fl^i Cornell University Library PR 4779.H7F5 1895 The first step, a dramatic moment. 3 1924 013 481 761 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/cu31924013481761 THE FIRST STEP THE FIRST STEP A DRAMATIC MOMENT BY WILLIAM HEINEMANN " Facilis descensus Averni" LONDON &©► 5^ JOHN LANE AT THE SIGN OF THE BODLEY HEAD IN VIGO STREET MDCCCXCV b^ TO HER WHOSE INTEREST AND ENTHUSIASM INSPIRED THIS EFFORT The. right of performing in public this play is reserved by the author. NOTE It has not been the object of the author to write anything that would satisfy the usual require- ments of a stage play with regard to variety and action — but simply to snatch one dramatic moment out of a story of to-day, and to observe in its treatment economy as well as the dramatic unities. THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY FRANK DONOVAN JACK DURWEN ANNIE ] [ Sisters LIZZIE I This edition consists of joo copies THE SCENE OF THE PLAY A large sitting-room in a lodging-house. Folding doors attack leading into bedroom. Next to them a smaller door leading to landing. Two windows on left. Upright piano between. On the right- hand side in the front, writing-table and chair, then fireplace with sofa facing it. Between fireplace and door a small sideboard. In centre of room, somewhat to the left, dining-table with chairs. Time First Act, about Mid-day Second Act, during the Afternoon Third Act, between three and four on the folloiving morning THE FIRST STEP FIRST ACT Breakfast things a/re still on tlie table, altliough the meal has been finished for some considerable time. The daily papers are strewed about on the floor, and the room hears an wntidy appear- ance. FRANK discovered deep in thought, sitting at the writing-table, nibbling his pen. During the Act he lights one or two ciga/rettes. He is dressed in a morning suit. FRANK I shall never get this scene right, and I should so much like to do just what she asks. It may spoil the play. But then. Let me see what she says in her letter. " The fault seems to me in the weak- "ness of the cHmax ; you work up to a certain effect " which you don't reach. The whole thing is, from " the beginning, perfectly built up and the attention "is so thoroughly held, that it is essential there " should be no falling off. Y ou prepared one all " through the play for a tremendous situation by " piling effect on effect ; and, in fact, the situation is " there, but if you will read over the words you have " put into the mouth of the revengeful woman, you I A " must see that, spoken as they are written, they can " never produce on an audience the effect you desire. " Let me draw a parallel with your last play, and " remind you of the last act of ' Lucy FraU.' " Lucy PraU ! Ah, yes ; that was written under very different circumstances, under very different circumstances, before I knew you, Madonna ; when all seemed such plain saiKng, and there were only Annie and myself in the wide world. \Silence — takes up pen — puts it down ■again — opens drawer — takes out photograph — hses himself in contemplation.'] How can I put words, fit for the she-devil in this play, into your mouth — into such a mouth ! Ye gods ! Had I but never seen this face ! I hate it — and perhaps I know — but shame on you, Frank Donovan, the Rising Light, the Jin de siecle Shakespeare ! Shame ! Shame on you ! Pull yourself together ! What does this mean ? Yes, what the devil does it mean ? [annib has entered and is removing the breakfast things — has watched him for a few moments, but has only caught the last word or two as she has moved to the head, of his chair. She catches sight of the photograph over his shoulder and suppresses a m,ovement of pain. She lays her hand on his shoulder, apparently unconcerned, ca/ressingly. ANNIE What is it, Frank, what is it ? Are you not well, 2 dearest ? Confide in your little mouse. You know that she will do anything for you, anything to help to make you happy. You know you have promised to share everything with her. How can you with- hold rightly what is hers — half of your secrets. Tell me, Frank, tell me what is troubling you ? FRANK Nothing, dear, nothing, nothing is the matter. What should be the matter ? It is only that scene, that last scene. Mrs. Courtree complains of it ; says it is weak and ineffective — says I miss the climax. The worst of it is, that I think she is right, and yet for the life of me I don't see how I am to change it so as to satisfy her. ANNIE How can she, Prank ! How dare she find fault with your work ! If she can't act that scene, there are many who can. FRANK You forget, dearest, that the play is written for her — to her order — and that I must do my best to please her. ANNIE You won't spoil your work for her sake ! To suit 3 her whims ! To avoid showing her weakness ! If she is unable to act the part you have written, if she cannot reahse and reproduce on the stage the creature of your imagination, you won't on that account treat your character like a tailor's misfit and alter and cut it about. If you change it, Frank, it will show the alterations. The seams will be awry, the buttons won't correspond with their holes, and the thing will hang in folds and ugly creases. Don't touch it, Frank — don't ! FRANK Ah, but I must, dearest. ANNIE You must not ! You mMst nothing ! You are engaged to produce a work of art, not a thing of shreds and patches ! You have created a work of art. They cannot withhold your pay. FRANK They are not at all likely to do that. ANNIE Then why should you care ? Why should you listen to her complaiats ? You will not — you cannot write down to the level of her puny intellect. She 4 is bound to produce the play ; if it shows up her own littleness, that won't aflfeet you. FRANK She might suppress the play, pay me, and let it be understood that the thing had turned out such a disappointment that no sane person would risk a sovereign to produce it. ANNIE But they would never believe that — never ! How could they, after the praise they have showered upon you ? After the fuss they have made of you as the rising dramatist of our time ? Just fancy what fools they would appear ! FRANK Ah, my dear, I fear that consideration would never affect a critic. He is too well accustomed to the part. Criticism, particularly dramatic criticism, is the art of eating your own words. The idol of to-day is the laughing-stock of to-morrow. They praise you once, because of the momentary sensation that is caused by a new discovery. But their amour-propre does not allow them to praise you twice. When your second play is produced the novelty that attaches to discovering you is worn off. They are on the look-out for, if they have not already discovered a new idol, S and you are pityingly assured that you are a one- play-man, that you will never write another equal to your first. ANNIE Frank, I could never live to see you degraded, or laughed at by those who now patronise you — yes, and praise and extol you to heaven. FRANK It is for this very reason that I must first of all give satisfaction to my employers. Some day, per- haps, who knows, I may have a position making me independent of any one — when I can live for my art and my art alone. At present I am forced to consider those who pay me, those who employ, those who judge me. And, if necessary, I must succeed, notwithstand- ing my critics. One successful play is so easily explained away. If my second performance pleases less than my first, they will unhesitatingly put me back, and I shall have to fight the whole battle over again. I should have but scanty consideration from the whole gang who toady to me to-day. Too much depends upon it, Annie — ^for both of us. We must succeed — you and I ; and to do so I must please, first of all. ANNIE It is sometimes this very responsibility that you 6 feel towards me that frightens me, Frank. Some- times you appear oppressed by its weight, and you feel the necessity of immediate success on my account more than on your own. FRANK Nonsense, Annie, nonsense ! ANNIE You are so good, Prank. You fancy that you owe to me more than to yourself, to your genius, to your ambition, that you should succeed with this play — succeed in the worldly sense. Oh, Frank, that feeling is terrible. If you could only be free to do as your genius commands. I have given up so much for your sake. FRANK I know, I know ! Why remind me ? ANNIE If aught remains to me of myself you know that I would gladly, willingly, freely, give that up as well — sacrifice my whole self — ^if I could buy your independence. You have my happiness, my love, my life. Can I help you further? Indeed, can I help you — ^help you to fulfil your mission — to realise this ideal of awr life — and never, never be a hin- 7 drance in your path ? Be yourself, Frank. iGive your own work and yours alone. I would never have done what I have done, and I could never do what I would willingly do in the future, should occasion demand it, if I thought that you would degrade yourself to write a play simply to please the rabble — to fiU the coffers of a manager, and leave you on no higher platform than the rest of them, who write to amuse and tickle, for effect, and with no higher soul and no higher ambition than the making of money, and money only. FRANK You are as eloquent about things you don't under- stand as you are unreasonable. There is no idea of such a thing ; it has never entered my mind. In the first instance, I wrote what came into my head. Poor in experience of the practical requirements of the stage, I wrote certain lines. When they were spoken — spoken by an eminent actress — one whose genius the world acknowledges, whom you yourself at one time thought able more than any