Man and Superman: Act IV

Act IV

The garden of a villa in Granada. Whoever wishes to know what it is like
must go to Granada and see. One may prosaically specify a group of hills
dotted with villas, the Alhambra on the top of one of the hills, and
a considerable town in the valley, approached by dusty white roads in
which the children, no matter what they are doing or thinking about,
automatically whine for halfpence and reach out little clutching brown
palms for them; but there is nothing in this description except the
Alhambra, the begging, and the color of the roads, that does not fit
Surrey as well as Spain. The difference is that the Surrey hills are
comparatively small and ugly, and should properly be called the Surrey
Protuberances; but these Spanish hills are of mountain stock: the
amenity which conceals their size does not compromise their dignity.

This particular garden is on a hill opposite the Alhambra; and the villa
is as expensive and pretentious as a villa must be if it is to be let
furnished by the week to opulent American and English visitors. If we
stand on the lawn at the foot of the garden and look uphill, our horizon
is the stone balustrade of a flagged platform on the edge of infinite
space at the top of the hill. Between us and this platform is a flower
garden with a circular basin and fountain in the centre, surrounded
by geometrical flower beds, gravel paths, and clipped yew trees in the
genteelest order. The garden is higher than our lawn; so we reach it
by a few steps in the middle of its embankment. The platform is higher
again than the garden, from which we mount a couple more steps to look
over the balustrade at a fine view of the town up the valley and of the
hills that stretch away beyond it to where, in the remotest distance,
they become mountains. On our left is the villa, accessible by steps
from the left hand corner of the garden. Returning from the platform
through the garden and down again to the lawn (a movement which leaves
the villa behind us on our right) we find evidence of literary interests
on the part of the tenants in the fact that there is no tennis net nor
set of croquet hoops, but, on our left, a little iron garden table with
books on it, mostly yellow-backed, and a chair beside it. A chair on the
right has also a couple of open books upon it. There are no newspapers,
a circumstance which, with the absence of games, might lead an
intelligent spectator to the most far reaching conclusions as to the
sort of people who live in the villa. Such speculations are checked,
however, on this delightfully fine afternoon, by the appearance at
a little gate in a paling an our left, of Henry Straker in his
professional costume. He opens the gate for an elderly gentleman, and
follows him on to the lawn.

This elderly gentleman defies the Spanish sun in a black frock coat,
tall silk bat, trousers in which narrow stripes of dark grey and lilac
blend into a highly respectable color, and a black necktie tied into a
bow over spotless linen. Probably therefore a man whose social position
needs constant and scrupulous affirmation without regard to climate:
one who would dress thus for the middle of the Sahara or the top of Mont
Blanc. And since he has not the stamp of the class which accepts as its
life-mission the advertizing and maintenance of first rate tailoring and
millinery, he looks vulgar in his finery, though in a working dress of
any kind he would look dignified enough. He is a bullet cheeked man with
a red complexion, stubbly hair, smallish eyes, a hard mouth that folds
down at the corners, and a dogged chin. The looseness of skin that comes
with age has attacked his throat and the laps of his cheeks; but he is
still hard as an apple above the mouth; so that the upper half of his
face looks younger than the lower. He has the self-confidence of one who
has made money, and something of the truculence of one who has made it
in a brutalizing struggle, his civility having under it a perceptible
menace that he has other methods in reserve if necessary. Withal, a man
to be rather pitied when he is not to be feared; for there is something
pathetic about him at times, as if the huge commercial machine which has
worked him into his frock coat had allowed him very little of his own
way and left his affections hungry and baffled. At the first word
that falls from him it is clear that he is an Irishman whose native
intonation has clung to him through many changes of place and rank. One
can only guess that the original material of his speech was perhaps the
surly Kerry brogue; but the degradation of speech that occurs in London,
Glasgow, Dublin and big cities generally has been at work on it so long
that nobody but an arrant cockney would dream of calling it a brogue
now; for its music is almost gone, though its surliness is still
perceptible. Straker, as a very obvious cockney, inspires him with
implacable contempt, as a stupid Englishman who cannot even speak his
own language properly. Straker, on the other hand, regards the old
gentleman's accent as a joke thoughtfully provided by Providence
expressly for the amusement of the British race, and treats him
normally with the indulgence due to an inferior and unlucky species, but
occasionally with indignant alarm when the old gentleman shows signs of
intending his Irish nonsense to be taken seriously.

STRAKER. I'll go tell the young lady. She said you'd prefer to stay here
[he turns to go up through the garden to the villa].

MALONE. [who has been looking round him with lively curiosity] The young
lady? That's Miss Violet, eh?

STRAKER. [stopping on the steps with sudden suspicion] Well, you know,
don't you?

MALONE. Do I?

STRAKER. [his temper rising] Well, do you or don't you?

MALONE. What business is that of yours?

Straker, now highly indignant, comes back from the steps and confronts
the visitor.

STRAKER. I'll tell you what business it is of mine. Miss Robinson--

MALONE. [interrupting] Oh, her name is Robinson, is it? Thank you.

STRAKER. Why, you don't know even her name?

MALONE. Yes I do, now that you've told me.

STRAKER. [after a moment of stupefaction at the old man's readiness in
repartee] Look here: what do you mean by gittin into my car and lettin
me bring you here if you're not the person I took that note to?

MALONE. Who else did you take it to, pray?

STRAKER. I took it to Mr Ector Malone, at Miss Robinson's request, see?
Miss Robinson is not my principal: I took it to oblige her. I know Mr
Malone; and he ain't you, not by a long chalk. At the hotel they told me
that your name is Ector Malone.

MALONE. Hector Malone.

STRAKER. [with calm superiority] Hector in your own country: that's what
comes o livin in provincial places like Ireland and America. Over here
you're Ector: if you avn't noticed it before you soon will.

The growing strain of the conversation is here relieved by Violet, who
has sallied from the villa and through the garden to the steps, which
she now descends, coming very opportunely between Malone and Straker.

VIOLET. [to Straker] Did you take my message?

STRAKER. Yes, miss. I took it to the hotel and sent it up, expecting to
see young Mr Malone. Then out walks this gent, and says it's all right
and he'll come with me. So as the hotel people said he was Mr Ector
Malone, I fetched him. And now he goes back on what he said. But if he
isn't the gentleman you meant, say the word: it's easy enough to fetch
him back again.

MALONE. I should esteem it a great favor if I might have a short
conversation with you, madam. I am Hector's father, as this bright
Britisher would have guessed in the course of another hour or so.

STRAKER. [coolly defiant] No, not in another year or so. When we've ad
you as long to polish up as we've ad im, perhaps you'll begin to look a
little bit up to is mark. At present you fall a long way short. You've
got too many aitches, for one thing. [To Violet, amiably] All right,
Miss: you want to talk to him: I shan't intrude. [He nods affably to
Malone and goes out through the little gate in the paling].

