ARTHUR PINERO (continued 3)

[They all laugh merrily.

Ottoline.

Ha, ha, ha! [To Sir Timothy.] Wait for me in South Square, then. I sha'n't be many minutes.

Sir Timothy.

[Going into the vestibule.] Ah, I'd wait an eternity!

[Philip and Sir Timothy shake hands once more, and then Philip lets Sir Timothy out.

Philip.

[As he shuts the outer door.] By George, he's a splendid chap! [He comes back into the room, closes the vestibule door, and advances to Ottoline and stands before her humbly.] Oh, Ottoline—oh, my dear girl! Shall I go down on my knees to you?

Ottoline.

[In a subdued tone.] If you do, I shall have to kneel to you, Phil.

Philip.

[Slowly folding her in his arms.] Ah! Ah! Ah! [In her ear.] What a night I've spent!

Ottoline.

[Almost inaudibly.] And I!

[He seats her upon the settee on the right and sits beside her, linking his hand in hers.

Philip.

How merciful this is of you! I've just sent you a letter by Robbie Roope, begging you to see me; you've missed him. [Smiling.] It isn't as eloquent as some I started writing at five o'clock this morning. Would you like to hear it? [She nods. He recites his note tenderly.] "Forgive me. I forgive you. When may I come to you?" That's all.

Ottoline.

Isn't that eloquent, Phil?

Philip.

[Smiling again.] It's concise—and as long as you forgive me—[eyeing her with a shadow of fear] you're sure you've forgiven me?

Ottoline.

Sure.

Philip.

[Persistently.] Without reserve?

Ottoline.

Should I be here—[indicating their proximity] and here—if I hadn't?

Philip.

[Pressing her hand to his lips ardently, and then freeing her shoulders from her coat.] Take this off——

Ottoline.

[Gently resisting.] Poor Sir Timothy——!

Philip.

[In high spirits.] Oh, a little exercise won't do Sir Timothy any harm! [Helping her to slip her arms out of her coat.] Dash it, you might have let me escort you to Bond Street!

Ottoline.

No, no; your work——

Philip.

[His brow clouding.] W-w-work——?

Ottoline.

You mustn't lose your morning's work.

[There is a short pause, and then he rises and moves a few steps away from her. With an impassive countenance, she fingers the buttons of her gloves.

Philip.

[Stroking the pattern of the carpet with his foot.] Otto——

Ottoline.

[Looking up.] Yes, Phil?

Philip.

I asked Robbie to tell you, if he had the opportunity, that I've decided to make my farewell salaam to authorship. I'm no good at it; I'm a frost; I realize it at last. I've had my final whack on the jaw; I've fought—how many rounds?—and now I take the count and slink out of the ring, beat. [Producing his keys, he goes to the cabinet on the right, unlocks it, and selects from several cardboard portfolios one which he carries to the writing-table. While he is doing this, Ottoline—still with an expressionless face—rises and moves to the left, where she stands watching him. He opens the portfolio and, with a pained look, handles the sheets of manuscript in it.] Ha! You and I have often talked over this, haven't we, Otto?

Ottoline.

[Calmly.] Often.

Philip.

[Taking the manuscript from the portfolio—thoughtfully.] It was to have been—oh, such an advance on my previous stuff—kindlier, less strenuous, more urbane! Success—success!—had sweetened the gall in me! [Glancing at a partly covered page.] Here's where I broke off yesterday. [With a shrug.] In every man's life there's a chapter uncompleted, in one form or another! [Throwing the manuscript into the portfolio.] Pst! Get back to your hole; I'll burn you later on. [He rejoins her. She half turns from him, averting her head.] So end my pitiful strivings and ambitions! [Laying his hand on her shoulder.] Ah, it's a miserable match you're making, Ottoline! My two-hundred-a-year will rig me out suitably, and provide me with tobacco; and the dribblets coming to me from my old books—through the honest publishers I deserted for Mr. Titterton!—the dribblets coming from my old books will enable me to present you with a nosegay on the anniversaries of our wedding-day, and—by the time your hair's white—to refund you the money Titterton's had from you. And there—with a little fame unjustly won, which, thank God, 'll soon die!—there you have the sum of my possessions! [Seizing her arms and twisting her round.] Oh, but I'll be your mate, my dear—your loyal companion and protector—comrade and lover——!

