PHOEBE. No, he was a good man – only a little – inconsiderate. She knows now that he has even forgotten that he did it. I suppose men are like that?
VALENTINE. No, Miss Livvy, men are not like that. I am a very average man, but I thank God I am not like that.
PHOEBE. It was you.
VALENTINE (after a pause). Did Miss Phoebe say that?
PHOEBE. Yes.
VALENTINE. Then it is true.
(He is very grave and quiet.)
PHOEBE. It was raining and her face was wet. You said you did it because her face was wet.
VALENTINE. I had quite forgotten.
PHOEBE. But she remembers, and how often do you think the shameful memory has made her face wet since? The face you love, Captain Brown, you were the first to give it pain. The tired eyes – how much less tired they might be if they had never known you. You who are torturing me with every word, what have you done to Miss Phoebe? You who think you can bring back the bloom to that faded garden, and all the pretty airs and graces that fluttered round it once like little birds before the nest is torn down – bring them back to her if you can, sir; it was you who took them away.
VALENTINE. I vow I shall do my best to bring them back. (MISS PHOEBE shakes her head.) Miss Livvy, with your help —
PHOEBE. My help! I have not helped. I tried to spoil it all.
VALENTINE (smiling). To spoil it? You mean that you sought to flirt even with me. Ah, I knew you did. But that is nothing.
PHOEBE. Oh, sir, if you could overlook it.
VALENTINE. I do.
PHOEBE. And forget these hateful balls.
VALENTINE. Hateful! Nay, I shall never call them that. They have done me too great a service. It was at the balls that I fell in love with Miss Phoebe.
PHOEBE. What can you mean?
VALENTINE. She who was never at a ball! (Checking himself humorously.) But I must not tell you, it might hurt you.
PHOEBE. Tell me.
VALENTINE (gaily). Then on your own head be the blame. It is you who have made me love her, Miss Livvy.
PHOEBE. Sir?
VALENTINE. Yes, it is odd, and yet very simple. You who so resembled her as she was! for an hour, ma'am, you bewitched me; yes, I confess it, but 'twas only for an hour. How like, I cried at first, but soon it was, how unlike. There was almost nothing she would have said that you said; you did so much that she would have scorned to do. But I must not say these things to you!
PHOEBE. I ask it of you, Captain Brown.
VALENTINE. Well! Miss Phoebe's 'lady-likeness,' on which she set such store that I used to make merry of the word – I gradually perceived that it is a woman's most beautiful garment, and the casket which contains all the adorable qualities that go to the making of a perfect female. When Miss Livvy rolled her eyes – ah!
(He stops apologetically.)
PHOEBE. Proceed, sir.
VALENTINE. It but made me the more complacent that never in her life had Miss Phoebe been guilty of the slightest deviation from the strictest propriety. (She shudders.) I was always conceiving her in your place. Oh, it was monstrous unfair to you. I stood looking at you, Miss Livvy, and seeing in my mind her and the pretty things she did, and you did not do; why, ma'am, that is how I fell in love with Miss Phoebe at the balls.
PHOEBE. I thank you.
VALENTINE. Ma'am, tell me, do you think there is any hope for me?
PHOEBE. Hope!
VALENTINE. I shall go to her. 'Miss Phoebe,' I will say – oh, ma'am, so reverently – 'Miss Phoebe, my beautiful, most estimable of women, let me take care of you for ever more.'
(MISS PHOEBE presses the words to her heart and then drops them.)
PHOEBE. Beautiful. La, Aunt Phoebe!
VALENTINE. Ah, ma'am, you may laugh at a rough soldier so much enamoured, but 'tis true. 'Marry me, Miss Phoebe,' I will say, 'and I will take you back through those years of hardships that have made your sweet eyes too patient. Instead of growing older you shall grow younger. We will travel back together to pick up the many little joys and pleasures you had to pass by when you trod that thorny path alone.'
PHOEBE. Can't be – can't be.
VALENTINE. Nay, Miss Phoebe has loved me. 'Tis you have said it.
PHOEBE. I did not mean to tell you.
VALENTINE. She will be my wife yet.
PHOEBE. Never.
VALENTINE. You are severe, Miss Livvy. But it is because you are partial to her, and I am happy of that.
PHOEBE (in growing horror of herself). I partial to her! I am laughing at both of you. Miss Phoebe. La, that old thing.
VALENTINE (sternly). Silence!
PHOEBE. I hate her and despise her. If you knew what she is —
(He stops her with a gesture.)
VALENTINE. I know what you are.
PHOEBE. That paragon who has never been guilty of the slightest deviation from the strictest propriety.
VALENTINE. Never.
PHOEBE. That garden —
VALENTINE. Miss Livvy, for shame.
PHOEBE. Your garden has been destroyed, sir; the weeds have entered it, and all the flowers are choked.
VALENTINE. You false woman, what do you mean?
PHOEBE. I will tell you. (But his confidence awes her.) What faith you have in her.
VALENTINE. As in my God. Speak.
PHOEBE. I cannot tell you.
VALENTINE. No, you cannot.
PHOEBE. It is too horrible.
VALENTINE. You are too horrible. Is not that it?
PHOEBE. Yes, that is it.
(MISS SUSAN has entered and caught the last words.)
MISS SUSAN (shrinking as from a coming blow). What is too horrible?
VALENTINE. Ma'am, I leave the telling of it to her, if she dare. And I devoutly hope those are the last words I shall ever address to this lady.
(He bows and goes out in dudgeon. MISS SUSAN believes all is discovered and that MISS PHOEBE is for ever shamed.)
MISS SUSAN (taking PHOEBE in her arms). My love, my dear, what terrible thing has he said to you?
PHOEBE (forgetting everything but that she is loved). Not terrible – glorious! Susan, 'tis Phoebe he loves, 'tis me, not Livvy! He loves me, he loves me! Me – Phoebe!
(MISS SUSAN'S bosom swells. It is her great hour as much as PHOEBE'S.)
ACT IV
THE BLUE AND WHITE ROOM
If we could shut our eyes to the two sisters sitting here in woe, this would be, to the male eye at least, the identical blue and white room of ten years ago; the same sun shining into it and playing familiarly with Miss Susan's treasures. But the ladies are changed. It is not merely that Miss Phoebe has again donned her schoolmistress's gown and hidden her curls under the cap. To see her thus once more, her real self, after the escapade of the ball, is not unpleasant, and the cap and gown do not ill become the quiet room. But she now turns guiltily from the sun that used to be her intimate, her face is drawn, her form condensed into the smallest space, and her hands lie trembling in her lap. It is disquieting to note that any life there is in the room comes not from her but from Miss Susan. If the house were to go on fire now it would be she who would have to carry out Miss Phoebe.
Whatever of import has happened since the ball, Patty knows it, and is enjoying it. We see this as she ushers in Miss Willoughby. Note also, with concern, that at mention of the visitor's name the eyes of the sisters turn affrightedly, not to the door by which their old friend enters, but to the closed door of the spare bed-chamber. Patty also gives it a meaning glance; then the three look at each other, and two of them blanch.
MISS WILLOUGHBY (the fourth to look at the door). I am just run across, Susan, to inquire how Miss Livvy does now.