The Tyranny of Tears Part 21

Parbury.

No, no, don't you trouble. It'll all come right presently. By the way, what a good fellow Gunning is!

Miss Woodward.

Is he?

Parbury.

Don't you think so?

[Looking at her.

Miss Woodward.

I've seen so little of him; but I'm sure he must be if you think so.

[She is going, L.

Parbury.

Wait one moment, Miss Woodward. I know there was something else I wanted to say to you. [She comes back.] [He rises and paces stage thoughtfully.] Oh, yes; I know! I'm afraid my domestic complications have made things a little uncomfortable for you here.

Miss Woodward.

[Astonished, drops the letters on the table.] I don't-don't understand.

Parbury.

I mean that you probably feel it rather awkward to actually live-night and day in the house in my wife's absence?

Miss Woodward.

[Blankly.] Oh, yes, yes; quite I suppose.

Parbury.

[Not looking at her.] I don't know much about these matters; but I do know that you women are very sensitive, and apt to worry about what people might say.

Miss Woodward.

[In the same manner as before.] Yes-of course.

Parbury.

I thought so. Well, it has occurred to me that perhaps under present circ.u.mstances it would be better if-- Miss Woodward.

You mean for me to go away.

Parbury.

Yes.

[Pause.

Miss Woodward.

[In a low voice.] If I had been wiser I would have expected it.

Parbury.

I mean, of course, to sleep only. Mrs. Howlands at Parkhurst House just down here lets some of her rooms I know, and probably she has a vacant bedroom now. I'll send down presently and see what can be done. In fact, I'll send Evans now.

[Is about to go L.

Miss Woodward.

Mr. Parbury!

Parbury.

[Stopping.] Yes.

Miss Woodward.

Don't send, please.

Parbury.

Oh, I see; you would rather go yourself.

Miss Woodward.

I would rather go altogether.

Parbury.

[Amazed.] You would rather go altogether!

Miss Woodward.

I mean I will go altogether.

Parbury.

Miss Woodward, what is this for? What have I done?

Miss Woodward.

Nothing that hasn't been perfect kindness to me.

Parbury.

Then why wish to go now? I know I can't expect to have you always, because you will some day get married.

Miss Woodward.

I shall never get married.

Parbury.

Nonsense! Of course you will, and the man who gets you will, in my opinion, be a very lucky fellow; but until that day I certainly looked forward to having the benefit of your services.

Miss Woodward.

I'm sorry if I disappoint you. Please forgive me and let me go.

Parbury.

But really, Miss Woodward, I must beg for some sort of explanation. Last night you acknowledged you were perfectly satisfied. You wished to remain.

Miss Woodward.

You have unconsciously shown me to-day that I was wrong.

Parbury.

Indeed! I would be glad to know how. Oh, how weary one gets of mysteries! [Miss Woodward's head droops lower.] [He walks the stage, then looks at Miss Woodward and pauses; he goes to her and speaks more gently.] I beg your pardon, I fear I spoke impatiently. Do understand that I only wish for your own good. I admit in our relations I've hitherto been rather selfish. I'm afraid writing men are p.r.o.ne to be so. I've allowed you to study my wishes and feelings and nerves all the time, without giving any thought to yours. I'll try to be more considerate in the future if you'll only regard me as an elder brother and tell me what is troubling you now.

Miss Woodward.

I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm ashamed that you should worry about me at all.

Parbury.

Is it anything to do with Mr. Gunning?

Miss Woodward.

Nothing at all. How could it be?

Parbury.

Miss Woodward, I don't like to press you, but this general cloud of mystery is seriously affecting my nerves. At least tell me-I make it a personal favour-the cause of the quarrel between my wife and you.

Miss Woodward.

It's impossible! Mrs. Parbury may tell you after I've gone. I'd rather you despised me then than now.

Parbury.

[Wonderingly.] Despise you?

[Their eyes meet. Pause.

Miss Woodward.

[Pa.s.sionately.] Please don't-don't even try to guess.

Parbury.

[The light breaking in on him slowly.] I think I understand.

[Miss Woodward turns up stage and stands with head bowed, her back to the audience. There is a long pause. At first Parbury doesn't appear ill-pleased. He looks down at the rose in his b.u.t.tonhole, and begins to raise it half-tenderly to his face. Then his face becomes grave, and he slowly removes the flower from his coat, and places it on the table against which Miss Woodward is standing. He takes one of her hands.

Parbury.

I don't ask anything-I don't guess anything, my dear child-my little sister. I was wrong to press you to tell me your trouble; for what could a hardened, rough-natured man do with the secrets of a young girl's heart?

Miss Woodward.

Don't speak like that; only say that I may go.

Parbury.

Yes.

[Goes up C.

Miss Woodward.

Thank you.

[Sees the rose where he has placed it. After a slight pause she takes it up. During the following, she slowly picks it to pieces, dropping the petals on the ground.

Parbury.

[Coming down to back of table and speaking very gently.] I suppose there must soon come a time to every girl of heart who goes out alone into the world-a time when life seems to press hardly upon her and weariness of the unaccustomed stress makes her heart falter, and when she longs to take rest for a time in the old childhood, in the home she perhaps once thought to be dull and dreary, in the mother's arms that have always been ready to open with love for her.

Miss Woodward.

Don't!

[Sinks into chair, R.C.; buries her face in her hands.

Parbury.

Perhaps you feel that that time has come now. If so, go home for a little while, and get rest and fresh strength for the battle of life. Come back to the fight soon. You are bound to succeed, because you have talent and ambition and courage. [Slight pause. He takes her hand.] Don't cry. There is nothing you have lost or suffered yet quite worth a tear- Enter Mrs. Parbury, R., Gunning, and Armitage.