shall do nothing of the sort. Mary. You must promise. Bernard. But I won't. Parting would do no good. Mary. [With a gasp.] It must and shall be. If a Day of Judgment comes, and we are found guilty, then, as we have taken our happi- ness, so we will take its penalty. Swear by everything you love and hold sacred that if she ever knows you will never see me more. 76 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Bernard. Nonsense. People don't swear by things nowadays — only at them. Mary. You made her a solemn vow the day you married her. Make me one here, in this our home. Bernard. [Almost angry.] I cannot, and will not. You are mad. Mary. [Clasping her hands and speaking solemnly.] Then I will ! I swear by all things that are most sacred to me — by you, and by those lives most dear to us both — that her knowledge shall part us for ever and ever, and, if I fail to keep this vow, then may God send His most righteous punishment in them and me. Bernard. [Aghast.] Mary ! END OF SECOND ACT ACT III Time : A fortnight later. Noon. Scene : On board "The Rajah," London Docks. A covered lounge or small deck saloon. Exits r. and l. ; windows (open) at back and an exit. Beyond the saloon at back is seen a stretch of the deck, the bulwarks and the gangway. In the middle of the saloon is a sort of ottoman, seats go round the walls, chairs, hand luggage, and various properties about. Stage empty except for people passing to and fro, in and out, or along the deck behind. Ralph and Amy enter at back (l.); they stop by the gangway for a moment, looking out at the river. Ship business, as far as possible, goes on all the time. Amy looks over her shoulder at saloon. Amy. This is one of the places where they sit quietly, I suppose. 78 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Ralph. [Looking in."] We'll come and sit quietly — we can't miss them, so it is all right. [Amy stops and looks r. and l. before coming forward. Amy. How picturesque it all is. I was never on board a big ship before. Ralph. Highly meritorious. I wish we were starting on a voyage round the world together. Passage paid and plenty of loose cash in our pockets. Amy. It would be heavenly. They have evidently not come yet, but we shall see them from here. [She goes to window at back and leans out. Ralph stands by exit, and afterwards they both sit down. Ralph. It would be a miracle if they had, seeing that we set off first in a hansom. Not at all a bad drive from Onslow Gardens to Kensington ? Amy. I should like to live in a hansom. Ralph. That's a good idea, there would be no taxes. Amy. It would cost so little to furnish. Ralph. We might be married in one, the THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 79 parson standing up in front, the cabman look- ing through the little door on top as witness. Amy. How absurd you are ! Besides, we don't want to talk of marriage yet. We are only just in lo — only just engaged. Ralph. You were going to say only just in love, as if you thought we ought to fall out of it before we were married. [They come to seat in middle. Amy. Be quiet, you shameful person ; you are not young enough to be cynical. Ralph. Now, who told you that? It isn't your own ? Amy. I wish you wouldn't find me out. Ralph. Every one is found out nowadays ; but it doesn't matter a bit, plagiarism has become a profession. Enter Steward. Steward. What is the number of your cabin, madam ? Amy. Oh Ralph. We are waiting to see friends off. Steward. All right, sir. [Exit r. Ralph. I say, the Carews ought to be turn- ing up. I suppose Clara travels with a van-load of Saratoga trunks. 80 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Amy. She has the most lovely things to wear. But she is quite as much excited about Mildred's going. Ralph. That's a very odd business, you know. Amy. She used to say that she couldn't bear to leave Bernard. Another strange thing is that on one excuse and another she has con- trived hardly to see him at all lately. Ralph. They must have had a quarrel. [Two passengers, evidently mother and daughter, are seen passing at the back, gesticulating to some one at the side. Amy. No, they haven't. But something has happened. She is altogether changed, I can't tell how Ralph. Saw it myself the other day. She was quite excited and a thousand miles off at the same time. Looked to me as if she were going to be ill. \_Mother and daughter from the back enter saloon, look round. Mother. There should be more method. Daughter. [Standing by exit at back.] Everybody comes on board at once, it's a great bore. Mother, do come and look at some THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 81 luggage being put on. It will be smashed to bits. Mother. Well, it's not ours, so I don't care. Let us go below at once and see the Steward, or all the best places will be snatched up. You know how selfish people are. [They cross the stage to go out on r. Ralph. Nice woman that ! Kind towards other people, quite like the human nature one hears of. Amy. One hears of? Ralph. Yes, the human nature one meets is so much better. Don't you think so ? Amy. I think people are very nice as a rule, except Ralph. Me ? Amy. [Laughing.] Yes, you. [Miss Wilson is seen coming on board. Ralph. By Jove ! There's that old woman, Miss Wilson — what on earth is she doing here ? Amy. [Consternated .] Oh ! she said she'd come and see Mildred off. Don't let her see us. Ralph. All right. Come here. [They sit on seat at back, under the windows?^ Duck your head. [Miss Wilson passes behind.] What is she up to ? 82 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Amy. I don't know ; she came yesterday and wanted to see Millie — of course she didn't — she only saw me, and I was very disagree- able Ralph. That's right. Wish I had been there. Amy. When she was going away, she sud- denly asked where the ship started from, and if Bernard were going to see Mildred off — she actually asked that ! I told her everything in the most unsuspecting manner, and just as she went out of the door she looked round and said, " Tell poor Mrs. Archerson I shall be on board the ship to-morrow to speak to her before she goes." Ralph. Probably wants to give her a tract, or to ask for a last subscription. Amy. I shouldn't wonder. Millie is so good, I believe she subscribes to every Society on earth. Ralph. It's a pity we are not a Society, then she could subscribe to us. [Miss Wilson suddenly puts her head in door on l., looks round. Ralph and Amy pretend not to see her. Miss Wilson. I suppose they have not yet THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 83 arrived. I must inquire. [Suddenly perceiving Ralph.] Oh, Mr. Brooke, I didn't see you. Ralph. [Coming forward.'] Charming weather, isn't it ? Amy. [Coldly. 1 How do you do, Miss Wilson ? Miss Wilson. Is dear Mrs. Archerson here? Ralph. I have not seen her, she may be at the other end of the ship. Miss Wilson. [Looking at him suspiciously.] Perhaps she is downstairs. I'll go and see. I want to speak to her. [Aside.] They want to prevent my seeing her, but I am determined to do my duty. [Exit Miss Wilson. [Suddenly in the background " Home Sweet Home " is heard played on an accordion or a cornet. Ralph and Amy start and listen and look out. Amy. Oh, Ralph, where is it? If Milly hears it she'll break down. Ralph. [Looking across to R.J It's that beggar with a bunged-up eye and dirty top hat over there, trying to raise a few pence. Only a little cheap pathos, darling. Amy. Ah, but cheap things affect us — and everything is cheap nowadays. 84 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Ralph. That's true, and lots of one's keenest memories are bound up with cheap pathos. [Music stops.] That's a good thing, — some one shied something at him, perhaps. Here come the Carews at last. [Going towards them.] There you are ! [The Carews come on at back, l. Amy. [Excitedly kneeling up on the seat at the back and speaking to them through the open win- dow^] We've been watching for you. I'm so glad you've come. Ralph. You are very late. Mr. Carew. [Entering saloon with portable luggage, newspapers, £siV.] I thought Clara would never be ready. Thank your stars you are only an engaged man. I'll put these things here for a moment. [Puts papers, &c, down on seat at l. Mrs. Carew. [Still standing outside and watching^] It was a business getting off. [To porter with packages.] Please carry those things carefully, they are to be put in my cabin, No. 73. [Turning to Amy.] Now, dear. [Enters saloon at back.] Where are the Archersons ? Amy. They are not here yet. We came down first in a hansom. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 85 Mrs. Carew. Of course you did, you dear innocents — I know the ways of you so well. Let us go and see the cabins at once before they arrive. Amy. Oh, not now — for that horrid Miss Wilson of all people has come to see Mildred off. Mrs. Carew. Miss Wilson ! Charlie, did you hear that ? You must say something dis- agreeable to her. Where is she ? Amy. Downstairs. Mr. Carew. I believe seafaring people say " below." Mrs. Carew. [Going to the back again and looking towards end of ship.] Charlie has never been at sea for more than three days in his life — men are so arrogant. Ah ! my precious trunks are being put on board. [Stands watching for a moment^ I have had a new habit made for Gibraltar — tan colour — I shall look like a circus rider, but I thought it would tone with the cork woods. Enter Miss Wilson by door on l. Ralph. [Aside to the Carews and Amy.] I'll keep her quiet for a few minutes. 86 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT [They turn their backs to Miss Wilson. Ralph goes towards her, while they watch him scoffingly. Ralph. [To Miss Wilson.] You are look- ing for Mrs. Archerson, Miss Wilson? She may be round the other side. [Exit with Miss Wilson.] Let me help you to find her. Mrs. Car ew. [To Amy.] He'll do that sort of thing while he is engaged, my dear. Charlie adores me, but he wouldn't do it — men always take advantage of being married Mr. Carew. Of course — they must have some compensation. Enter Steward, looking round. Steward. [To Mr. Carew.] Number of your cabin, sir ? Mr. Carew. By Jove — what is it ? Mrs. Carew. It's No. 73 — heaps of things have been sent to it already. I hope they have been treated mercifully and not put down anywhere. Mr. Carew. Probably they are all over the place. I had better go and look after them. Mrs. Carew. Oh, darling, you mustn't be cross, they shan't be in your way. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 87 Mr. Carew. All right. I'll just see they are put down properly. {Exit Mr. Carew. Mrs. Carew. [Triumphantly, to Amy.] He doesn't know in the least how docile he is. I always tell him he is a horrible tyrant, and he quite believes it. Remember that, dear — it is a wrinkle. Tell a man he is ferocious, and he becomes a perfect lamb. [Miss Wilson and Ralph look in at one of the windows at back. Ralph winks at Amy. Miss Wilson. How do you do, Mrs. Carew ? Mrs. Carew. [Coldly."] How do you do, Miss Wilson ? [To Ralph.] Ralph, dear, don't let me interrupt your tete-a-tete with Miss Wilson. I wouldn't spoil it for the world. [Turns away, and sits down on middle seat with her back to Miss Wilson, who tosses her head. Ralph. [To Miss Wilson.] Let us take another turn. I am most interested. What became of her in the end ? [They saunter on, but stop outside the saloon. Miss Wlson. It's a sad story, Mr. Brooke ; Satan overcame her, and after a time quite 88 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT unexpectedly I grieve to say she went back to her old life. Ralph. Perhaps found it more amusing ? Amy. [To Mrs. Carew.] Oh! he'll break her heart. Miss Wilson. Mr. Brooke ! Ralph. [Solemnly.] People will be amused, Miss Wilson ; it's very sad. [Exeunt Miss Wilson and Ralph. Mrs. Carew. [To Amy.] She is thoroughly happy. That type loves being baited with a little impropriety. The Archersons are very late. Amy. It is such a long way — and Mildred wouldn't leave home for the world till she had seen everything in order. Mrs. Carew. Is she miserable at leaving her husband ? Amy. I don't know. She has hardly spoken about it since she told me she was going. Mrs. Carew. There's something behind it, my dear. Tell me again precisely what happened between the tea-party and her coming to see me the next afternoon. Amy. Nothing happened. She didn't come down the next morning till after Bernard had THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 89 started for his case — Willoughby and Cart- wright. Mrs. Carew. Did she have any letters? Amy. Ndhe ; I remember that perfectly. Mrs. Carew. Did she see any visitors? Amy. Oh no. She came down with her bonnet on. Mrs. Carew. Where did she go ? Amy. Only for a walk. She always goes for one in the morning. Ralph came for me, and I didn't get back till nearly luncheon time. She was sitting by the fire shivering. Afterwards she went to you, and when she returned she told me to tell Bernard that she was going to Gibraltar. I don't think she saw him again that day. Mrs. Carew. She has found out something. 1 Amy. Found out what ? Mrs. Carew. I don't know, but she's going away to gain time, and to think it over. I'm certain that's what it means. Amy. But why shouldn't she speak of it? Mrs. Carew. Ah, you don't understand yet, dear. Women, and men too, have sometimes strange tragedies at the back of their uneventful lives, or hidden away in their hearts. I never 90 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT try to guess them : it seems rather impertinent. I must go and see if my precious things are safe. [Exeunt Mrs. Carew with Amy. [Mildred and Bernard come on at back, or, if possible, up gangway. Bernard. [Outside saloon at back.] Looks like rather a nice boat. They are putting your luggage on, Millie. You are a wonderful woman to travel with so little. Two trunks ! Only a nun would take less. [Puts his head in at window^] Come in here and rest a bit, you're tired. Mildred. I'm very tired, but it doesn't matter. Bernard. [Cheerily I\ Of course it matters — what nonsense, — it's an awful bother getting off, you know. This is a peaceful little haven — sit down and don't worry for a few minutes. Your things will be all right. Mildred. [With a little smile.'] I never worry about my things. Bernard. I know you don't — such a pity, — things give a woman a lot of pleasure. [Paused] Don't look so unhappy. What's the matter ? Mildred. Nothing — except that I am going away THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 91 Bernard. For a month or six weeks — a four days' voyage. Here, let me wrap this round you. [Arranges cloak.] Quite an excellent spree — why don't you look at it in that light ? Mildred. [With a rueful smile.] I told you to send me to the end of the world. Bernard. I shouldn't send you there for a spree. Besides, / haven't sent you anywhere. You have done this yourself, made up your mind all in a moment. Mildred. You wanted me to go. Bernard. I thought it would do you good. I'm a careless brute, but you must not think that I don't notice when you look ill. \_All the time he speaks he has been looking rounds] Why, here's Miss Wilson, with Ralph ! [Aside.] I wonder why she has turned up? [To Ralph, who comes forward quickly.] I was beginning to think you had all gone on board the wrong ship and said " Good-bye " to the wrong person. Miss Wilson. [Sympathetic and fussy.] Mrs. Archerson, I have been waiting for you. Mildred. How do you do ? Bernard. Quite a surprise to see you, Miss Wilson. [To Ralph.] Where are the Carews ? 92 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Miss Wilson. Yes, a great surprise, I am sure — a great surprise. Ralph. Mrs. Carew is below with Amy, Carew is at the other end of the ship. Bernard. I must go and find him ; I want a word or two with him before he starts. Mildred. Let me come with you [eagerly]. Bernard. Better not. I shan't be a moment. I daresay Miss Wilson will take care of you till I return. Miss Wilson. I will gladly be of any use, Mr. Archerson. [Exit Bernard. Enter Amy. Mildred. [Who obviously doesn't want Miss Wilson.] Amy's here, I Miss Wilson. [To Mildred.] I want to speak to you Amy. I'll go and talk to Ralph. [They stand by the gangway. Mildred. [Coldly^] I did not expect to see you, Miss Wilson. Miss Wilson. [Impressively.] I made a point of coming. Mildred. It was very kind. Were you anxious about the Recreation Society ? THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 93 Miss Wilson. I have something to say to you Mildred. But I have arranged everything that is to be done during my absence. John Eversfield is to have a warm coat, and I found some one to take the little boys out on Saturday afternoons and give them tea. Everything is settled, you needn't have taken the trouble to come. The next meeting of the Provident Society Miss Wilson. It is not about the Society or the Meetings that I have come to talk to you. I want to ask you seriously, my dear friend, if you think it right to go and leave your husband, who is unfortunately handsome and fascinating, exposed to the wiles that any woman, with the passing attractions of youth and prettiness, can set for him. Remember that constancy was never a man's virtue. Mildred. \With sudden dignity .] This is not a subject I wish to discuss, or that concerns you. Miss Wilson. I cannot bear to expose the follies or weakness of another — but two days ago I discovered — that your husband — I am speaking as one woman does to another — and in confidence 94 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mildred. [Looking up and speaking with calm distinctness.] You are taking a great liberty, Miss Wilson, in speaking to me of my husband or my private affairs. [To Amy and Ralph.] Dears, I want to talk to you. Miss