VIOLET. [very civilly] I am so sorry, Mr Malone, if that man has been
rude to you. But what can we do? He is our chauffeur.

MALONE. Your what?

VIOLET. The driver of our automobile. He can drive a motor car at
seventy miles an hour, and mend it when it breaks down. We are dependent
on our motor cars; and our motor cars are dependent on him; so of course
we are dependent on him.

MALONE. I've noticed, madam, that every thousand dollars an Englishman
gets seems to add one to the number of people he's dependent on.
However, you needn't apologize for your man: I made him talk on purpose.
By doing so I learnt that you're staying here in Grannida with a party
of English, including my son Hector.

VIOLET. [conversationally] Yes. We intended to go to Nice; but we had to
follow a rather eccentric member of our party who started first and came
here. Won't you sit down? [She clears the nearest chair of the two books
on it].

MALONE. [impressed by this attention] Thank you. [He sits down,
examining her curiously as she goes to the iron table to put down the
books. When she turns to him again, he says] Miss Robinson, I believe?

VIOLET. [sitting down] Yes.

MALONE. [Taking a letter from his pocket] Your note to Hector runs as
follows [Violet is unable to repress a start. He pauses quietly to take
out and put on his spectacles, which have gold rims]: "Dearest: they
have all gone to the Alhambra for the afternoon. I have shammed headache
and have the garden all to myself. Jump into Jack's motor: Straker will
rattle you here in a jiffy. Quick, quick, quick. Your loving Violet."
[He looks at her; but by this time she has recovered herself, and meets
his spectacles with perfect composure. He continues slowly] Now I don't
know on what terms young people associate in English society; but in
America that note would be considered to imply a very considerable
degree of affectionate intimacy between the parties.

VIOLET. Yes: I know your son very well, Mr Malone. Have you any
objection?

MALONE. [somewhat taken aback] No, no objection exactly. Provided it is
understood that my son is altogether dependent on me, and that I have to
be consulted in any important step he may propose to take.

VIOLET. I am sure you would not be unreasonable with him, Mr Malone.

MALONE. I hope not, Miss Robinson; but at your age you might think many
things unreasonable that don't seem so to me.

VIOLET. [with a little shrug] Oh well, I suppose there's no use our
playing at cross purposes, Mr Malone. Hector wants to marry me.

MALONE. I inferred from your note that he might. Well, Miss Robinson,
he is his own master; but if he marries you he shall not have a rap from
me. [He takes off his spectacles and pockets them with the note].

VIOLET. [with some severity] That is not very complimentary to me, Mr
Malone.

MALONE. I say nothing against you, Miss Robinson: I daresay you are an
amiable and excellent young lady. But I have other views for Hector.

VIOLET. Hector may not have other views for himself, Mr Malone.

MALONE. Possibly not. Then he does without me: that's all. I daresay you
are prepared for that. When a young lady writes to a young man to
come to her quick, quick, quick, money seems nothing and love seems
everything.

VIOLET. [sharply] I beg your pardon, Mr Malone: I do not think anything
so foolish. Hector must have money.

MALONE. [staggered] Oh, very well, very well. No doubt he can work for
it.

VIOLET. What is the use of having money if you have to work for it? [She
rises impatiently]. It's all nonsense, Mr Malone: you must enable your
son to keep up his position. It is his right.

MALONE. [grimly] I should not advise you to marry him on the strength of
that right, Miss Robinson.

Violet, who has almost lost her temper, controls herself with an effort;
unclenches her fingers; and resumes her seat with studied tranquillity
and reasonableness.

VIOLET. What objection have you to me, pray? My social position is as
good as Hector's, to say the least. He admits it.

MALONE. [shrewdly] You tell him so from time to time, eh? Hector's
social position in England, Miss Robinson, is just what I choose to
buy for him. I have made him a fair offer. Let him pick out the most
historic house, castle or abbey that England contains. The day that he
tells me he wants it for a wife worthy of its traditions, I buy it for
him, and give him the means of keeping it up.

VIOLET. What do you mean by a wife worthy of its traditions? Cannot any
well bred woman keep such a house for him?

MALONE. No: she must be born to it.

VIOLET. Hector was not born to it, was he?

MALONE. His granmother was a barefooted Irish girl that nursed me by a
turf fire. Let him marry another such, and I will not stint her marriage
portion. Let him raise himself socially with my money or raise somebody
else so long as there is a social profit somewhere, I'll regard my
expenditure as justified. But there must be a profit for someone. A
marriage with you would leave things just where they are.

VIOLET. Many of my relations would object very much to my marrying the
grandson of a common woman, Mr Malone. That may be prejudice; but so is
your desire to have him marry a title prejudice.

MALONE. [rising, and approaching her with a scrutiny in which there is
a good deal of reluctant respect] You seem a pretty straightforward
downright sort of a young woman.

VIOLET. I do not see why I should be made miserably poor because I
cannot make profits for you. Why do you want to make Hector unhappy?

MALONE. He will get over it all right enough. Men thrive better on
disappointments in love than on disappointments in money. I daresay you
think that sordid; but I know what I'm talking about. My father died of
starvation in Ireland in the black 47, Maybe you've heard of it.

VIOLET. The Famine?

MALONE. [with smouldering passion] No, the starvation. When a country
is full of food, and exporting it, there can be no famine. My father
was starved dead; and I was starved out to America in my mother's
arms. English rule drove me and mine out of Ireland. Well, you can keep
Ireland. I and my like are coming back to buy England; and we'll buy the
best of it. I want no middle class properties and no middle class women
for Hector. That's straightforward isn't it, like yourself?

VIOLET. [icily pitying his sentimentality] Really, Mr Malone, I am
astonished to hear a man of your age and good sense talking in that
romantic way. Do you suppose English noblemen will sell their places to
you for the asking?

MALONE. I have the refusal of two of the oldest family mansions in
England. One historic owner can't afford to keep all the rooms dusted:
the other can't afford the death duties. What do you say now?

VIOLET. Of course it is very scandalous; but surely you know that the
Government will sooner or later put a stop to all these Socialistic
attacks on property.

MALONE. [grinning] D'y' think they'll be able to get that done before I
buy the house--or rather the abbey? They're both abbeys.

VIOLET. [putting that aside rather impatiently] Oh, well, let us talk
sense, Mr Malone. You must feel that we haven't been talking sense so
far.

MALONE. I can't say I do. I mean all I say.

VIOLET. Then you don't know Hector as I do. He is romantic and faddy--he
gets it from you, I fancy--and he wants a certain sort of wife to take
care of him. Not a faddy sort of person, you know.

MALONE. Somebody like you, perhaps?

VIOLET. [quietly] Well, yes. But you cannot very well ask me to
undertake this with absolutely no means of keeping up his position.