other to represent my character — they sounded out of proportion, and did not realise the very thing which I had hoped to realise. I am now asked to take the advice of old and experienced heads, and I am trying to remodel this poor little play of mine in the light of their greater wisdom. No, indeed, one scene and one scene only — merely to remodel it to suit the requirements 8 of the footlights, which are to me, of course, at present somewhat of a terra incognita. ANNIE [Who is lost in thought — absentk/.] Frank ! Do you remember the evening when you wrote that scene ? I see it as clear as if it had^^been yesterday. It was all planned out before, and you had waited from day to day for a moment when you could sit down with the confidence that sometimes fills you in your work, to write it. It was a Sunday, and we had been up the river with Lizzie and Jack. It was the first time those two had met ; and when we got back to the station he wanted to see her home. But we took her home ourselves ; and when we got to the dear old house I hid in the back of the four- wheeler, not to let mother see me — mother who had not seen me since the day when I came away with you. But mother did see me — bless her ! and she came out and forced me in with Lizzie. You would not stay, and excused yourself. FRANK I came home and worked. ANNIE Yes, yes ! You went home ; but I went in again among them all. They seemed to have become 9 B strange, hardly knowing how to approach me, for I was in disgrace with father, and had been held up to the little ones as a shocking example. Father could not forgive me. He was away at the time, else mother would not have dared to bring me in. Poor dear mother — ^if she had known all, would she have been so good, so kind to me ?— could she have forgiven that I was not as she? She could never have seen it all from my point of view — she could not have understood. It seemed wrong of me to go in there among them ; but I could not resist the tempta- tion to see them again and to feel for a moment that I was one of them. When after a whUe I realised the deceit of it, when my eyes fell on this ring, which was there a solemn lie to them all, I felt faint, and had to go out into the air— back to you — to you, Frank. FRANK You did not stay long there. ANNIE I found you here writing, and I sat motionless and watched you for hours. All was as quiet as could be, and you were writing away f miously- — lost entirely in your work. At times I could not stifle my sobs, and I feared you would notice me ; but at length I grew calmer, and I listened to the noise of your pen, and that was the best music in the world. It lO soothed me like a lullaby, and changed all bitter- ness to joy. I was so happy. Tears came to me foolishly, all of pleasure and love for you. At last, when you had done, you turned round to me and found me there. You were surprised to see me, for you had thought yourself alone. Unconsciously, you said, my presence had given you fire and strength. You had written that scene and you were proud of it, and declared it was the best piece of work you had ever done. I had inspired it, you said, and when you read it to me, I cried again — ^bitterly. You laughed at me, I remember, and kissed me as you had never kissed me before. So — so — Frank [kissing him passionatdi/j — ^that is how you kissed me ! We were very near to one another that evening. FRANK [Impatiently.'] But we are always the same, you goose. Always the same. ANNIE You seemed so great — so unapproachably great, and I was so small, so insignificant. It was as it used to be in those first days when we met at the Academy of Music. You were the pride, the show pupil of the place, and I was trying so hard to develop my poor little voice with scale practices. You used to come in and listen to me, and although you were kind II and encouraged me, I knew well enough how poorly you thought of it all. You used to wait for me and accompany me home. Music did not satisfy you, although you excelled in it. You envied those who were free to follow the bent of their genius, and you wanted so much to be a great writer, one whose name would be on everybody's tongue. How well I re- member those walks when you first told me your plans, of the position you hoped to conquer, and you said that I — I only — could help you to do so. It was like a new world to me, and I was proud that you had chosen ] me to confide in— me of all the others. Oh, Frank, those were very happy days ! FRANK And these ? Are we not always the same ? Ever since you left your parents and came to me, because we were indispensable to one another. Have we not always been the same ? And just as you have given up and sacrificed so much for our common cause, have I not also done everything in my power to achieve that success, that assurance, which — which ANNIE \Interru2}ting\ — which would enable you to quite fulfil your promise — to make me an honest woman. I know, Frank ; I know ; you are good, and I am silly j but it sometimes overcomes me— this feeling — 12 lately, perhaps, more than ever. Porgive me, Frank. At times I am almost jealous of the attention you seem to be compelled to pay to Mrs. Oourtree, When she sends for you, you go to see her, by night or day, and what she asks, you are bound to do. Sometimes that seems unreasonable to me. It — it pains me ; but then I reflect, and I know that you love me, that you must love me, with all your heart — with all your heart, Frank. Me, and me only. FRANK Of course, you sUly little goose, of course I do. Mrs. Courtree ! Ha! ha! "What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba ! " ANNIE [Eises as if to go. She picks up a tray, puts it down (igainj\ Frank, you will remember to-day. Lizzie is coming. Is Jack coming also ? FRANK I hope so. I wrote and asked him. There is no reply ; but you know how careless he is about answer- ing letters. I told him Lizzie would be here, and I fancy that will bring him. But he would come to-day anyhow — to-day of all days. He knows how much we want him to-day. 13 ANNIE Frank, dear, do you know I am a little frightened of Jack sometimes — am I unreasonable ? I fancy sometimes that he is not so good a friend now as he used to be, that there is something interested in his friendship. His pretended infatuation for Lizzie — ^is it an honest love ? How can he want to marry her ? Eich as he is, and she poor. He — so well versed in the ways of the world — a man about town, with his clubs and his friends, and always in a rush of pleasure and excitement. She, a simple, pretty, inexperienced little girl, who has seen nothing, been nowhere, with only her own family circle and a few school friends. You know how strict we were kept at home. FRANK I know — too much Nonconformist conscience about the place. ANNIE Father would allow us to go nowhere, not even to an innocent dance or to a theatre. Duty, obedience, and piety, how often have I heard those words from his lips, until I got tired and weary, and life in its grey dullness seemed so intolerable — until you came into it. Lizzie has been kept even stricter than I was kept, since I, in father's words, "went wrong." You spoke to me first of what is noble and great, of the 14 freedom of thought, of the beauty of an independent mind, and of art, holy, glorious art ! Yes, you were my saviour, my bringer of light, my own dear Prank. But Jack ! FRANK And why should not Jack be the same to Lizzie ? Why should he not make her happy ? He is a good friend, he has always been a good friend, and I owe him so much — ^gratitude. Jack's very fond of Lizzie, and he is wealthy, which is, after all, half the battle of life ! ANNIE He is not like you, Frank ; he is very different — a man of pleasure He cannot desire Lizzie for his wife. FRANK WeU, and if he does not, what harm is there in an innocent flirtation ? He is a good friend — ^is Jack ! ANNIE Frank, how can you say such things — ^how ! — men like Jack don't waste their time on little suburban helles without an object. You must help me to prevent their meeting too often. Frank, you will, won't you, dearest ? IS FRANK And what excuse can I make to Jack ? He has always been a good friend. I can't suddenly insult him, and besides, why should I ? Perhaps he won't come to-day, and you will have changed your mind about him by to-morrow, little goose ! She must not worry her stupid little brain about all sorts of night- mares. She must only think of nice, pretty things, and just dote on her own boy. Run along and get things ready. I know we shall have to wait ever so long for our dinner. ANNIE Very well, Frank. I love you and adore you ! But you will keep an eye on them, won't you, dearest ? There now — [gets his hat] — you go out and get a blow while I prepare for dinner. [She kisses him. Exit aunie with tray, while he lights cigarette. He goes to sideboard, takes glass of brandy. FRANK [Alone.] Nuisance all this business. [Putting up his papers at writing-tahle, picks up photo of Mrs. Court/ree, loses himself in contemplation i] If Annie does not get married soon .... you .... but no — must not think of you [putting aivay picture] — not think of you ! [GoiTig towards door, where he meets i6 LIZZIE.] Hullo ! little 'un, little sister-in-law, how are we? LIZZIE I am very well, Frank. Hope you're the same. [Latcghs.'] Where is Annie ? FRANK Oh, Annie is cooking and slaving away as usual. I will send her up to you, I am just going out ; shall be back directly. Ta, ta. [Exit. [lizzie puts down small hag which she has catrried; takes off her hat and mrra/nges her hair in front of the mirror ; takes a small parcel out of her hag. LIZZIE I have a good mind to go down and help her. What a lovely