Dull daylight falls upon a wide and desolate expanse.
This has the appearance of a desert--unbroken and
arid. The horizon is low and heavy with cloud, and
is defined by a tossing sea-line against which no sail
appears. In the distance are cliffs, fissured by dark
cuts, but these are far away, and the foreground is
flat like sand or ashes, or it might be corrugated like
slag. There is no vegetation visible, and no sign of
organized life.
_Enter_ DR. THORNE. (_He paces the sands,
mournfully gazing about him at the
lonely scenery. He murmurs, then
raises his voice rhythmically, like one
who quotes from an uncertain memory._)
DR. THORNE.
“A life as hollow as the echo in a cave
Hid in the heart of an unpeopled world.”
Where did I get that? Oh, I remember. I had not thought of it for years.
That woman used to quote it to me. She was the most consistent infidel I
ever knew. She shied at nothing; took the consequences, both living and
dying.... A shocking death, though! I suppose the boy is all right with
Mrs. Fayth and that little chum of his. If it hadn’t been for that
discussion with Harvey I shouldn’t have left him. Wishing seems to be
doing, in this singular state of existence. A man makes a simple
astronomical inquiry about a planet, and forthwith he is in the planet.
Remarkable! (_Breaks off; continues._) How magnificent Helen was about
that affair. If she had doubted me--but she never did. She was superb.
_Enter an_ EVIL SPIRIT. _Her garments
are of flame color. Her hair has the
same tint. On her forehead blazes a
single scarlet star. Her appearance
is queenly and confident. As she reveals
her face, it is seen to be that of
the woman whose wraith has followed_
DR. THORNE _at intervals ever since
the hour of his death. Her robe,
which is opaque, reveals her bare
arms and feet, but covers her shoulders
and bosom with a certain modesty,
which is felt at once to be not
wholly natural to the woman. Each
footprint that she makes upon the
sand is marked by a small jet of
flame, which flares after she has
passed, and dies down quickly._ DR.
THORNE _stares at the woman in evident
and not well-pleased perplexity_.
THE WOMAN (_speaks_). So? Am I forgotten on first principles? It is some
years since we had the pleasure of meeting.
DR. THORNE (_coldly_). I begin to recognize you, Madam.
CLEO. You did not know it, but I have given you several other
opportunities to do so since you died.
DR. THORNE. I should think that quite possible--and characteristic.
CLEO (_wincing_). Your tongue has not lost its edge! I’m afraid they
have not made a hopeful convert of you in yonder pious country....
Confess, you’re bored past endurance with the whole thing? (_She draws a
little nearer to him, but is so adroit as not to touch him. She gives
him only her eyes, and these embrace him outright._)
DR. THORNE (_regarding her steadily_). Did I ever choose _you_ for a
confidante? (_He steps back._)
CLEO (_persistently_). Come, don’t be cross! Tell me, then, why have you
fled the first circles of celestial society--to mope out here alone? Oh,
you can’t deceive me. _I_ understand--I always understood you better
than any other woman living. (_In a low tone._) Your whole nature is in
antagonism with the very basis of existence in the state you’re plunged
into. What’s death? Nothing but a footstep. You’ve taken it. But you’re
the man you were.... Pouf! _That’s_ death. (_Snaps her fingers._) I’d
wager a waltz and a kiss that you are _ennuyé_ to madness over
there.... Admit it? (_Tenderly._) Admit it! (_Imperiously._)
DR. THORNE (_uneasily_). I don’t profess to be thoroughly acclimated.
But I assure you I did not come here to sulk. On the contrary, I was
absorbingly interested in a scientific discussion with a distinguished
man. It was an astronomical point. I came here to verify it. I return at
once. (_Moves away._)
CLEO. Don’t be in such a blatant hurry! It’s not polite. (_Pouting._)
I’ve studied a little astronomy myself of late.... Come! I can converse
about planets--if you will. Was it Neptune or Venus you undertook to
investigate?
DR. THORNE (_not without interest_). I contended that it was
Neptune--before I came.
CLEO. And now?
DR. THORNE (_gloomily gazing at her_). I am inclined to think it is
Venus.
(CLEO _laughs softly_.)
(DR. THORNE _does not smile_.)
CLEO (_abruptly_). Esmerald Thorne, do you know what has happened? You
are in an uninhabited world--with me. You are in a dead world, burnt to
ashes, burnt to slag and lava by its own fires. You are alone in
it--_alone with me.... (In a changed voice.) And I meant you should be._
Oh, I’ve dreamed of this for years. I’ve held my breath for it, perished
for it.... Now, here we are--we two outcasts from the religious idea--we
who always rebelled against it, by the very bone and tissue of our
being.... We two (_tenderly_) _alone, at last_. (_She advances towards
him, and for the first time touches him, gently laying her hand upon his
shoulder._)
DR. THORNE (_not rudely, but positively, removes her hand, stepping back
quickly, so that her arm falls heavily by her side_). Woman! Woman, what
are you? A spirit damned, or a spirit deluded?... I confess I never
knew. And I don’t know any better now.
CLEO (_more modestly lifts his hand to her cheek; speaks gently_). Do
you know any better now?
DR. THORNE (_withdrawing his hand_). My wife always said you were half
angel, half the other thing. She pitied you, I think. I confess I never
did, very much.
CLEO (_wretchedly_). I never asked for the pity of Helen Thorne!
DR. THORNE (_firmly_). You might well receive it, Madam. It would not
harm you any.
CLEO (_suddenly_). Oh, everybody knew you were an irreproachable
husband. A blameless physician, of course. But we have changed all that.
You are quite free now--as free as I am, for that matter....
DR. THORNE (_nobly_). Yes; I am free, as you say. I am free to mourn my
wife, and love her ... and await her presence ... which has a value to
me that I do not ... I cannot discuss--with _you_.
