Chapter III: Act I

SCENE—_A drawing-room in Don Julian's house. At the back of stage a large door, and beyond a passage separating it from the dining-room door, which remains closed throughout the act. On the left a balcony, and beyond it a door. On the right two doors. On the stage a table, an arm-chair, handsome and luxurious mounting. Hour, towards sunset._

SCENE I

_Teodora and Don Julian. Teodora near the balcony;
Don Julian seated on the sofa, lost in thought._

TEODORA. What a lovely sunset! what clouds and light, and what a sky!
Suppose it were true, as the poets say, and our fathers believed, that
our fate is stamped upon the azure heaven! Were the mysterious secret
of human destiny traced by the stars upon the sapphire sphere, and
this splendid evening should hold the cipher of ours, what happiness
it must disclose! what a smiling future! What a life in our life, and
what radiance in our heaven! Is it not so, Julian? [_She approaches
Don Julian._] Ah, plunged in thought, I see! Come and look out. What,
no word for me?

D. JULIAN. [_Absently._] What is it?

TEODORA. [_Coming near._] You have not been listening to me!

D. JULIAN. You have my heart ever—who are its magnet and its centre. But
my mind is apt to be besieged by preoccupations, cares, business——

TEODORA. They are the plague of my life, since they rob me, if not of my
husband's affections, at least of some of his attention. But what is
the matter, Julian? [_Affectionately._] Something worries you. Is it
serious, that you are so solemn and so silent? If it should be
trouble, Julian, remember that I have a right to share it. My joys are
yours, and your sorrows are no less mine.

D. JULIAN. Sorrows! Troubles! Are you not happy? Do I not possess in you
the living embodiment of joy? With those cheeks so ruddy in the glow
of health, and those dear eyes, clear like your soul and resplendent
as the sky, and I the owner of all you, could pain, or shadow, or
grief teach me I am other than the happiest man alive?

TEODORA. It is a business annoyance, perhaps?

D. JULIAN. Money never yet forced sleep or appetite to forsake me. I
have never felt aversion, much less contempt for it, so it follows
that the article has flowed easily into my coffers. I was rich, I am
rich; and until Don Julian of Garagarga dies of old age, please God
and his own good fortune, he will remain, if not the wealthiest,
certainly the surest, banker of Madrid, Cadiz, and Oporto.

TEODORA. Then what is your preoccupation?

D. JULIAN. I was thinking—'tis a good thought, too.

TEODORA. Naturally, since 'tis yours.

D. JULIAN. Flatterer! you would spoil me.

TEODORA. But I am still unenlightened.

D. JULIAN. There is an important matter I want to achieve.

TEODORA. Connected with the new works?

D. JULIAN. No; it has nothing to do with stone or iron.

TEODORA. What, then?

D. JULIAN. It is a question of kindness—a sacred debt of old date.

TEODORA. [_Gleefully._] Oh, I can guess now.

D. JULIAN. So!

TEODORA. You mean Ernest.

D. JULIAN. You are right.

TEODORA. Yes, yes, you must. Poor lad! he's so good and noble and
generous.

D. JULIAN. Quite his father's son—the model of a loyal hidalgo.

TEODORA. And then so clever! Only twenty-six, and a prodigy! what
doesn't he know?

D. JULIAN. Know! I should think he _did_ know. That's nothing—rather,
that's the worst of it. While he is wandering in the sphere of sublime
thought, I fear he's not likely to learn much of a world so deceptive
and prosaic as ours, which takes no interest in the subtleties of the
mind until three centuries after genius has been buried.

TEODORA. But with you for a guide, Julian—you don't intend to abandon
him yet a while, surely?

D. JULIAN. God forbid. I should be black-hearted indeed if I would so
readily forget all I owe his father. Don Juan of Acedo risked for my
family name and wealth, ay, almost his life. Should this lad need
mine, he might ask it, and welcome. 'Twould be but just payment of the
debt my name represents.

TEODORA. Well said, Julian. It is like you.

D. JULIAN. You remember, about a year ago, I heard my good friend was
dead, and his son was left badly off. I lost no time, caught the train
to Gerona, nearly used force, and carried the boy back here. When he
stood in the middle of this room I said to him: 'You are master here;
you may command me and mine. Since I owe your father everything, you
must regard me in the light of his representative. If I fall short, my
desire is to come as near as possible to him. As for the amount of
affection I have to dispose of—we'll see if I don't outrace him
there.'