[He is about to embrace her again, but she keeps him off by placing her hands against his breast.

Ottoline.

[Steeling herself.] Phil——

Philip.

[Unsuspectingly.] Eh?

Ottoline.

I arrived at a decision during the night too, Phil.

Philip.

Yes?

Ottoline.

Don't—don't loathe me. [Shaking her head gravely.] I am not going to marry you.

Philip.

[Staring at her.] You're not going to—marry me?

Ottoline.

No, Philip.

Philip.

[After another pause.] You—you're overwrought, Otto; you've had no sleep. Neither of us has had any sleep——

Ottoline.

Oh, but I'm quite clearheaded——

Philip.

[Bewildered.] Why, just now you said you'd forgiven me—repeated it——!

Ottoline.

I do repeat it. If I've anything to forgive, I forgive you a thousand times——

Philip.

And you allowed me to—to take you in my arms——

Ottoline.

You shall take me in your arms again, Phil, once more, before we part, if you wish to. I'm not a girl, though you call me one——

Philip.

[Sternly.] Look here! You don't imagine for an instant that I shall accept this! You——!

Ottoline.

Ssh! Try not to be hasty; try to be reasonable. Listen to me——

Philip.

You—you mean me to understand that, in consequence of this wretched Titterton affair, you've changed your mind, and intend to chuck me!

Ottoline.

Yes, I mean you to understand that.

Philip.

[Turning from her indignantly.] Oh——!

Ottoline.

[Sitting in the chair by the smoking-table.] Philip—Philip—[He hesitates, then seats himself on the settee opposite to her. She speaks with great firmness and deliberation.] Philip, while you were lying awake last night, or walking about your room, didn't you—think?

Philip.

[Hotly.] Think——!

Ottoline.

No, no—soberly, steadily, searchingly. Evidently not, cher ami! [Bending forward.] Phil, after what has happened, can't you see me as I really am?

Philip.

As you—are?

Ottoline.

An incurably vulgar woman. An incurably common, vulgar woman. Nobody but a woman whose vulgarity is past praying for could have conceived such a scheme as I planned and carried out with that man Clifford Titterton—nobody. This—how shall I term it?—this refinement of mine is merely on the surface. We women are like the—what's the name of the little reptile?—the chameleon, isn't it? We catch the colour of our surroundings. But what we were, we continue to be—in the grain. The vulgar-minded Ottoline Filson, who captivated, and disgusted, you in Paris is before you at this moment. The only difference is that then she was a natural person, and now she plays les grands rôles. [Sitting upright and pressing her temples.] Oh, I have fooled myself as well as you, Phil—deluded myself——!

Philip.

You're dog-tired, Otto. Your brain's in a fever. All you've done, you've done from your love for me, my dear—your deep, passionate love——

Ottoline.

[Wincing.] Passionate love—parfaitement! [Looking at him.] But that feeling's over, Phil.

Philip.

Over?

Ottoline.

[Simply.] I shall always love you—always—always; but my passion exhausted itself last night. For months it has borne me along on a wave. It was that that swept me to the door of Titterton's office in Charles Street, Adelphi; it was strong enough to drive me to any length. But last night, in those dreadful small hours, the wave beat itself out, and threw me up on to the rocks, and left me shivering—naked—ashamed—[drawing a deep breath] ah, but in my right senses!

[She unbuttons her left-hand glove, rolls the hand of the glove over her wrist, and takes her engagement-ring from her finger.

Philip.