time she must have here. Erank is so good to her, and none of the nagging of father and mother. I am getting tired of it. Barely enough pocket-money to dress yourself respectably. These gloves I have worn for over two months — they are positively indecent, darned at every seam. I wish I could find some rich old man asleep whom it would take a brass band to awake. I'd kiss him for ten minutes — sixty to the minute — and make him give me enough gloves to enable me to show my hands outside of my 17 c muff all the rest of my life. \CoquetUshly looking at a very dainty little hamd.'] I hate mu£& — all sorts of rnufi^. Jack is not a muff. [Laughs merrily.] [Opens the piamo cmd plays a Jew cliords of a popula/r song. Enter annie. ANNIE [Kissing lizzie.] Frank told me you were here. Why didn't you come down to me ? You might have learnt how to make a custard. It's all done now. However, you can help me lay the cloth. How are they at home, dear ? How is mother, and Dolly, and Tots? LIZZIE They are all right. Mother sends you this. ANNIE Oh, thanks, dear. LIZZIE Don't open it now ; after dinner. ANNIE Very well, then ; and how is- i8 LIZZIE [Interrupting.] Father ? He actually asked after you the other day. ANNIE Did he though ? LIZZIE He has been reading in the Review of E6views the Man of the Month — ^about Frank, and he seems quite interested in him. He didn't even object to my coming here — for the first time, and I may stay. There's my bag. Is Jack coming ? Enter jack. JACK Good morning. LIZZIE Well, I do declare ! Speak of the JACK I h^,ve just looked in to answer Frank's note ; I only got it to-day. I shall be very happy to come in later. Have not seen Frank for ages, ANNIE Frank will be delighted, I feel sure. 19 JACK It is almost time, I suppose ; but I have just got to run up the street. I shall not be many minutes. Ah ! There's Miss Lizzie, too ; I hope quite well. LIZZIE Oh, yes ; very well. I did hope we were going to have a quiet time here to-day. [jack laughs. JACK There we are again. Sauce-box. [Twming to ANNIE.] That girl teases me and abuses me whenever she sees me. "What have I done to her ? ANNIE It strikes me, Mr. Durwen, that you two get on remarkably well, and that you don't suffer much from her sauce. You will excuse us, please, I must go to make myself look presentable, and Lizzie has got to lay the cloth for dinner. JACK Capital! Then I will show her how to do it. It is not very pressing, any way, my business ; and I am quite certain that if Miss Lizzie is left alone she wiU give me nothing but knives [Exit annie shruggimg her shoulders], and I shall cut myself 20 with them, and she will laugh, having a whole handfiil of spoons to herself. I wonder, when I am badly hurt, whether she will give me just one spoon — will she ? LIZZIE She will give you neither one thing nor the other. You shall stand in the corner and watch us eating, if you continue in your present behaviour. You are an impertinent, useless person, and may just as well go about your business. Let me lay the cloth. JACK Why certainly — only you might give me a trial. I am an excellent master — expert in these things, and you would get the advantage of being taught the art of making a table look attractive. Take this end of the table-cloth, spread it over here, and smooth out the creases. Now the flowers ; no, stay, how many shall we be ? LIZZIE Why, four of course, you silly. JACK Here Annie, and Frank opposite, you here and I here. No, that would not do ; there would be the girls together and the men together — girl facing girl, and man facing man. It will give me a better appe- tite, because if I have your face to look at all the whUe, little cat, I shall forget all about the eating. [He has come close to her and put his arm round her ; she shakes him off. LIZZIE Yes, it will be better for me, too, because if your face is opposite to mine I shall look persistently into my plate. JACK Then, I bet, you'll manage to get hold of one of these tin ones, and that you'll polish its surface so that it reflects your divine little mask. LIZZIE I wish you would go away and let me lay the cloth ; you are a positive nuisance. JACK Veiy well, then, I will ; but before I go — I say, Lizzie, I have got a box for the Gaiety to-night: do you think we could manage to go ? Would they let us ? You know you want to go to the theatre — ^you have been wanting so long. LIZZIE Oh, I should like to go to the theatre ; but, how can I ? They are sure to find out at home. I don't know what father would do if he thought I had been to the play. He thinks the theatre so wicked, and yet Frank is something theatrical himself, is he not ? Why he wrote a play, and even that was "strictly prohibited." I wish I dared to go. JACK They won't know. We can get you home early, just as if you had spent the evening here quietly. LIZZIE Oh, that does not matter because I am going to stay here over night. But Annie will never let me. She would not dare to. Father would never let me come here again. This is the first time I have come here to stay over night. I had to promise all sorts of things before T could get permission. I wanted so much to stay with my married sister. It does seem unreasonable to have a married sister and not to be allowed to stay with her. What else are married sisters for ? JACK \Laughing.'\ Yes, indeed. Good old married sisters ! LIZZIE It was bad enough before Annie ran away and 23 got married wifclioufc father's consent, but since then he is awful. We are hardly allowed out of sight, and in the evenings we have to read — aloud, mind you. If at least we could read to ourselves, one could have a nice exciting shocker inside the covers of the " Pilgrim's Progress." But we've got to read aloud to him, whether we like it or not. He is getting worse and worse. He hardly ever mentions Annie's name, just because they got married without asking him to the wedding. I shovM like to go, though. I shall never have another chance. Oh, Jack, it would be lovely. How aggravating ! JACK We must make a plan of campaign together. Let's see ! I will tell you what. We'll say nothing till after dinner, and then I'U broach the subject. I'll suggest our going all together. LIZZIE Yes, that wiU be the best. If I am with Annie, it can't be so awful. Oh, Jack, you are nice. JACK Am I, though, little miss ? [He goes up to her. LIZZIE Go away, and let me lay the table. 24 JACK I want a kiss before I go. LIZZIE Certainly not. JACK Well, I shall not go, then. LIZZIE You will go. JACK Well, I shall not take you to the play, then. LIZZIE Oh, Jack, you are aggravating ! JACK A kiss or no play — which shall it be ? LIZZIE Very well, then — but one only — and you will go immediately — promise. 25 » JACK Why, certainly. [She holds her cheek and he kisses it.] You don't call that a kiss. LIZZIE That is all you'll get, any way. JACK I am not going to take that — that's a counterfeit. I want the real article while I am about it — a bargain is a bargain. LIZZIE Are you a man of honour, Mister Jack, or are you not ? You promised to go if I gave you a kiss, and you have had one. JACK I took oue, you gave me nothing at all. You don't call that giving a Idss, do you ? [He comes Tiear her and kisses her on the mouth.] See, now I am satisfied. Adieu, my dear ! LIZZIE You beast ! Enter annie from bedroom, having chmiged her gown and smartened herself. 26 ANNIE What ! you have not laid the table yet ? LIZZIE He has been doing nothing but making a fool of himself and hindering me from getting on. I wish you would tell him to go away. 1 have asked him to do so all the time. If I had known he was coming I should have stayed away. [jack makes a sign to annie and goes out, saying, " Baxik directly r LIZZIE What do you think of Jack, Annie ? ANNIE How do you mean, Lizzie ? He is a great friend of Frank's. I like all his friends. LIZZIE I am so glad you like him, he is such fun. ANNIE Be careful, little sister. He is a man of the world and perhaps he knows too much for you. I have sometimes wanted him not to come here so often, particularly when you were here ; but Frank is so 2-7 infatuated with him that I dare not resist his coming. LIZZIE Oh ! but has Frank paid him that money he owed him? ANNIE Money, Lizzie ! What do you mean ? Frank doesn't owe him any money. LIZZIE Oh yes he does, Jack told me so himself, and he said he would lend him as much more as ever he wanted. Jack is a good friend to Frank, I am sure of that. ANNIE [In a brown study. \ But I wish Frank owed him no money. Horrible ! horrible ! PRANK enters, bringing flowers. FRANK Here you are, little woman. [Aside to Tier.] This is our wedding-day, is it not ? And here are some violets for Lizzie. Go in there, and put them on. Jack wiU like to see you with them on. [Exit lizzie.] 