MALONE. [alarmed] Stop a bit, stop a bit. Where are we getting to? I'm
not aware that I'm asking you to undertake anything.

VIOLET. Of course, Mr Malone, you can make it very difficult for me to
speak to you if you choose to misunderstand me.

MALONE. [half bewildered] I don't wish to take any unfair advantage; but
we seem to have got off the straight track somehow.

Straker, with the air of a man who has been making haste, opens the
little gate, and admits Hector, who, snorting with indignation, comes
upon the lawn, and is making for his father when Violet, greatly
dismayed, springs up and intercepts him. Straker doer not wait; at least
he does not remain visibly within earshot.

VIOLET. Oh, how unlucky! Now please, Hector, say nothing. Go away until
I have finished speaking to your father.

HECTOR. [inexorably] No, Violet: I mean to have this thing out, right
away. [He puts her aside; passes her by; and faces his father, whose
cheeks darken as his Irish blood begins to simmer]. Dad: you've not
played this hand straight.

MALONE. Hwat d'y'mean?

HECTOR. You've opened a letter addressed to me. You've impersonated me
and stolen a march on this lady. That's dishonorable.

MALONE. [threateningly] Now you take care what you're saying, Hector.
Take care, I tell you.

HECTOR. I have taken care. I am taking care. I'm taking care of my honor
and my position in English society.

MALONE. [hotly] Your position has been got by my money: do you know
that?

HECTOR. Well, you've just spoiled it all by opening that letter. A
letter from an English lady, not addressed to you--a confidential
letter! a delicate letter! a private letter opened by my father! That's
a sort of thing a man can't struggle against in England. The sooner
we go back together the better. [He appeals mutely to the heavens to
witness the shame and anguish of two outcasts].

VIOLET. [snubbing him with an instinctive dislike for scene making]
Don't be unreasonable, Hector. It was quite natural of Mr Malone to open
my letter: his name was on the envelope.

MALONE. There! You've no common sense, Hector. I thank you, Miss
Robinson.

HECTOR. I thank you, too. It's very kind of you. My father knows no
better.

MALONE. [furiously clenching his fists] Hector--

HECTOR. [with undaunted moral force] Oh, it's no use hectoring me. A
private letter's a private letter, dad: you can't get over that.

MALONE [raising his voice] I won't be talked back to by you, d'y' hear?

VIOLET. Ssh! please, please. Here they all come.

Father and son, checked, glare mutely at one another as Tanner comes in
through the little gate with Ramsden, followed by Octavius and Ann.

VIOLET. Back already!

TANNER. The Alhambra is not open this afternoon.

VIOLET. What a sell!

Tanner passes on, and presently finds himself between Hector and a
strange elder, both apparently on the verge of personal combat. He looks
from one to the other for an explanation. They sulkily avoid his eye,
and nurse their wrath in silence.

RAMSDEN. Is it wise for you to be out in the sunshine with such a
headache, Violet?

TANNER. Have you recovered too, Malone?

VIOLET. Oh, I forgot. We have not all met before. Mr Malone: won't you
introduce your father?

HECTOR. [with Roman firmness] No, I will not. He is no father of mine.

MALONE. [very angry] You disown your dad before your English friends, do
you?

VIOLET. Oh please don't make a scene.

Ann and Octavius, lingering near the gate, exchange an astonished
glance, and discreetly withdraw up the steps to the garden, where they
can enjoy the disturbance without intruding. On their way to the steps
Ann sends a little grimace of mute sympathy to Violet, who is standing
with her back to the little table, looking on in helpless annoyance as
her husband soars to higher and higher moral eminences without the least
regard to the old man's millions.

HECTOR. I'm very sorry, Miss Robinson; but I'm contending for a
principle. I am a son, and, I hope, a dutiful one; but before everything
I'm a Man!!! And when dad treats my private letters as his own, and
takes it on himself to say that I shan't marry you if I am happy and
fortunate enough to gain your consent, then I just snap my fingers and
go my own way.

TANNER. Marry Violet!

RAMSDEN. Are you in your senses?

TANNER. Do you forget what we told you?

HECTOR. [recklessly] I don't care what you told me.

RAMSDEN. [scandalized] Tut tut, sir! Monstrous! [he flings away towards
the gate, his elbows quivering with indignation]

TANNER. Another madman! These men in love should be locked up. [He gives
Hector up as hopeless, and turns away towards the garden, but Malone,
taking offence in a new direction, follows him and compels him, by the
aggressivenes of his tone, to stop].

MALONE. I don't understand this. Is Hector not good enough for this
lady, pray?

TANNER. My dear sir, the lady is married already. Hector knows it; and
yet he persists in his infatuation. Take him home and lock him up.

MALONE. [bitterly] So this is the high-born social tone I've spoilt by
my ignorant, uncultivated behavior! Makin love to a married woman! [He
comes angrily between Hector and Violet, and almost bawls into Hector's
left ear] You've picked up that habit of the British aristocracy, have
you?

HECTOR. That's all right. Don't you trouble yourself about that. I'll
answer for the morality of what I'm doing.

TANNER. [coming forward to Hector's right hand with flashing eyes] Well
said, Malone! You also see that mere marriage laws are not morality! I
agree with you; but unfortunately Violet does not.

MALONE. I take leave to doubt that, sir. [Turning on Violet] Let me tell
you, Mrs Robinson, or whatever your right name is, you had no right to
send that letter to my son when you were the wife of another man.

HECTOR. [outraged] This is the last straw. Dad: you have insulted my
wife.

MALONE. YOUR wife!

TANNER. YOU the missing husband! Another moral impostor! [He smites his
brow, and collapses into Malone's chair].

MALONE. You've married without my consent!

RAMSDEN. You have deliberately humbugged us, sir!

HECTOR. Here: I have had just about enough of being badgered. Violet and
I are married: that's the long and the short of it. Now what have you
got to say--any of you?

MALONE. I know what I've got to say. She's married a beggar.

HECTOR. No; she's married a Worker [his American pronunciation imparts
an overwhelming intensity to this simple and unpopular word]. I start to
earn my own living this very afternoon.

MALONE. [sneering angrily] Yes: you're very plucky now, because you got
your remittance from me yesterday or this morning, I reckon. Wait til
it's spent. You won't be so full of cheek then.

HECTOR. [producing a letter from his pocketbook] Here it is [thrusting
it on his father]. Now you just take your remittance and yourself out of
my life. I'm done with remittances; and I'm done with you. I don't sell
the privilege of insulting my wife for a thousand dollars.

MALONE. [deeply wounded and full of concern] Hector: you don't know what
poverty is.

HECTOR. [fervidly] Well, I want to know what it is. I want'be a Man.
Violet: you come along with me, to your own home: I'll see you through.

OCTAVIUS. [jumping down from the garden to the lawn and running to
Hector's left hand] I hope you'll shake hands with me before you go,
Hector. I admire and respect you more than I can say. [He is affected
almost to tears as they shake hands].