Wilson. Mrs. Archerson, I took the trouble to come down to the docks on purpose to speak to you on a matter of vital importance to yourself. Mildred. [With a sudden flash of excitement^] I should like you to go away. You have no right to interfere with my husband's affairs or mine. Amy. Milly — [comes towards her] — is any- thing the matter ? Ralph. [Aside.] I believe they have been fighting. Mildred. [To Amy.] Where is Bernard ? Amy. Why here — with Mrs. Carew. [Mrs. Carew and Bernard enter from r. Mrs. Carew looks round, evidently takes in the situation, and is delighted. Bernard. Millie ! you look quite flustered ! Mrs. Carew. Is anything the matter, Miss Wilson ? Miss Wilson. I have been treated with in- THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 95 gratitude. I came down to fulfil an unpleasant duty Mrs. Carew. Unpleasant to others, of course ; duties usually are. You enjoyed it very much, I'm sure? Bernard. [Aside to Ralph.] Excellent little fighter, Mrs. Carew ? I'm very fond of her. Miss Wilson. [Putting her handkerchief to her eyes.] I shall go home. Women behave so cruelly to each other. Mrs. Carew. Sometimes. It amuses them perhaps ? Mildred. [Grimly to Bernard.] She says you are handsome and fascinating. Miss Wilson. [Indignant."] Mrs. Archerson ! Bernard. Very good of her. [Laughing.] Strictly untrue unfortunately, but that's a detail. Mildred. You are crying. [Holds out her hand.] I am sorry I was so angry. Let us say good-bye. Miss Wilson. I accept your apology, but I am truly hurt. I will go at once. I could not stay now, though I wished to see you start. Mrs. Carew. I'm sure you did. Mildred. My husband will take you on shore — won't you, Bernard ? 96 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Bernard. Delighted. Come along, Miss Wilson. Something appears to be wrong. Very odd, but women will bully each other now and then. [To Mildred.] I'll be back in a moment, Millie. Mrs. Carew. Good-bye, Miss "Wilson ; never fulfil unpleasant duties, — in fact, never fulfil any duties. Miss Wilson. [As she goes off on Bernard's arm.~\ I only tried to do good, Mr. Archerson. Bernard. [Laughing as they go towards the gangway.] Ah ! people who try to do good often make mistakes ; might try doing the other thing next time. [They disappear, Mildred watching them out of sight.] [Exit Mrs. Carew. Mildred and Amy remain. Amy. [To Mildred.] Let us sit down and have a minute or two together. I shan't be in London when you return, and don't know when I shall see you again. Mildred. No. [Her dazed manner comes back.] Amy. You have been so good to me always, and I have had such a happy visit. What is the matter ? THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 97 Mildred. [Starting.] Nothing — it is only that I am so tired. [They sit on middle seat. Mildred goes on suddenly .] If you and Ralph really love each other Amy. We do, we do — he's a- perfect dear. Mildred. [As if she had not heard.] and feel that your lives are bound up together, don't let anything separate you, or money come between. Take your happiness while it is there — within your reach — and hold it, keep it. Only one woman can gain a man's best love — his true and lasting love — let nothing turn you from it, he can never give it to any other. He would only ruin her life with a make-believe. Amy. But — why — why do you say this? Mildred. I say it — [reaching out her hand] — because I am going away, and may not have the chance again — or the courage. I can't talk about love easily ; it makes me feel awkward, even to you — it is too sacred, it lies too deep ; it is like talking about religion. They are the same, I have been thinking that lately — the whole of life in this world and the next, and all things are done for their sakes — keep them close and serve them unfalteringly — the pure human love and the Divine — so that they grow into each 7 9& THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT other — perhaps then they reach through all our sorrow, all our pain to Heaven, and are made perfect. Amy. But, Mildred, how strange you are. Why do you say all this now ? Mildred. [Getting back her old manner^ I don't know, except that I may not return with the Carews — not till late in the spring. The cold is never good for me. Perhaps I shall write and tell Bernard so. [A little group of passengers pass from r. to l.J If I do you must be good to him, till I come — and always. Amy. Why did you shudder as those people passed ? Mildred. The woman in the black dress looked as if she had suffered ; and I understand pain. It seems to hunt me, and to tell me so much. Enter Bernard. Exit Amy. Bernard. [To Mildred.] That little excite- ment is over. I put Miss Wilson into a four- wheeler, so she'll have time to recover. Mildred. \Anxiously^\ But did she want to go in a cab — she is poor ? Bernard. Oh, I paid the man and give him THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 99 a tip besides, so it is all right. He had just come, and was awfully pleased to get a fare back. You'll be off soon, they're getting the ropes ready. Mildred. [With a little scare in her voice.] I have hardly seen you at all lately, and now I am going. Bernard. I know — never mind, the voyage will set you up, and when you come back we'll have a gay time. [Carew passes by at back.] Oh, I say, there is Carew at last ; I couldn't find him just now. He'll be gone four or five weeks, and I must speak to him. [Goes towards bul- wark.] Look here, Carew ! Mildred. [To herself] It seems as if I am not to have a moment with him. [Exeunt Carew and Bernard. Mrs. Carew. [Looking in at the saloon!] I won't stay with you now, dear Mrs. Archerson, we shall get plenty of each other by and by. Our husbands are having a farewell word. I'll go when yours returns. Mildred. [Turns suddenly to her.] It's very good of you to take me, Mrs. Carew ; I am so glad to go. Mrs. Carew. [Watching a husband and wife who pass, the wife looking miserable!] Evidently ioo THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT that poor soul isn't glad to go, she looks as if she were breaking her heart. Probably returning with her husband to India — this ship goes on to Bombay, you know — and leaving her children behind. The husband doesn't seem to care much. Mildred. He may be trying to keep up her courage. Mrs. Carew. As your husband is trying to keep up yours. [Puts her hand on Mildred's arm.] [The husband and wife enter and sit down on seat well back of stage. Mildred. But I want to go. I want to think Mrs. Carew. And to be alone. [As Mil- dred turns away.] No, I'm not going to ask you what it is. We women often want to think things out alone. The things in which men cannot help us — or that they do not under- stand. Mildred. [Watching the husband and wife. Makes a step towards the woman as if longing to console her, then stops and says to Mrs. Carew :] He is going with her, I think ; Bernard stays behind. [Hurriedly.] He is obliged to stay on account of his work. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 101 Enter Bernard. Mrs. Carew. [As Bernard comes up to them.~\ Yes, I know. Here he is. I'll get out of your way. [Exit Mrs. Carew. Bernard. I have been speaking to Carew about Ralph. I think there'll be that secretary- ship for him, though it mayn't come off for a few months. You'd like to see them married soon, and happy ever after, wouldn't you ? Mildred. Yes, I want them to be married as soon as possible. Bernard. [Taking her hand; she lets him, half shrin kingly, half gladly.] Why, you are chilly. Never mind, I have seen the captain — seems a good sort of chap — he says it will be quite warm before you get to Gibraltar. Once there you will be quite well. It is all big guns and orange trees, and hazy view of Africa over the way ... I don't believe you even hear me ? Mildred. Yes, I do, every word. Bernard. You have been so odd lately — [uneasily] — I can't make you out. Mildred. I am ill, but the change will do me good, as you say. Perhaps I shall write and 102 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT ask you to let me stay away longer. I don't know. Bernard. Of course you shall if you' like. Probably it's the agreeable English winter that has tried you. But you are a lucky woman to get away now into a decent climate, while your husband stays behind and slaves. [Mildred looks up quickly, as if about to speak. Bernard. [Misunderstanding^] I shan't slave really. I daresay I shall take things pretty easily. Mildred. I daresay — quite easily. Bernard. You are trembling [tenderly]. Stay, stay, where is your cloak ? Let us walk about a bit. [Pulls her hand through his arm, and they get up.] You'll soon be in the sunshine, perhaps you'll get too much of it — don't pull your hand away, how strange you are ! One minute you cling to me and the next you shrink from me. What are you thinking about ? Is anything worrying you ? [Looks at her keenly^] Mildred. I