28 [To ANNIE.] Annie, my love, I have thought about it all again and again. It will not do for us to remain any longer as we are now. I want you to consent at once to our marriage — all wiU be better then, and there will not be all this double life. It must be now — at once — the sooner the better. ANNIE No, Frank, I dare not yet. You know we promised one another that nothing would tempt us to this step until your success was assured. You know that our marriage before you are independent of every one — with me, whom the world would look upon as unworthy of you — would hurt your prospects, per- haps ruin them. Besides, how could we aiford to live in a way suitable to your position ? We should have to go among your friends — ^your rich, your great friends. We are not ready for that — not until the play is out. FRANK Young people need not entertain their friends, and it wiU be better that they should all know. ANNIE We must keep to what we proposed — keep to what we have planned — ^keep to what we have lived for. We swore it so solemnly that nothing should tempt 29 us to this step until the new play had been produced. If my faith ever had a doubt how could I feel myself purified again — able to look good women in the face unashamed ? Por me to marry you now would be to disbelieve you. You shall never have reason to say that I ever for one moment doubted you. You may distrust yourself, but I have faith in you. Your word is as good sis your work, and that is the best in the land. It is only a few weeks more, and then all will be well. I can wait ; I must wait. Surely you can. You risk — you can lose so little. FRANK But it is this uncertainty which is killing me ; it is preventing me from working — this double life that I am leading. The evenings out in the world of pleasure and fashion — the nights and the days of quiet at home — the hiding the one from the other — the strain is too much. You must, you must be my wife. The world — ^they al],''Mrs. Courtree and the rest of them — they shall know you, and I shall be proud to tell them how good, how loyal you were. You must, Annie — or I will not be responsible for the consequences. ANNIE Frank, there is something in the way you say that which frightens me — not on my account but on yours. 30 You can't afford now to marry me, and you would wish it undone the day after. We must keep our compact — at any cost — that promise we made one another. FRANK That promise ! That promise ! Confound our weakness which required a promise. ANNIE But, Prank, that promise was to be a help to us, to be true to our purpose, to enable us to carry out all our plans — a help, Prank, a help. FRANK I know ! I know ! How ludicrous ! What seemed then a help is now an intolerable hindrance ! Curtain. 31 SECOND ACT Dinner is over, jack and lizzie cire still at the table talking ; fbakk is discovered stretched out on a sofa. He is flushsd vdth vnne, and excited, pa^ Uouiaaiy towards the end oj the Act. LIZZIE Play us something, Frank. Something jolly, with a good rollicking tune. [She gets up, and opens the pianoJ] Come here ! don't be lazy. [He gets up, amd comes to the piano. FRANK What shall I play ? LIZZIE Anything you like, Frank. JACK Let us have some Chopin. You play Chopin so well. Anything of his — except the " Funeral March." [PEANK plays, JACK thrumming the time on the table.]. 35 Capital ! I'd give anything to play like you. Let's have a dance, Frank. LIZZIE Yes, yes ! A waltz. The " Blue Danube," Prank. [To JACK.] Come on I Help us to push the table away. [They push the dinmg-tahle towards the hack, omd move the chairs, jack takes hold q/ lizzie amd waltzes mth her. Whilst he is waltzing, he kisses her; she invmediately stops,] There, I have had enough of you. If you weren't such a useless person, you would play the piano now for me and Frank to dance ; but some people are made only to annoy. FRANK Ha, ha ! She knows you, old boy. Never mind, we will dance without music. [He whistles, aihd whirls her round twice. LIZZIE [Exhausted.] I don't care to dance without music. FRANK I can't play the music and dance at the same time ; so, if you can't dance with Jack, you must either dance without music, or do without dancing. Jack can't play a common scale. 36 LIZZIE I am quite aware of that ; neither can he dance. Here is Annie. , I shall dance with her. [annie, cmrrying a tray of coffee, stops at the door and realises the scene. ANNIE Well, I declare ! You are having a good time ; and here have I been sacrificing myself to make you coffee. [She puts down the coffee on the table. JACK Come, Mrs. Donovan! Let's have a dance. I fancy you must dance ever so much better than Lizzie. Sit down, Erank, and give us another tune. [lizzie goes up to table and pours out coffee while they are dancing. ANNIE [Exhausted, stopping.] That's enough ; I am quite out of breath. I have not danced for I don't know how long. LIZZIE Oh, Annie, I want you to dance with me ; Jack can't dance a bit. ANNIE I thought he danced very well indeed. 37 LIZZIE Oh, he slurs over all his steps ; I don't call that dancing. I want to dance with you. ANNIE Let me have my coffee first; I am perfectly ex- hausted. [rEANK sings — they all listen. Suddenly he breaks o_ff. FRANK What do you think of that ? JACK Capital, capital ! ANNIE Oh, do go on and finish it. [She is rapt in listening, jack goes up to- LIZZIE amd talks, while frank reswmes song. FRANK [Finishing.^ Another time I wiU trouble you to be quiet while I sing. Schumann with his " Schlum- merUed" has precious little chance against two aggravating gabblers like you. It's hot, fearfully hot in here, isn't it ? \Opening windovB.'\ I wonder 38 whether I shall have to go to the theatre to-night. There ought to be a wire soon, if I am wanted. ANNIE You axe not going out to-night, Frank ? FRANK I may have to go. One never knows what the caprices of one's leading lady may be. ANNIE But you won't go to-night. Surely that woman should have some consideration for your private comfort ! FRANK That woman. Mistress Jealous 1 How absurd you are. That woman. Just look at her now ! I may have to go down to the theatre to settle some im- portant business with Mrs. Courtree — ^about the gown she is to wear in the last act, or some other tomfoolery. And the mere mention of that woman's name upsets our equilibrium. Observe my lady's face. ANNIE Oh, Prank ! how can you ! I did hope you would stay at home to-night — to-night of all nights. 39 FRANK So I shall in. aU probability; but if I am called away, I can't let domestic arrangements interfere with my business. [frank goes on flaying a waltz, lizzie wants to dance with annib. ANNIE No, no ! I don't want to dance any more. LIZZIE But I wanted to dance with you. ANNIE No, dear ; go and dance with Jack. LIZZIE No, I shan't, [jack comes up and catches hold of her. JACK You shaU ! [Forces her to dance. They whirl round; he kisses her again, annie observes it. ANNIE How dare you ! What have you done ? 40 FRANK "What's the matter ? ANNIE He has kissed Lizzie ? JACK Well, and what of that ? She teases me to such an extent that I must find some means of avenging myself. ANNIE You have no right to kiss her. [To lizzie,] How could you let him ? LIZZIE I didn't ! Never mind, if he does it again I shall scream. ANNIE I must trouble you, Mr. Durwen, to treat my sister as you would wish your own sister to be treated. ^ [She goes out of the romn. LIZZIE Annie is too absurd 1 Not that I don't think you perfectly insulting and beastly ! [FoHows annie. 41 p FRANK [Laughing.] You have put your foot in it this time, old man. "Why did you let Annie see it ? If you want to kiss the girl, it won't hurt her : only Annie of late has been most intractable in her moods. I don't know what is the matter with her. She has completely changed — always referring to what those confounded people of hers would do and think. I can't make out what has come over her. She used to be entirely indifferent to the opinion of others, as long as I approved. JACK I say, Frank, I wanted you to come round to the- Gaiety this evening ; I have got a box. I thought the girls would like it. Don't you think they would come? FRANK How good of you ! I'm not sure whether I shall be able to go, I'm never certain about Mrs. Courtree, you know. She may suddenly take it into her head that she wants to see me — consult about something or other — connected with the play [jack looks doubtful]. I never know. She sends wires for me at all hours, and then I've got to leave everything and go off as fast as I can. However, if I should be called away, you can take the girls if you like — that is to say, if Annie 42 ■will go. I don't suppose she will. You will be iete-ct-tete with Lizzie — you won't mind that, will you, for once ? — although I don't for a moment pretend that a tete-d,-tUe is as agi'eeable as a partie-ca/rree, even with nice little bodies like Ijpointmg to back roorti]. I say. Jack, what a good time we used to have together ! We have had a good many of these parties-ca/rrees, haven't we ? Nothing like them, no, that there isn't ! JACK You're right there. A partie-carree certainly doesn't involve that continual effort, to please and entertain which is the essence of a tefe-&-tete. But I think I shall venture to call this the exception which proves your general rule. Can she. go with me, then ? FRANK I have no objection ; but I don't know what Annie will say. You'd better ask her. JACK I hardly think I am the best person to ask. I was going to mention it just now, when she went for me, just because I kissed that dear little sister of hers. Well, if she doesn't want the girl to go by herself, she can come and chaperon her, and I will make love to her, so that Lizzie can come home and tell you all about it, and make you jealous. 43 FRANK You are perfectly welcome, old chap — perfectly. JACK I say, Frank. How about Mrs. Courtree ? Fas- cinating woman, isn't she ! FRANK Superb, my dear f eUow, superb ! Genius ! Won- derful ! Venus cut out of a Titian canvas. JACK I thought so. You had better mind what you are about, old boy, and not singe your wings. FRANK Ha ! ha ! [He goes to drawer and takes out photo- graph.] What do you say to that ? Isn't she beauti- ful ! Heavenly ! See that hair— auburn, rich, lus- cious and seductive auburn ! JACK You used to have a liking for that, didn't you ? Do you remember .... what was her name ? FRANK Sh. [With sign to back door. Me goes to back room.] 44 Come in, girk ; don't be silly. Jack has apologised to me, and is dreadfully sorry for what he has done, and just imagine how nice he is I He has got a ticket in his pocket for a box at the Gaiety, and wants us to go there with him ! \To Aimn:.] Gro up to him and say that he is back in your good graces ; and here's good news for you, Lizzie — he has promised never to kiss you again, JACK For the present — for the present, not altogether. It would not be fair of you to rob a man of his only weapon against so dangerous a foe as that sharp- tongued little minx. [lizzie pouts. ANNIE I am very much obliged to you, I am sure, Mr. Durwen. I fear that neither my sister nor myself will be able to go to the theatre to-night. The fact is — I am expecting a friend here and am bound to stay in. FRANK Who is coming to you ? ANNIE Only the lady from upstairs. 