The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith | Page 8

to be the torture of tomorrow! Oh, Agnes, the agony of success to a nervous, sensitive man; the dismal apprehension that fills his life and gives each victory a voice to cry out "Hear, hear! Bravo, bravo, bravo! But this is to be your last--you'll never overtop it!" Ha, yes! I soon found out the weak spot in my armour--the need of constant encouragement, constant reminder of my powers; [taking her hand] the need of that subtle sympathy which a sacrificing, unselfish woman alone possesses the secret of. [Rising.] Well, my very weakness might have been a source of greatness if, three years ago, it had been to such a woman that I had bound myself--a woman of your disposition; instead of to--! Ah! [She lays her hand upon his arm soothingly.]
LUCAS. Yes, yes. [Taking her in his arms.] I know I have such a companion now.
AGNES. Yes--now--
LUCAS. You must be everything to me, Agnes--a double faculty, as it were. When my confidence in myself is shaken, you must try to keep the consciousness of my poor powers alive in me.
AGNES. I shall not fail you in that, Lucas.
LUCAS. And yet, whenever disturbing recollections come uppermost; when I catch myself mourning for those lost opportunities of mine; it is your love that must grant me oblivion--[kissing her upon the lips]-- your love! [She makes no response, and after a pause gently releases herself and retreats a step or two.]
LUCAS. [His eyes following her.] Agnes, you seem to me to be changing towards me, growing colder to me. At times you seem positively to shrink from me. I don't understand it. Yesterday I thought I saw you look at me as if I--frightened you!
AGNES. Lucas--Lucas dear, for some weeks, now, I've wanted to say this to you.
LUCAS. What?
AGNES. Don't you think that such a union as ours would be much braver, much more truly courageous, if it could but be--be--
LUCAS. If it could but be--what?
AGNES. [Averting her eyes.] Devoid of passion, if passion had no share in it.
LUCAS. Surely this comes a little late, Agnes, between you and me.
AGNES. [Leaning upon the back of a chair, staring before her and speaking in a low, steady voice.] What has been was inevitable, I suppose. Still, we have hardly yet set foot upon the path we've agreed to follow. It is not too late for us, in our own lives, to pit the highest interpretation upon that word--Love. Think of the inner sustaining power it would give us! [More forcibly.] We agree to go through the world together, preaching the lesson taught us by our experiences. We cry out to all people, "Look at us! Man and woman who are in the bondage of neither law nor ritual! Linked simply by mutual trust! Man and wife, but something better than man and wife! Friends, but even something better than friends!" I say there is that which is noble, finely defiant, in the future we have mapped out for ourselves, if only--if only--
LUCAS. Yes?
AGNES. [Turning from him.] If only it could be free from passion!
LUCAS. [In a low voice.] Yes, but--is that possible?
AGNES. [In the same tone, watching him askance, a frightened look in her eyes.] Why not?
LUCAS. Young man and woman . . . you and love . . . ? Scarcely upon this earth, my dear Agnes, such a life as you have pictured.
AGNES. I say it can be, it can be--!
[FORTUNE enters, carrying a letter upon a salver, and a beautiful bouquet of white flowers. He hands the note to LUCAS.]
LUCAS. [Taking the note, glancing at AGNES.] Eh! [To FORTUNE, pointing to the bouquet.] Qu'avez-vous la?
FORTUNE. Ah, excuse. [Presenting the bouquet to AGNES.] Wiz compliment. [AGNES takes the bouquet wonderingly.] Tell Madame ze Duke of St Olphert bring it in person, 'e says.
LUCAS. [Opening the note.] Est-il parti?
FORTUNE. 'E did not get out of 'is gondola.
LUCAS. Bien. [FORTUNE withdraws. Reading the note aloud.] "While brushing my hair, my dear boy, I became possessed of a strong desire to meet the lady with whom you are now improving the shining hour. Why the devil shouldn't I, if I want to. Without prejudice, as my lawyer says, let me turn up this afternoon and chat pleasantly to her of Shakespeare, also the musical glasses. Pray hand her this flag of truce --I mean my poor bunch of flowers--and believe me yours, with a touch of gout, ST. OLPHERTS." [Indignantly crushing the note.] Ah!
AGNES. [Frowning at the flowers.] A taste of the oddities, I suppose?
LUCAS. He is simply making sport of us. [Going on to the balcony, and looking out.] There he is. Damn that smile of his!
AGNES. Where? [She joins him.]
LUCAS. With the two gondoliers.
AGNES. Why--that's a beautiful face! How strange!
LUCAS. [Drawing her back into the room.] Come away. He is looking up