want to go — I must go ; but I can think of nothing in the world except that I have never been away before without you. Even THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 103 if you have not cared to go, you have gone ; but to-morrow will find us so far apart. Bernard. Never mind, dear, you'll be back in no time. By the way, when you are at Gib- raltar I wish you'd go and ask after a waiter at the little hotel on the New Mole Parade. He was a messenger boy — looked as if he were going to die, so I sent him out eight or nine months ago. It agreed with him so well he thought he'd get something to do and stay there for a bit. Mildred. \With a smile.'] It was like you to send him. Bernard. Oh, he was an awfully good little chap — has a poor old mother. She scrubs out my den, wears a black shawl, and drinks a little whisky occasionally. By the way, his name is Ben Stammer. Mildred. I'll go and see him. You are always kind, Bernard ; no one ought to think you anything else. Bernard. Well, no one does. So mind you come home strong and well. Mildred. If I die you must marry again soon, and be very happy. Bernard. Nonsense — you are not going to 104 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT die. You mustn't be morbid [uneasily]. I have taken it into my head lately that you think I have neglected you ; but you know we never had much to talk about — we always cared for such different things — general topics or my shop didn't interest you — and i" never took kindly to old women and workhouse treats. Mildred. [As if she had not heard the last sentenced] It has been my fault all these years, I see it now. I thought a man wanted to keep his work to himself, and all his thoughts and ambitions — not to be interfered with or asked questions ; it never occurred to me that you might be lonely, or that I could help you ; I wish I had been different — better and more companionable. I remember how you used to look at me in the first year. If I had only been different. Bernard. [Surprised.] No one in the world could have been better. You are the gentlest woman alive, and I have not been fit to tie your shoe-strings. Mildred. You have — you have ! And I understand better than you think. [Pause.] Do you remember once soon after we were married you brought me home a little bunch of snow- THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 105 drops. I ran to meet you in the hall — you took me in you arms and kissed me. Did you love me then ? Did you ? Bernard. Yes, dear, of course I did. What next ? Mildred. I was very shy and never thanked you for them. I have reproached myself all these years. Bernard. I had forgotten all about them, thanks or no thanks, long ago. Mildred. If only I could have got out of my prison then Bernard. Your prison ? Mildred. Yes. Life might have been dif- ferent to you and for me. I can't say things as other women do [with a little hushed cry of pain"]. But I love you ! My heart has been full of love for you ever since the time when you first came to Pinner, and I never dreamt that one day you would marry me. But it seemed unnecessary to say it once we were together. I thought you would know. Besides, it's so difficult to speak of the things one feels most, and that lie deepest [with a wintry smile]. The little manners and conventionalities of life cover them up. My heart has bounded when I heard your footstep, and 106 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT your voice has been the dearest sound on earth, yet when you entered my throat always seemed to close, to send back the words that wanted to rush from my lips, my hands have felt paralysed, and I could make no sign. But all the time I have loved you — loved you [stoops and kisses his sleeve] . . . My heart and soul have found their way into a wrong body, I think — a dull and quiet body that would not be managed, and kept them in prison. I knew all that I seemed to you, all you thought me. I have looked at my face in the glass in sheer despair sometimes, and thought that it was the face of a woman a man might like perhaps, but could never be in love with — there is such a world of difference. Bernard. [Looking at her in blank surprise.] I didn't know that you thought about these things. Mildred. All women do ; and some feel as if Nature had played them false and kept back the means of winning all it has made them long for most. They have to content themselves as best they can Bernard. With husks. Men do too some- times. It's part of the tragedy of life that it has to be done. Only the knowing ones THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 107 among us pretend that life is a comedy — and often cheat it into being one. [Pause.] I wish we had had this out years ago — before we started on separate roads. We didn't know each other very well when we got married, and we never tried to afterwards — but don't let us be serious any more. It takes it out of one so. Cheer up, and don't go fancying that you are anything but what you are — the gentlest soul on earth, and I am a ruffian who feels as if he could never forgive himself for — for — a great deal more than you know. [Pause.] Mildred. Bernard, I want to say something else. — If I should never come back Bernard. One would think you were going to California Mildred. [Trying to be cheerful^] We may be wrecked Bernard. Cast on a desert island, and rescued after long years — that sort of thing ? Mildred. And if I should die of starvation, on the island, you know — Bernard. Nonsense — Mildred. And you find that you don't want — our money, I mean the money that was mine before we married, would you let Ralph 108 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT and Amy have it ? Then they could marry and not wait Bernard. [Looks at her keenly, and then, as if satisfied, says cheerfully ;] All right, dear, they shall have it. I say, let's go and see what they are up to outside, it will do you good — [looks at watch] — and we've only got another minute or two. [Exeunt on r. As they pass by outside the window at the back :] We might see what it's like by the wheelhouse. [Exeunt. Enter Ralph and Amy. Amy. [Looking round.] They are not here. I think they must be downstairs. Ralph. We'd better go and dig them up. — Rather a lark if we were taken on — you little darling, no one can see — [kisses her]. Now say you love me — you haven't said it these twenty minutes. Amy. Oh Ralph ! I think you are like no one on earth. Ralph. Good. We'll take another hansom back. [Exeunt Ralph and Amy. [Mildred and Bernard return on r.J Mildred. I shall go and sit there when THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 109 it is warm enough. My face will be towards home. Bernard. I'll think of you, and look towards you in my thoughts — wave a hand. Mildred. There will be a long white line of foam stretching between us. 'Bernard. [As if with a sudden foreboding of ill.] Millie, don't go. Somehow you frighten me. Mildred. I must. [Startled.] Bernard. No! Comeback. [General bustle on board.] There is something that tells me you mustn't go. I won't let you ! [They stand near the exit at the back, looking at preparations for departure. Mildred. I cannot go back Bernard. Cannot ! Mildred. I am ill — I have been stunned [The husband and wife Mildred had watched before enter door on l., and pass through, speaking to each other. They pass near Mildred and Bernard, who draw back. Woman. [Sadly.] It is of the children I am thinking, for their sake — all their future depends on it. no THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Man. I know. It would be cruel that they should suffer. [They pass out by door on r.] Bernard. Now tell me what you mean Mildred. \JVho has quailed while she heard the Man and Woman speaking.] I have been ill — that is all. Bernard. [Recovering, and looking at her searchingly in the face.] Perhaps it is better — and the voyage is sure to do you good. [More bustle and movement behind, appear- ance of people leaning over bulwarks. Bernard. I say, dear, I wouldn't go to that seat we saw just now, in rough weather. It didn't look very safe. Mildred. [Slowly.] No, it didn't look very safe. Ship's Officer. All on shore, please. All on shore. [Mildred clings to Bernard's arm. Ralph and Amy and the Carews appear. General crowding to gangway. All but Mildred and Bernard, who still hang back and look at each other as if afraid to part. Amy. [Going up to Mildred.J You are off, THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 1 1 1 Millie, dear. The boat is waiting for us. Good-bye ! [Kisses her. Ralph. [Holding Mildred's hand.