SIR H. And what better are we for believing the earth goes round the sun? I"ve no patience with these revolutionary ideas. They unsettle men"s minds. Of course you don"t agree with me. You are another man with views, and that"s the reason why you don"t get on.
TOM. (_comes down C._) You don"t like me, Sir Humphrey. You are very kind and hospitable; but I know it"s only as a distant relative that you put up with me. I don"t wonder at it. You represent society; I represent Bohemia. This makes it difficult to say what I must say before I go.
SIR H. What is that, Mr. Potter?
TOM. I want to ask your ward, Miss Preston, if she"ll be my wife.
You"re astonished at my presumption--naturally.
SIR H. Not quite that. What are Miss Preston"s feelings in the matter?
TOM. I don"t know. I didn"t feel justified in speaking to her first.
SIR H. She is of full age, and can please herself.
TOM. Yes, but there"s something else. You know, I took my present name when I went in for art, to your disgust, on my return from abroad about five years ago; but of my previous history you know very little, and I must tell you part of it. I suppose you think I"m a bachelor?
SIR H. Of course.
TOM. I am a widower.
SIR H. You astound me.
TOM. Yes, I once had a wife; but we weren"t happy--in fact, we separated.
SIR H. How long has she been dead?
TOM. A few months after my return to England I saw her death announced in the newspapers.
SIR H. The newspapers!
TOM. There is no irony like that of destiny, no cynic half as cynical as life. Two beings live together in one home, are bound together in one interest, are animated by one hope. Fate separates them. They go different ways, and after many days (_crosses to R._) they read about each other in the newspaper.
SIR H. She died abroad? Then you were never reconciled?
TOM. Reconciliation was impossible. I should prefer to say no more about it, (_crosses to SIR HUMPHREY, L._) but I am bound to satisfy you I was not to blame. Those were the last words my wife wrote to me.
(_gives a letter to SIR HUMPHREY_)
SIR H. (_reads_) "Tom,--I love another more than I love you. Isn"t it best that we should say good-bye? I have no right to tell you I will never see you, for the fault is mine; but if I do, it will be only painful, and I leave it to your magnanimity to go away from me for ever." (_returns letter to TOM_) Enough, Mr. Potter. (_rises_) There was a time when I disapproved of second marriages. They struck me as a species of inconstancy. But as one grows in years, these sentimental notions lose their force. One begins to realise the loneliness of life. You understand me?
TOM. Perfectly. The need of a companion.
SIR H. More than a companion--the need of a--of a--I want a word.
TOM. Nurse is the word you want.
SIR H. No, sir! It is the very word I do _not_ want.
TOM. I beg your pardon, I misunderstood you.
SIR H. Strange as it may sound, what you"ve just told me makes my task a little easier. Miss Preston also has a history. Her mother died when she was quite a child. Her father was my very oldest friend, whom I respected beyond everything, and it was only on his death, when I felt I could not repudiate the guardianship I"d undertaken, that I made a discovery which shocked me inexpressibly. I tell it you in confidence; I have told no one but my son, whom it was my duty to put upon his guard. Of course it puts an end to the proposal you have made, but, as a man of honour, I am bound to tell you.
TOM. Well, sir?
SIR H. The girl is illegitimate. (_turning, L._)
TOM. What"s that?
SIR H. (_turns and stares at him_) Mr. Potter, you call yourself a Bohemian, but you are a distant--very distant--relative of my own, and you must have at least the instincts of a gentleman.
TOM. I hope so.
SIR H. Having those instincts, you will think no more of her.
TOM. Having those instincts, I think all the more of her.
SIR H. You"d marry her, after what I"ve told you? Then you have no respect for marriage.
TOM. If I had no respect for marriage I shouldn"t marry her.
SIR H. We will not argue, sir. Go your own way.
TOM. I"ve your permission?
SIR H. But don"t hold me responsible, whatever happens.
_Re-enter DR. DOZEY, through window, and down, C._
DR. The widow has arrived.
SIR H. Mrs. Blake?
DR. I was sedately pacing up and down the drive, reflecting on the vanity of life, when I was nearly upset by her equipage.
SIR H. I must go and welcome her. Excuse me, Mr. Potter; the doctor will entertain you. (_Exit through window_)
TOM. Thanks, but I"ll find Miss Preston. (_Exit, R._)
_Re-enter MRS. DOZEY, down the stairs, in a flutter of excitement._
MRS. D. Dionysius?
DR. Diana?
MRS. D. I"ve seen Mrs. Blake. I happened to be looking out as she drove up. There"s no doubt about her respectability. You should see her lace. Oh, Dionysius, real Valenciennes! (_crosses, R._)
DR. I am afraid, my love, that notwithstanding five and twenty years of my companionship, you have still a yearning after the pomps and vanities. And yet it is not the plaiting of hair or the putting on of real Valenciennes that const.i.tutes respectability.
_Re-enter SIR HUMPHREY with ALMA BLAKE._