VIOLET. [also almost in tears, but of vexation] Oh don't be an idiot,
Tavy. Hector's about as fit to become a workman as you are.

TANNER. [rising from his chair on the other ride of Hector] Never fear:
there's no question of his becoming a navvy, Mrs Malone. [To Hector]
There's really no difficulty about capital to start with. Treat me as a
friend: draw on me.

OCTAVIUS. [impulsively] Or on me.

MALONE. [with fierce jealousy] Who wants your dirty money? Who should he
draw on but his own father? [Tanner and Octavius recoil, Octavius rather
hurt, Tanner consoled by the solution of the money difficulty. Violet
looks up hopefully]. Hector: don't be rash, my boy. I'm sorry for what I
said: I never meant to insult Violet: I take it all back. She's just the
wife you want: there!

HECTOR. [Patting him on the shoulder] Well, that's all right, dad. Say
no more: we're friends again. Only, I take no money from anybody.

MALONE. [pleading abjectly] Don't be hard on me, Hector. I'd rather you
quarrelled and took the money than made friends and starved. You don't
know what the world is: I do.

HECTOR. No, no, NO. That's fixed: that's not going to change. [He passes
his father inexorably by, and goes to Violet]. Come, Mrs Malone: you've
got to move to the hotel with me, and take your proper place before the
world.

VIOLET. But I must go in, dear, and tell Davis to pack. Won't you go on
and make them give you a room overlooking the garden for me? I'll join
you in half an hour.

HECTOR. Very well. You'll dine with us, Dad, won't you?

MALONE. [eager to conciliate him] Yes, yes.

HECTOR. See you all later. [He waves his hand to Ann, who has now been
joined by Tanner, Octavius, and Ramsden in the garden, and goes out
through the little gate, leaving his father and Violet together on the
lawn].

MALONE. You'll try to bring him to his senses, Violet: I know you will.

VIOLET. I had no idea he could be so headstrong. If he goes on like
that, what can I do?

MALONE. Don't be discurridged: domestic pressure may be slow; but it's
sure. You'll wear him down. Promise me you will.

VIOLET. I will do my best. Of course I think it's the greatest nonsense
deliberately making us poor like that.

MALONE. Of course it is.

VIOLET. [after a moment's reflection] You had better give me the
remittance. He will want it for his hotel bill. I'll see whether I can
induce him to accept it. Not now, of course, but presently.

MALONE. [eagerly] Yes, yes, yes: that's just the thing [he hands her the
thousand dollar bill, and adds cunningly] Y'understand that this is only
a bachelor allowance.

VIOLET. [Coolly] Oh, quite. [She takes it]. Thank you. By the way, Mr
Malone, those two houses you mentioned--the abbeys.

MALONE. Yes?

VIOLET. Don't take one of them until I've seen it. One never knows what
may be wrong with these places.

MALONE. I won't. I'll do nothing without consulting you, never fear.

VIOLET. [politely, but without a ray of gratitude] Thanks: that will
be much the best way. [She goes calmly back to the villa, escorted
obsequiously by Malone to the upper end of the garden].

TANNER. [drawing Ramsden's attention to Malone's cringing attitude as he
takes leave of Violet] And that poor devil is a billionaire! one of the
master spirits of the age! Led on a string like a pug dog by the first
girl who takes the trouble to despise him. I wonder will it ever come to
that with me. [He comes down to the lawn.]

RAMSDEN. [following him] The sooner the better for you.

MALONE. [clapping his hands as he returns through the garden] That'll be
a grand woman for Hector. I wouldn't exchange her for ten duchesses. [He
descends to the lawn and comes between Tanner and Ramsden].

RAMSDEN. [very civil to the billionaire] It's an unexpected pleasure to
find you in this corner of the world, Mr Malone. Have you come to buy up
the Alhambra?

MALONE. Well, I don't say I mightn't. I think I could do better with it
than the Spanish government. But that's not what I came about. To tell
you the truth, about a month ago I overheard a deal between two men over
a bundle of shares. They differed about the price: they were young and
greedy, and didn't know that if the shares were worth what was bid for
them they must be worth what was asked, the margin being too small to
be of any account, you see. To amuse meself, I cut in and bought the
shares. Well, to this day I haven't found out what the business is. The
office is in this town; and the name is Mendoza, Limited. Now whether
Mendoza's a mine, or a steamboat line, or a bank, or a patent article--

TANNER. He's a man. I know him: his principles are thoroughly
commercial. Let us take you round the town in our motor, Mr Malone, and
call on him on the way.

MALONE. If you'll be so kind, yes. And may I ask who--

TANNER. Mr Roebuck Ramsden, a very old friend of your daughter-in-law.

MALONE. Happy to meet you, Mr Ramsden.

RAMSDEN. Thank you. Mr Tanner is also one of our circle.

MALONE. Glad to know you also, Mr Tanner.

TANNER. Thanks. [Malone and Ramsden go out very amicably through the
little gate. Tanner calls to Octavius, who is wandering in the garden
with Ann] Tavy! [Tavy comes to the steps, Tanner whispers loudly to
him] Violet has married a financier of brigands. [Tanner hurries away
to overtake Malone and Ramsden. Ann strolls to the steps with an idle
impulse to torment Octavius].

ANN. Won't you go with them, Tavy?

OCTAVIUS. [tears suddenly flushing his eyes] You cut me to the heart,
Ann, by wanting me to go [he comes down on the lawn to hide his face
from her. She follows him caressingly].

ANN. Poor Ricky Ticky Tavy! Poor heart!

OCTAVIUS. It belongs to you, Ann. Forgive me: I must speak of it. I love
you. You know I love you.

ANN. What's the good, Tavy? You know that my mother is determined that I
shall marry Jack.

OCTAVIUS. [amazed] Jack!

ANN. It seems absurd, doesn't it?

OCTAVIUS. [with growing resentment] Do you mean to say that Jack has
been playing with me all this time? That he has been urging me not to
marry you because he intends to marry you himself?

ANN. [alarmed] No no: you mustn't lead him to believe that I said that:
I don't for a moment think that Jack knows his own mind. But it's clear
from my father's will that he wished me to marry Jack. And my mother is
set on it.

OCTAVIUS. But you are not bound to sacrifice yourself always to the
wishes of your parents.

ANN. My father loved me. My mother loves me. Surely their wishes are a
better guide than my own selfishness.

OCTAVIUS. Oh, I know how unselfish you are, Ann. But believe me--though
I know I am speaking in my own interest--there is another side to this
question. Is it fair to Jack to marry him if you do not love him? Is
it fair to destroy my happiness as well as your own if you can bring
yourself to love me?

ANN. [looking at him with a faint impulse of pity] Tavy, my dear, you
are a nice creature--a good boy.