~\ Good- bye, cousin Millie. Mildred. [To them both.'] Good-bye. A happy life to you, dears. Bernard. [Uneasily.] Millie thinks she is going to be wrecked. Mildred. No, I don't. Mrs. Carew. [Who has turned back as if to hurry Bernard off.] She shall have a perfect time, I promise her. Ship's Officer. All on shore. All on shore ! Amy. [Outside, looking over the bulwark, to Ralph, and speaking, while they wait for Ber- nard.] Oh Ralph, that horrid man is going to play again. Ralph. More cheap pathos. Mrs. Carew. [Looking back at Bernard.] Come ! They are waiting. Bernard. I'll post you a line to Gibraltar the moment I get home. [Is about to kiss her.] It'll go overland — get there before you do. Mildred. [With a cry throws herself in his arms.] Hold me ! just once, as you did that ii2 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT night you brought back the snowdrops, and it felt as if I could never get away. [A long embrace. Bernard. God bless you, Millie. [ Tears himself away. Mildred follows him to exit at back, and stands leaning against the doorway. Bernard goes towards steps. "Auld Lang Syne " is heard. Bernard. \_Looking back from top of gang- way.'] I'll throw him half- a- crown to stop that. [He leans over and speaks for a moment to Carew. Mildred. [Stretching out her arms.] Good- bye — good-bye Mrs. Carew. [Standing close to Mildred, who does not even see her.] Dear Mrs. Archer- son, it's only for such a little time, and we'll take care of you. Bernard. [To Mildred.] Good-bye once more. [Waves his hand, disappears down the gangway. Mildred. [To herself.] He kissed me as if he loved me. curtain ACT IV Scene : A drawing-room in Hyde Park Gate, charmingly furnished. At the back, facing stage, a conservatory or curtained doorway, leading apparently to another room. To r. of stage a fireplace, beside it a writing-table. It should be rather a studious-looking room, with bookshelves, &c The painted portrait o/Bernard seen on easel in Second Act hangs in one corner. Lamps and lighted candles, &c. When the curtain draws up the stage is empty. Time : Sixteen months later. After dinner. Sound of voices outside, and then from door on r. enter Mrs. Carew, Mrs. Saunderson, Lady Neville, Amy, and Mary — now Mrs. Archerson — in evening dress. Mrs. Carew. [To Mary.] Your husband looks sd well, Mrs. Archerson. ii 4 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mary. I am glad — do sit here, Lady Neville ; you will be out of the draught. Mrs. Carew. [Sitting down by Lady Neville.] I always like the half-hour before the men come up. We can talk of our clothes and our children, and abuse our dearest friends to our hearts' content. Amy. Dear Clara, you don't mean that ! Mrs. Carew. Oh no ; but things one does mean are so tiresome — put into words. Never be in earnest Lady Neville. Never in earnest, Mrs. Carew ? Mrs. Carew. Never ! Think how tiresome a man in earnest is. A woman is even worse, she never knows when to leave off. [Goes to look at something back of stage. Mary. [Crossing staged Lady Neville, do let me put this cushion behind you. [Follows Mrs. Carew to back of stage. Lady Neville. Thank you so much. [To Mrs. Saunderson.] This is a charming house. Mr. Archerson took it just before his marriage, I believe. Probably — [lowering her voice'] — he didn't care to take his new wife to the old one. Mrs. Saunderson. I daresay they have THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 115 both painful memories. She was a widow with two children Lady Neville. I know.' She is quite young, and must have married again very quickly too ; men never have such feeling, but I should have thought Mrs. Saunderson. I wonder who she was ; did you hear ? Lady Neville. No ; and I didn't see the marriage in the paper. [Mary comes down stage with Mrs. Carew and Amy. Mrs. Carew. [To Mary.J And what a delightful room this is, Mrs. Archerson ! It looks like a home, and as if the people it belonged to lived a great deal in it. Mary. Bernard had a writing-table put there for himself, and the other day we moved up some of his books. He works here in the evening. Mrs. Carew. I feel sure you are great com- panions. [Turning to Amy, who is standing by her.~\ Tell me about your wedding, dear. [Looking round. .] A wedding is a subject about which all women agree to be amiable, unless it is the wedding of a man they want themselves. This u6 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT child has been engaged to my cousin, Ralph Brooke, for more than a year. He was penni- less, but now he is well off, and so is she ; that explains the situation. Amy. There is so little to tell. It is to take place quite quietly — Mrs. Carew. Quietly ! Then Charlie won't give me a new frock Amy. On Thursday three weeks, at my father's church in the country. Mrs. Saunderson. There is nothing so delightful as a country wedding. Mrs. Carew. [To Mary, half hesitating!] Your marriage was a quiet one, was it not, Mrs. Archerson ? Mary. [Looking straight back and speaking gravely.] Yes, it was very quiet. Mrs. Saunderson. Was that your wish ? Mary. We both wished it. [After a moment's pause!] It was only a year after his wife's death, and there must always be a little sadness in a second marriage. Amy. No one knew about it, not even I, till a month ago ; then Bernard fetched me and made me stay a day or two. Mrs. Saunderson. [Going up to the portrait THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 117 in the corner.] Did you paint this portrait of him, Mrs. Archerson ? Mary. Yes. Mrs. Saunderson. Was it done lately ? Mary. No. [After a moment's hesitation.] It was done before our marriage. [They all go up and look at it. Lady Neville. It's exceedingly good. Amy. And so like him — dear Bernard. Mrs. Saunderson. Excellent — really excel- lent ! Mrs. Carew. It's very handsome — and so is he. Lady Neville. [To Mary.J Have you painted many other portraits ? Mary. I have done one of Amy lately. Mrs. Saunderson. You were doing it when I called. Mrs. Carew. Amy showed it to me the other day. Lady Neville. But where is it ? Mary. [Looking towards doorway at back of stage.] It is still in the studio. Lady Neville. Couldn't we go and look at it ? I don't suppose our husbands will be up for another five minutes. n8 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mary. If you really care to see it [They vanish through the doorway. Mrs. Carew turns quickly to Mrs. Saunder- son. Mrs. Carew. Do you remember where we met last ? Mrs. Saunderson. At poor Mildred Archer- son's ; but you were with her on board ship. Mrs. Carew. [With a shudder.] Yes, yes — it will haunt me as long as I live. Mrs. Saunderson. How did it happen? It was really an accident, I suppose ? Mrs. Carew. I can only guess how it happened, but it was an accident, I am certain of that. Her husband was distracted when I first saw him, fearing she had been in low spirits and Mrs. Saunderson. [Confidentially.] You don't think that she felt herself neglected ? He used to be out a great deal Mrs. Carew. So are heaps of men. And Mildred Archerson, with all her virtues, wasn't quite the woman for him. A clever man wants sympathy and companionship ; and if he doesn't get them at home, why, he gets them somewhere else. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 119 Mrs. Saunderson. True; men are learning to value intellect in women at last. Mrs. CareW. They don't want too much intellect, they want love — and to be in love. Nothing is any good without that, nothing in the world, especially marriage. Mrs. Saunderson. You are so romantic, dear Mrs. Carew. But tell us more about her. Did she talk much ? Mrs. Carew. Oh no ! She spoke so little that somehow I grew half afraid of her ; I felt as if she stood on another level — a higher one than I should ever reach. Amy. I know. I think Bernard felt that too — she was a sort of saint to him. Mrs. Carew. Yes, a saint, and he is a mortal man. She — [nodding towards the door through which Mary had vanished] — is a mortal woman — to love ; men only reverence saints. Mrs. Saunderson. [Spellbound^ And how did the end come ? Mrs. Carew. We don't know. The day before we reached Gibraltar it was stormy, but she would stay on deck — there was a seat at the end of the ship — she said her husband had 120 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT warned her to be careful, but I saw her there late in the afternoon — The rest one only thinks Mrs. Saunderson. [Nodding her head.