VALENTINE. Gentlemen, I instructed this lady to rest, and I am surprised to find you in attendance. Miss Livvy, you must be weary of their fatuities, and I have taken the liberty to order your chaise.
PHOEBE. It is indeed a liberty.
BLADES. An outrage.
PHOEBE. I prefer to remain.
VALENTINE. Nay.
PHOEBE. I promised this dance to Ensign Blades.
SPICER. To me, ma'am.
PHOEBE. And the following one to Lieutenant Spicer. Mr. Blades, your arm.
VALENTINE. I forbid any further dancing.
PHOEBE. Forbid. La!
BLADES. Sir, by what right —
VALENTINE. By a right which I hope to make clear to Miss Livvy as soon as you gentlemen have retired.
(PHOEBE sees that the declaration is coming. She steels herself.)
PHOEBE. I am curious to know what Captain Brown can have to say to me. In a few minutes, Mr. Blades, Lieutenant Spicer, I shall be at your service.
VALENTINE. I trust not.
PHOEBE. I give them my word.
(The young gentlemen retire, treading air once more. BROWN surveys her rather grimly.)
VALENTINE. You are an amazing pretty girl, ma'am, but you are a shocking flirt.
PHOEBE. La!
VALENTINE. It has somewhat diverted me to watch them go down before you. But I know you have a kind heart, and that if there be a rapier in your one hand there is a handkerchief in the other ready to staunch their wounds.
PHOEBE. I have not observed that they bled much.
VALENTINE. The Blades and the like, no. But one may, perhaps.
PHOEBE (obviously the reference is to himself). Perhaps I may wish to see him bleed.
VALENTINE (grown stern). For shame, Miss Livvy. (Anger rises in her, but she wishes him to proceed.) I speak, ma'am, in the interests of the man to whom I hope to see you affianced.
(No, she does not wish him to proceed. She had esteemed him for so long, she cannot have him debase himself before her now.)
PHOEBE. Shall we – I have changed my mind, I consent to go home. Please to say nothing.
VALENTINE. Nay —
PHOEBE. I beg you.
VALENTINE. No. We must have it out.
PHOEBE. Then if you must go on, do so. But remember I begged you to desist. Who is this happy man?
(His next words are a great shock to her.)
VALENTINE. As to who he is, ma'am, of course I have no notion. Nor, I am sure, have you, else you would be more guarded in your conduct. But some day, Miss Livvy, the right man will come. Not to be able to tell him all, would it not be hard? And how could you acquaint him with this poor sport? His face would change, ma'am, as you told him of it, and yours would be a false face until it was told. This is what I have been so desirous to say to you – by the right of a friend.
PHOEBE (in a low voice but bravely). I see.
VALENTINE (afraid that he has hurt her). It has been hard to say and I have done it bunglingly. Ah, but believe me, Miss Livvy, it is not the flaunting flower men love; it is the modest violet.
PHOEBE. The modest violet! You dare to say that.
VALENTINE. Yes, indeed, and when you are acquaint with what love really is —
PHOEBE. Love! What do you know of love?
VALENTINE (a little complacently). Why, ma'am, I know all about it. I am in love, Miss Livvy.
PHOEBE (with a disdainful inclination of the head). I wish you happy.
VALENTINE. With a lady who was once very like you, ma'am.
(At first PHOEBE does not understand, then a suspicion of his meaning comes to her.)
PHOEBE. Not – not – oh no.
VALENTINE. I had not meant to speak of it, but why should not I? It will be a fine lesson to you, Miss Livvy. Ma'am, it is your Aunt Phoebe whom I love.
PHOEBE (rigid). You do not mean that.
VALENTINE. Most ardently.
PHOEBE. It is not true; how dare you make sport of her.
VALENTINE. Is it sport to wish she may be my wife?
PHOEBE. Your wife!
VALENTINE. If I could win her.
PHOEBE (bewildered). May I solicit, sir, for how long you have been attached to Miss Phoebe?
VALENTINE. For nine years, I think.
PHOEBE. You think!
VALENTINE. I want to be honest. Never in all that time had I thought myself in love. Your aunts were my dear friends, and while I was at the wars we sometimes wrote to each other, but they were only friendly letters. I presume the affection was too placid to be love.
PHOEBE. I think that would be Aunt Phoebe's opinion.
VALENTINE. Yet I remember, before we went into action for the first time – I suppose the fear of death was upon me – some of them were making their wills – I have no near relative – I left everything to these two ladies.
PHOEBE (softly). Did you?
(What is it that MISS PHOEBE begins to see as she sits there so quietly, with her hands pressed together as if upon some treasure? It is PHOEBE of the ringlets with the stain taken out of her.)
VALENTINE. And when I returned a week ago and saw Miss Phoebe, grown so tired-looking and so poor —
PHOEBE. The shock made you feel old, I know.
VALENTINE. No, Miss Livvy, but it filled me with a sudden passionate regret that I had not gone down in that first engagement. They would have been very comfortably left.
PHOEBE. Oh, sir!
VALENTINE. I am not calling it love.
PHOEBE. It was sweet and kind, but it was not love.
VALENTINE. It is love now.
PHOEBE. No, it is only pity.
VALENTINE. It is love.
PHOEBE (she smiles tremulously). You really mean Phoebe – tired, unattractive Phoebe, that woman whose girlhood is gone. Nay, impossible.
VALENTINE (stoutly). Phoebe of the fascinating playful ways, whose ringlets were once as pretty as yours, ma'am. I have visited her in her home several times this week – you were always out – I thank you for that! I was alone with her, and with fragrant memories of her.
PHOEBE. Memories! Yes, that is the Phoebe you love, the bright girl of the past – not the schoolmistress in her old-maid's cap.
VALENTINE. There you wrong me, for I have discovered for myself that the schoolmistress in her old-maid's cap is the noblest Miss Phoebe of them all. (If only he would go away, and let MISS PHOEBE cry.) When I enlisted, I remember I compared her to a garden. I have often thought of that.
PHOEBE. 'Tis an old garden now.
VALENTINE. The paths, ma'am, are better shaded.
PHOEBE. The flowers have grown old-fashioned.
VALENTINE. They smell the sweeter. Miss Livvy, do you think there is any hope for me?
PHOEBE. There was a man whom Miss Phoebe loved – long ago. He did not love her.
VALENTINE. Now here was a fool!
PHOEBE. He kissed her once.
VALENTINE. If Miss Phoebe suffered him to do that she thought he loved her.
PHOEBE. Yes, yes. (She has to ask him the ten years old question.) Do you opinion that this makes her action in allowing it less reprehensible? It has been such a pain to her ever since.
VALENTINE. How like Miss Phoebe! (Sternly.) But that man was a knave.