ISABEL. I knew it! That's what you would say. You've told her it's no
use to forgive you now.
HAROLD. Yes--I did say that--I don't want her to forgive me, now. I am
reconciled to my fate.
ISABEL. Ah--but I'm afraid it's too late, now!
HAROLD. What do you mean?
ISABEL. I mean that your other letters will have done their work. Your
wife by this time has been convinced of your innocence--she realizes
that she has acted rashly--she is ready to forgive you. And she is
probably at this moment on her way to New York to tell you so, and take
you back home!
HAROLD. (_frightened_) No!
ISABEL. Yes! If she is not already here and looking for you....
HAROLD. Impossible!
ISABEL. Those letters were very convincing, Harold!
HAROLD. (_shaking his head_) Not in the face of the universal belief of
all Evanston in my guilt.
ISABEL. Then she has forgiven you anyway.
HAROLD. (_sadly_) You do not know her.
ISABEL. Don't I? No, Harold, this is to be our last breakfast together.
You wouldn't have her walk in on us, would you?--And that reminds me.
We're out of coffee. You must go and get some while I dress. And go to
the little French bakery for some brioches.
HAROLD. In these clothes?
ISABEL. Or Jim's. Just as you like.
HAROLD. Very well. I shall go as I am. (_Gloomily_) After all, I don't
know why I should mind one more farcical touch to my situation. A
grown man that doesn't know how to earn his living--
ISABEL. I've suggested several ways.
HAROLD. Yes, acting! No. I'd rather starve.
ISABEL. There are other alternatives.
HAROLD. Yes. Looking over the scientific magazines and finding out
about new inventions, and writing little pieces about them and selling
that to other magazines!
ISABEL. Why not?
HAROLD. A pretty job for a poet! What do _I_ know about machinery?
ISABEL. All the poets I know pay their rent that way. And they none of
them know anything about machinery.
HAROLD. All right. I'm in a crazy world. Everything's topsy-turvy. Even
the streets have gone insane. They wind and twist until they cross
their own tracks. I _know_ I'll get lost looking for that French
bakery. (_He goes to the door_.) Greenwich Village! My God!
_He goes out. She, after a moment, goes into the back room. The
charwoman enters, and commences to clean up the place. Isabel comes
back, partly clothed and with the rest of her things on her arm, and
finishes her toilet in front of the mirror. A sort of conversation
ensues_.
THE CHARWOMAN. A grand day it's going to be.
ISABEL. (_after a pause_)--Do you think I'm a bad woman, Mrs. Murphy?
MRS. MURPHY. Come, now, it's not a fair question, and me workin' for
you. I've no call to be criticizin' the way you do behave. It's my
business to be cleanin' up the place, and if 'tis a nest of paganism,
sure 'tis not for my own soul to answer for it at the Judgment Day. And
a blessed thought it is, too, that they that follow after the lusts of
the flesh must go to hell, or else who knows what a poor soul like me
would do sometimes, what with seein' the carryin's-on that one does
see. But I'd not be breathin' a word against a nice young lady like
yourself.
ISABEL. What do you think of Mr. Falcington?
MRS. MURPHY. Well, as my sister that's dead in Ireland used to say, and
we two girls together, "Sure," she said, "there's no accountin' for
tastes," she said. And you with a fine grand man the like of Mr. Jim,
to be takin' up with a lost sheep like this one. But I'd not be sayin'
a word against him, for it's a pretty boy he is, to be sure. Well,
there's a Last Day comin' for us all, and the sooner the better, the
way the young do be shiftin' and changin' as the fancy takes them. I
say nothin' at all, nothin' at all--but if you've a quarrel had with
Mr. Jim, why don't you make it up with him?
ISABEL. But Jim and I aren't married either, you know.
MRS. MURPHY. It's too soft you are, that's why. You take no for an
answer, as a girl shouldn't. Let you keep at him long enough, and he'll
give in. Sure the youth of this generation have no regard for their
proper rights. Never was a man yet that couldn't be come around, if he
was taken in his weakness. A silk dress or a wedding ring or shoes for
the baby, it's all the same--they have to be coaxed twice for every one
thing they do. It's the nature of the beast, so it is, God help us.
Well I remember how my sister that's dead in Ireland used to say, and
we girls together, "Sure," says she, "it's woman's place to ask," says
she, "and man's to refuse," says she, "and woman's to ask again," says
she. Widow that I am this ten year, I could tell you some things now--
but I'll not be sayin' a word.
ISABEL. Do I look all right?
MRS. MURPHY. It's pretty as a flower you look, Miss. And I'd not be
askin' questions, for it's none of my business at all, but who are you
fixin' yourself up for to-day, if you know yourself?