TEODORA. I remember it well. The soft-hearted fellow burst out crying,
and clung to you like a child.

D. JULIAN. He's but a child, as you say. That's why we must think and
plan for him. And 'twas of that I was so seriously thinking a moment
ago. I was meditating a half-formed project, while you, dear, wanted
me to contemplate a panorama of radiant cloud and scarlet sun that
cannot compare with the sun that shines in my own heaven.

TEODORA. I cannot divine your idea. What is it you project doing for
Ernest?

D. JULIAN. Those are my words.

TEODORA. But is there something yet undone that you expect to discover?
He has lived with us for the past year like one of ourselves. Were he
your son, or a brother of mine, could you show him more tenderness, I
more affection?

D. JULIAN. It is much, but not enough.

TEODORA. Not enough! I fancy,——

D. JULIAN. You are thinking of the present, and I of the future.

TEODORA. Oh! the future! That is easily settled. See, he lives here with
us as long as he likes, for years. It is his home. Then when the just
and natural law prompts him to fall in love and desire another, we
will marry him. You will nobly share your wealth with him, and we will
lead them from the altar to their own house,—_he_ and _she_! The
proverb, you know, says wisely, 'for each wedded pair a house.' He
will live just a little away from us, but that will be no reason for
our forgetting him, or loving him less. I see it all distinctly. They
are happy, and we even happier. They have children, of course, and we
perhaps more—well, at least, one little girl, who will fall in love
with Ernest's son, and to whom we will marry her by and by.

[_Spoken playfully, with volubility, grace, blushes, and
lively gesture, according to the actress's talents._]

D. JULIAN. But where in heaven's name are you going to stop?
[_Laughing._]

TEODORA. You spoke of his future, Julian, and I've sketched it. If not
this one, I will neither approve nor accept it.

D. JULIAN. How like you, Teodora! but——

TEODORA. Ah, there is a but already.

D. JULIAN. Listen, Teodora. It is but a debt we owe to look after the
poor fellow as if he were a relative, and obligation runs with the
exactions of our affection. So much for himself; so much for his
father's son. But every human action is complex, has two points of
view, and every medal has its reverse. Which means, Teodora, that you
must understand it is a very different matter to give and receive
favours; and that in the end Ernest might feel my protection a
humiliation. He's a high-spirited, fine lad, a trifle haughty perhaps,
and it is imperative there should be an end to his present position.
We may, if we can, do more for him, but we must seem to do less.

TEODORA. How so?

D. JULIAN. We'll see—but here he comes——[_Looks down the stage._]

TEODORA. Hush!

SCENE II

_Don Julian, Teodora, and Ernest behind._

D. JULIAN. Welcome!

ERNEST. Don Julian!—and Teodora! [_Salutes absently. Sits down near the
table in pensive silence._]

DON JULIAN. [_Approaching him._] What's the matter?

ERNEST. Nothing.

D. JULIAN. You look as if something ailed you—your preoccupation reveals
it. No trouble, I hope?

ERNEST. Nonsense.

D. JULIAN. Nor disappointment?

ERNEST. None whatever.

D. JULIAN. I don't annoy you?

ERNEST. You! good heavens! [_Rises and comes toward him effusively._]
You speak out of the right of friendship and affection, and you read
me through and through. Yes, sir; there is indeed something the
matter. I will tell you, if you, and you also, Teodora, out of your
pity, will hold me excused. I am an ungrateful fool, a mere boy, in
truth, deserving neither of your kindness nor of your affection.
Possessing such a father and such a sister, I ought to be happy, with
no care for the morrow. But it is not so. I blush to explain it,—can't
you understand?—Yes, yes, you must see how false my position is. I
live here on alms. [_With energy._]

TEODORA. Such a word——

ERNEST. Teodora!

TEODORA. Affronts us.

ERNEST. I expressed myself ill—but it is so.

D. JULIAN. I say it is not so. If any one in this house lives upon alms,
and those no slight ones, it is I and not you.

ERNEST. I am acquainted, sir, with the story of two loyal friends, and
of some money matters long forgotten. It does honour to my father and
to his hidalgic race. But I am shamed in profiting by it. I am young,
Don Julian, and although I may not be worth much, there ought still to
be some way for me to earn my bread. It may be pride or folly, I
cannot say. But I remember what my father used to say: 'What you can
do yourself, never ask another to do. What you can earn, never owe to
any one else.'