[Aghast.] Otto! Otto! What are you doing! What are you doing! [She lays the ring carefully upon the smoking-table and rises and walks away. He rises with her, following her.] To-morrow—when you've had some sleep—to-morrow——

Ottoline.

Never. Don't deceive yourself, Philip. [Going to the fireplace.] If anything was needed to strengthen my resolution, the announcement you've just made would supply it.

Philip.

[On the left.] Announcement?

Ottoline.

With regard to your literary work. [Turning to him.] Ne voyez-vous pas! I have begun to degrade you already!

Philip.

[Consciously.] Degrade me?

Ottoline.

Degrade you. If I hadn't come into your life again, you would have accepted your reverse—your failure to gain popularity by your latest book—as you've accepted similar disappointments—with a shrug and a confident snap of your fingers. [Advancing.] But I've humbled you—bruised your spirit—shaken your courage; and now you express your willingness—you!—to throw your pen aside, and tack yourself to my skirts, and to figure meekly for the rest of your existence as "Mrs. Mackworth's husband"! [At the nearer end of the writing-table.] Mon Dieu! This is what I have brought you to!

Philip.

[Biting his lip.] You—you wouldn't have me profit by the advertisement I've got out of "The Big Drum," Ottoline—[ironically] the finest advertisement I could wish for, according to Robbie! You wouldn't have me sink as low as that?

Ottoline.

You can write under an alias—a nom de plume—until you've won your proper place——

Philip.

[Uneasily.] Oh, well—perhaps—by-and-by—when we had settled down, you and I—and things had adjusted themselves——

Ottoline.

Yes, when you'd grown sick and weary of your new environment, and had had time to reflect on the horrid trick I'd employed to get hold of you, and had learned to despise me for it, you'd creep back to your desk and make an effort to pick up the broken threads! [Coming to the settee on the right.] Eh bien! Do you know what would happen then, Phil?

Philip.

W-w-what?

Ottoline.

[Intensely.] I should puff you, under the rose—quietly pull the strings—use all the influence I could rake up——

Philip.

No, no——

Ottoline.

I should. It's in my blood. I couldn't resist it. Whether you wrote as Jones, or Smith, or Robinson, you'd find Jones, Smith, or Robinson artfully puffed and paragraphed and thrust under people's noses in the papers. I'm an incurably vulgar woman, I tell you! [Snatching at her coat—harshly.] Ah, que je me connais; que je me connais!

[She fumbles for the arm-holes of her coat. He goes to her quickly and they stand holding the coat between them and looking at each other.

Philip.

[After a silence.] You—you're determined?

Ottoline.

Determined.

Philip.

You—you can't be!

Ottoline.

I am—I swear I am.

Philip.

[After a further silence.] Then it is—as you said last night——?

Ottoline.

What did I say last night? I forget.

Philip.

[In a husky voice.] C'est fini—après tout!

Ottoline.

[Inclining her head.] C'est fini—après tout.

Philip.

[Bitterly.] Ho! Ho, ho, ho! [Another pause.] So when—when April comes—we—we sha'n't——!

Ottoline.

[Lowering her eyes—all gentleness again.] We sha'n't walk under the trees in the Champs-Elysées, Phil——

Philip.

Nor in the Allée de Longchamp—where we——

Ottoline.

No, nor in the Allée de Longchamp.

Philip.

[Releasing her coat and thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets.] Somebody else'll gulp the milk at the Café d'Armenonville——!

Ottoline.

And at the Pré-Catalan——

Philip.

And there'll be no one to gaze sentimentally at my old windows in the Rue Soufflot——

Ottoline.

[Softly.] Quarante-trois bis. [Sighing.] No one.

Philip.

[With a hollow laugh.] Ha, ha, ha! C'est fini—après tout!

Ottoline.

[Firmly.] C'est fini—après tout. [She holds out her coat to him and he helps her into it. Suddenly, while her back is turned to him, he utters a guttural cry and grips her shoulders savagely. She turns in surprise, her hand to her shoulder.] Oh, Phil——!