~] Of course. What is your theory about it ? Mrs. Carew. \JVith a sigh.] Oh ! she was the sort of woman of whom an unlucky chance is apt to take advantage, and I think that, as she sat there dreaming on through the twilight with the wild winds all about her, and the waves mounting higher and higher, that somehow she went forward to meet them — and they just folded her in. Perhaps she was not so very sorry in that last moment, for she had a way of taking life too seriously, and the people who do that get very tired. Mrs. Saunderson. [Rather pompously.] But life is a most serious matter. [Mary comes through the studio door with Lady Neville. Mrs. Carew. [Seeing her.] Of course it is. But let us talk of cheerful things. Mary. Were you talking of gloomy ones ? Mrs. Saunderson. The world is a gloomy place. Happiness is generally a thing we re- THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 121 member or hope for, but seldom realise that we possess. Mary. But what is the matter? This is our first party — the first that Bernard and I have given. Don't only talk of happiness, but look happy and be happy, as a good omen. Mrs. Carew. We will. I am delighted to have come. Mr. Archerson is such an old friend of mine Enter Mr. Carew, Mr. Saunderson, Sir George Neville, Ralph, and Bernard Archerson. A general movement. Mrs. Carew. [To her husband.] Have you been discussing the affairs of the universe ? Mr. Carew. Of several universes. Mr. Saunderson. We had a tremendous argument. Mary. What was it about ? Mr. Saunderson. The difference between right and wrong, and how it grew up. Mr. Carew. [To Mary.] I should like to have heard your view, Mrs. Archerson. Mary. [To Mr. Saunderson.] What did Bernard say ? Mr. Saunderson. That if an action did no 122 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT one any harm, it was not wrong. And that some things, wrong on the face of them, were in reality quite right. Bernard. So they are. The law sometimes thinks otherwise, but that doesn't alter my position. I didn't make the laws ; if I had, I should have made them differently. Mr. Saunderson. And I maintain that those things are right that experience has found to be best for mankind, and that the law has set its seal of approval upon. Mary. [Eagerly.] But it can't reach all questions, nor all feelings. Mr. Saunderson. There are unwritten as well as written laws, Mrs. Archerson, about everything on earth — we all know them — and if they are broken, sooner or later they avenge themselves. Mary. [Gravely.] My father used to say it too. Bernard. Why, Saunderson, we shall have you writing an article on morals. Mr. Saunderson. Ah ! the public loves morality — when it is in print. Bernard. And the reverse — when it is in French. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 123 Mr. Carew. Why, Archerson, I didn't think you were so cynical. Mrs. Saunderson. And so witty. Bernard. Cynical and witty? Not I. Cynicism always seems to me to bear the same relation to wit that lemon-juice does to wine. Pleasant occasionally ; but I can't live down to it myself. I merely say what I think, some- times it isn't what other people think ; but that's not my fault. Mr. Carew. [To his wife, as Mary passes them.~\ It's an odd thing, Clara, but I've seen Archerson's new wife somewhere before ; I can't think where. Mrs. Carew. But one says that of so many faces in London. [Turning to Mary.] My husband thinks he has met you somewhere before, Mrs. Archerson. Mary. Perhaps, I don't remember. Mrs. Saunderson. Did you live in London before your marriage ? Mary. Not in London, but quite near. [Goes to Mr. Saunderson and talks. Mr. Carew. [To his wife aside.] I know! She is the woman I saw with him once at Finchley Road. I didn't see her face ; it i2 4 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT is the figure and general carriage that I recognise. Mrs. Carew. Really? [In a low and kindly voiced We won't say so, Charlie. Perhaps they've been fond of each other for years, or long ago, and couldn't help it — one never knows. Mr. Carew. Of course / shan't say a word ; a man never does. Archerson's a good fellow and she's an awfully pretty woman, there's no doubt about that. [To Amy.] Well, Amy, this is your last appearance, I hear ? Mrs. Carew. [To Ralph, who comes down stage to Amy.] I am so glad you two innocents are going to be married at last. I can't think why you didn't do it a year ago. Ralph. Pecuniary circumstances over which we had no control kept us apart. Amy. And then Ralph wouldn't have me because I had money. Mrs. Carew. You are the most bewildering children. [To Ralph.] Charlie would have given you that secretaryship long ago, but he couldn't get the salary ; still you knew it was coming, so that when Fortune was kind to one of you, you might have made it do for both ; THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 125 only you were so high-toned. [Laughing.] I never like high-toned people myself. Ralph. Dear Clara, I am horribly low Enter Servant. Servant. [To Mrs. Saunderson.J Your carriage, ma'am. Mrs. Carew. [Continuing to Amy.] And I suppose we shan't meet again after to- night ? Amy. I go home by an early train in the morning. Enter Servant. Servant. Your carriage is here, ma'am. Mrs. Carew. [To Amy.] You'll see me on Thursday three weeks. Mrs. Saunderson. Good-night. [To Mary.] Such a charming evening ! Mr. Saunderson. Good - night, Mrs. Archerson. Good-night, Archerson. [Exeunt the Saundersons. Mrs. Carew. We must be going too, or the precious horses will catch cold, and Charlie will scold me all the way home. Mr. Carew. This is libellous. Archerson, you shall have a brief. 126 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mrs. Carew. Don't listen to him, Mr. Archerson. Good - night. Good - bye again, dear Amy. [Exeunt the Carews. Lady Neville. I fear it is very late. May we have a hansom ? Bernard. Of course. Enter Servant. Bernard. A hansom for Lady Neville. Sir George. Good-night, Mrs. Archerson. I congratulate you on your husband's portrait. I wish my wife could do that sort of thing. [Shakes hands with Bernard. Lady Neville. [To Mary.] Men are never satisfied with their own wives, but you mustn't believe all he says. Good-night, Mr. Archerson. Bernard. Good-night. [Exeunt the Nevilles. Ralph. I must be going too ; it is getting late. Amy. I'll go down with you, Ralph. There is a book in the study I want to give you. Bernard. I am quite sure there is ; pray go down with him. [Exeunt Ralph and Amy. Mary and Bernard left alone. THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 127 Bernard. Sweetheart, you look sad. What is the matter ? [Looking at her fondly .] Did you like your flowers? I rushed to Dickson's for them. Mary. They are lovely. And I like wear- ing this ; do you remember ? [Touching a diamond ornament at her throat.~\ You gave it me the first day we came here — sold it to me for a kiss. Bernard. It was not worth it. Mary. And this is the frock we bought together in Paris on — [shyly] — on our honey- moon. Isn't it sweet ? [Retreats a step or two and stands before him. Bernard. [Amused and speaking solemnly. .] Very, and you look sweet in it. [Passionately.'] Mary, I love you ! I love you, my own. What happy years we'll have together ! [There is hesitation in his tone."] . . . Enter Amy. Why, here's Amy ! [To Amy.] Quarrelled with him, or has he gone ? Amy. Neither, sir. It is only that we think we might write a few notes. [Turning to Mary.] 128 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Thanks for wedding presents, you know ; but there's no paper in the study. Could we have a little? Mary. I'll go and find you some. I wanted to speak to Ralph. [Exit Mary. Amy lingers behind with Bernard. Amy. Perhaps you won't be down when I start in the morning ; you are such a sluggard, you old dear, so I want to thank you once more for all your goodness — you have made us very rich. Bernard. [Gravely.] It was Mildred's doing. Never let us mention it again, it is all so painfuh Amy. I know. ... I have thought of her so much lately. Bernard. It is strange, but' she has not been out of my thoughts to-day. Do you remember Miss Wilson ? She wrote this morning — to my chambers ; she was in distress, and reminded me that she had known Mildred. Amy. She was horrid. I hope you didn't send her anything — or not much. Bernard. Yes, she was horrid, but she was up a tree, I suppose, poor old cat ; so I sent her THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 129 a fiver for Millie's sake. She would have done it, you know. Go, my cousin, and do your letter-writing. Amy. Good-night, dear Bernard, and good- bye. Bernard. Good-bye, dear. I shall see you on your wedding-day. [Kisses her. Exit Amy. Bernard sits down to writing-table on r., gives a long sigh, and begins to turn over his papers.] Now, perhaps I shall get a quiet half- hour. I have done nothing to-day — Miss Wilson, the settling of Mildred's money matters, and Amy's marriage. [Gets up.] How the past haunts me! Why can't I take the lot that comes and be content ? — the woman I love, money, success, everything I care for is mine, and yet, wherever I go, I see Mildred's face, hear Mildred's voice, Mildred's step ! Heaven knows I thought of her and reverenced her a hundred times more than most men do even the women they love best. — Thank God she never knew or suspected. It would have killed her. [Pause.] Perhaps a bit of work will do me good. [Goes back to the writing-table, takes some legal-looking papers out of middle drawer, and appears to get interested in them.] Very odd 9 130 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT point that. I don't know whether it will do to