D. JULIAN. So that my services humiliate and degrade you. You count your
friends importunate creditors.

TEODORA. Reason may be on your side, Ernest, and in knowledge you are
not deficient, but, believe me, in this case the heart alone speaks
with wisdom.

D. JULIAN. Your father did not find me so ungenerous or so proud.

TEODORA. Ah, friendship was then a very different thing.

ERNEST. Teodora!

TEODORA. [_To Don Julian._] What a noble anxiety displays

ERNEST. I know I seem ungrateful—I feel it—and an idiot to boot. Forgive
me, Don Julian.

D. JULIAN. His head is a forge.

TEODORA. [_Also apart to Don Julian._] He doesn't live in this world.

D. JULIAN. Just so. He's full of depth and learning, and lets himself be
drowned in a pool of water.

ERNEST. [_Meditatively._] True, I know little of life, and am not well
fitted to make my way through it But I divine it, and shudder, I know
not why. Shall I founder on the world's pool as upon the high sea? I
may not deny that it terrifies me far more than the deep ocean. The
sea only reaches the limit set by the loose sand: over all space
travel the emanations of the pool. A strong man's arms can struggle
with the waves of the sea, but no one can struggle against subtle
miasma. But if I fall, I must not feel the humiliation of defeat. I
wish and pray that at the last moment I may see the approach of the
sea that will bear me away at its will; see the sword that is to
pierce me, the rock against which I am to be crushed. I must measure
my adversary's strength, and despise it falling, despise it dying,
instead of tamely breathing the venom scattered through the ambient
air.

D. JULIAN. [_To Teodora._] Didn't I tell you he was going out of his
mind?

TEODORA. But, Ernest, where are you wandering?

D. JULIAN. Yes. What has all this to do with the matter?

ERNEST. Sir, I have come to the conclusion that others, seeing me housed
and fed here, are saying of me what I long have thought. They see me
constantly driving out with you, in the morning walking with Teodora
or Mercedes, in your opera-box, hunting on your lands, and daily
occupying the same place at your table. Though you would like to think
otherwise, in one way or another the gossip runs: Who is he? Is he a
relation? Not so. The secretary? Still less. A partner? If a partner,
it may be accepted he brings little or nothing to the general fund. So
they chatter.

D. JULIAN. By no means. You are raving.

ERNEST. I beg to contradict you.

D. JULIAN. Then give me a name.

ERNEST. Sir?——

D. JULIAN. One will do.

ERNEST. There is one at hand—upstairs.

D. JULIAN. Name him.

ERNEST. Don Severo.

D. JULIAN. My brother?

ERNEST. Exactly, your brother? Will that suffice? or shall we add his
respected wife, Doña Mercedes? and Pepito, their son? What have you to
say then?

D. JULIAN. That Severo is a fool, Mercedes an idle chatterer, and the
lad a puppy.

ERNEST. They only repeat what they hear.

D. JULIAN. It is not true. This is false reasoning. Between gentlemen,
when the intention is honourable, what can the opinion of the world
really matter? The meaner it is, the loftier our disdain of it.

ERNEST. 'Tis nobly said, and is what all well-bred men feel. But I have
been taught that gossip, whether inspired by malice or not, which is
according to each one's natural tendency, begins in a lie and
generally ends in truth. Does gossip, as it grows, disclose the hidden
sin? Is it a reflex of the past, or does it invent evil and give it
existence? Does it set its accursed seal upon an existent fault, or
merely breed that which was yet not, and furnish the occasion for
wrong? Should we call the slanderer infamous or severe? the accomplice
or the divulger? the public avenger or the tempter? Does he arrest or
precipitate our fall? wound through taste or duty? and when he
condemns, is it from justice or from spite? Perhaps both, Don Julian.
Who can say? though time, occasion, and facts may show.

D. JULIAN. See here, Ernest, I don't understand an iota of all this
philosophising. I presume 'tis on such nonsense you waste your
intelligence. But I don't want you to be vexed or worried. It's
true—you really wish for austere independence, to stand alone at a
post of honour?

ERNEST. Don Julian!

D. JULIAN. Answer me.

ERNEST. [_Joyously_]. Yes.

