Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1956 page)

Clara.
Was I to sleep there forever?

Rose.
If you had only rung when you woke —

Clara.
The maid would have answered the bell, I suppose. And what then?

Lucy
(
aside to
ROSE
and
MRS. S.,
after looking at
CLARA). Leave her to me. The chance of my winning her confidence may be nearer than you think.

Mrs. S.
Come to the piano, Rose. A little music will quiet Clara, and will help you and me through the weary time.

(
Exeunt
MRS. S.
and
ROSE.)

Lucy
(
seating herself by
CLARA). I wish, my love, I knew how to make you happier than you are now.

Clara.
Neither you nor I have any reason to be happy.

Lucy.
We have no reason to despair.

Clara.
Not even yet?

Lucy.
Not even yet. the same uncertainty which hangs over the fate of your promised husband, hangs over the fate of my only brother. And still I say, Not even yet!

Clara
(
abruptly
). Lucy! have you ever known a great sorrow?

Lucy.
Examine your own heart, my dear, and you will hardly need to ask me that question.

Clara.
How?

(
The notes of the piano, playing the air of “Home, sweet Home,” are heard softly, as from a distant room. During the dialogue that follows, the melody continues to be heard below the voices of the speakers.
)

Lucy.
You have not known me longer than you have known Caroline and Rose; and yet you say (and I believe you) that you love me like a sister, while you only love them like friends. I am no kinder to you than they are. Why should you have preferred me from the first?

Clara.
Because —

Lucy.
Let me answer for you. Because you felt that some great sorrow had set its mark on me. You were drawn towards me by true instinct; and the secret of that instinct is, that you yourself —

Clara.
No! no!

Lucy.
That you yourself have a great sorrow. (CLARA
hides her face.
) A sorrow which you have confessed to no one. I do not ask you for your confidence — I only ask if this is the truth?

Clara.
Oh, Lucy, you know it is the truth!

Lucy.
Perhaps my own experience might one day help me in guiding you. You have once or twice wondered why I was still a single woman. My dear, I shall always remain what I am now, because the man I loved with all my heart — the man to whom I was once engaged to be married, is —

Clara.
Dead?

Lucy.
Dead, to
me.
Married. Don’t be angry with him! He had not met her when he engaged himself to me. I don’t think he knew his own mind then; I don’t think he ever suspected how dearly I loved him. It is needless to dwell on it — the one event of my life is an event long past, now. You must not suppose mine to be a fine romantic story that is to have a fine romantic end. This (
touching her heart
) is the commonplace end, my dear!

Clara.
Oh, Lucy, my poor selfish sorrow looks so base and mean beside yours!

Lucy.
Base and mean! (
Puts
CLARA
back, and looks her steadily in the face.
) I see no baseness or meanness here!

Clara.
Let me rest my head on your shoulder. I want to speak to you — and I can speak better so.

(
A pause. The stage begins to darken. The melody from the adjoining room stops for a moment — then changes to the symphony of “Those Evening Bells.” The voices of
MRS. S.
and
ROSE
are heard softly, singing a verse of the song, in duet. When the verse has been sung, the dialogue on the stage is resumed, and the notes of the piano alone are audible once more under the voices.
)

Lucy.
Clara! are you crying? Don’t speak now if it distresses you.

Clara.
No! no! I am going to tell you about the time when my father was alive, and when we moved southward to settle in Kent. Our house was near a great park; and our nearest neighbour was a gentleman named Wardour, who owned the park. He was one of my father’s old friends; and his only son, Richard —

Lucy.
His son, Richard, admired you?

Clara.
I hardly knew at first. He was — oh, so terribly headstrong and passionate! but generous and affectionate, in spite of his faults of temper. As time went on, I began to have some suspicion of the truth. He never spoke of the feeling with which he regarded me, but I could not help seeing it. I did all I could to show that I was willing to be like a sister to him, and that I could be nothing else. He did not understand me, or he would not — I can’t say which. There was a strange rough bashfulness about him. What could I do? He never spoke out — he seemed to treat me as if our future lives had been provided for while we were children. My situation was a very trying one, was it not, Lucy?

Lucy.
Did you never ask your father to end the difficulty for you?

Clara.
He was suffering, at the time, under the illness which afterwards caused his death, and was very unfit to agitate himself by breaking off the intercourse between his daughter and his old friend’s only son. Knowing this, I hesitated — unfortunately until it was too late.

