The Black Cat by John Todhunter (uplifting books for women .TXT) 📕

in hell since yesterday.

Mrs. Tremaine.

I daresay. I have not been in Paradise, I assure you. What are you going to do? (Pours out some tea.)

Denham.

I don't know.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(puts in sugar) Will she—stay with you?

Denham.

What else can she do?

Mrs. Tremaine.

(stirring her tea) Then I wish you joy of the ménage. You don't seem to have gained much by making a fool of me.

Denham.

You have renewed the world for me. The mere thought of you is sunshine. Here we have always been at loggerheads with life.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Then why—? (Sips her tea.) Bah! Upon my word, Arthur Denham, that woman has drained you of your manhood like a vampire, made you the limp coward that you are.

Denham.

Not a word against Constance, or I shall hate you, Blanche. No—I am haunted by a ghost.

Mrs. Tremaine.

A metaphorical one?

Denham.

The ghost that came to Hamlet in the shape of his father—duty. It is a trick of my British bourgeois blood, I suppose.

Mrs. Tremaine.

What duty? To that internal Mrs. Grundy we call conscience? To the thing called Society? To the sacred bond of marriage? Her own principles are against you there. No—she holds you in some deeper way than this.

Denham.

It is true—she does.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(rising) Is it because you love her that you abandon me? If so, say so; and I shall understand that I am a toy goddess, nothing more.

Denham.

She loves me.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Ah! a woman's love can blight as terribly as a man's—almost. Well, I like you none the worse for this curious spice of loyalty. It is so rare in a man.

Denham.

No—not so rare. Don't let us talk any more about it now. I think you begin to understand. But where can she be? I seem to feel her presence here. (He looks behind the screen, then thrusts it aside, showing Mrs. Denham lying dead on the couch.) Blanche! Blanche! Look here! Is she—?

Mrs. Tremaine.

She has fainted—let me—!

Denham.

(throws himself down beside the couch and puts his finger on her wrist) Oh my God! Dead! Dead!

Mrs. Tremaine.

No, no, no! It is too terrible! Let us try if— (Attempts to open dress, then recoils in horror.) And I had begun to hate her—yes, to hate her. My poor good Constance!

Denham.

But how—? (Rising.) Is she dead, Blanche?

Mrs. Tremaine.

(mastering her agitation) Yes, dear, dead! She has taken poison. See here! (Picks up the cup.) What a horrible death! Her face is awful!

Denham.

Oh, Constance, why did I leave you? I had a vague fear of something—but not this! (Throws himself down again, and stoops to kiss her.) Ha! Prussic acid! No help! No hope! Yet she is warm. (He starts up.) Could we—? But death is a matter of seconds with that infernal stuff. Blanche, Blanche, I have killed her!

Mrs. Tremaine.

I claim my share in the guilt.

Denham.

No, no. Leave me! Let the dead bury their dead!

Mrs. Tremaine.

If you wish me to leave you, dear, I will go.

Denham.

Yes—for God's sake, go! (She moves towards the door.) But, Blanche, don't leave the house. I can't bear this alone.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(returns to him) You know, dear, I am yours always. Oh, don't hate me! I dare to say it in this presence. (She kisses his hand. He shrinks from her.) Now I can go. (She goes to the door and looks back as Denham kneels and clasps the body in his arms.) Will he hate me now? (Exit Mrs. Tremaine.)

Denham.

Constance! I meant to have kept you from all the thorns of life! It was fate! It was fate!

CURTAIN.

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