D. JULIAN. Then count it gained. At this very moment I have no
secretary. I am expecting one from London. But nobody would suit me
better than a certain young fool, who is enamoured of poverty.
[_Speaks in pleasant reproach._] His work and salary will, of course,
be settled as any one else's, though he be a son to one who cherishes
him as such.

ERNEST. Don Julian!

D. JULIAN. [_Affecting comical severity._] Remember, I am an exacting
business man, and I have not the habit of giving my money away for
nothing. I intend to get as much as possible out of you, and work you
hard. In my house the bread of just labour alone is consumed. By the
clock, ten hours, starting at daybreak, and when I choose to be
severe, you will see that Severo himself is no match for me. So,
before the world you pose as the victim of my selfishness ... but in
private, dear boy, ever the same, the centre of my dearest affections.
[_Unable to maintain former tone, Don Julian breaks off, and holds his
hand out to Ernest._]

ERNEST. [_Deeply moved._] Don Julian!

D. JULIAN. You accept, then?

ERNEST. I am yours to command.

TEODORA. [_To Don Julian._] At last you have tamed the savage.

ERNEST. [_To Don Julian._] Anything for your sake.

D. JULIAN. So would I have you always, Ernest. And now I have to write
to my London correspondent, and thank him, and while recognising the
extraordinary merit of his Englishman, whom he extols to the skies,
regret that I have already engaged a young man. [_Walks toward the
first door on the right hand._] This is how we stand for the present;
but in the future—it will be as partners. [_Returns with an air of
mystery._]

TEODORA. Stop, Julian, I beg of you. Can't you see that he will take
alarm? [_Don Julian goes out on the right, and laughs to himself,
looking back at Ernest._]

SCENE III

_Teodora and Ernest. Towards the end of the last scene twilight has
fallen, so that at this moment the room is in deep shadow._

ERNEST. I am dazed by so much kindness. How can I ever repay it? [_He
sits down on the sofa, displaying great emotion. Teodora walks over
and stands beside him_.]

TEODORA. By ejecting the spirit of pride and distrust; by being sensible
and believing that we truly love you, that we will never change; and
by putting full faith in all Julian's promises. His word is sacred,
Ernest, and in him you will always have a father, in me a sister.

SCENE IV

_Teodora, Ernest, Doña Mercedes, and Don Severo. The latter remain
standing behind as they enter. The room is quite dark, save for a
glimmer of light shed from the balcony, whither Ernest and Teodora
have moved._

ERNEST. How good you are!

TEODORA. And you, what a boy! After to-day I hope you have done with
sadness—eh?

ERNEST. Quite.

MERCEDES. [_Outside, speaking low._] How dark it is!

SEVERO. [_In same tone._] Come away, Mercedes.

MERCEDES. [_Crossing the threshold._] There is nobody here.

SEVERO. [_Detaining her._] Yes, there is. [_Both stand a while
peering._]

ERNEST. Teodora, my whole life, a thousand lives would still not be
enough to offer you in return for your kindness. Don't judge me by my
morose temper. I cannot lend a showy front to my affections, but,
believe me, I do know how to love—and hate as well. My heart can beat
to bursting under the lash of either sentiment.

MERCEDES. [_To Severo._] What are they saying?

SEVERO. Something odd, but I hear imperfectly. [_Teodora and Ernest go
out on the balcony, speaking low._]

MERCEDES. 'Tis Ernest.

SEVERO. And she—I suppose—is——

MERCEDES. Teodora.

SEVERO. Their eternal tricks—always together. I can stand no more of
this. And their words? I mustn't put it off any longer——

MERCEDES. True, Severo. Come away. It is certainly your duty, since
everybody is talking.

SEVERO. Yes, I must open Julian's eyes—to-day, at once.

MERCEDES. The fellow has impudence enough, and to spare.

SEVERO. By all that's holy—so has she.

MERCEDES. Poor girl! She's but a child. Leave her to me.

TEODORA. Another house? Surely no. You wouldn't leave us? What an idea!
Julian would never consent.

SEVERO. [_To Doña Mercedes._] I should think not indeed, neither would
I. [_Aloud._] Ah, Teodora, you didn't see me? This is how you receive
your guests.

TEODORA. [_Coming from the balcony._] Don Severo! I am delighted.

MERCEDES. Is there no dinner this evening? It's near the hour.