45 FRANK Well, she can come another time. ANNIE But I happen to have asked her for to-night, and I cannot go under any circumstances. I am very much obliged to Mr. Durwen, but I am sorry I cannot go. FRANK You are not going to keep Lizzie at home on account of that old cat. ANNIE Lizzie can't go alone, and I have no time. I must copy out your MS. — what you wrote this morning. FRANK Well, that won't take you long. I did not write ten lines. That won't prevent your going. ANNIE Frank, I am not well. I cannot go. I FRANK Not well ? Why that's the first I have heard of your malady. What on earth is the matter with you ? And here you've been dancing about ! 46 ANNIE I'm sorry to upset your plans, Mr. Durwen — I really cannot go. JACK I am more than sorry that you should be too poorly to go ; but you'll come, Frank, won't you ? and bring Miss Lizzie. LIZZIE Oh, Annie ! ANNIE Lizzie, you know very well that you cannot go. You have never been allowed to go to the theatre. You remember how you tried to persuade father to allow me to take you to see Lucy Frail; but he would not hear of it. You have been entrusted to me this evening on the understanding that you do just as if you were at home. LIZZIE Oh, Annie ! But just this once ! They need never know at home. Just this once ! I do so much want to go to the theatre. You must come with us. Do, dearest. [She goes wp and, coaxes her. 47 ANNIE It is not right of you to ask me, Lizzie. You know how anxious you were to come here to-day, and you know that you would never be allowed to come again if you went to the play. FRANK Oh, well, nothing will happen to her. Surely Jack and I can take care of her ; can't we. Jack ? JACK I should think so ; but I do hope Mrs. Donovan will change her mind, and come as well. ANNIE How can you persist in this, Frank? Why do you place me in such a position ? It isn't right for lizzie to go with me or without me. You know very well how ridiculous I think the ideas of father and mother about the theatre, but, as long as Lizzie is at home, she must do as they tell her to do. FRANK But to-night she is here and you are her mother. LIZZIE Yes 1 You are my mother and you miist let me 48 go. You know how you always wanted to go ; and you did go with Frank, although father and mother objected, and now you grudge me this treat. Dearest Annie, let me go. ANNIE Lizzie, if you go, you go without my consent. I have no means of preventing you, if Frank insists upon it ; but you will make me very unhappy all the evening. LIZZIE You must come with us, ANNIE No, that I certainly shall not do. Will you faith- fully promise me, Frank, to bring Lizzie home early ? She is not accustomed to be up late. FRANK Of course I will. LIZZIE Oh, that will be joUy, dear, dear Sissy ! [She hisses her. ANNIE \To FRANK.] You know this is wrong, and you should help me to resist it. 49 G FRANK [Impatienth/.] Nonsense ! "We'll take care of her splendidly. Why you go on as if she were the first girl who had ever been to a theatre! I should really like to know what prevents your going as well, if we can't be trusted to look after that precious innocent. ANNIE [Aside to frank.] I do not wish to go with your friend — not after his insolence towards Lizzie. That's the long and the short of it. FRANK [Shriigs his shoulders and twms deliberately to jack.] You would like to brush up before you start, would you not ? Come in here. [prank cmd jack go off. ANNIE Lizzie, dear, do you really want to go ? I wish you would stay with me. I shall be so lonely. LIZZIE Oh, but dearest Annie, there is the lady from upstairs to keep you company, and you have allowed me to go. You know how much I want to go. Why do you grudge me this great treat ? You go so often ; 50 it can't be wicked to go. Why Frank himself is something at the theatre, and Erank couldn't do Tiyrong. It's only because father has never been, that he thinks it a sin to go. You aren't poorly, really, Annie, dearest, are you ? ANNIE No, Lizzie, it's not that, but after Jack's insolence, you should show him that LIZZIE Oh, but Jack is very fond of me. He told me so. He will marry me, I think. Yes, I think he will. ANNIE Nonsense, Lizzie ; you must put such nonsense out of your head. Father would never let you marry that LIZZIE Why not ? Why should he not ? And if he didn't ? He never indulges us children in anything. I should just run away, if he refused, and do exactly as you did. ANNIE For God's sake, Lizzie, don't say such things. That — ^that was all different. Promise me faithfully, Lizzie, SI that you will do nothing so foolish ; promise that you wiU do nothing without consulting me. LIZZIE Of course I shall consult you. You will help me, and then I can have a big, splendid wedding, with bridesmaids and beUs and rice and a big wedding-cake, not a poor little wedding Hke yours. [Kisses her fondly.] My dear old sister. Oh, and then Frank need not repay all that money to Jack. Jack shall give it to me, and I shall give it tp you, in return for aU the money you used to give me when I first came here — secretly, when father and mother forbade me to come. I bought ribbons and feathers, which I could only wear when I came here, because they would have wanted to know where I got them from if they had seen me with them at home. [She has put on her bownet, cmd is now quite ready to sta/rt. frank and jack enter. FRANK Ah, I see we are ready ! Isn't it too early to go ? JACK We might walk along quietly ; a walk will do us good. FRANK Yes, you are right. A little fresh air wiU make us 52 enjoy the fun all the better. It's hot in here — is it not? I suppose I shall not be wanted at the theatre — not now. It's six o'clock. I should have had a wire by now. I may as well risk it. One can't stay in night and day waiting for wires, can one ? Good-bye, Annie — you see I'm not going to thatl woman after all — you old silly. [Kisses Jwri] Cheer up. ANNIE You won't be late, Frank — on Lizzie's account. FRANK No, of course we shall not be late. We'll come back straight from the play, and give the driver six- pence extra to rattle us along quickly. [Exit. LIZZIE [Kissing annie.] I will tell you all about it dearest, dearest. [Eoseunt jack and Lizzm. ANNIE [Alone, sighs.] Why could they not stay at home? It's too bad of Frank — but then he only goes to please Lizzie and Jack — ^yes, Jack. I wish I could open Frank's eyes. But he sees no evil in him — he is blind and deaf to that man's villainy. I'm sure he 53 must be bad. He — and Mrs. Courtree — oh, what shall I do — ^what shall I do ! [She is tidying the room when the door is burst open in a hurry, and fkank reappears, holding a telegram in his hcmd.^ FRANK [Excitedly.] There — I've got to go after all. Met the boy as we turned the corner, [^eatfe.] " Call without fail 6.30. Important. Evening dress. Cour- tree." 6.30, and it's ten past six now. ANNIE But where are the others ? For Heaven's sake, you have not allowed them to go alone — Jack and Lizzie. FRANK They would not come back. They are all right. I'm to call for them. Don't you bother. I'm to call for them after the play, and bring Lizzie home. They did not want me, anyhow. ANNIE But how could you, Frank ! How could you let Lizzie go alone with that man ? FRANK What was I to do ? They insisted on going on, 54 and I had no time to waste in arguing the question. He'll take care of her. ANNIE Frank, why have you done this ? You know it is wrong. It was wrong of me to allow it ; it was wrong of you to urge it. It was wrong of Lizzie ; it was wrong of Jack. It was wrong under any cir- cumstances. But this is unheard-of — terrible. Lizzie at the Gaiety in a box alone with Jack Durwen ! Oh, Frank ! If anything were to happen to her ! FRANK You are really too ridiculous, too utterly ridiculous. What has come over you of late ? What on earth is to happen to them ? Didn't you go often enough with me to the play in the old days and since ? You look upon poor Jack as if he were a perfect Mephis- topheles. Why, dear me, he is just doing it to please the little girl, and he wanted to please you and me as well. He expected us all to go — ^thought we should enjoy the nonsense at the Gaiety. He is the best- hearted, dearest f eUow in the world. [He has poured out some hrcmdy.] And here's to his health. [Brinks it.] ANNIE Frank, you are taking too much of that ; you have had too many to-day. 55 FRANK Bosh ! I never do anything right according to you. I have got to dress now, and that quickly. Are my clothes in there ? ANNIE You will find them where they usually are. [prank turns hack as if to go q^.] Frank, teU me what is this bond between you and Jack ? FRANK What is this bond? Weren't we at school together? Wasn't he always a kind friend who stood by me — ^the influential friend who helped me when I most wanted help ! ANNIE Are you in his debt, Frank ? Do you owe him any money ? FRANK Who has made you think of that ? ANNIE Frank, do you owe Jack any money ? For God's sake tell me ! S6 FRANK Well, and if I do — a trifling sum between