ISABEL. What difference does it make? I go into rehearsal next week,
and there's a manager that will want to make love to me, and he's fat,
and I'll get to hate and loathe the sight of male mankind--and this is
my last week to enjoy myself! (_She goes to the door at the back_.)
Besides, Jim may have another girl by this time, or Mr. Falcington's
wife may come.
_She goes into the inner room_.
MRS. MURPHY. His wife--God help us!
_She shakes her head, and starts to go out.
There is a knock. She opens the door, and admits a woman in a
travelling suit_.
THE WOMAN. Is Mr. Falcington here?
MRS. MURPHY. (_disingenuously_) There's a party of that name on
the east side of the Square if I'm not mistaken, ma'am, in the
Benedick, bachelor apartments like--'tis there you might inquire.
THE WOMAN. There's no Mr. Falcington here?
MRS. MURPHY. On another floor, maybe. 'Tis a lady lives here.
_The woman turns to go_.
ISABEL. (_within_) Who is asking for Mr. Falcington?
THE WOMAN. I am Mrs. Falcington,--his wife.
ISABEL. (_at the inner door_) Oh!
MRS. FALCINGTON. And you are Isabel Summers?
ISABEL. Yes.
MRS. MURPHY. The Lord have mercy!
_She escapes_.
ISABEL. Sit down.
MRS. FALCINGTON. Thank you. I will. (_She does so_.) Harold is out?
ISABEL. Yes. (_A pause_) Getting brioches for breakfast. (_A pause_)
You look tired. Won't you have some coffee? It's ready.
MRS. FALCINGTON. Thank you. Yes.
_Both the women give an impression of timid courage_.
ISABEL. (_pouring the coffee_) He ought to be back soon. He talked
of getting lost in the crooked streets of the Village, and I'm afraid
that's what has happened to him.
MRS. FALCINGTON. Yes. Harold is all at sea in a strange place.
_She takes the coffee and sips it_.
ISABEL. Tell me--how did you know?
MRS. FALCINGTON. (_smiling_) Private detectives.
ISABEL. (_a little shocked_) Oh!
MRS. FALCINGTON. Please don't misunderstand me. I'm not going to make
any trouble.... But I did want to know what became of him.
ISABEL. Yes ... naturally.
MRS. FALCINGTON. And then--you see, I wanted to know what you were
like; and--and whether he was happy with you. I don't think detectives
are very intelligent. They couldn't get it into their heads that I
wanted the truth. They gave me a--a very lurid account of--of you. And
of course Harold's letters gave me no help. So I came down to see for
myself.
ISABEL. (_rising_) Mrs. Falcington: here is a letter that Harold
was writing this morning. It tells about me--and I fancy you won't find
it so essentially different from the detectives' account. Read it and
see.
MRS. FALCINGTON. (_reading the letter_) He says he loves you.
ISABEL. In those words?
MRS. FALCINGTON. No--he says he is involved in a strange and sudden
infatuation. But it means the same thing.
ISABEL. No it doesn't. He isn't in love with me. I'll tell you
straight--he's in love with _you_.
MRS. FALCINGTON. How do you know?
ISABEL. From the letters he wrote you.
MRS. FALCINGTON. Oh! he showed them to you, did he? How like him!
ISABEL. But he _is_ in love with you. And he _isn't_ happy with me.
MRS. FALCINGTON. Why not?
ISABEL. He hates this kind of life. He wants order, regularity,
stability, comfort, ease, the respect of the community----
MRS. FALCINGTON. He used to tell me all those things bored him to
death.
ISABEL. (_pleading_) You _must_ take him back!
MRS. FALCINGTON. Don't you want him?
ISABEL. Well--(_she laughs in embarrassment_)--Not that bad!
MRS. FALCINGTON. His father will make him an allowance to live on.
ISABEL. I've told him I would never speak to him again if he took it.
MRS. FALCINGTON. You don't expect him to _work_, do you?
ISABEL. Yes--if he has anything to do with me.
MRS. FALCINGTON. Then if you can make him do that, by all means take
charge of his destinies!
ISABEL. But--but--that's not the point. He loves you. He wants to go
back. He didn't do any of those things he was accused of, you know.
MRS. FALCINGTON. Did he tell you that?
ISABEL. Yes.
MRS. FALCINGTON. Well--he told a story. (_Isabel is shocked_.) Oh,
there's no doubt about it. (_Her tone leaves none_.)
ISABEL. But she was ugly!
MRS. FALCINGTON. Did he tell you that?
ISABEL. Yes! Wasn't she?
MRS. FALCINGTON. There _are_ handsome poetesses--a few--and this was
one of them. She is one of the most beautiful women in Chicago.
ISABEL. Then he lied....
MRS. FALCINGTON. Oh, yes--of course. He just can't help it. Any more
than he can help making love----