OCTAVIUS. [humiliated] Is that all?

ANN. [mischievously in spite of her pity] That's a great deal, I assure
you. You would always worship the ground I trod on, wouldn't you?

OCTAVIUS. I do. It sounds ridiculous; but it's no exaggeration. I do;
and I always shall.

ANN. Always is a long word, Tavy. You see, I shall have to live up
always to your idea of my divinity; and I don't think I could do that if
we were married. But if I marry Jack, you'll never be disillusioned--at
least not until I grow too old.

OCTAVIUS. I too shall grow old, Ann. And when I am eighty, one white
hair of the woman I love will make me tremble more than the thickest
gold tress from the most beautiful young head.

ANN. [quite touched] Oh, that's poetry, Tavy, real poetry. It gives
me that strange sudden sense of an echo from a former existence which
always seems to me such a striking proof that we have immortal souls.

OCTAVIUS. Do you believe that is true?

ANN. Tavy, if it is to become true you must lose me as well as love me.

OCTAVIUS. Oh! [he hastily sits down at the little table and covers his
face with his hands].

ANN. [with conviction] Tavy: I wouldn't for worlds destroy your
illusions. I can neither take you nor let you go. I can see exactly what
will suit you. You must be a sentimental old bachelor for my sake.

OCTAVIUS. [desperately] Ann: I'll kill myself.

ANN. Oh no you won't: that wouldn't be kind. You won't have a bad time.
You will be very nice to women; and you will go a good deal to the
opera. A broken heart is a very pleasant complaint for a man in London
if he has a comfortable income.

OCTAVIUS. [considerably cooled, but believing that he is only recovering
his self-control] I know you mean to be kind, Ann. Jack has persuaded
you that cynicism is a good tonic for me. [He rises with quiet dignity].

ANN. [studying him slyly] You see, I'm disillusionizing you already.
That's what I dread.

OCTAVIUS. You do not dread disillusionizing Jack.

ANN. [her face lighting up with mischievous ecstasy--whispering] I
can't: he has no illusions about me. I shall surprise Jack the other
way. Getting over an unfavorable impression is ever so much easier than
living up to an ideal. Oh, I shall enrapture Jack sometimes!

OCTAVIUS. [resuming the calm phase of despair, and beginning to enjoy
his broken heart and delicate attitude without knowing it] I don't doubt
that. You will enrapture him always. And he--the fool!--thinks you would
make him wretched.

ANN. Yes: that's the difficulty, so far.

OCTAVIUS. [heroically] Shall I tell him that you love?

ANN. [quickly] Oh no: he'd run away again.

OCTAVIUS. [shocked] Ann: would you marry an unwilling man?

ANN. What a queer creature you are, Tavy! There's no such thing as a
willing man when you really go for him. [She laughs naughtily]. I'm
shocking you, I suppose. But you know you are really getting a sort of
satisfaction already in being out of danger yourself.

OCTAVIUS [startled] Satisfaction! [Reproachfully] You say that to me!

ANN. Well, if it were really agony, would you ask for more of it?

OCTAVIUS. Have I asked for more of it?

ANN. You have offered to tell Jack that I love him. That's
self-sacrifice, I suppose; but there must be some satisfaction in it.
Perhaps it's because you're a poet. You are like the bird that presses
its breast against the sharp thorn to make itself sing.

OCTAVIUS. It's quite simple. I love you; and I want you to be happy. You
don't love me; so I can't make you happy myself; but I can help another
man to do it.

ANN. Yes: it seems quite simple. But I doubt if we ever know why we do
things. The only really simple thing is to go straight for what you want
and grab it. I suppose I don't love you, Tavy; but sometimes I feel
as if I should like to make a man of you somehow. You are very foolish
about women.

OCTAVIUS. [almost coldly] I am content to be what I am in that respect.

ANN. Then you must keep away from them, and only dream about them. I
wouldn't marry you for worlds, Tavy.

OCTAVIUS. I have no hope, Ann: I accept my ill luck. But I don't think
you quite know how much it hurts.

ANN. You are so softhearted! It's queer that you should be so different
from Violet. Violet's as hard as nails.

OCTAVIUS. Oh no. I am sure Violet is thoroughly womanly at heart.

ANN. [with some impatience] Why do you say that? Is it unwomanly to be
thoughtful and businesslike and sensible? Do you want Violet to be an
idiot--or something worse, like me?

OCTAVIUS. Something worse--like you! What do you mean, Ann?

ANN. Oh well, I don't mean that, of course. But I have a great respect
for Violet. She gets her own way always.

OCTAVIUS. [sighing] So do you.

ANN. Yes; but somehow she gets it without coaxing--without having to
make people sentimental about her.

OCTAVIUS. [with brotherly callousness] Nobody could get very sentimental
about Violet, I think, pretty as she is.

ANN. Oh yes they could, if she made them.

OCTAVIUS. But surely no really nice woman would deliberately practise on
men's instincts in that way.

ANN. [throwing up her hands] Oh Tavy, Tavy, Ricky Ticky Tavy, heaven
help the woman who marries you!

OCTAVIUS. [his passion reviving at the name] Oh why, why, why do you say
that? Don't torment me. I don't understand.

ANN. Suppose she were to tell fibs, and lay snares for men?

OCTAVIUS. Do you think I could marry such a woman--I, who have known and
loved you?

ANN. Hm! Well, at all events, she wouldn't let you if she were wise. So
that's settled. And now I can't talk any more. Say you forgive me, and
that the subject is closed.

OCTAVIUS. I have nothing to forgive; and the subject is closed. And if
the wound is open, at least you shall never see it bleed.

ANN. Poetic to the last, Tavy. Goodbye, dear. [She pats his check;
has an impulse to kiss him and then another impulse of distaste which
prevents her; finally runs away through the garden and into the villa].

Octavius again takes refuge at the table, bowing his head on his arms
and sobbing softly. Mrs Whitefield, who has been pottering round the
Granada shops, and has a net full of little parcels in her hand, comes
in through the gate and sees him.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [running to him and lifting his head] What's the matter,
Tavy? Are you ill?

OCTAVIUS. No, nothing, nothing.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [still holding his head, anxiously] But you're crying.
Is it about Violet's marriage?

OCTAVIUS. No, no. Who told you about Violet?

MRS WHITEFIELD. [restoring the head to its owner] I met Roebuck and that
awful old Irishman. Are you sure you're not ill? What's the matter?

OCTAVIUS. [affectionately] It's nothing--only a man's broken heart.
Doesn't that sound ridiculous?

MRS WHITEFIELD. But what is it all about? Has Ann been doing anything to
you?

OCTAVIUS. It's not Ann's fault. And don't think for a moment that I
blame you.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [startled] For what?

OCTAVIUS. [pressing her hand consolingly] For nothing. I said I didn't
blame you.