TEODORA. Mercedes too!

MERCEDES. Yes, Teodora.

SEVERO. [_Aside._] She is a capital actress. What a creature!

TEODORA. I must ring for lights. [_Touches the bell on the table._]

SEVERO. Quite so. Every one likes plenty of light.

SERVANT. Madam?

TEODORA. Bring the lamps, Genaro. [_Exit servant._]

SEVERO. He who follows the narrow path of loyalty and duty, and is
always that which he appears to be, need never fear the light, nor
blush in its glare.

[_The servant enters with lamps, the stage is brilliantly
illuminated. After a pause._]

TEODORA. [_Laughing naturally._] So I should think, and such, I imagine,
is the general opinion. [_Looks at Mercedes._]

MERCEDES. I suppose so.

SEVERO. Hulloa, Don Ernest! what were you doing out there? Were you with
Teodora when we came in! [_Speaks with marked intention._]

ERNEST. [_Coldly._] I was here as you see.

SEVERO. The deuce you were! It is rather dark to see. [_Approaches him
with outstretched hand, looking fixedly at him. Teodora and Mercedes
converse apart. Aside._] His face is flushed, and he appears to have
been crying. In this world only children and lovers weep. [_Aloud._]
And Julian?

TEODORA. He went away to write a letter.

ERNEST. [_Aside._] Though I have patience to spare, this man tries me
hard.

SEVERO. [_To Teodora._] I am going to see him. There is still time
before dinner?

TEODORA. Plenty.

SEVERO. Good. Then to work. [_Aside, rubbing his hands, and looking back
at Ernest and Teodora. Aloud._] Goodbye.

TEODORA. Goodbye.

SEVERO. [_Rancorously, from the door._] My faith!

SCENE V

_Teodora, Doña Mercedes, and Ernest. The ladies occupy the sofa, and
Ernest stands near them._

MERCEDES. [_To Ernest._] We did not see you to-day.

ERNEST. No, madam.

MERCEDES. Nor Pepito?

ERNEST. No.

MERCEDES. He is upstairs alone.

ERNEST. [_Aside._] Let him stop there.

MERCEDES. [_Gravely and mysteriously to Teodora._] I wish he would go. I
want to speak to you.

TEODORA. Indeed?

MERCEDES. [_In same tone._] Yes, it is something very serious.

TEODORA. Well, begin!

MERCEDES. Why doesn't he go?

TEODORA. [_In a low voice._] I don't understand you.

MERCEDES. Courage! [_Takes her hand and clasps it affectionately.
Teodora looks at her in sombre question._] Send him about his
business.

TEODORA. If you insist. Ernest, will you do me a favour?

ERNEST. Gladly—with a thousand wills.

MERCEDES. [_Aside._] One were still too many.

TEODORA. Then go upstairs—to Pepito——But it might bore you to carry a
message.

ERNEST. By no means.

MERCEDES. [_Aside._] In what a sweet, soft voice he speaks to her!

TEODORA. Tell him—ask him if he has renewed our subscription at the
Opera as I told him. He knows about it.

ERNEST. With pleasure—this very moment.

TEODORA. Thanks, Ernest, I am sorry——

ERNEST. Nonsense. [_Exit._]

TEODORA. Adieu!

SCENE VI

_Teodora and Doña Mercedes._

TEODORA. Something serious? You alarm me, Mercedes. Such mystery! What
can it mean?

MERCEDES. It is indeed very serious.

TEODORA. Concerning whom?

MERCEDES. All of you.

TEODORA. All of us?

MERCEDES. Julian, Ernest, and you.

TEODORA. All three?

MERCEDES. Yes, all three. [_Short pause. Both women stare at each
other._]

TEODORA. Then make haste.

MERCEDES. [_Aside._] I should like to——but, no; I must go gently in this
unsavoury affair. [_Aloud._] Listen, Teodora. My husband is, after
all, your husband's brother, and in life and death our fortunes are
one. So that we owe one another in all things protection, help, and
advice,—is it not so? To-day it may be I who offer assistance, and
to-morrow, should I need it, I unblushingly claim it of you.

TEODORA. You may count upon it, Mercedes. But come to the end of the
matter now.

