The Easiest Way Part 18

LAURA. Well, Will, you have all my time when I'm not in the theatre, and you can do with it just what you please. You pay for it. I'm working for you.

WILL. Is that all I've got,--just your time?

LAURA. [_Wearily._] That and the rest. [LAURA _crosses up to desk, gets "part," crosses to sofa, turning pages of "part."_] I guess you know. [_Crosses to sofa and sits._

WILL. [_Looking at her curiously._] Down in the mouth, eh? I'm sorry.

LAURA. No, only if you want me to be frank, I'm a little tired. You may not believe it, but I work awfully hard over at the theatre.

Burgess will tell you that. I know I'm not so very good as an actress, but I try to be. [LAURA _lies down on sofa._] I'd like to succeed, myself. They're very patient with me. Of course they've got to be,--that's another thing you're paying for, but I don't seem to get along except this way.

WILL. Oh, don't get sentimental. If you're going to bring up that sort of talk, Laura, do it sometime when I haven't got a hang-over, and then don't forget talk never does count for much.

LAURA _crosses up to mirror, picks up hat from box, puts it on, looks in mirror. She turns around and looks at him steadfastly for a minute.

During this entire scene, from the time the curtain rises, she must in a way indicate a premonition of an approaching catastrophe, a feeling, vague but nevertheless palpable, that something is going to happen.

She must hold this before her audience so that she can show to them, without showing to him, the disgust she feels._ LAURA _has tasted of the privations of self-sacrifice during her struggle, and she has weakly surrendered and is unable to go back, but that brief period of self-abnegation has shown to her most clearly the rottenness of the other sort of living. There are enough sentimentality and emotion in her character to make it impossible for her to accept this manner of existence as_ ELFIE _does. Hers is not a nature of careless candour, but of dreamy ideals and better living, warped, handicapped, disillusioned, and destroyed by a weakness that finds its princ.i.p.al force in vanity._ WILL _resumes his newspaper in a more attentive way.

The girl looks at him and expresses in pantomime, by the slightest gesture or shrug of the shoulders, her growing distaste for him and his way of living. In the meantime_ WILL _is reading the paper rather carefully. He stops suddenly and then looks at his watch._

LAURA. What time is it?

WILL. After ten.

LAURA. Oh.

WILL _at this moment particularly reads some part of the paper, turns to her with a keen glance of suspicion and inquiry, and then for a very short moment evidently settles in his mind a cross-examination.

He has read in this paper a despatch from Chicago, which speaks of_ JOHN MADISON _having arrived there as a representative of a big Western mining syndicate which is going to open large operations in the Nevada gold-fields, and representing_ MR. MADISON _as being on his way to New York with sufficient capital to enlist more, and showing him to be now a man of means. The att.i.tude of_ LAURA _and the coincidence of the despatch bring back to_ WILL _the scene in Denver, and later in New York, and with that subtle intuition of the man of the world he connects the two._

WILL. I don't suppose, Laura, that you'd be interested now in knowing anything about that young fellow out in Colorado? What was his name--Madison?

LAURA. Do you know anything?

WILL. No, nothing particularly. I've been rather curious to know how he came out. He was a pretty fresh young man and did an awful lot of talking. I wonder how he's doing and how he's getting along. I don't suppose by any chance you have ever heard from him?

LAURA. No, no; I've never heard. [_Crosses to bureau._

WILL. I presume he never replied to that letter you wrote?

LAURA. No.

WILL. It would be rather queer, eh, if this young fellow should [_Looks at paper._] happen to come across a lot of money--not that I think he ever could, but it would be funny, wouldn't it?

LAURA. Yes, yes; it would be unexpected. I hope he does. It might make him happy.

WILL. Think he might take a trip East and see you act. You know you've got quite a part now.

LAURA. [_Impatiently._] I wish you wouldn't discuss this. Why do you mention it now? [_Crossing to right of table._] Is it because you were drinking last night and lost your sense of delicacy? You once had some consideration for me. What I've done I've done. I'm giving you all that I can. Please, please, don't hurt me any more than you can help.

That's all I ask.

[_Crossing up to mirror. Crosses back to right of table; sits._

WILL. Well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, Laura. I guess I am feeling a little bad to-day. Really, I don't want to hurt your feelings, my dear.

_He gets up, goes to her, puts his hands on her shoulders, and his cheek close to the back of her head. She bends forward and shudders a little bit. It is very easy to see that the life she is leading is becoming intolerable to her._

WILL. You know, dearie, I do a lot for you because you've always been on the level with me. I'm sorry I hurt you, but there was too much wine last night and I'm all upset. Forgive me.

LAURA, _in order to avoid his caresses, has leaned forward; her hands are clasped between her knees, and she is looking straight outward with a cold, impa.s.sive expression._ WILL _regards her silently for a moment. Really in the man's heart there is an affection, and really he wants to try to comfort her; but he seems to realize that she has slipped away from the old environment and conditions, and that he simply bought her back; that he hasn't any of her affection, even with his money; that she evinces toward him none of the old camaraderie; and it hurts him, as those things always hurt a selfish man, inclining him to be brutal and inconsiderate._ WILL _crosses to centre, and stands reading paper; bell rings; a pause and second bell._ WILL _seizes upon this excuse to go up-stage and over towards the door._

WILL. [_After second bell._] d.a.m.n that bell.

_He continues on his way; he opens the door, leaves it open, and pa.s.ses on to the outer door, which he opens._ LAURA _remains immovable and impa.s.sive, with the same cold, hard expression on her face. He comes in, slamming the outer door with effect, which one must have at this point of the play, because it is essential to a situation coming later. Enters the room, closes the door, and holds in his hand a telegram. Looks from newspaper to telegram._

WILL. A wire.

LAURA. For me?

WILL. Yes.

LAURA. From whom, I wonder. Perhaps Elfie with a luncheon engagement.

WILL. [_Handing telegram to her._] I don't know. Here.

_Pause; he faces her, looking at her. She opens it quickly. She reads it and, as she does, gasps quickly with an exclamation of fear and surprise. This is what the despatch says (it is dated at Buffalo and addressed to_ LAURA): _"I will be in New York before noon. I'm coming to marry you and I'm coming with a bank-roll. I wanted to keep it secret and have a big surprise for you, but I can't hold it any longer, because I feel just like a kid with a new top. Don't go out, and be ready for the big matrimonial thing. All my love. John."_

WILL. No bad news, I hope?

LAURA. [_Walking up stage rather hurriedly._] No, no--not bad news.

WILL. I thought you were startled.

LAURA. No, not at all.

WILL. [_Looking at paper about where he had left off._] From Elfie?

[_Crosses to, and sits in armchair._

LAURA. No, just a friend.

WILL. Oh!

_He makes himself rather comfortable in the chair, and_ LAURA _regards him for a moment from up stage as if trying to figure out how to get rid of him_.

LAURA. Won't you be rather late getting down town, Will?

WILL. Doesn't make any difference. I don't feel much like the office now. Thought I might order the car and take a spin through the park.

The cold air will do me a lot of good. Like to go?

LAURA. No, not to-day. I thought your business was important; you said so last night. [_Crosses to sofa, and stands_.

WILL. No hurry. Do you--er--want to get rid of me?