FullReads

Mrs. Dale. I know that. (A pause. She takes the book from him, opens it, and reads, half to herself–)

How much we two have seen together,
Of other eyes unwist,
Dear as in days of leafless weather
The willow’s saffron mist,

Strange as the hour when Hesper swings
A-sea in beryl green,
While overhead on dalliant wings
The daylight hangs serene,

And thrilling as a meteor’s fall
Through depths of lonely sky,
When each to each two watchers call:
I saw it!–So did I.

Ventnor. Thin, thin–the troubadour tinkle. Odd how little promise there is in first volumes!

Mrs. Dale (with irresistible emphasis). I thought there was a distinct promise in this!

Ventnor (seeing his mistake). Ah–the one you would never let me fulfil? (Sentimentally.) How inexorable you were! You never dedicated a book to me.

Mrs. Dale. I hadn’t begun to write when we were–dedicating things to each other.

Ventnor. Not for the public–but you wrote for me; and, wonderful as you are, you’ve never written anything since that I care for half as much as–

Mrs. Dale (interested). Well?

Ventnor. Your letters.

Mrs. Dale (in a changed voice). My letters–do you remember them?

Ventnor. When I don’t, I reread them.

Mrs. Dale (incredulous). You have them still?

Ventnor (unguardedly). You haven’t mine, then?

Mrs. Dale (playfully). Oh, you were a celebrity already. Of course I kept them! (Smiling.) Think what they are worth now! I always keep them locked up in my safe over there. (She indicates a cabinet.)

Ventnor (after a pause). I always carry yours with me.

Mrs. Dale (laughing). You–

Ventnor. Wherever I go. (A longer pause. She looks at him fixedly.) I have them with me now.

Mrs. Dale (agitated). You–have them with you–now?

Ventnor (embarrassed). Why not? One never knows–

Mrs. Dale. Never knows–?

Ventnor (humorously). Gad–when the bank-examiner may come round. You forget I’m a married man.

Mrs. Dale. Ah–yes.

Ventnor (sits down beside her). I speak to you as I couldn’t to anyone else–without deserving a kicking. You know how it all came about. (A pause.) You’ll bear witness that it wasn’t till you denied me all hope–

Mrs. Dale (a little breathless). Yes, yes–

Ventnor. Till you sent me from you–

Mrs. Dale. It’s so easy to be heroic when one is young! One doesn’t realize how long life is going to last afterward. (Musing.) Nor what weary work it is gathering up the fragments.

Ventnor. But the time comes when one sends for the china-mender, and has the bits riveted together, and turns the cracked side to the wall–

Mrs. Dale. And denies that the article was ever damaged?

Ventnor. Eh? Well, the great thing, you see, is to keep one’s self out of reach of the housemaid’s brush. (A pause.) If you’re married you can’t–always. (Smiling.) Don’t you hate to be taken down and dusted?

Mrs. Dale (with intention). You forget how long ago my husband died. It’s fifteen years since I’ve been an object of interest to anybody but the public.

Ventnor (smiling). The only one of your admirers to whom you’ve ever given the least encouragement!

Mrs. Dale. Say rather the most easily pleased!

Ventnor. Or the only one you cared to please?

Mrs. Dale. Ah, you haven’t kept my letters!

Ventnor (gravely). Is that a challenge? Look here, then! (He drams a packet from his pocket and holds it out to her.)

Mrs. Dale (taking the packet and looking at him earnestly). Why have you brought me these?

Ventnor. I didn’t bring them; they came because I came–that’s all. (Tentatively.) Are we unwelcome?

Mrs. Dale (who has undone the packet and does not appear to hear him). The very first I ever wrote you–the day after we met at the concert. How on earth did you happen to keep it? (She glances over it.) How perfectly absurd! Well, it’s not a compromising document.

Ventnor. I’m afraid none of them are.

Mrs. Dale (quickly). Is it to that they owe their immunity? Because one could leave them about like safety matches?–Ah, here’s another I remember–I wrote that the day after we went skating together for the first time. (She reads it slowly.) How odd! How very odd!