friends- shall pay tn'm back. ANNIE I wish you could afford never to see him again ! [prank shrugs his shmMe/rs wnd Exit, annie alone a/nd in despair^ I ought to have gone with them. If anything were to happen to Lizzie — dear, sweet little darling — and mother and father, oh, what should I do ! \She Imsies herself with the things on the table.] And there's Frank going to that Mrs. Courtree ; how I hate that woman ! And how I shall bless the day when that play is produced ! I don't even see what all the critics see in her. She doesn't seem to me so great an actress — she certainly is a very handsome woman — very handsome. [She has moved over to the sideboard, and removes the decanter a/nd glasses, picks vp photograph of Mrs. Gov/rl/ree which is lying on 'uyriting -table.] Here she is \with a grimace], Lilian Courtree. Poor Frank — poor Frank — poor me Should I take him at his word now, before it is too late — now. No, no ! He is good and true. But have I any longer the right to leave things doubtful ? And yet I must — yes I must. It would be contemptible, and I should hate myself. I will believe in him at all risk — at all risk. 57 H FRANK [Calling from bedroom.] "Where are my ties ? [She jumps wp and runs towards the door. ANNIE Where they always are. FRANK [From inside.] I have got them. What have you got in your hand there ? ANNIE Oh, nothing. [He comes in with a tie in his hand, hut otherwise FRANK Where did you find that ? ANNIE It was over there. FRANK Don't you be rummaging about in my papers. ANNIE I didn't rummage about in your papers. The picture was lying with its face up on the table, I couldn't help seeing it. 58 FRANK I am not going to be pried upon by you. ANNIE Oh, Prank, do be kind to me. FRANK Here, tie my tie. \She attempts to tie his tie, but doesn't SMcceed. He turns away abruptly and ties if himselfJ] — Like to know what's the use of you — more of a hindrance to a man than a help. [He has tied his tie, and comes up to sideboard.^ Where's the brandy ? ANNIE I have put that away, Frank. FRANK Damn it — how dare you ! [He opens sideboard and takes out bramdy, fills glass, and drinks it. Puts on his coat ami hat and goes out of door mumbling.] More of a hindrance than a help, by Jove ! ANNIE More of a hindrance than a help — and he doesn't even know. Curtain. 59 THIRD ACT Between three and four in the morning. The Boom is dark, except for the faint light of a la/mp which is on the point of going out. annie is dozing on the sofa, which is made up as a bed. She is dressed in a long gown and covered v/p with a riig. One hand hangs down over the hack of the sofa, hdlMng lightly some sheets of a MS.,pa/rt of which has dropped on the floor. Absolute stillness, except for rain which heats against the windovo-pames ; then the rvmbling noise of a heavy cart in the street, annie awakes, ANNIE Have I been asleep ? \Turns vp the light, which, however, grows dim again after a few minutes. She repeats the operation during the scene until it dies out entirety.] Ugh ! How cold it is. [Placing MS. on writing-table.] It must be late. [Examining clock on chim/ney.] What ! Half -past three ? \Rushirt^ to bedroom door.] Frank ! Frank ! Not home yet. 63 And lAzzie, oh my God ! Lizzie, where are you ? — where are you ? What has happened to you ? Let me see : you went to the play — you did, didn't you ? With Jack — ^you promised Frank to return as soon as it was over. Oh, my God ! I see it all. [Collapses, sobbing.'] Lizzie — horrible — impossible. [Opens win- dow, c(dls.\ Jjizzie ! Lizzie ! Eain — she is waiting for the rain to leave off. [Closes window.] She could not have waited till now — four hours since the play was over. Jack Durwen, give my sister back. What have you done with my sister ? [A cock crows, flien silence — she sits.] Let me try to think. Oh, I cannot ; it's too horrible. It cannot be ! It must not be ! No, no. Perhaps it is not so. Frank may be with them. Oh yes. Why, of course Frank called for them at the theatre and they went to Jack's rooms — all together — the three, and they have forgotten how late it is. Frank's playing to them — one of those beautiful melodies — Chopin or Mendelssohn or Wagner — ^yes, Wagner — and they have forgotten all about me, poor me, sitting up for them, tired, and nervous, and frightened. [Forced laugh.] Hush ! Why should they not enjoy themselves ? How could I think of any- thing else. Why, Jack wanted me and Frank to go with them, so he could have intended no wrong? Supposing I had gone — yes, supposing I had gone. How ridiculous to worry — but — ^but — but — oh, my God ! If I have done wrong, oh, my God, do not 64 punish me in this way, I beseech Thee. Have mercy upon me ! mercy upon me [She cries, and donee off sobbing. The lamp has gone out. There is only a ray of Ught shining through the drawn mjt/rtains, which grows in intensity. After a while frank enters stealthily, vn dishevelled evening dress, trofusers turned up. Takes off coat and hat, which are wet. Looking roumd, discovers figure on sofa. From his appearance,looks, and aslions, it may be inferred that he has only just recovered from the effects of d/rinkmg. FRANK Lizzie, yes of course, little Lizzie. Good job Jack brought her home. I knew he would ! As if I could be bothered to go after them — ^to-night ! Oh Lilian, Lilian, what would the whole world be without you, and why should I trouble about these ! With your love — and your kisses. Lilian, I adore you. It — it [Lights candle a/rtd moves towards back. ANNIE [Awaking, glares at him.] Where have you come from ? Where is Lizzie ? [fbane, going, shrugs his shoulders. ANNIE [Jumps up Tnadly.] Where is Lizzie ? Frank, do you hear ? Where is Lizzie ? 65 FRANK [Eeiwming.] For goodness' sake, what is the matter ? I have not got your sister. Where should she be — asleep, of course, in there, hours ago, in a comfortable bed, while you have chosen to be uncomfortable on the sofa. ANNIE Frank, I tell you Lizzie has not returned from the theatre, where she went at your wish with Jack. FRANK At my wish ! What had I got to do with it ? She is not my sister. I can't keep running after your sister. That telegram — Mrs. Courtree — business. I could not call for her. ANNIE Frank, do you know what you are saying. You promised to bring her home — to call for her at the theatre. FRANK But I could not, and that's the end of it. I'm not your sister's nursemaid. Why did you not go to the theatre with her ? You were asked to go, and you should have gone. It was your duty to go and chaperon her, not mine to kick my heels at the door 66 waiting for them. Besides, I had business to attend to — ^business, do you hear — ^business ! ANNIE Tou promised me, on your word of honour, to bring her home, and you lied. You deceived me, to let them go together. Oh, I see it all, you coward. You have sold her to that friend of yours — you — you [She faints. Pause. FRANK What are you playing at now ? Come to bed, it's late enough. Annie, what is it? — fainted. I'm damned ! \Skakes her, pats he/r ha/nd, and uses every effort to bring her to ; at last he drops her hand violently, and goes off into bedroom with the lighted candle. After a few moments, he rewppemrs at door in shirt-sleeves. She has regained consciou,sness and is sitting up, staring wildly rovmd with hand to forehead. FRANK Thought so ! You will oblige me by^not repeating that performance ; it upsets me, and it does you no good ; or if you do, I shall pack up my bag and go straight away. I warn you. ANNIE Straight away, I know. Straight to her whose 67 embraces you have barely left, whose kisses are still on your lips, and whose touch and whose scent still cling to you. To her you will go — I know it well enough ; but not yet, my friend — not till you have given me back my sister ! FRANK I tell you, I don't know where your sister is. She'll come back all right. It's raining. She is just waiting till it's over. Ugh! how wet I got trudging home — ^too late for cabs. ANNIE Yes, too late for cabs ; but not for my sister. Frank, Frank, what are you doing — what are you saying ? I beg, I beseech of 3fou, here, on my knees, Frank, go, find her. FRANK How can I find her ? I don't know where she is. I tell you that it is the rain that has kept her. She is standing under some porch for shelter. ANNIE It is four o'clock now, and the play was over at half -past eleven. She was with Jack. Where is she now? 68 FRANK Four o'clock, is it ? Suppose she has gone to Jack's rooms to wait till the rain is over. ANNIE Man, do you realise what you are saying ? Lizzie, a young girl, my sister, an innocent girl of seventeen, in a man's rooms from midnight till four in the morning. What does that mean, Frank ? FRANK Probably they could get no cab. I had to walk home, and got deuced wet. My boots are soaking. [Goes to sideboard and drinks. ANNIE [Rising to her fidl height.] Give my sister back, man, or I will not answer for my actions. [Gock crows second time. FRANK That's right. Shout and wake up the house ! You care a lot about what others say or think of us, kick- ing up a beastly row like this at four in the morning in a respectable house. ANNIE Give me my sister, man — my sister ! 