MRS WHITEFIELD. But I haven't done anything. What's the matter?

OCTAVIUS. [smiling sadly] Can't you guess? I daresay you are right to
prefer Jack to me as a husband for Ann; but I love Ann; and it hurts
rather. [He rises and moves away from her towards the middle of the
lawn].

MRS WHITEFIELD. [following him hastily] Does Ann say that I want her to
marry Jack?

OCTAVIUS. Yes: she has told me.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [thoughtfully] Then I'm very sorry for you, Tavy. It's
only her way of saying SHE wants to marry Jack. Little she cares what I
say or what I want!

OCTAVIUS. But she would not say it unless she believed it. Surely you
don't suspect Ann of--of DECEIT!!

MRS WHITEFIELD. Well, never mind, Tavy. I don't know which is best for a
young man: to know too little, like you, or too much, like Jack.

Tanner returns.

TANNER. Well, I've disposed of old Malone. I've introduced him to
Mendoza, Limited; and left the two brigands together to talk it out.
Hullo, Tavy! anything wrong?

OCTAVIUS. I must go wash my face, I see. [To Mrs Whitefield] Tell him
what you wish. [To Tanner] You may take it from me, Jack, that Ann
approves of it.

TANNER. [puzzled by his manner] Approves of what?

OCTAVIUS. Of what Mrs Whitefield wishes. [He goes his way with sad
dignity to the villa].

TANNER. [to Mrs Whitefield] This is very mysterious. What is it you
wish? It shall be done, whatever it is.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [with snivelling gratitude] Thank you, Jack. [She sits
down. Tanner brings the other chair from the table and sits close to her
with his elbows on his knees, giving her his whole attention]. I don't
know why it is that other people's children are so nice to me, and that
my own have so little consideration for me. It's no wonder I don't seem
able to care for Ann and Rhoda as I do for you and Tavy and Violet. It's
a very queer world. It used to be so straightforward and simple; and
now nobody seems to think and feel as they ought. Nothing has been right
since that speech that Professor Tyndall made at Belfast.

TANNER. Yes: life is more complicated than we used to think. But what am
I to do for you?

MRS WHITEFIELD. That's just what I want to tell you. Of course you'll
marry Ann whether I like it myself or not--

TANNER. [starting] It seems to me that I shall presently be married to
Ann whether I like it myself or not.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [peacefully] Oh, very likely you will: you know what she
is when she has set her mind on anything. But don't put it on me: that's
all I ask. Tavy has just let out that she's been saying that I am making
her marry you; and the poor boy is breaking his heart about it; for he
is in love with her himself, though what he sees in her so wonderful,
goodness knows: I don't. It's no use telling Tavy that Ann puts things
into people's heads by telling them that I want them when the thought of
them never crossed my mind. It only sets Tavy against me. But you know
better than that. So if you marry her, don't put the blame on me.

TANNER. [emphatically] I haven't the slightest intention of marrying
her.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [slyly] She'd suit you better than Tavy. She'd meet her
match in you, Jack. I'd like to see her meet her match.

TANNER. No man is a match for a woman, except with a poker and a pair of
hobnailed boots. Not always even then. Anyhow, I can't take the poker to
her. I should be a mere slave.

MRS WHITEFIELD. No: she's afraid of you. At all events, you would tell
her the truth about herself. She wouldn't be able to slip out of it as
she does with me.

TANNER. Everybody would call me a brute if I told Ann the truth about
herself in terms of her own moral code. To begin with, Ann says things
that are not strictly true.

MRS WHITEFIELD. I'm glad somebody sees she is not an angel.

TANNER. In short--to put it as a husband would put it when exasperated
to the point of speaking out--she is a liar. And since she has plunged
Tavy head over ears in love with her without any intention of marrying
him, she is a coquette, according to the standard definition of
a coquette as a woman who rouses passions she has no intention of
gratifying. And as she has now reduced you to the point of being willing
to sacrifice me at the altar for the mere satisfaction of getting me to
call her a liar to her face, I may conclude that she is a bully as
well. She can't bully men as she bullies women; so she habitually
and unscrupulously uses her personal fascination to make men give her
whatever she wants. That makes her almost something for which I know no
polite name.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [in mild expostulation] Well, you can't expect
perfection, Jack.

TANNER. I don't. But what annoys me is that Ann does. I know perfectly
well that all this about her being a liar and a bully and a coquette and
so forth is a trumped-up moral indictment which might be brought against
anybody. We all lie; we all bully as much as we dare; we all bid for
admiration without the least intention of earning it; we all get as much
rent as we can out of our powers of fascination. If Ann would admit this
I shouldn't quarrel with her. But she won't. If she has children she'll
take advantage of their telling lies to amuse herself by whacking them.
If another woman makes eyes at me, she'll refuse to know a coquette. She
will do just what she likes herself whilst insisting on everybody else
doing what the conventional code prescribes. In short, I can stand
everything except her confounded hypocrisy. That's what beats me.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [carried away by the relief of hearing her own opinion
so eloquently expressed] Oh, she is a hypocrite. She is: she is. Isn't
she?

TANNER. Then why do you want to marry me to her?

MRS WHITEFIELD. [querulously] There now! put it on me, of course. I
never thought of it until Tavy told me she said I did. But, you know,
I'm very fond of Tavy: he's a sort of son to me; and I don't want him to
be trampled on and made wretched.

TANNER. Whereas I don't matter, I suppose.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Oh, you are different, somehow: you are able to take
care of yourself. You'd serve her out. And anyhow, she must marry
somebody.

TANNER. Aha! there speaks the life instinct. You detest her; but you
feel that you must get her married.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [rising, shocked] Do you mean that I detest my own
daughter! Surely you don't believe me to be so wicked and unnatural as
that, merely because I see her faults.

TANNER. [cynically] You love her, then?

MRS WHITEFIELD. Why, of course I do. What queer things you say, Jack! We
can't help loving our own blood relations.

TANNER. Well, perhaps it saves unpleasantness to say so. But for my
part, I suspect that the tables of consanguinity have a natural basis in
a natural repugnance [he rises].

MRS WHITEFIELD. You shouldn't say things like that, Jack. I hope you
won't tell Ann that I have been speaking to you. I only wanted to
set myself right with you and Tavy. I couldn't sit mumchance and have
everything put on me.

TANNER. [politely] Quite so.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [dissatisfied] And now I've only made matters worse.
Tavy's angry with me because I don't worship Ann. And when it's been put
into my head that Ann ought to marry you, what can I say except that it
would serve her right?

TANNER. Thank you.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Now don't be silly and twist what I say into something I
don't mean. I ought to have fair play--

Ann comes from the villa, followed presently by Violet, who is dressed
for driving.

