Behind the Beyond | Page 3

The fate of the party hangs on it."
Sir John has risen. His manner has changed. His look is altered. You
can see him alter it. It is now that of a statesman. The technical details
given above have gone to his head. He can't stop.
He goes on: "They will force a closure on the second reading, go into
committee, come out of it again, redivide, subdivide and force us to
bring down the estimates."
While Sir John speaks, Lady Cicely's manner has been that of utter
weariness. She has picked up the London Times and thrown it aside;
taken up a copy of Punch and let it fall with a thud to the floor, looked
idly at a piece of music and decided, evidently, not to sing it. Sir John
runs out of technical terms and stops.
The dialogue has clearly brought out the following points: Sir John is in
the House of Commons. Lady Cicely is not. Sir John is twenty-five
years older than Lady Cicely. He doesn't see--isn't he a fool, when
everybody in the gallery can see it?--that his parliamentary work is
meaningless to her, that her life is insufficient. That's it. Lady Cicely is
being "starved." All that she has is money, position, clothes, and
jewelry. These things starve any woman. They cramp her. That's what
makes problem plays.
Lady Cicely speaks, very quietly, "Are you taking Mr. Harding with
you?"
"Why?"
"Nothing. I thought perhaps I might ask him to take me to the opera.
Puffi is to sing."

"Do, pray do. Take Harding with you by all means. Poor boy, do take
him with you."
Sir John pauses. He looks at Lady Cicely very quietly for a moment.
He goes on with a slight change in his voice.
"Do you know, Cicely, I've been rather troubled about Harding lately.
There's something the matter with the boy, something wrong."
"Yes?"
"He seems abstracted, moody--I think, in fact I'm sure that the boy is in
love."
"Yes?"
Lady Cicely has turned slightly pale. The weariness is out of her
manner.
"Trust the instinct of an old man, my dear. There's a woman in it. We
old parliamentary hands are very shrewd, you know, even in these
things. Some one is playing the devil with Jack--with Harding."
Sir John is now putting on his gloves again and gathering up his
parliamentary papers from the parliamentary paper stand on the left.
He cannot see the change in Lady Cicely's face. He is not meant to see
it. But even the little girls in the tenth row of the gallery are wise.
He goes on. "Talk to Harding. Get it out of him. You women can do
these things. Find out what the trouble is and let me know. I must help
him." (A pause. Sir John is speaking almost to himself--and the gallery.)
"I promised his mother when she sent him home, sent him to England,
that I would."
Lady Cicely speaks. "You knew Mr. Harding's mother very well?"
Sir John: "Very well."

"That was long ago, wasn't it?"
"Long ago."
"Was she married then?"
"No, not then."
"Here in London?"
"Yes, in London. I was only a barrister then with my way to make and
she a famous beauty." (Sir John is speaking with a forced levity that
doesn't deceive even the ushers.) "She married Harding of the Guards.
They went to India. And there he spent her fortune--and broke her
heart." Sir John sighs.
"You have seen her since?"
"Never."
"She has never written you?"
"Only once. She sent her boy home and wrote to me for help. That was
how I took him as my secretary."
"And that was why he came to us in Italy two years ago, just after our
marriage."
"Yes, that was why."
"Does Mr. Harding know?"
"Know what?"
"That you--knew his mother?"
Sir John shakes his head. "I have never talked with him about his
mother's early life."

The stage clock on the mantelpiece begins to strike. Sir John lets it
strike up to four or five, and then says, "There, eight o'clock. I must go.
I shall be late at the House. Good-by."
He moves over to Lady Cicely and kisses her. There is softness in his
manner--such softness that he forgets the bundle of parliamentary
papers that he had laid down. Everybody can see that he has forgotten
them. They were right there under his very eye.
Sir John goes out.
Lady Cicely stands looking fixedly at the fire. She speaks out loud to
herself. "How his voice changed--twenty-five years ago--so long as
that--I wonder if Jack knows."
There is heard the ring of a bell off the stage. The valet enters.
"Mr. Harding is downstairs, my lady."
"Show him up, Ransome."
A moment later Mr. Harding enters. He