use — it might have been overwhelming gener- osity or overwhelming despair. The two things are more closely allied than one imagines; they are like the ends of a stick that will meet and make a circle if you bend them. Enter Servant. Servant. Please, sir, a young man has come, who says he wants to speak to you very par- ticular. He came just before dinner, but I told him we had a party, so he said he would come back again. Bernard. What does he want ? Servant. He told me to say he'd come from Gibraltar. Bernard. Oh, it's Ben Stammer, of course. Ask him to come in. [Gets up, turns to fireplace. To himself, when Servant has gone f\ I wonder what Ben wants so particularly that he couldn't wait till the morning. [Servant shows in a young man, evidently of the artisan class.] Why, it's not Ben Stammer. [Cheerily.] Who are you, my good young man ? Young Man. William Kenny, sir. Bernard. Well, William Kenny, what is it? THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 131 Kenny. It's difficult to explain, sir, or I wouldn't have intruded at this time of night, but I only came to London this afternoon. I am in the P. & O. Company's service at Gibraltar, sir ; one of their extra engineers. Bernard. [Uneasily.'] Yes? Kenny. My wife was second stewardess on board the Rajah — [Bernard is startled] — when your lady was lost. It was a bad voyage for both of 'em, sir. My wife had always been delicate ; that was why we thought it would be a good thing if she tried turning stewardess, and what the sea would do for her. Bernard. Yes, yes ? Kenny. She was took ill that night, and they landed her next day so bad she hardly knew anything ; but when she was raving it was all about your lady, and something about a letter. Bernard. A letter ! Kenny. [Putting his hand towards his pocket.] We didn't understand, and the next day she died. Her things were just put into her box and never touched till I came back home yester- day. This morning mother was turning 'em over, and in her dress-pocket she found this — [he pulls out a letter] — directed to you. I was 1 32 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT coming up, and I thought I'd better call and explain how it was. When I come this evening I heard you was married again, sir, and there was a party going on ; but I thought I'd better get it to you as soon as possible. Bernard. [Taking letter.] A letter — a letter now ! Kenny. Perhaps the lady felt she wouldn't go ashore, and gave it to Jennie to post ; and Jennie put it in her pocket, and — and that's how I think it was, sir. Bernard. [Overcome and staggered^ Thank you. You must excuse me ; it has taken me by — by surprise. Here, let me give you something. Kenny. But I didn't do it for that, sir. I thought perhaps Bernard. I know — I know. You have done me a great service. [Puts the money into his hand. Nods towards the door, as if unable to speak. Kenny. Thank you, sir. I am very sorry, I'm sure. [Exit Kenny. Bernard. The whole day she has been following me — bringing her message — whisper- ing it in my ear. [Puts the letter on writing- table ; sits down on writing-chair. A pause."] THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 133 I must see what she says ; at least there will be no more of that awful doubt that has put a drop of poison into every hour of happiness . . . {Takes up the letter. Mary opens the door and says joyfully : Mary. Berry ! I heard that some one was with you, and waited till he had gone. Who was it ? [Bernard hurriedly hides the letter, puts his elbows on the table and leans his face in his hands with almost a groan, but says in a voice that he tries to make natural: Bernard. A man to see me on some busi- ness. You had better go, dear ; I must do some work. Mary. [Coaxing."] Oh, but let us have our five minutes ; here is my stool. [Picks up stool, brings it to his chair. .] Turn round. [As he turns slowly she sits down on the stool at his feet so that she does not see his face, takes his half- reluctant hands, leans her face against them, and gives a little sound of satisfaction^ Now, tell me, Berry dear, was it a nice party ? Bernard. [Forcing himself to speak.] A very nice party. 134 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mary. Everything went well ? Bernard. Perfectly. Mary. Did you think the table looked pretty ? I invented that way of doing the flowers. Bernard. [Shuddering.] Did you, my darling ! Mary. [With a change in her voiced] Are you cold ? You shivered — and your voice is so grave Bernard. I felt as if the wind swept in Mary. You are tired — [caressing his hands] — but you are glad to be with me again ? You said it always rested you. Bernard. [Recovering himself with an effort and stroking her hair half tenderly, half absently '.] It does ... It always rests me, Mollie ; it's good to be together. Mary. [Kissing his hands.] Yes, yes. Oh, I do so love my dear home, and dear you, and I am so happy ! Bernard. We were very happy in the Hampstead days. [Gets up.] Mary. [Gets up, surprised.] We are happier now. Bernard. No — no THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 135 Mary. Yes — yes ; we can walk together in the sight of other men and women, and not feel that at any moment we may be made ashamed. Bernard. You told me a hundred times that you were not ashamed. [He seems to have a difficulty in listening to her — to be absorbed in something else. Mary. And I wasn't, till one day my eyes were opened wide. [Pause.'] Berry, if these people to-night had only guessed. Bernard. [Bitterly.] You women put a tre- mendous value on respectability in the eyes of the world. Mary. It isn't that, you know it isn't. I only care for you, and for the right. I care for that, dearest, I do, indeed ; love and reverence for it have grown and grown upon me. . . . To do right and to love well ; it is the whole world. Bernard. [Desperately.] It is the whole world, dear Mollie — a world that is and shall be yours. [They cross stage and sit down on sofa to l. He recovers and grows tender^] Don't think of the past too much. I love you a thousand times more for all you did 136 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Mary. [Getting up quickly.] But I wish we had waited. I usen't to care once, but I do now. We called what we did by fine names, and I felt them all to be true then. But, dearest, right and wrong have been built up and the great laws made, and there they are — put together by all the sufferings of men and women, and all the experience of the centuries : and right is, and wrong is,, and no tinkering at them, no longing, or even love, will change them, and make one thing this and the other that. Mr. Saunderson said it to-night. Didn't you hear him? Bernard. Would you do it all over again — the past ? Mary. Yes, every bit of it. Oh, you know I would, I love good deeds and great ones, and great love, darling . . . and great courage to do wrong for love's sake — love of you ! I had courage for that ? [He nods and sits down by the •writing-table, she kneels beside him and clasps her hands on his shoulder. A pause. He looks at her, she slowly lets go her hands, speaks in a whisper, and her manner becomes troubled?^ Ber- nard, I never dared say it before, but I wish she had not been drowned — THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 137 Bernard. [Sadly and half aside.] I have wished it many a time . . . But why do you say it to-night ? Mary. Only because Mrs. Carew's being here made me think ; she was with her, you know. [Shudders ; a paused] In the twilight — sometimes I can see Mildred's face looking up from a grey sea to a grey sky — a dead white face, and the ship going farther and farther away — and the long white line of foam it leaves. Bernard. [Shuddering.] For God's sake, don't, Mary Mary. [With a sigh.] I am so thankful I never saw her. I couldn't bear to shape her face, her real face, in my thoughts. Bernard. Luckily she would never be photographed ; there is only a faded portrait of her at seventeen that no one could recognise. Mary. [After a pause.] Berry, they were talking of her to-night, I am certain of it, for when I came near they stopped. Oh, if she had not been drowned ! And if I could be certain she never knew : it is the only thing in the world that could part us, for it would part us — even now ! Bernard. [Impatiently.] Mary, we must 138 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT stop this talk, it is doing neither of us any good. Mary. Yes, we will stop it. [A pause, and then calmly.'] But first, Berry dear, I want to tell you something — it is the only secret I ever had from you. It cost me so much at the time, but I promised not to tell you, and a sort of super- stition has kept me silent. You remember that morning I was so strange — the morning of Willoughby and Cartwright? Bernard. [Getting up and looking at her.