Behind the Beyond, and Other Contributions to Human Knowledge. Stephen Leacock

to follow it all.)

      She speaks to Ernestine. "Is this Mr. Harding's apartment?"

      "Yes, madame."

      "Is he here?" She looks about her.

      "No, madame, he is gone this moment in a taxi—to the Hotel Bristol, I heard him say."

      Mrs. Harding, faltering. "Is—any one—here?"

      "No, madame, no one—milady was here a moment ago. She, too, has gone out." (This is a lie but of course the maid is a French maid.)

      "Then it is true—there is some one–" She is just saying this when the bell rings, the door opens and there enters—Sir John Trevor.

      "You!" says Mrs. Harding.

      "I am too late!" gasps Sir John.

      She goes to him tremblingly—"After all these years," she says.

      "It is a long time."

      "You have not changed."

      She has taken his hands and is looking into his face, and she goes on speaking. "I have thought of you so often in all these bitter years—it sustained me even at the worst—and I knew, John, that it was for my sake that you had never married–"

      Then, as she goes on talking, the audience realize with a thrill that Mrs. Harding does not know that Sir John married two years ago, that she has come home, as she thought, to the man who loved her, and, more than that, they get another thrill when they realize that Lady Cicely is learning it too. She has pushed the door half open and is standing there unseen, listening. She wears a hat and cloak; there is a folded letter in her hand—her eyes are wide. Mrs. Harding continues:

      "And now, John, I want your help, only you can help me, you are so strong—my Jack, I must save him." She looks about the room. Something seems to overcome her. "Oh, John, this place—his being here like this—it seems a judgment on us."

      The audience are getting it fast now. And when Mrs. Harding speaks of "our awful moment of folly," "the retribution of our own sins," they grasp it and shiver with the luxury of it.

      After that when Mrs. Harding says: "Our wretched boy, we must save him,"—they all know why she says "our."

      She goes on more calmly. "I realized. I knew—he is not alone here."

      Sir John's voice is quiet, almost hollow. "He is not alone."

      "But this woman—can you not deal with her—persuade her—beg her for my sake—bribe her to leave my boy?"

      Lady Cicely steps out. "There is no bribe needed. I am going. If I have wronged him, and you, it shall be atoned."

      Sir John has given no sign. He is standing stunned. She turns to him. "I have heard and know now. I cannot ask for pity. But when I am gone—when it is over—I want you to give him this letter—and I want you, you two, to—to be as if I had never lived."

      She lays the letter in his hand. Then without a sign, Lady Cicely passes out. There is a great stillness in the house. Mrs. Harding has watched Lady Cicely and Sir John in amazement. Sir John has sunk into a chair. She breaks out, "John, for God's sake what does it mean—this woman—speak—there is something awful, I must know."

      "Yes, you must know. It is fate. Margaret, you do not know all. Two years ago I married–"

      "But this woman, this woman–"

      "She is—she was—my wife."

.       .       .       .       .       .       

      And at this moment Harding breaks into the room. "Cicely, Cicely, I was too late–" He sees the others. "Mother," he says in agony, "and you–" He looks about. "Where is she? What is happening? I must know–"

      Sir John, as if following a mechanical impulse, has handed Harding the letter. He tears it open and reads:

      "Dearest, I am going away, to die. It cannot be long now. The doctor told me to-day. That was why I couldn't speak or explain it to you and was so strange at supper. But I am glad now. Good-by."

      Harding turns upon Sir John with the snarl of a wolf. "What have you done? Why have you driven her away? What right had you to her, you devil? I loved her—She was mine–"

      He had seized a pointed knife from the supper table. His shoulders are crouched—he is about to spring on Sir John. Mrs. Harding has thrown herself between them.

      "Jack, Jack, you mustn't strike."

      "Out of the way, I say, I'll–"

      "Jack, Jack, you mustn't strike. Can't you understand? Don't you see—what it is. . . ."

      "What do you mean—stand back from me."

      "Jack he—is—your—father."

      The knife clatters to the floor. "My God!"

      And then the curtain falls—and there's a burst of applause and, in accordance with all the best traditions of the stage, one moment later, Lady Cicely and Mr. Harding and Sir John and Mrs. Harding are all bowing and smiling like anything, and even the little French maid sneaks on in a corner of the stage and simpers.

      Then the orchestra plays and the leopards sneak out and the people in the boxes are all talking gayly to show that they're not the least affected. And everybody is wondering how it will come out, or rather how it can possibly come out at all, because some of them explain that it's all wrong, and just as they are making it clear that there shouldn't be any third act, the curtain goes up and it's–

      Act III. Three Months Later

      THE curtain rises on a drawing-room in Mrs. Harding's house in London. Mrs. Harding is sitting at a table. She is sorting out parcels. There is a great air of quiet about the scene. The third act of a problem play always has to be very quiet. It is like a punctured football with the wind going out of it. The play has to just poof itself out noiselessly.

      For instance, this is the way it is done.

      Does Mrs. Harding start to talk about Lady Cicely and Jack, and Paris? Not a bit. She is simply looking over the parcels and writing names and talking to herself so that the audience can get the names.

      "For the Orphans' Home—poor little things. For the Foundlings' Protection Society. For the Lost Infants' Preservation League" (a deep sigh)—"poor, poor children."

      Now what is all this about? What has this to do with the play? Why, don't you see that it is the symbol of philanthropy, of gentleness, of melancholy sadness? The storm is over and there is nothing in Mrs. Harding's heart but pity. Don't you see that she is dressed in deeper black than ever, and do you notice that look on her face—that third-act air—that resignation?

      Don't you see that the play is really all over? They're just letting the wind out of it.

      A man announces "Sir John Trevor."

      Sir John steps in. Mrs. Harding goes to meet him with both hands out.

      "My dear, dear friend," she says in rich, sad tones.

      Sir John is all in black. He is much aged, but very firm and very quiet. You can feel that he's been spending the morning with the committee of the Homeless Newsboys' League or among the Directorate of the Lost Waifs' Encouragement Association. In fact he begins to talk of these things at once. The people who are not used to third acts are wondering what it is all about. The real playgoers know that this is atmosphere.

      Then presently–

      "Tea?" says Mrs. Harding, "shall I ring?"

      "Pray do," says Sir John. He seats himself with great weariness. The full melancholy of the third act is on him. The tea which has been made for three acts is brought in. They drink it and it begins to go to their heads. The "atmosphere" clears off just a little.

      "You have news, I know," says Mrs. Harding, "you have seen him?"

      "I have seen him."

      "And he is gone?"

      "Yes, he has sailed," says Sir John. "He went on board last night,