MERCEDES. Up to to-day, Teodora, I shrank from this step, but Severo
urges me. 'It can't go on,' he insists. 'My brother's honour and my
own self-esteem forbid me to witness that which fills me with shame
and sorrow. On all sides am I assailed with innuendoes, with the
smiles, the covert glances and the reproaches of my friends. There
must be an end to this low gossip about us.'

TEODORA. Continue, pray.

MERCEDES. Then heed me. [_They exchange a prolonged gaze._]

TEODORA. Tell me, what is the gossip?

MERCEDES. The murmuring of the river tells us that its waters are
swollen.

TEODORA. I understand nothing of your river and its swollen waters, but
do not drive me wild.

MERCEDES. [_Aside._] Poor child! My heart grieves for her. [_Aloud._] So
you do not understand me?

TEODORA. I? not in the least.

MERCEDES. [_Aside._] How stupid she is! [_Aloud, energetically._] You
make a laughing-stock of him.

TEODORA. Of whom?

MERCEDES. Why, of your husband, of course.

TEODORA. [_Impetuously, rising._] Julian! what a falsehood! What wretch
could say so? Julian would strike him!

MERCEDES. [_Endeavouring to soothe her and make her sit down._] He would
need a good many hands, then; for, if report speak truly, he would
have to strike the entire town.

TEODORA. But what does it all mean? What is the mystery, and what is
this talk of the town?

MERCEDES. So you're sorry?

TEODORA. I am sorry. But what is it?

MERCEDES. You see, Teodora, you are quite a child. At your age one is so
often thoughtless and light, and then such bitter tears are afterwards
shed. You still don't understand me?

TEODORA. No, what has such a case to do with me?

MERCEDES. It is the story of a scoundrel and the story of a lady——

TEODORA. [_Eagerly._] Whose name——?

MERCEDES. Her name——

TEODORA. Oh, what does it matter?

[_Teodora moves away from Mercedes, who shifts her seat on the
sofa to follow her. The double movement of repugnance and
aloofness on Teodora's part, and of insistence and protection
on Mercedes', is very marked._]

MERCEDES. The man is a shabby-hearted betrayer, who, for one hour of
pleasure, would thrust upon the woman a life of sorrow: the husband's
dishonour, the ruin of a family, and she left shamed and condemned to
social penitence in the world's disdain, and to keener punishment
still at the whip of her own conscience.

[_Here Teodora, avoiding Mercedes, reaches the edge of the sofa,
bows her head and covers her face with both hands. At last she
understands._]

MERCEDES. [_Aside._] Poor little thing! She touches me. [_Aloud._] This
man is not worthy of you, Teodora.

TEODORA. But, madam, what is the drift of all this blind emotion? Do not
imagine that my eyes are dimmed with fear or horror or tears. They
burn with the flame of anger. To whom can such words be addressed?
What man do you mean? Is it, perchance——?

MERCEDES. Ernest.

TEODORA. Ah! [_Pause._] And the woman I? Not so? [_Mercedes nods and
Teodora rises again._] Then listen to me, though I may offend you. I
know not who is the viler, the inventor of this tale or you who repeat
it. Shame upon the meanness that formed the idea, and shame upon the
villainy that spreads it! It is so abominable, so fatal, that I almost
feel myself criminal because I cannot instantly reject the thought and
forget it. Heavens! could I suppose or credit such baseness? Because
of his misfortunes I loved him. He was like a brother to me, and
Julian was his providence. And he so noble and thorough a gentleman!
[_Stands staring at Mercedes, then turns away her face. Aside._] How
she inspects me! I scarcely like to say a good word for him to her. My
God! I am compelled already to act a part.

MERCEDES. Be calm, child.

TEODORA. [_Raising her voice._] Oh, what anguish! I feel cold and
inconsolable. Stained in this way by public opinion! Oh, my dearest
mother, and you, Julian, my heart's beloved. [_She falls sobbing into
a chair on the left, and Mercedes strives to console her._]

MERCEDES. I did not imagine—forgive me—don't cry. There, I didn't really
believe it was serious. I knew your past exonerated you. But as the
case stands, you must admit that out of every hundred a hundred would
accuse you and Julian of excessive rashness, or say you had led the
world to conclude the worst. You a girl of twenty, Julian a man of
forty, and Ernest between you, with his head full of romantic
thoughts. On the one hand, a husband given up to business, on the
other a youth to dreams, every day bringing its opportunity, and you
there, unoccupied, in the flush of romance. It was wrong for people to
conclude the worst because they saw you walking with him, and saw him
so often at the theatre with you. But, Teodora, in reason and justice
I think that, if the world was bent on seeing evil, you furnished the
occasion. Permit me to point out to you that the fault which society
most fiercely chastises, pursues most relentlessly and cruelly, and in
every varied imaginable way, both in man and woman is—don't frown so,
Teodora—is _temerity_.