~\ Yes — I remember it. Well ? Mary. That morning a woman came to see me — a strange woman Bernard. [Starting.'] A woman ! What did she come for ? Mary. She came — she made a pretence of coming about a charity. It was a woman who knew about us. Bernard. About us ? What was her name ? Mary. I don't know. Bernard. What did she look like ? How old was she ? Mary. She was thirty, or a little more, per- haps. [Reflecting.] She was pale, and slight and delicate-looking. Stay, give me a pencil. [Sits THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 139 down to the writing-table impulsively.'] Here is one, and this white blotting-paper will do. [She makes some rapid strokes with a pencil while he stands looking over her shoulder.] She stood facing me all the time — she wore a long black cloak, it had fur round the collar. She was rather a tall woman Bernard, [Alarmed.] Mary ! Mary. [Goes on drawing.] Her face was very grave and eager — it had deep lines, so ; and her hair Bernard. [Starts back in horror.] Great Heavens, it is Mildred ! Mary. Mildred ! [Gets up and stands petrified. Bernard. Yes, it is Mildred ! [Staggers away from her. Mary. Then she knew ; and it is all made plain. Bernard. What did she know ? What do you mean ? Mary. She came to me — she had found out the address — I told her everything. I boasted of your love, and goaded her on to do what she did, not knowing to whom I spoke. How could I know 140 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Bernard. [With a groan.] My God ! \A fame. He sees the letter on the table, shuddering turns away. Mary. [In a broken voice that is almost a whisper.] Berry! Bernard. Yes. Mary. [Wringing her hands in despair.] It parts us — it parts us forever. Bernard. No — no. It has been all my doing — not yours, and even this shall not part us. Mary. Are vows and promises nothing ? Bernard. There can never be happiness again ; but, as for parting, that would be mad- ness. Besides, all along we faced the possible penalty of what we did. Mary. [Shuddering.] We didn't face — this ! Can you love the woman who drove her to her death ? Bernard. We don't know that it did. Mary. It killed her. There was nothing else. Bernard. We don't know it, even now. \_A pause.] Mary, the man who came just now brought me a letter from her. By an accident it has been kept back all this time. Mary. A letter ? Where is it ? THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 14 1 Bernard. It is here. [Going to his tabled I did not mean you to know, and hid it as you came in. Mary. Would you have a secret from me too? [She says it bitterly, as if a revulsion of feel- ing were beginning to steal over her. Bernard. I wanted to spare you Mary. Read it. Open it. Oh Berry, open it! Bernard. Now? [Hesitates. Mary. Yes, yes, now. Let us know the worst. [He goes to the table. Bernard. [Hesitating."] I am almost afraid of it. I am not fit even to hold her letter in my hand. [Finds' letter, advances a step forward. Mary goes towards him, her hands clasped as if to listen. He waves her back, and says :] I must read it alone. Go — go. [Shuddering as if the sight of her dismayed him.] [Mary retreats. Bernard turns away from her, with an effort opens the letter and reads as if he can hardly bring out the words. As he begins, Mary, listening, falls on her knees and gradually crouches lower. Bernard. [Reading.] "We shall be at 1 42 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Gibraltar to-morrow. The stewardess will post this, but I am not going on shore. I cannot bear life any longer. God, who knows every- thing, will understand and forgive me." [Pauses as if unable to go on.] " I am ill and miserable, but it is not your fault, Bernard, you were very good to me. You thought me what I seemed, a dull woman, who loved you in an even, passion- less manner, as so many women love their husbands " Mary. [In a whisper.] They are my words to her — my words [Crouching lower. Bernard. [Goes on.] " I have lived outside your life, and yet all the time I would have given you my heart to tread under your feet. I want you to be happy. I want it more than anything in the world. I am going to the seat at the end of the ship. I shall hold out my hands — they will be a little nearer — to say good- bye once more. Mildred." [Puts down letter again, sees Mary and quails a little. She looks at him, shudder- ing with fear. Mary. They were my words, I drove her to her death ; I told her she was a woman outside your life THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 143 Bernard. [Struggling with despair.'] Yet. there is forgiveness, even in that letter. Mary. It is the letter of a broken heart. The woman we killed may forgive, but the law exacts its penalty. We are apart already — it is all over. Bernard. This is madness. [Goes forward. She stretches out her hand with a gesture of horror. Mary. Keep back ; the glamour is gone, and I see you now as you will see me — weak and selfish and cruel. We disguised what we did and called it passion, we thought ourselves strong and great : we liked ourselves for the very crime we were committing Bernard. Mary ! the shock has turned your brain. You will be better in a day or two, when you can balance things — Great Heaven ! but neither your calmness nor my agony will undo the past. Mary. Nothing — nothing will do that. Bernard. [Recovering.'] Neither will it undo your love for me, nor mine for you Mary. I feel as if it had gone — as if in this hour it has died — as if hatred would come to take its place. i 4 4 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT Bernard. [Distracted ; indignantly.'] Mary! Don't be cruel ; think of all we have done — for love of each other. Mary. [Bitterly.] Love ! If it had been worth calling love, it would have given you courage to live your life with the woman you took, of your own free will, and me to bear the penalty of doubting you in the first days of all. [With a little break in her voiced] That would have been love ; not this which for ever parts us. Bernard. It shall not part us. Mary. [Recoiling.] Would you stay with a woman who shrinks from you already. There is only parting left for us. Bernard. This is folly and madness ! What good will parting do now? [She stands silent for a minute, as if struggling with herself. Mary. It will be expiation. Bernard. There is no good in expiation. Mary. [In a tone of awe .] To say that is to doubt the story of the world's Redemption. Bernard. Oh, you are mad! This is as terrible for me as for you. And how could we part ? Are the children to suffer ? Are we to THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 145 tell the story to the whole world, and so pro- claim our shame and theirs ? Do you want to leave me and them, and your home, in which your duties lie, to brood in the luxury of atone- ment ? This is the idea of a selfish, hysterical woman, not of the woman I have loved. As for the oath you took, you were too much excited to be responsible. Mary. I swore by the lives most dear to us both, by everything I held most sacred. You broke your solemn vow to her. Do you think oh, my God ! — do you think I will break mine ? Bernard. Mary ! I cannot bear this. It is too much. You — you taunt me with that — when it was done for love of you Mary. \With a ghastly laugh.] It is coming — your hatred, your shrinking, your horror. \JVith a sudden calmness .] But you are right, Bernard. We cannot even give ourselves the luxury of lonely atonement. Our punishment is to stay together, even though love is gone and happiness is finished — in the same house, together, yet apart. It is the most awful parting of all. This is our day of judgment — she said it would come — and this is our sentence. Bernard. \_As if forcing himself to say what 146 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT he does not believe.'] But we shall love each other again. Mary. I should never dare to love you again, even if it were possible. I should be afraid. I am afraid now — [in a whisper'] — afraid of a face thinly veiled by the water that passes over and over it : it is the face of the woman we killed. [Looks down in terror as if at the water.] It is there — there — I can see it, and the darkness gathering above it ! Bernard. [Desperately, as if struggling to go forward, and yet unable to do so.] Mollie Mary. [Putting out her hands again with a gesture of despair.] Keep back ! Keep back ! Between us flows the sea [He half staggers ; they stand looking at each other aghast. THE END Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh. " If you want to know anything about anybody, get a copy of ' Who's Who.' "— " Truth." WHO'S WHO ° yer A Q f\ 4 Price 1200 pages. 19U1 5s. net. AN ANNUAL BIOGRAPHICAL DICTIONARY In Cloth at 5s. net. {Post Free 5s. 4d.) Full Red Leather, gilt edges 7s. 6d. net {Post Free 7s. 1 Od.) With Who's Who for 1901 will be incorporated the well-known work of reference " Men and Women of the Time." 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