69 FRANK I have not got your sister. Jack's all right. He is a friend of mine. He would not do anything that was wrong. Some trifling accident has happened, and he has thought it best to put her up for the night. ANNIE Then why has he not come here to tell me so ? Oh, no, do not teU me what you know to be false — to be ridiculous. He has done no wrong. Your men of the world never do 1 It's only we women who sin — we who believe you when you are Isring — who give up aU and everything to you — our body, our very soul — just to gratify a little momentary infatuation on your part. But, by God ! I wUl not stand by and watch the undoing of my sister. FRANK TJgh ! You are remarkablyeloquent in denouncing your sister without a vestige of evidence against her. Besides, what's good enough for you is good enough for her ! How do you know that Jack won't be the same to Lizzie that I have been to you ? ANNIE How dare you say that — how dare you ! She could not love as I have loved, poor little thing — a child — a 70 mere child. You coward ! You have sold her to him for his gold — ^you have bartered her away as if she had been your chattel ! [She is beside herself, and has seized the glass which he has just filled and is about to drink from. She dashes it on the floor; he pushes hear. She slaps his face, and he then catches hold of her as if to strangle her, shakes her, and throws her backwards on to the sofa, from which she rolls hea/oily on to the floor. FRANK [Exoitedli/ turns to writimg-tahle, where he rummages wUdJl/y a/mong papers, strewing his MS. about on floor. He takes up photo of Mrs. Cowrtree and props it against deca/nteir, saluting it a^ he drinks. Cock crows third time. He them, takes glass and decamter, turning to bedroom. Oblivious of annie, he stumbles over her form as he totters off. He casts a dull backward glcmce at her, mwmbHmg.'\ Hindrance again — everlasting hin- drance ! Curtain. Printed ly Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. London and Edinburgh. List of Books IN Belles Lettres All the Books in this Catalogue are Published at Net Prices rSirx ji tkik. Telegraphic tAddrea " ' Bodleian, London i8g4. List of Books IN "BELLBS LSrrRSS (Including some Transfers) Published by John Lane Vigo Street, London, W. N.B. — The Authors and Publisher reserve the right of reprinting any book in this list if a new edition is called for, except in cases where a stipulation has been made to the contrary, and of printing a separate edition of any of the boohs for America irrespective of the numbers to which the English editions are limited. The numbers Tnentioned do not include copies sent to the public libraries, rwr those sent for review. Most of the books are published simultaneously in England and America, and in many instances the names of the American publishers are appended^ ■«?&^ ADAMS {FRANCIS). Essays in Modernity. Cr. 8vo. ^. net. {Shortly. Chicago: Stone Sf Kimball. ADAMS (FRANCIS). A Child of the Age. Cr. 8vo. 3J. 6d. net. {See Keynotes Series.) Boston: Roberts Bros. THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE ALLEN (GRANT). The Lower Slopes : A Volume of Verse. With title-page and cover design by J. Illingworth Kay. 600 copies, cr. 8vo. ss. net. Chicago: Stone &> Kimtall, ALLEN (GRANT). The Woman Who Did. Cr. 8vo. 3^. 6d. net. (See Keynotes Series.) [In rapid preparation. Boston : Roberts Bros. BEARDSLEY (AUBREY). The Story of Venus and Tannhauser, in which is set forth an exact account of the Manner of State held by Madam Venus, Goddess and Meretrix, under the famous Horselberg, and containing the adventures of Tannhauser in that place, his repentance, his journeying to Rome, and return to the loving mountain. By Aubrey Beardsley. With 20 full-page illustrations, numerous ornaments, and a cover from the same hand. Sq. i6mo. xos. 6d. net. \ln preparation. BEECHING (Rev. H. C.) In a Garden : Poems. With a title-page designed by Roger Fry. Cr. 8vo. sj. net. \/n preparation. BENSON (ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER). A New Volume of Poems. Fcap. 8vo. s^. net. [In rapid preparation. BROTHERTON (MARY). Rosemary for Remembrance. With title-page designed by Walter West. Fcap. 8vo. s^- "«'• \In rapid preparation. DALMON (C. W.). Song Favours. With a specially designed title-page. Sq. l6mo. 45. 6d. net. [In preparation. D'ARCY (ELLA). A Volume of Stories. Cr. 8vo. y. 6d. net. [In preparation. (See Keynotes Series.) Boston: Roberts Bros, THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE DAVIDSON {yOHN). Plays : An Unhistorical Pastoral ; A Romantic Farce ; Bruce, a Chronicle Play ; Smith, a Tragic Farce ; Scaj^- mouch in Naxos, a Pantomime. With a frontispiece and cover design by Aubrey Beardsley. Printed at the , Ballantyne Press. 500 copies, sm. 4to. 7s. 6d. net. Chicago: Stone &' Kimball, DAVIDSON (JOHN). Fleet St. Eclogues. 2nd edition, fcap. 8vo, buckram. Ss. net. DAVIDSON (JOHN). A Random Itinerary and a Ballad. With a frontispiece and title-page by Laurence Housman. 600 copies. Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. $s. net. Boston: Copeland 6= Day. DAVIDSON (JOHN). The North Wall. Fcap. 8vo. as. 6d. net, Tkefeui remaining copies transferred by the Author to the present Publisher^' DAVIDSON (JOHN). Ballads and Songs. With title-page designed by Walter West. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5^. net. Boston : Copeland 6= Day. DE TABLEY (LORD). Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical. By John Leicester Warren (Lord De Tabley). Illustrations and cover design by C. S. Ricketts. 2nd edition, cr. 8vo. js. 6d. net. DE TABLEY (LORD). A New Volume of Poems. Cr. 8vo. y. net. [/« preparation, EGERTON (GEORGE). Keynotes. Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net, (See Keynotes Series.) Boston: Roberts Bros. THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE EGERTON {GEORGE). Discords. Cr. 8vo. 31. 6il. net. (See Keynotes Series). Boston : Roberts Bros. EGERTON {GEORGE). Young Ofeg's Ditties. A translation from the Swedish of Ola Hansson. Crown 8vo. 3^. 6d. net. [In preparation. FARR (FLORENCE). The Dancing Faun. Cr. 8vo. 31. 6rf. net. (See Keynotes Series. )g,Vfi Boston: Soterts Bros. FLETCHER (J. S.). The Wonderful Wapentake. By "A Son of the Soil." With 18 full-page illustrations on Japanese vellum, by J. A. Symington. Cr. 8vo. s-'- ^- "«'• GALE (NORMAN). Orchard Songs. With title-page and cover design by J. Illingvyorth Kay. Fcap. 8vo. Irish Linen, y. net. Also a special edition limited in number on hand-made paper bound in English vellum. ;^i is. net. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. GARNET! (RICHARD). Poems. With title-page by J. Illingworth Kay. 350 copies, cr. 8vo. 5^. net. Boston : Copeland &» Day. GOSSE (EDMUND). The Letters of Thomas Lovell Beddoes. Now first edited. Pott 8vo. 51. net. Also 25 copies large paper, 12s. 6d. net. New York: Macmillan &• Co. GRAHAME (KENNETH). Pagan Papers : A Volume of Essays.' With title-page by Aubrey Beardsley. Fcap. 8vo. 5^. net. Chicago: Stone if Kimtall, J THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE GREENE (G. A.). Italian Lyrists of To-Day. Translations in the original metres from about 35 living Italian poets with bibliographi- cal and biographical notes, cr. 8vo. 5^. net. New York: Macmillan &■ Co. GREENWOOD {FREDERICK). Imagination in Dreams. Crown 8vo. s-'- "^f- HAKE {T. GORDON). A Selection from his Poems. Edited by Mrs. Meynell. With a portrait after D. G. Rossetti, and a cover design by Gleeson White. Cr. 8vo. s^. net. Chicago: Stone 6= Kimball. HARLAND {HENRY). The Bohemian Girl, and Other Stories. Crown 8vo. y. 6d.net. {5ee KEYNOTES Series.) lln preparation. Boston : Roterts Bros. HAYES (ALFRED). The Vale: of Arden, and Other Poems. With a title- page designed by E. H. New. Fcap. 8vo. 3J. 6cl. net. HEINEMANN {WILLIAM). The First Step : A Dramatic Moment. Sm. 4to, 3^. 6il. net. [/n rapid preparation. HOPPER (NORA). Ballads in Prose. With a title-page and cover by Walter West. Sq. i6mo. ss. net. Boston : Roberts Bros. IRVING (LAURENCE). GODEFROI AND YoLANDE : A Play. With 3 illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley. Sm. 4to. s-^- "«'• [/» preparation. JAMES (W. P.). Romantic Professions : A volume of Essays. With title- page designed by J. Illingworth Kay. Cr. 8vo. cs. net. New York: Macmillan &> Co. JOHNSON (LIONEL). The Art of Thomas Hardy. Six Essays, with etched portrait by Wm. Strang, and Bibliography by John Lane. Second edition, cr. 8vo. Buckram, ^s. 6d. net. Also ISO copies, large paper, with proofs of the portrait. £,i.s. IS. net. New York : Dodd, Mead Sf Co. THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE JOHNSON (PAULINE). White Wampum : Poems. Cr. 8vo. jf. nei. \In preparation. JOHNSTONE (C. £.). Ballads of Boy and Beak. Fcap. 8vo. ss. 6d. net. \In preparation. KEYNOTES SERIES. Each volume with specially designed title-page by Aubrey Beardsley. Cr. 8vo, cloth: 3^. 6d. net. Vol. I. Keynotes. By George Egerton. [Sixth edition nmu ready. Vol. n. The Dancing Faun. By Florence Farr. Vol. III. Poor Folk. Translated from the Russian of F. Dostoievsky by Lena Milman, with a preface by George Moore. Vol. IV. A Child of the Age. By Francis Adams. Vol. V. The Great God Pan and the Inmost Light. By Arthur Machen. Vol. VI. Discords. By George Egerton. The following are in rapid preparation. Vol. VII. Prince Zaleski. By M. P. Shiel. Vol. VIII. The Woman vitho Did. By Grant Allen. Vol. IX. Women's Tragedies. By H. D. Lowry. Vol. X. The Bohemian Girl and Other Stories. By Henry Haeland. Vol. XL A Volume of Stories. By H. B. Marriott Watson. Vol. XII. A Volume of Stories. By Ella D'Arcy. Boston : Roberts Bros. LEATHER {R. K.). Verses. 250 copies, fcap. 8vo. jr. net. Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher. LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). Prose Fancies. With portrait of the Author by Wilson Steer. Third edition, cr. 8vo, purple cloth, uniform with " The Religion of a Literary Man." 5J. net. Also a limited large paper edition, izs. 6d. net. New York ; G. P. Putnam! s Sons. THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE LB GALLIENNE {RICHARD). The Book Bills of Narcissus. An account rendered by Richard le Gallienne. Third edition, with a frontis- piece, or. 8vo, purple cloth, uniform with " The Religion of a Literary Man." 3s. 6d. net. [In rapid preparation. LB GALLIENNE {RICHARD). English Poems. 