TEODORA. [_Turning to Mercedes without having heard her._] And you say
that Julian——

MERCEDES. Is the laughing-stock of the town, and you——

TEODORA. Oh, I! That's no matter. But Julian!—Oh, oh, so good, so
chivalrous! If he only knew——

MERCEDES. He will know, for at this very moment Severo is telling him.

TEODORA. What!

JULIAN. [_Inside._] That will do.

TEODORA. Oh, goodness!

JULIAN. Let me alone.

TEODORA. Come away, quickly.

MERCEDES. [_Rushing with Teodora towards first door on the right._] Yes,
yes, quickly. What folly! [_Teodora and Mercedes go to the right._]

TEODORA. [_Stopping suddenly._] But wherefore, since I am not guilty?
Not only does miserable calumny stain us, but it degrades us. It is so
steeped in evil, that, against all evidence, its very breath takes the
bloom off our consciences. Why should an idle terror cast its mean
influence over me? [_At this moment Don Julian appears on the
threshold of the first door on the right hand side, and behind him
stands Don Severo._]

TEODORA. Julian!

D. JULIAN. Teodora! [_She runs over to him, and he folds her in a
passionate embrace._] Here in my arms, dearest. It is the home of your
honour.

SCENE VII

_Teodora, Doña Mercedes, Don Julian, and Don Severo. Don Julian and Doña
Mercedes form the centre group._

D. JULIAN. Let it pass for this once, but, please God! there's an end of
it. Whoever in future shall stain this face with tears [_pointing to
Teodora_], I swear, and mean it, will never again cross the threshold
of my house—though he should be my own brother. [_Pause. Don Julian
soothes and comforts Teodora._]

D. SEVERO. I only mentioned common report.

D. JULIAN. Infamous!

D. SEVERO. It may be so.

D. JULIAN. It is.

D. SEVERO. Well, let me tell you what every one says.

D. JULIAN. Filth! abominable lies.

D. SEVERO. Then repeating them——

D. JULIAN. 'Tis not the way to put an end to them.

[_Pause._]

D. SEVERO. You are wrong.

D. JULIAN. Right—more than right. A fine thing it would be if I let you
carry the mire of the street into my drawing-room!

D. SEVERO. But I will do so.

D. JULIAN. You shall not.

D. SEVERO. You bear my name.

D. JULIAN. Enough.

D. SEVERO. And your honour——

D. JULIAN. Remember that you are in my wife's presence.

[_Pause._]

D. SEVERO. [_In a low voice to Don Julian._] If our father saw you——

D. JULIAN. What do you mean, Severo?

MERCEDES. Hush! Here is Ernest.

TEODORA. [_Aside._] How dreadful! If he should know—— [_Teodora turns
away her face, and holds her head bent. Don Julian looks at her
questioningly._]

SCENE VIII

_Teodora, Doña Mercedes, Don Julian, Don Severo, Ernest and Pepito grouped from left to right. On entering, Pepito stands on Don Julian's side and Ernest walks over to Teodora._

ERNEST. [_Looking at Don Julian and Teodora. Aside._] He and she! It is
no illusion. Can it be what I feared? what that fool told me.
[_Referring to Pepito, who at that moment enters behind._] It was not
his invention.

PEPITO. [_Staring strangely about._] My salutations to all, and good
appetite—as it is dinner-time. Here are the tickets, Teodora. Don
Julian——

TEODORA. Thanks, Pepito. [_Accepts them mechanically._]

ERNEST. [_To Don Julian in a low voice._] What's the matter with
Teodora?

D. JULIAN. Nothing.

ERNEST. [_In same tone._] She is pale, and has been crying.

D. JULIAN. [_Angrily._] Don't busy yourself about my wife. [_Pause. Don
Julian and Ernest exchange glances._]

ERNEST. [_Aside._] The wretches! They've completed their work.

PEPITO. [_In a low voice to his mother, pointing to Ernest._] He ought
to have a strait-jacket. I quizzed him about Teodora. Poof! 'Pon my
word, I thought he'd kill me.

