The Tyranny of Tears Part 11

[Stepping back from her.] If you cry I shall leave the room.

[Sits R. Begins to write.

Mrs. Parbury.

[With her back to the audience, in a low voice.] I wasn't going to cry.

Parbury.

I'm glad to hear it.

[Mrs. Parbury puts her handkerchief away and turns.

Mrs. Parbury.

I had no intention of crying, dear. [Parbury still writes. Pause. She comes to desk.] Shall I write out an advertis.e.m.e.nt for you, dear?

Parbury.

What for?

Mrs. Parbury.

For a new secretary-a man.

Parbury.

No. My mind's made up. I shall not change my secretary.

Mrs. Parbury.

Clement!

Parbury.

[Rises and goes to her.] Listen, my dear Mabel. Perhaps I'm a good deal to blame for the pain you are going to suffer now, and I'm very sorry for you; in many ways you are the best little woman in the world. I've been weak and yielding, and I've gradually allowed you to acquire a great deal more power than you know how to use wisely.

Mrs. Parbury.

Really, Clement, you must be raving.

Parbury.

Listen, my dear, listen. What's been the result? You've taken from me my habits. You've taken from me my friends. You've taken from me my clubs. You've taken from me my self-esteem, my joy in life, my high spirits, the cheery devil that G.o.d implanted in me; but, d.a.m.n it, you must leave me my secretary.

Mrs. Parbury.

[Excitedly walking the stage.] Oh, I understand now. You use this exaggerated language, you make these cruel accusations, you work yourself into a pa.s.sion, because you have grown to think more of Miss Woodward than of me.

Parbury.

Now you know that to be a purely fantastic interpretation of what I said. [She takes out handkerchief.] I observe with pain, too, that you are about to cry again.

Mrs. Parbury.

[Puts handkerchief up her sleeve, controls her anger, and becomes very determined.] You are quite wrong. Probably I shall never again know the relief of tears. Your callousness and obstinacy seem to have dried up all the tenderness in me. Miss Woodward leaves this house in the morning, or I leave it to-night.

Parbury.

[Coming to her.] Oh, come, come, Mabel, that is too ridiculous.

Mrs. Parbury.

I'm very, very serious. Please, for your own sake, understand that. Which is it to be?

Parbury.

There, dear, let's drop it now. Don't you think domestic squabbles like this, besides being boring, are just a little-may one say it, vulgar? Let's go back to the garden.

Mrs. Parbury.

Which is it to be?

Parbury.

[Shrugs his shoulders.] Of course, you know I'm decided. Miss Woodward stays.

Mrs. Parbury.

Very well.

[She goes to bell L. of fireplace and rings. Parbury goes up, takes a book, and negligently turns over the leaves, secretly, however, watching his wife. Pause until Enter Evans, L.

Mrs. Parbury.

Where is Caroline?

Evans.

She's in her room, ma'am.

Mrs. Parbury.

Send her to me, please.

Evans.

Yes, ma'am!

[Exit Evans, L.

Mrs. Parbury.

I needn't keep you from your friend, Mr. Gunning, any longer.

Parbury.

I'm all right here, dear; I'm perfectly contented. [He turns over leaves.] There is such a wise pa.s.sage here. I'd like to read it to you. [She makes a gesture of irritation.] No! Well, it must keep.

Enter Caroline, L.

Mrs. Parbury.

Caroline, I shall want you to pack a few things for me.

Caroline.

What shall you want, ma'am?

Mrs. Parbury.

I'll come upstairs and show you.

Caroline.

Yes, ma'am.

[Exit Caroline, L. Slight pause.

Parbury.

[Rising from his leaning att.i.tude against table up stage, putting down the book, and coming down two steps.] You foolish little woman. You know this is impossible. Be reasonable.

Mrs. Parbury.

[Firmly.] Which is it to be?

Parbury.

[With a gesture conveys that the subject is closed and returns to his former att.i.tude.] I think I have a right to ask what you propose doing.

Mrs. Parbury.

I propose going home with my father.

[The laugh of the Colonel is heard in the garden. Then he appears at the entrance, still laughing. Gunning appears behind him. The Colonel enters. Gunning remains at the window smoking.

Colonel.

[To Parbury.] That's really the funniest thing I've heard for years. Have you heard that story, Clement?

Parbury.

What story?

Colonel.

Story of-[Then he sees Mrs. Parbury.] Oh, quite a drawing-room story, believe me, dear.

Mrs. Parbury.

Father, I wish to speak to you.

Colonel.

Certainly, dear. What is it?

[Crosses to sofa, L. Sits. Parbury exchanges a look with Gunning.

Gunning.

[Coming down quickly.] Mrs. Parbury, I must reluctantly say good-night. Your charming house is almost in the country, and I've to get back to London. I thank you for-- Mrs. Parbury.

[Interrupting.] Please don't go, Mr. Gunning. It's quite early, and Clement and you, as such very old friends, must still have a great deal to talk about.

Parbury.

[Taking Gunning's arm.] No, George, you really mustn't go.

[Leads him up to window, R.

Gunning.

I a.s.sure you, my dear chap-- Parbury.

[Interrupting.] But I make it a personal favour. Dear student of life, stay and observe.

[They remain up at window.

Mrs. Parbury.

Dear father, I wish you to take me home with you to-night.

Colonel.

[Surprised.] Certainly, dear, but-- Mrs. Parbury.

Don't question me. [Puts her hand on his shoulder.] You love me, don't you?