"My mother--good G.o.d, she is coming. She is at the Bristol and is coming here. What can I do?"
Lady Cicely is quiet now.
"Does she know?"
"Nothing, nothing."
"How did she find you?"
"I don"t know. I can"t imagine. I knew when I saw in the papers that my father was dead that she would come home. But I kept back the address. I told the solicitors, curse them, to keep it secret."
Mr. Harding paces the stage giving an imitation of a weak man trapped.
He keeps muttering, "What can I do?"
Lady Cicely speaks very firmly and proudly. "Jack."
"What?"
"There is only one thing to do. Tell her."
Mr. Harding, aghast, "Tell her?"
"Yes, tell her about our love, about everything. I am not ashamed. Let her judge me."
Mr. Harding sinks into a chair. He keeps shivering and saying, "I tell you, I can"t; I can"t. She wouldn"t understand." The letter is fluttering in his hand. His face is contemptible. He does it splendidly.
Lady Cicely picks the letter from his hand. She reads it aloud, her eyes widening as she reads:
HOTEL BRISTOL, PARIS.
MY DARLING BOY:
I have found you at last--why have you sought to avoid me? G.o.d grant there is nothing wrong.
He is dead, the man I taught you to call your father, and I can tell you all now. I am coming to you this instant.
MARGARET HARDING.
Lady Cicely reads, her eyes widen and her voice chokes with horror.
She advances to him and grips his hand. "What does it mean, Jack, tell me what does it mean?"
"Good G.o.d, Cicely, don"t speak like that."
"This--these lines--about your father."
"I don"t know what it means--I don"t care--I hated him, the brute. I"m glad he"s dead. I don"t care for that. But she"s coming here, any minute, and I can"t face it."
Lady Cicely, more quietly, "Jack, tell me, did my--did Sir John Trevor ever talk to you about your father?"
"No. He never spoke of him."
"Did he know him?"
"Yes--I think so--long ago. But they were enemies--Trevor challenged him to a duel--over some woman--and he wouldn"t fight--the cur."
Lady Cicely (dazed and aghast)--"I--understand--it--now." She recovers herself and speaks quickly.
"Listen. There is time yet. Go to the hotel. Go at once. Tell your mother nothing. Nothing, you _understand_. Keep her from coming here.
Anything, but not that. Ernestine,"--She calls to the maid who reappears for a second--"a taxi--at once."
She hurriedly gets Harding"s hat and coat. The stage is full of bustle.
There is a great sense of hurry. The audience are in an agony for fear Ernestine is too slow, or calls a four-wheel cab by mistake. If the play is really well put on, you can presently hear the taxi buzzing outside.
Mr. Harding goes to kiss Lady Cicely. She puts him from her in horror and hastens him out.
She calls the maid. "Ernestine, quick, put my things, anything, into a valise."
"Madame is going away!"
"Yes, yes, at once."
"Madame will not eat?"
"No, no."
"Madame will not first rest?" (The slow comprehension of these French maids is something exasperating.) "Madame will not await monsieur?
"Madame will not first eat, nor drink--no? Madame will not sleep?"
"No, no--quick, Ernestine. Bring me what I want. Summon a fiacre. I shall be ready in a moment." Lady Cicely pa.s.ses through a side door into an inner room.
She is scarcely gone when Mrs. Harding enters. She is a woman about forty-five, still very beautiful. She is dressed in deep black.
(The play is now moving very fast. You have to sit tight to follow it all.)
She speaks to Ernestine. "Is this Mr. Harding"s apartment?"
"Yes, madame."
"Is he here?" She looks about her.
"No, madame, he is gone this moment in a taxi--to the Hotel Bristol, I heard him say."
Mrs. Harding, faltering. "Is--any one--here?"
"No, madame, no one--milady was here a moment ago. She, too, has gone out." (This is a lie but of course the maid is a French maid.)
"Then it is true--there is some one----" She is just saying this when the bell rings, the door opens and there enters--Sir John Trevor.
"You!" says Mrs. Harding.