ERNEST. [_Aloud, with resolution and sadness._] Don Julian, I have
thought over your generous offer, and much as I've already abused your
kindness, it goes sorely against me to refuse it now. But, sir, I feel
that I ought to reject this post you offer me.

D. JULIAN. Why?

ERNEST. Because I am so fashioned,—a poet and a dreamer. My father, sir,
trained me for no career. I want to travel; I am restless and liable
to revolt. I am not capable of settling down like another. Like a new
Columbus, I am bitten by the spirit of adventure. But we will appeal
to Don Severo. He will decide if I am right.

D. SEVERO. You speak like the book of wisdom and like a man of sense. I
have been thinking as you do for a long while.

D. JULIAN. Since when have you felt this itch for new worlds and travel?
When did you make up your mind to leave us? And the means?—where are
they?

D. SEVERO. He wants to go away—to some place more to his taste than
here. To be just, Julian, the rest is your affair. Give him as much as
he wants, too, for this is no time for economy.

ERNEST. [_To Don Severo._] I don't traffic with dishonour, nor receive
alms. [_Pause._] Well, it must be so; and as our parting would be a
sad one—for in this life, who knows? I may never come back, and may
not see them again—it is better that we should shake hands now, here,
Don Julian, and have it over. Thus we snap the tie, and you forgive my
selfishness. [_Deeply moved._]

D. SEVERO. [_Aside._] How they stare at one another!

TEODORA. [_Aside._] What a noble fellow!

ERNEST. [_To Don Julian._] Why do you withhold your hand? It is our last
adieu, Don Julian. [_Goes toward him with outstretched hands. Don
Julian embraces him._]

D. JULIAN. No, lad. The question well considered, this is neither the
first nor the last. It is the cordial embrace of two honourable men.
You must not mention your mad project again.

D. SEVERO. Then he is not going away?

D. JULIAN. Never. I have not the habit of changing my mind or the plans
I have matured because of a boy's caprice or a madman's folly. And I
have still less intention of weakly subjecting my actions to the
town's idle gossip.

D. SEVERO. Julian!

D. JULIAN. Enough. Dinner is served.

ERNEST. Father, I cannot——

D. JULIAN. But what if I believe you can? Or does my authority begin to
bore you?

ERNEST. I beg you——

D. JULIAN. Come, dinner is ready. Give your arm to Teodora, and take her
in.

ERNEST. [_Looking at her, but holding back._] To Teodora!

TEODORA. [_With a similar emotion._] Ernest!

D. JULIAN. Yes, as usual. [_There is a movement of uncertainty on both
sides; finally Ernest approaches and Teodora takes his arm, but
neither dares to look at the other, and both are abrupt and violently
agitated._]

D. JULIAN. [_To Pepito._] And you! The deuce, why don't you offer your
arm to your mother? My good brother Severo will take mine. So, quite a
family party, and now let pleasure flow with the wine in our glasses.
So there are gossips about? Well, let them chatter and scream. A
farthing for all they can say. I shouldn't object to a glass house,
that they might have the pleasure of staring in at Teodora and Ernest
together, and learn how little I care for their spite and their
calumnies. Each man to his fancy.

[_Enter servant in black suit and white tie._]

SERVANT. Dinner is served.

[_The dining-room door opens and displays a well-appointed
table._]

D. JULIAN. Let us look after our life, since it will be the affair of
others to look after our death. Come. [_Invites the others to pass._]

TEODORA. Mercedes.

MERCEDES. Teodora.

TEODORA. I pray you, Mercedes.

[_Doña Mercedes passes in with Pepito and takes her place at the
table. Ernest and Teodora stand plunged in thought, Ernest looking
anxiously at her._]

D. JULIAN. [_Aside._] He is looking at her, and there are tears in her
eyes. [_Teodora, walking unsteadily and struggling with emotion,
slowly follows the others inside._]

D. JULIAN. [_To Severo._] Are they talking together?

D. SEVERO. I don't know, but I think it very probable.

D. JULIAN. Why are they looking back at us? Both! Did you notice? I
wonder why.

D. SEVERO. You see, you are growing reasonable at last!

D. JULIAN. No, I've caught your madness. Ah, how sure a thing is
calumny! It pierces straight to the heart.

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