Behind the Beyond | Page 4

you loved me, I thought I could. But I can't. It throttles me here--this house, this life, everything----" She has drawn him to a sofa and has sunk down in a wave at his feet. "Do you remember, Jack, when first you came, in Italy, that night, at Amalfi, when we sat on the piazza of the palazzo?" She is looking rapturously into his face.
Mr. Harding says that he does.
"And that day at Fiesole among the orange trees, and Pisa and the Capello de Terisa and the Mona Lisa--Oh, Jack, take me away from all this, take me to the Riviera, among the contadini, where we can stand together with my head on your shoulder just as we did in the Duomo at Milano, or on the piaggia at Verona. Take me to Corfu, to the Campo Santo, to Civita Vecchia, to Para Noia--anywhere----"
Mr. Harding, smothered with her kisses, says, "My dearest, I will, I will." Any man in the audience would do as much. They'd take her to Honolulu.
While she is speaking, Sir John's voice had been heard off the stage. "No, thank you, Ransome, I'll get them myself, I know just where I left them." Sir John enters hurriedly, advances and picks up his papers on the table--turns--and stands----
He sees his wife's attitude and hears her say "Riviera, Amalfi, Orangieri, Contadini and Capello Santo." It is enough. He drops his parliamentary papers. They fall against the fire irons with a crash. These in falling upset a small table with one leg. The ball of wool that is on it falls to the floor. The noise of this disturbs the lovers.
They turn. All three look at one another. For a moment they make a motion as if to ring for tea. Then they stand petrified.
"You!" gasps Lady Cicely. She does this awfully well. Everybody says afterward that it was just splendid when she said "You."
Sir John stands gazing in horror. "Him! My God! He!" Mr. Harding says nothing. He looks very weak.
Lady Cicely unpetrifies first.
She breaks out, speaking through her nostrils. "Yes, I love him, I love him. I'm not ashamed of it. What right have you to deny it me? You gave me nothing. You made me a chattel, a thing----"
You can feel the rustle of indignation through the house at this. To make a woman a thing is the crowning horror of a problem play.
"You starved me here. You throttled me." Lady Cicely takes herself by the neck and throttles herself a little to show how.
"You smothered me. I couldn't breathe--and now I'm going, do you hear, going away, to life, to love, behind the beyond!" She gathers up Mr. Harding (practically) and carries him passionately away. He looks back weakly as he goes.
Sir John has sunk down upon a chair. His face is set.
"Jack," he mutters, "my God, Jack!"
As he sits there, the valet enters with a telegram on a tray.
"A telegram, Sir John."
Sir John (dazed and trying to collect himself), "What?"
"A telegram, sir,--a cablegram."
Sir John takes it, opens it and reads aloud:
"He is dead. My duty is ended. I am coming home--Margaret Harding."
"Margaret coming home. It only needed that--my God."
. . . . . . .
As he says it, the curtain falls.
The lights flick up. There is a great burst of applause. The curtain rises and falls. Lady Cicely and Mr. Harding and Sir John all come out and bow charmingly. There is no trace of worry on their faces, and they hold one another's hands. Then the curtain falls and the orchestra breaks out into a Winter Garden waltz. The boxes buzz with discussion. Some of the people think that Lady Cicely is right in claiming the right to realize herself: others think that before realizing herself she should have developed herself. Others ask indignantly how she could know herself if her husband refused to let her be herself. But everybody feels that the subject is a delicious one.
Those of the people who have seen the play before very kindly explain how it ends, so as to help the rest to enjoy it. But the more serious-minded of the men have risen, very gently, and are sneaking up the aisles. Their expression is stamped with deep thought as if pondering over the play. But their step is as that of leopards on the march, and no one is deceived as to their purpose.
The music continues. The discussion goes on.
* * * * *
The leopards come stealing back. The orchestra boils over in a cadence and stops. The theater is darkened again. The footlights come on with a flash. The curtain silently lifts, and it is--

Act II.--Six Months Later
THE programs rustle. The people look to see where it is. And they find that it is "An Apartment in Paris." Notice that this place which is