ANN. [coming to her mother's right hand with threatening suavity] Well,
mamma darling, you seem to be having a delightful chat with Jack. We can
hear you all over the place.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [appalled] Have you overheard--

TANNER. Never fear: Ann is only--well, we were discussing that habit of
hers just now. She hasn't heard a word.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [stoutly] I don't care whether she has or not: I have a
right to say what I please.

VIOLET. [arriving on the lawn and coming between Mrs Whitefield and
Tanner] I've come to say goodbye. I'm off for my honeymoon.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [crying] Oh don't say that, Violet. And no wedding, no
breakfast, no clothes, nor anything.

VIOLET. [petting her] It won't be for long.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Don't let him take you to America. Promise me that you
won't.

VIOLET. [very decidedly] I should think not, indeed. Don't cry, dear:
I'm only going to the hotel.

MRS WHITEFIELD. But going in that dress, with your luggage, makes one
realize--[she chokes, and then breaks out again] How I wish you were my
daughter, Violet!

VIOLET. [soothing her] There, there: so I am. Ann will be jealous.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Ann doesn't care a bit for me.

ANN. Fie, mother! Come, now: you mustn't cry any more: you know Violet
doesn't like it [Mrs Whitefzeld dries her eyes, and subsides].

VIOLET. Goodbye, Jack.

TANNER. Goodbye, Violet.

VIOLET. The sooner you get married too, the better. You will be much
less misunderstood.

TANNER. [restively] I quite expect to get married in the course of the
afternoon. You all seem to have set your minds on it.

VIOLET. You might do worse. [To Mrs Whitefield: putting her arm round
her] Let me take you to the hotel with me: the drive will do you good.
Come in and get a wrap. [She takes her towards the villa].

MRS WHITEFIELD. [as they go up through the garden] I don't know what I
shall do when you are gone, with no one but Ann in the house; and she
always occupied with the men! It's not to be expected that your husband
will care to be bothered with an old woman like me. Oh, you needn't
tell me: politeness is all very well; but I know what people think--[She
talks herself and Violet out of sight and hearing].

Ann, musing on Violet's opportune advice, approaches Tanner; examines
him humorously for a moment from toe to top; and finally delivers her
opinion.

ANN. Violet is quite right. You ought to get married.

TANNER. [explosively] Ann: I will not marry you. Do you hear? I won't,
won't, won't, won't, WON'T marry you.

ANN. [placidly] Well, nobody axd you, sir she said, sir she said, sir
she said. So that's settled.

TANNER. Yes, nobody has asked me; but everybody treats the thing as
settled. It's in the air. When we meet, the others go away on absurd
pretexts to leave us alone together. Ramsden no longer scowls at me: his
eye beams, as if he were already giving you away to me in church. Tavy
refers me to your mother and gives me his blessing. Straker openly
treats you as his future employer: it was he who first told me of it.

ANN. Was that why you ran away?

TANNER. Yes, only to be stopped by a lovesick brigand and run down like
a truant schoolboy.

ANN. Well, if you don't want to be married, you needn't be [she turns
away from him and sits down, much at her ease].

TANNER. [following her] Does any man want to be hanged? Yet men let
themselves be hanged without a struggle for life, though they could at
least give the chaplain a black eye. We do the world's will, not our
own. I have a frightful feeling that I shall let myself be married
because it is the world's will that you should have a husband.

ANN. I daresay I shall, someday.

TANNER. But why me--me of all men? Marriage is to me apostasy,
profanation of the sanctuary of my soul, violation of my manhood,
sale of my birthright, shameful surrender, ignominious capitulation,
acceptance of defeat. I shall decay like a thing that has served its
purpose and is done with; I shall change from a man with a future to
a man with a past; I shall see in the greasy eyes of all the other
husbands their relief at the arrival of a new prisoner to share their
ignominy. The young men will scorn me as one who has sold out: to the
young women I, who have always been an enigma and a possibility,
shall be merely somebody else's property--and damaged goods at that: a
secondhand man at best.

ANN. Well, your wife can put on a cap and make herself ugly to keep you
in countenance, like my grandmother.

TANNER. So that she may make her triumph more insolent by publicly
throwing away the bait the moment the trap snaps on the victim!

ANN. After all, though, what difference would it make? Beauty is all
very well at first sight; but who ever looks at it when it has been
in the house three days? I thought our pictures very lovely when papa
bought them; but I haven't looked at them for years. You never bother
about my looks: you are too well used to me. I might be the umbrella
stand.

TANNER. You lie, you vampire: you lie.

ANN. Flatterer. Why are you trying to fascinate me, Jack, if you don't
want to marry me?

TANNER. The Life Force. I am in the grip of the Life Force.

ANN. I don't understand in the least: it sounds like the Life Guards.

TANNER. Why don't you marry Tavy? He is willing. Can you not be
satisfied unless your prey struggles?

ANN. [turning to him as if to let him into a secret] Tavy will never
marry. Haven't you noticed that that sort of man never marries?

TANNER. What! a man who idolizes women who sees nothing in nature but
romantic scenery for love duets! Tavy, the chivalrous, the faithful, the
tenderhearted and true! Tavy never marry! Why, he was born to be swept
up by the first pair of blue eyes he meets in the street.

ANN. Yes, I know. All the same, Jack, men like that always live in
comfortable bachelor lodgings with broken hearts, and are adored
by their landladies, and never get married. Men like you always get
married.

TANNER. [Smiting his brow] How frightfully, horribly true! It has been
staring me in the face all my life; and I never saw it before.

ANN. Oh, it's the same with women. The poetic temperament's a very nice
temperament, very amiable, very harmless and poetic, I daresay; but it's
an old maid's temperament.

TANNER. Barren. The Life Force passes it by.

ANN. If that's what you mean by the Life Force, yes.

TANNER. You don't care for Tavy?

ANN. [looking round carefully to make sure that Tavy is not within
earshot] No.

TANNER. And you do care for me?

ANN. [rising quietly and shaking her finger at him] Now Jack! Behave
yourself.

TANNER. Infamous, abandoned woman! Devil!

ANN. Boa-constrictor! Elephant!

TANNER. Hypocrite!

ANN. [Softly] I must be, for my future husband's sake.

TANNER. For mine! [Correcting himself savagely] I mean for his.

ANN.[ignoring the correction] Yes, for yours. You had better marry what
you call a hypocrite, Jack. Women who are not hypocrites go about in
rational dress and are insulted and get into all sorts of hot water. And
then their husbands get dragged in too, and live in continual dread of
fresh complications. Wouldn't you prefer a wife you could depend on?

TANNER. No, a thousand times no: hot water is the revolutionist's
element. You clean men as you clean milkpails, by scalding them.

ANN. Cold water has its uses too. It's healthy.

TANNER. [despairingly] Oh, you are witty: at the supreme moment the Life
Force endows you with every quality. Well, I too can be a hypocrite.
Your father's will appointed me your guardian, not your suitor. I shall
be faithful to my trust.

