Behind the Beyond | Page 6

it and was getting
uncomfortable about it. He clutches it and tears it open. There is a
hunted look in his face as he reads.

"What is it?"
"My mother--good God, 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? God 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 God, 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 passes 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.
"I am too late!" gasps Sir John.
She goes to him tremblingly--"After all these years," she says.
"It is a long time."
"You have not changed."
She has taken his hands and is looking into his face, and she goes on
speaking. "I have thought of you so often in all these bitter years--it
sustained me even at the worst--and I knew, John, that it was for my
sake that