Lucy.
How too late?

Clara.
Richard, I should have told you, was (like Frank) in the navy. One spring day he came to our house to take leave of us before he joined his ship. I thought he was gone, and went into the conservatory — when he suddenly returned, and said, in his quick rough way: “Clara, I am going to the African coast. If I live, I shall come back promoted; and we both know what will happen then!” He kissed me. I was half frightened, half angry — and before I could compose myself to say a word, he was gone. I ought to have spoken, I know. It was not honourable — not kind towards
him.
You can’t reproach me, Lucy, for my want of courage and frankness more bitterly than I reproach myself.

Lucy.
Could you not write to him?

Clara.
I did write to him. But his after-conduct showed that he had never received the letter. He was away more than two years. In that time, Frank Aldersley and I met; and — and you know what happened; you know that we were engaged. I was so happy! Months and months passed, and not a thought of Richard Wardour ever entered my head, till, one winter morning, I heard that he had come back. And, two days afterwards, his own lips told me that he had come back to make me his wife! (
The stage grows slowly darker.
) Think of my terror and confusion and remorse. I shrank away from him, and stammered out a few words — very few, but they were enough to warn him that there was no hope. Lucy! I tremble when I think of his face. It comes across me in my dreams, and makes me frightened in the darkness as a child. How dark it is now!

Lucy.
Not darker than usual, Clara, at this time.

Clara.
His awful, awful look of fury and despair! The deep heavy breaths that came from him in the silence, as he crushed down the passion within him! The parting words he spoke, the last I ever heard from his lips. “The time may come when I shall forgive
you,
” he said; “but the man who has robbed me of you shall rue the day when you and he first met!” He stood looking at me for a moment — then turned away suddenly, and went out. From that time to this, I have never seen him again.

Lucy.
And never heard of him?

Clara.
The worst, the worst, is to come! I heard of him but once, and that was on the night of my parting with Frank. I was asking Frank about the ships of the Arctic expedition, and who was to sail in them. He told me about the officers of his own ship, the Sea Mew — and then he spoke of having visited the other ship, the Wanderer, and of making acquaintance with some of the officers on board. He said they were all pleasant men, with the exception of one moody, silent stranger, who had only that day joined as a volunteer. “Did you find out who he was?” I asked, carelessly. “I only found out his name,” said Frank. “It was Richard Wardour!”

(
The music in the next room stops, and the back of the stage becomes invisible in the darkness.
)

Lucy
(
eagerly
). Is there any chance of your name being mentioned between them? Did you risk any personal reference to Frank at your last interview with Richard Wardour? (CLARA
impatiently makes a gesture in the negative.
) Was your engagement with Frank known when the expedition sailed?

Clara
(
more and more impatiently
). Nobody knew of it! Don’t ask me questions! Don’t take me back to the past! Your words go through me like a knife! (
Rising suddenly, and speaking in violent agitation.
) No! no! no! All questions are useless — all comfort is vain! Lucy! they have sailed away together — away to the eternal ice and snow — the man who is to marry me, and the man whose heart I have broken!

Lucy
(
trying to quiet her
). In separate ships — you said yourself in separate ships!

Clara
(
more and more vehemently
). The ships are wrecked! the cruel ice has beaten them to pieces! The two men are together — and the fatal words which discover everything have been spoken between them! I saw them, Lucy! Three days since, I saw them in the spirit! I saw them by the Second Sight!

Lucy.
Hush! hush! Don’t talk so.

(
A momentary pause.
CLARA’S
face slowly loses the expression of passionate earnestness with which she has spoken. She looks vacantly and fixedly straight before her. Her right hand, which has been raised in gesticulation as she uttered her last words, sinks slowly to her side. She stands erect and rigid, insensible to
LUCY’S
presence, and to all that passes in the room.
)

Lucy
(
after touching
CLARA). Lights! lights! Rose! Caroline! The Trance has seized her again!

(ROSE
and
MRS. STEVENTON
enter hurriedly, and group themselves, with
LUCY,
round
CLARA,
at one extremity of the stage. At the same moment, the darkness at the back changes to a dim grey light. The light strengthens coldly, and reveals the view of an iceberg floating on dark water, and seen against a dark sky. The figures of two men are represented on the lower slopes of the iceberg. One
(FRANK ALDERSLEY)
in a recumbent posture. The other
(RICHARD WARDOUR)
stands, gun in hand, behind
FRANK,
looking down on him.
)