3rd edition, cr. 8vo, purple cloth, uniform with " The Religion of a Literary Man." s^- '^^• Boston: Copeland 6= Day. LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). George Meredith: some Characteristics; with a Biblio- graphy (much enlarged) by JOHN Lane, portrait, &c. Fourth edition, cr. 8vo, purple cloth, uniform with " The Religion of a Literary Man." $s, 6d. net. LB GALLIENNE (RICHARD). The Religion of a Literary Man. s"' thousand, cr. 8vo, purple cloth. 3^, 6d. net. Also a special rubricated edition on hand-made paper, 8vo. \os. 6d. net. Nem York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. LOWRY {H. D.). Women's Tragedies. Cr. 8vo, 3^. 6d. net, (See Keynotes Series.) [In preparation. Boston: Roterts Bros. LUCAS (WINIFRED). A Volume of Poems. Fcap. 8vo. 41. 6d. net. [In preparation^ MACHEN (ARTHUR). The Great God Pan and The Inmost Light. Cr. 8vo. 3i. 6d. net. (See Keynotes Series.) Boston : Soierts Bros. THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE MARZIALS (THEO.). The Gallery of Pigeons and Other Poems. Post 8vo. 4^. 6d. net. [ Very few remain. Transferred by the Author to the present PulUsher. MEREDITH (GEORGE). The First Published Portrait of this Author, engjaved on the wood by W. Biscombe Gardner, after the painting by G. F. Watts. Proof copies on Japanese vellum, signed by painter and engraver. £x is. net. MEYNELL (MRS.). (ALICE C. THOMPSON). Poems, and edition, fcap. 8vo. y. 6d. net. A few of the 50 large paper copies (ist edition) remain, iss. 6d. net. MEYNELL (MRS.). The Rhythm of Life and Other Essays, and edition, fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. A few of the 50 large paper copies {ist edition) remain, I2i. (>d. net. MILLER (JOAQUIN). The Building of the City Beautiful. Fcap. Svo. With a decorated cover, s^' "*'• \yiist published. Chicago: Stone &° Kimball. MILMAN (LENA). Poor Folk. Translated from the Russian of F. Dostoievsky. (See Keynotes Series). Cr. Bvo. 3^. 6rf. net. Boston: Roberts Bros. MONKHOUSE (ALLAN). Books and Plays : A Volume of Essays on Meredith, Borrow, Ibsen and others. 400 copies, crown Svo. 55. net. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Co. NESBIT (E.). A Volume of Poems. Cr. Svo. s-^- ««'■ [/» preparation. NETTLESHIP (J. T.). Robert Browning. Essays and Thoughts. Third edition, with a portrait, cr. Svo. s^- S"^- "^i- New York: Chas. Scribner's Sons, THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE I I NOBLE {J AS. ASHCROFT). The Sonnet in England, and Other Essays. Title-page and cover design by Austin Young. 600 copies, cr. 8vo. SJ. net. Also 50 copies, large paper, izs. 6d. net, O'SHAUGHNESSY {ARTHUR). His Life and His Work. With selections from his Poems. By Louise Chandler Moulton. Portrait and cover design, fcap. 8vo. ^s. net. [Just published. Chicago: Stone £r= Kimball. OXFORD CHARACTERS. A series of lithographed portraits by Will Rothenstein, with text by F. York Powell and others. To be issued monthly in term. Each number will contain two portraits. Parts 1. to V. ready. 200 sets only, folio, wrapper, 5s. net per part; 25 special large paper sets containing proof impressions of the portraits signed by the artist, 10s. 6d. net per part. PETERS (WM. THEODORE). Posies out op Rings. Sq. i6mo. y. 6d. net. [In preparation. PLARR (VICTOR). A Volume of Poems. Cr. 8vo. 5^. net. [In preparation. RICKETTS (C. S.) AND C. H. SHANNON. Hero and Leander. By Christopher Marlowe and George Chapman. With borders, initials, and illus- trations designed and engraved on the wood by C. S. RiCKETTS and C. H. Shannon. Bound in English vellum and gold. 200 copies only. 3Ss. Tiet. Boston: Copeland 6» Day. RHYS {ERNEST). A London Rose and Other Rhymes. With title-page designed by Selwtyn Image. 350 copies, cr. 8vo. SJ. net. New York: Dodd, Mead Sf Co. SHIEL (M. P.). Prince Zaleski. Cr. 8vo. 3J. 6d. net. {See Keynotes Series.) [In preparation. Boston: Roberts Bros. THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE STREET (G. S.). The Autobiography of a Boy. Passages selected by his friend, G. S. S. With title-page designed by C. W. FURSE. Fcap. 8vo. 3^. 6ii. net. [Fourth Edition now ready. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Co. SYMONS (ARTHUR). A New Volume of Poems. Cr. 8vo. ss. net. [In preparation. THOMPSON {FRANCIS). A Volume of Poems. With frontispiece, title-page, and cover design by Laurence Housman. 4th edition, pott4to. 5J. net. Boston: Copeland &= Day. TREE (H. BEERBOHM). The Imaginative Faculty, a Lecture delivered at the Royal Institution. With portrait of Mr. Tree from an unpublished drawing by the Marchioness of Granby. Fcap. 8vo, boards. 2J. 6d. net. TYNAN HINKSON (KATHARINE). Cuckoo Songs. With title-page and cover design by Laur- ence Housman. Fcap. 8vo. 5^. net. Boston : Copeland 6= Day. TYNAN HINKSON (KATHARINE). Miracle Plays. [In preparation. WATSON (H. B. MARRIOTT). A Volume of Stories. Crown 8vo. jr. 6d. net. (See Keynotes Series.) [In preparation. Boston: Roberts Bros. WATSON (WILLIAM). Odes, and Other Poems. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 45. 6d. net. New York : Macmillan 6° Co. WATSON (WILLIAM). The Eloping Angels : A Caprice. Second edition, sq. i6mo, buckram. 3J. dd. net. New York: Macmillan Sf Co. WATSON (WILLIAM). Excursions in Criticism ; being some Prose Recreations of a Rhymer. 2nd edition, cr. 8vo. 5J. net. NeuhYork: Macmillan &" Co. THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE 1 3 WATSON {WILLIAM). The Prince's Quest, and Other Poems. With a biblio- graphical note added. 2nd edition, fcap. 8vo. +1. 6d. net. WATTS (THEODORE). Poems. Crown 8vo. s^- "*'• [^" preparation. There will also be an Edition de Luxe of this volume, printed at the Kelmscott Press. WHARTON {H.T.). Sappho. Memoir, text, selected renderings, and a literal trans- lation by Henry Thornton Wharton. With Three . illustrations, fdap. 8vo. yx. 6d. net. [In preparation. WILDE (OSCAR). The Sphinx. A Poem. Decorated throughout in line and colour and bound in a design by Charles Ricketts. 250 copies, £z zs. net. 25 copies large paper, ;^s .V- i-^*- Boston: Copeland &' Day. WILDE (OSCAR). The incomparable and ingenious history of Mr. W. 'H. , being the true secret of Shakespear's sonnets, now for the first time here liilly set forth. With initial letters and cover design by Charles Ricketts. 500 copies, lor. 6d. net. Also 50 copies large paper, 21J. net. [In preparation. WILDE (OSCAR). Dramatic Works, now printed for the first time. With a specially designed binding to each volume, by Charles Shannon. 500 copies, sm. 4to, 7s. 6d. net per vol. Also so copies large paper, 15^. net per vol. VoL I. Lady Windermere's Fan. A comedy in four acts. [Out of print. Vol. II. A Woman of No Importance. A comedy in four acts. [Just published. Vol. III. The Duchess of Padua. A blank verse tragedy in five acts. [ Very shortly. Boston : Copeland &= Day. WILDE (OSCAR). Salome : A Tragedy in one act, done into English, with 10 illustrations, title-page, tail-piece, and cover design by Aubrey Beardsley. 500 copies, sm. 410. ijj. net. Also 100 copies large paper, 30J. net. Boston : Copeland Sf Day. 14 THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE The Yellow Book. An Illustrated Quarterly. VOL. I. Fourth Edition, pott 4to, 272 pages, 15 Illustrations, Decorative Cloth Cover, price 5s. net. The Letterpress by Max Beerbohm, A. C. Benson, Hubert Crackanthorpe, Ella D'Arcy, John Davidson, Georce Egerton, Richard Garnett, Edmund Gosse, Henry Harland, John Oliver Hobbes, Henry James, Richard LE Gallienne, George Moore, George Saintsbury, Fred. M. Simpson, Arthur Symons, William Watson, Arthur Waugh. The Illustrations by Sir Frederic Leighton, P.R.A., Aubrey Beardsley, R. Anning Bell, Charles W. Furse, Laurence Housman, J. T. Nettleship, Joseph Pennell, Will Rothenstein, Walter Sickert. VOL. II. Third Edition, pott 4to, 364 pages, 23 Illustrations, with a New Decorative Cloth Cover, price 5s. net. The Literary Contributions by Frederick Greenwood, Ella D'Arcy, Charles Willeby, John Davidson, Henry Harland, Dollie Radford, Charlotte M. Mew, Austin Dobson, V., O., C. S., Katharine de Mattos, Philip Gilbert Hamerton, Ronald Campbell Macfie, Dauphin Meunieh, Kenneth Grahame, Nor- man Gale, Netta Syrett, Hubert Crackanthorpe, Alfred Hayes, Max Beerbohm, William Watson, and Henry James. The Art Contributions by Walter Crane, A. S. Hartrick, Aubrey Beardsley, Alfred Thornton, P. Wilson Steer, John S. Sargent, A.R.A., Sydney Adamson, Walter Sickert, W. Brown MacDougal, E. J. Sullivan, Francis Forster, Bernhard Sickert, and Aymer Vallance. A Special Feature of Volume II. is a frank criticism of the Literature and Art of Volume I. by Philip Gilbert Hamerton. THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE I 5 VOL. III. Second Edition, foil 4to, 280 pages, 15 Illustrations, with a New Decorative Cloth Cover, price 5s. net. The Literary Contributions by William Watson, Kenneth Grahame. Arthur Symons, Ella D'Arcy, JosiS Maria DE H]Sr£dia, Ellen M. Clerke, Henry Harland, Theo Marzials, Ernest Dowson, Theodore Wratislaw, Arthur Moore, Olive Custance, Lionel Johnson, Annie Macdonell, C. S., Nora Hopper, S. Cornish Watkins, Hubert Crackanthorpe, Morton Fuller- ton, Leila Macdonald, C. W. Dalmon, Max Beerbohm, and John Davidson. The Art Contributions by Philip Broughton, George Thomson, Aubrey Beardsley, Albert Foschter, Walter Sickert, P. Wilson Steer, William Hyde, and Max Beerbohm. Prospectuses Post Free on Application. Boston: Copeland &' Day,