ANN. [in low siren tones] He asked me who would I have as my guardian
before he made that will. I chose you!

TANNER. The will is yours then! The trap was laid from the beginning.

ANN. [concentrating all her magic] From the beginning from our
childhood--for both of us--by the Life Force.

TANNER. I will not marry you. I will not marry you.

ANN. Oh; you will, you will.

TANNER. I tell you, no, no, no.

ANN. I tell you, yes, yes, yes.

TANNER. NO.

ANN. [coaxing--imploring--almost exhausted] Yes. Before it is too late
for repentance. Yes.

TANNER. [struck by the echo from the past] When did all this happen to
me before? Are we two dreaming?

ANN. [suddenly losing her courage, with an anguish that she does not
conceal] No. We are awake; and you have said no: that is all.

TANNER. [brutally] Well?

ANN. Well, I made a mistake: you do not love me.

TANNER. [seizing her in his arms] It is false: I love you. The Life
Force enchants me: I have the whole world in my arms when I clasp you.
But I am fighting for my freedom, for my honor, for myself, one and
indivisible.

ANN. Your happiness will be worth them all.

TANNER. You would sell freedom and honor and self for happiness?

ANN. It will not be all happiness for me. Perhaps death.

TANNER. [groaning] Oh, that clutch holds and hurts. What have you
grasped in me? Is there a father's heart as well as a mother's?

ANN. Take care, Jack: if anyone comes while we are like this, you will
have to marry me.

TANNER. If we two stood now on the edge of a precipice, I would hold you
tight and jump.

ANN. [panting, failing more and more under the strain] Jack: let me go.
I have dared so frightfully--it is lasting longer than I thought. Let me
go: I can't bear it.

TANNER. Nor I. Let it kill us.

ANN. Yes: I don't care. I am at the end of my forces. I don't care. I
think I am going to faint.

At this moment Violet and Octavius come from the villa with Mrs
Whitefield, who is wrapped up for driving. Simultaneously Malone and
Ramsden, followed by Mendoza and Straker, come in through the little
gate in the paling. Tanner shamefacedly releases Ann, who raises her
hand giddily to her forehead.

MALONE. Take care. Something's the matter with the lady.

RAMSDEN. What does this mean?

VIOLET. [running between Ann and Tanner] Are you ill?

ANN. [reeling, with a supreme effort] I have promised to marry Jack.
[She swoons. Violet kneels by her and chafes her band. Tanner runs round
to her other hand, and tries to lift her bead. Octavius goes to Violet's
assistance, but does not know what to do. Mrs Whitefield hurries back
into the villa. Octavius, Malone and Ramsden run to Ann and crowd round
her, stooping to assist. Straker coolly comes to Ann's feet, and Mendoza
to her head, both upright and self-possessed].

STRAKER. Now then, ladies and gentlemen: she don't want a crowd round
her: she wants air--all the air she can git. If you please, gents--
[Malone and Ramsden allow him to drive them gently past Ann and up
the lawn towards the garden, where Octavius, who has already become
conscious of his uselessness, joins them. Straker, following them up,
pauses for a moment to instruct Tanner]. Don't lift er ed, Mr Tanner:
let it go flat so's the blood can run back into it.

MENDOZA. He is right, Mr Tanner. Trust to the air of the Sierra. [He
withdraws delicately to the garden steps].

TANNER. [rising] I yield to your superior knowledge of physiology,
Henry. [He withdraws to the corner of the lawn; and Octavius immediately
hurries down to him].

TAVY. [aside to Tanner, grasping his hand] Jack: be very happy.

TANNER. [aside to Tavy] I never asked her. It is a trap for me. [He goes
up the lawn towards the garden. Octavius remains petrified].

MENDOZA. [intercepting Mrs Whitefield, who comes from the villa with a
glass of brandy] What is this, madam [he takes it from her]?

MRS WHITEFIELD. A little brandy.

MENDOZA. The worst thing you could give her. Allow me. [He swallows it].
Trust to the air of the Sierra, madam.

For a moment the men all forget Ann and stare at Mendoza.

ANN. [in Violet's ear, clutching her round the neck] Violet, did Jack
say anything when I fainted?

VIOLET. No.

ANN. Ah! [with a sigh of intense relief she relapses].

MRS WHITEFIELD. Oh, she's fainted again.

They are about to rush back to her; but Mendoza stops them with a
warning gesture.

ANN. [supine] No I haven't. I'm quite happy.

TANNER. [suddenly walking determinedly to her, and snatching her hand
from Violet to feel her pulse] Why, her pulse is positively bounding.
Come, getup. What nonsense! Up with you. [He gets her up summarily].

ANN. Yes: I feel strong enough now. But you very nearly killed me, Jack,
for all that.

MALONE. A rough wooer, eh? They're the best sort, Miss Whitefield.
I congratulate Mr Tanner; and I hope to meet you and him as frequent
guests at the Abbey.

ANN. Thank you. [She goes past Malone to Octavius] Ricky Ticky Tavy:
congratulate me. [Aside to him] I want to make you cry for the last
time.

TAVY. [steadfastly] No more tears. I am happy in your happiness. And I
believe in you in spite of everything.

RAMSDEN. [coming between Malone and Tanner] You are a happy man, Jack
Tanner. I envy you.

MENDOZA. [advancing between Violet and Tanner] Sir: there are two
tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart's desire. The other is
to get it. Mine and yours, sir.

TANNER. Mr Mendoza: I have no heart's desires. Ramsden: it is very easy
for you to call me a happy man: you are only a spectator. I am one of
the principals; and I know better. Ann: stop tempting Tavy, and come
back to me.

ANN. [complying] You are absurd, Jack. [She takes his proffered arm].

TANNER. [continuing] I solemnly say that I am not a happy man. Ann looks
happy; but she is only triumphant, successful, victorious. That is not
happiness, but the price for which the strong sell their happiness. What
we have both done this afternoon is to renounce tranquillity, above all
renounce the romantic possibilities of an unknown future, for the cares
of a household and a family. I beg that no man may seize the occasion to
get half drunk and utter imbecile speeches and coarse pleasantries at my
expense. We propose to furnish our own house according to our own taste;
and I hereby give notice that the seven or eight travelling clocks,
the four or five dressing cases, the salad bowls, the carvers and
fish slices, the copy of Tennyson in extra morocco, and all the other
articles you are preparing to heap upon us, will be instantly sold, and
the proceeds devoted to circulating free copies of the Revolutionist's
Handbook. The wedding will take place three days after our return
to England, by special license, at the office of the district
superintendent registrar, in the presence of my solicitor and his clerk,
who, like his clients, will be in ordinary walking dress.

VIOLET. [with intense conviction] You are a brute, Jack.

ANN. [looking at him with fond pride and caressing his arm] Never mind
her, dear. Go on talking.

TANNER. Talking!

Universal laughter.

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