CLEO (_rebuffed, but gentle and sad_). I beg your pardon, Dr. Thorne.
DR. THORNE (_takes a few steps nearer her_). And I yours ... if I have
wronged you.
CLEO (_softly_). You feel so sure of her, then? Helen is so attractive!
These spiritual women always are--up to a certain point.... Life is a
long wait, brutally tedious. You know as well as I do how many--Now,
there is Dr. Gazell. A very consolable widower.
DR. THORNE (_proudly_). Oh, that was a blunt stroke. _Gazell?_ If Gazell
were a dog by which my wife might track her way to me through the
mystery of death ... she might have some use for him ... hardly
otherwise. I gave you credit for some wit, Cleo.
CLEO. I own the illustration was defective. But there are a plenty
better. There are gentler men than you. For my part, I don’t mind your
attacks of the devil. I never did. I’d take your cruelty to have your
tenderness--any day. But Mrs. Thorne is sensitive to kindness. She likes
the even disposition, the patient, model man. After all, there are a
good many of them.
DR. THORNE (_lifting his head_). I am not afraid.
CLEO (_turning away_). And you? She is a young woman. It may be
years....
DR. THORNE (_coldly_). You will have to excuse me. I left some one.... I
may be missed. I have ties which even you would respect, Madam. I must
return whence I came. (_He moves away._)
(CLEO _hides her face in her hands; is heard to weep_.)
DR. THORNE (_steps back_). Do you want my pity?
CLEO (_murmurs_). Alone--in a desert world--we two--at last. Oh, you
don’t know the alphabet of happiness! You have everything to learn ...
from me. And we shall never be like this again!
DR. THORNE (_frankly_). I hope not.
CLEO (_suddenly starting, paces the ashes; throws her arms above her
head_). I always said you had a Nero in you.... Oh, I understood
you--_I_! But _you_.... It never occurred to you, I suppose, that you
died on my very day? I had been dead three years that night.
DR. THORNE (_more gently_). What did you do it for, Cleo? You know I
warned you about that habit. You know I took the laudanum away from you.
CLEO. But you could not cork up the Limited Express--could you?
DR. THORNE. It was a dreadful death! Tell me, how do you fare? Where do
you live? Do you suffer? What is your lot?
CLEO (_with sudden reserve, and not without dignity_) We suicides have
our own fate. We bear it. We do not reveal it.
DR. THORNE (_uncomfortably_). Well--I must bid you good-morning.
CLEO (_savagely_). At least, I gained something--if I lose all. Of
course, it never dawned on you that this was all my scheme?
DR. THORNE (_in dismay_). _Your scheme?_
CLEO (_past control, raves_). Oh, I had watched my chance for years. I
knew _you_--your mad moods, your black temper.... Yourself slew
yourself, Esmerald Thorne. Your own weakness gave me my opportunity. I
waited for my moment. I sat in the buggy beside you.... I sometimes did
that when your evil had you. (I couldn’t get there when you were good,
you know.) I tried to take the reins. _I tried to get the whip_--I could
not do it. _I meant to hit the horse_--my arm was held. (There are
always so many of these holy busybodies about--angels and messengers of
sanctity--to interfere with one!) Oh, then I sprang out--over the wheel
into the street. You didn’t see me, _but Donna did_. When she shied I
clung to her bit. And then she bolted.... It was a very simple thing.
(DR. THORNE _recoiling slowly, an expression of cold horror chills his
features_.)
CLEO (_still raving_). Yes, I’ve murdered you--if you will--and Mary
Fayth besides. And I’ve broken Helen’s heart. Do you suppose that
counts? Who counts? Nobody on earth, or in heaven, or in hell. _I’ve got
you away from your wife...._ And in earth, or in heaven, or in hell,
I’ll have you yet....
DR. THORNE (_throwing out his hands; holds her off with evidences of
unbearable repulsion; speaks with difficulty_). And I pitied you a
moment since. Now I cannot scorn you. It is too fine a word.
CLEO (_more calmly_). I can abide my time.
_Enter_ LADDIE, _running rapidly_.
LADDIE. Papa, Papa! Oh, I missed you, Papa!
CLEO (_starting_). I did not know the child was dead! (_Looks
disconcerted._)
DR. THORNE (_catches the child, and holds him to his heart; speaks_).
No. You only knew you left him fatherless. (_With much agitation,
continues._) How did you get here, Laddie? How did you find the way?
Papa hadn’t forgotten his little boy. I was coming right back to you, my
son.
LADDIE (_mysteriously; looking about_). A man with wings brought me. We
flowed over.... He is waiting out there to take us back. (_Observing_
CLEO, LADDIE _slips down to the ground, and backs up against his
father’s knees; points at the woman_.) Papa, I don’t like that lady.
DR. THORNE (_cruelly_). My son, I cannot deny that I respect your taste.
(_Clasps the boy to his heart again; then puts him down once more, and,
with a fine motion, holds the child at arm’s-length between himself and
the woman._)
CLEO (_averting her face_). I perceive the importance of the obstacle. I
admit ... that to love a man who is the father of another woman’s
child--
DR. THORNE (_interrupting_). And who loves the mother of his child--
(CLEO _sobs_.)
DR. THORNE. Come, Laddie. (_He does not glance at the woman again._)
[_Exeunt_ DR. THORNE _and_ LADDIE.
CLEO (_yearning after him; stretches out her arms, but does not follow;
calls mournfully_). Oh, if you would come back a minute--only a
minute!... In heaven, or earth, or hell, I’d never ask _any_thing of you
again. A minute, a _minute_!
(DR. THORNE _does not return, and does not reply_. CLEO _is left alone
in the dead world. She falls flat upon the slag and ashes._)
END OF SCENE II.