Philip.

[Pointing at her.] I see! I see! I see the end of it! You'll marry Barradell! You'll marry the fellow who's cooling his heels down below in South Square!

Ottoline.

[Placidly, fastening her coat.] I may.

Philip.

[Choking.] Oh——!

Ottoline.

I may, if I marry at all—and he bothers any more about me.

Philip.

[Stamping up and down.] Bacon Barradell! Bacon Barradell! The wife of Bacon Barradell!

Ottoline.

[With a sad smile.] He has social aims; a vulgar, pushing woman would be a serviceable partner for Sir Tim.

Philip.

Oh! Oh—! [Dropping on to the settee on the left and burying his face in his hands.] Ho, well, more power to him! He can sell his bacon; I—I can't sell my books!

[Again there is a silence, and then, putting on her left-hand glove, she goes to Philip and stands over him compassionately.

Ottoline.

Mon pauvre Philippe, it's you, not I, who will take another view of things to-morrow. [He makes a gesture of dissent.] Ah, come, come, come! You have never loved me as I have loved you. Unconsciously—without perceiving it—one may be half a poseuse; but at least I've been sincere in my love for you, and in hungering to be your wife. [Giving him her right hand.] You're the best I've ever known, dear; by far the best I've ever known. [He presses her hand to his brow convulsively.] But when we had our talk in South Audley Street, how did you serve me? You insisted on my waiting—waiting; I who had cherished your image in my mind for years! You guessed I shouldn't have patience—you almost prophesied as much; but still—I was to wait!

Philip.

[Inarticulately.] Oh, Otto!

Ottoline.

[Withdrawing her hand.] What did that show, Phil? It showed—as your compromise with mother and Dad showed afterwards—that the success of the book you were engaged upon came first with you; that marrying me was to be only an incident in your career; that you didn't love me sufficiently to bend your pride or vary your programme a jot. [He gets to his feet, startled, dumbfoundered. He attempts to speak, but she checks him.] H'sh! H'sh! I'm scolding you; but, for your sake, I wouldn't have it otherwise. Now that I'm sane and cool, I wouldn't have it otherwise.

Philip.

[Struggling for words—thickly.] Ottoline—Ottoline—[his voice dying away] I——!

Ottoline.

[Taking his hands in hers.] Good-bye. Don't come downstairs with me. Let me leave you sitting at your table, at work—at work on that incomplete chapter. We shall tumble up against one another, I dare say, at odd times, but this is the last we shall see of each other dans l'intimité; and I want to print on my memory the sight of you—[pointing to the writing-table] there—keeping your flag flying. [Putting her arms round him—in a whisper.] Keep your flag flying, Philip! Don't—don't sulk with your art, and be false to yourself, because a trumpery woman has fretted and disturbed you. Keep your flag flying—[kissing him] my—my dear hero!

[She untwines her arms and steps back. Slowly, with his hands hanging loosely, and his chin upon his breast, Philip passes her and goes to the writing-table. There, dully and mechanically, he takes the unfinished page of manuscript from the portfolio, arranges it upon the blotting-pad and, seating himself at the table, picks up his pen. Very softly Ottoline opens the vestibule door, gives Philip a last look over her shoulder, and enters the vestibule, closing the door behind her. There is a pause, during which Philip sits staring at his inkstand, and then the outer door slams. With an exclamation, Philip drops his pen, leaps up, and rushes to the vestibule door.

Philip.

Otto! Otto! [Loudly.] Ottoline——!

[With his hand on the door-handle, he wavers, his eyes shifting wildly to and from the writing-table. Then, with a mighty effort, he pulls himself together, strides to the smoking-table, and loads and lights his pipe. Puffing at his pipe fiercely, he reseats himself before his manuscript and, grabbing his pen, forces himself to write. He has written a word or two when he falters—stops—and lays his head upon his arm on the table.

Philip.

[His shoulders heaving.] Oh, Otto—Otto——!

THE END

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