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he Qiameleon
.SEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
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FRENCH5 STANDARD LIBRARY EDITION
SAMUEL FRENCHr28-30 West 38th St.. New York
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THE CHAMELEON
A (flixmi^hj^ in ©Ijrie^ Attst
BY
JOSEPHINE PRESTON pEABODY
(MRS. UONEL MARKS)
Copyright, 1917, by JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
AH Rights Reserved
New York
SAMUEL FRENCH
PUBLISHER
WEST 38th street
London
SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd.
26 Southampton Street
STRAND
Coijyri^ht. 1917. by Josephine Pfe&ton J'eibodj
Caution. — TKls play is fully protected under the
Copyright laws of the United States and is sub-
ject to royalty when produced by amateurs or
professionals. Applications for the right to pro-
duce "The Chameleon" should be made to
Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th St., New York,
'Qa.D A12()2
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
JUN 21 1917
THE CHAMELEON.
CHARACTERS.
Justin Aurelius Hopefar Philosopher ; young,
unwed
RuFus Hopefar | Unphilosophic; but wed
y His brothers.
Walter Hopefar J Unphilosophic; Unwed
Rev. Ingraham Sylvester. .Reverend, but not so
very
QuENTiN Carrick A Man of Letters
James Roberts Thomas, Ph. D.
Major Kilmayne
Thomas The Hopefars' butler
Honora Thorpe A New Woman and Young
Rose Hopefar Young; not New
Mrs. Randal Van Wyck Never New
Mrs. Hopefar- Shuttleworth Never Old
THE CHAMELEON
Place: — Otit of town. ^ ^
Time: — The present.
Three months elapse between Acts I and H. Acts
n and 111 are concerned with the events of
thirty-six hours.
Act I. Morning. How truth is green and
lovely.
Act n. Afternoon. How truth is gray and
dismal.
Act hi. Scene I. Night. How truth is rain-
bow, truth is piebald.
Scene H. Morning. How you may
catch a Chameleon, if you get up
early.
Scene throughout: — The Hopefar Library.
THE CHAMELEON
ACT I.
Scene: — The Hopefars' Library. A large, old-
fashioned place, evidently built out in a sep-
arate wing, from the house, into which it opens,
left at back, zvith a few steps, and a doorway.
The only other entrance is the centre-door, at
back, {of glass, with straight hangings) which
gives upon the garden, r. and l. of this door,
French windows opening on a terrace walk
with a high hedge. Book-lined walls.
Right, an open fireplace; and r. and l. of the fire-
place, two Chinese cabinets, with drawers and
pigeon-holes. Near by, but up stage at present,
a long, high-backed sofa, the end near the win-
dozvs concealed by a screen folded across, r. c.
Down, some half-unpacked book-boxes, cov-
ered with foreign labels.
Left, below the house-steps, a large bust of Hermes
on a pedestal. Towards the front, a writing-
table strewn with work.
As the curtain rises, the garden-door stands
open, and one windozv, R. It is a bright June
morning.
(Enter l. from the house. Rose Hopefar; and the
Reverend Sylvester zvith his hat and stick.
6 THE CHAMELEON.
He beams with all the satisfaction of forty-
five and well-to-do. Rose is young and discon-
tented.)
Rrverend. — Not at all, — not at all ! Pv.eally a
pleasure, I assure you. If only you had told me all
about it much earlier you know, I could, perhaps — ■
ah — Have set the matter before her in its — ah — true
light. She has such a singularly fresh and candid —
ah — nature; it is sure to — ah — respond to the can-
did zvord in time.
Rose. {With a sigh of darkest prophecy) Ah!
PvEVEREND. And it is with words as with stitches,
dear Lady, (l.) A word in time — saves Nine!
Rose. {Earnestly) But what would be the
use — Oh ! Nine swear-words, you mean.
Reverend. {Hastily) Not at all, — not at
Rose. Do tell her that. I felt sure your sense of
humor would appeal to her. She used to have so
much. {Looking towards the terrace) She ought
to be here by this. It's growing late. — Ah, you will
persuade her ! It's a terrible thing to all of us, that
she should have thrown him over. {Looking out)
Reverend. {Crosses r.) Of course, of course.
Poor Walter.
Rose. {Comes dozvn) And aside from all
graver considerations, you know, a June wedding
would have been so lovely! I must say, {Sits l) it
was a curious time to jilt him. — I had talked about
her as my sister-in-law for months. And the brides-
maids' gowns were entirely planned.
Reverend. Not really !
Rose. Their hats, too. I designed them. And
Justin came back from Egypt for the wedding.
Reverend. Justin home ? And with a new book
ready ?
Rose. Oh, that book ! — Yes, almost ready. He
came early, to be here well before. And while he
THE CHAMELEON. 7
was sailing home, for his own brother's wedding,
Honora changed her mind. Think of it: — their
Hats !—
Reverend. It sounds alarmingly unfeminine.
What does Justin think of her?
Rose. He hasn't seen her. He came only yester-
day, you see; and he's deep in that Book. It's all
very nice — rather piquant, indeed, to have a well-
known m.an of letters for a brother-in-law. People
want to meet him and all that. But you can't ex-
pect him to be useful in other ways. What do you
think his new book is called? — ''Aspects of Truth/'
Reverend. Him. — " Aspects " — Essentially mod-
ern.
Rose. As if we should ever know what Truth
was, if we stopped to consider its " aspects ".
Surely (Earnestly) it's the aspects of things that
obscure the truth. I mean to say, you can only be
sure of the Truth, when you speak on impulse. For
if you stop to think it out at all, you're so apt to say
something else. Do you see what I mean ?
Reverend. Quite so, — quite so. (He inspects r.
sojne of the unpacked books, title by title, with dis-
approval)
Rose. Oh, these writers of books, what do they
know about Life? And the serious side ot the
matter is: — do you know what explains the whole
thing ?
Reverend. (Turns and sits on step-ladder)
Dear lady, which? Life or Honora?
Rose. Honora, jilting my own brother-in-law !
Reverend. Give me a clue.
Rose. Honora is writing a book.
Reverend. Honora !
Rose. I knew you'd- think just that. And so do
I. Of course I always knew she was fearfully
clever. But I was too fond of her ever to believe it
would take that shape. I thought she would marry.
8 THE CHAMELEON.
Reverend. A book, dear me! What does she
call it?
Rose. '' The Chameleon," she says.
Reverend. " The Chameleon! "
Rose. And of course you know Honora well
enough to know it can have nothing in the world to
do with chameleons.
Reverend. Quite so.
Rose. She doesn't like them, you know. She
never would wear the one I gave her that season,
when we all wore them, hopping on a little gold
chain. But the serious side of the matter is that she
never would have thrown Walter over, if it had not
been for that book. She was turning literary; and
we never saw it ! And here she has been, reading,
reading, writing, writing, hours at a time; and mak-
ing up her mind that she didn't care to marry Wal-
ter after all. Of course, we're close neighbors;
and she always did like this old place. - Nobody uses
it when Justin is away. And I'm devoted to
Honora. But — {Sees a card on the table, and picks
it up, interrupting herself) '' Mr. Carrick." What
a pity: and I was close by, out in the summer-
house. As I was saying; even for such an old
friend, it was cold-blooded of her, to sit here writ-
ing herself out of that state of mind; practically to
jilt Walter in his own library! Why doesn't she
come? {She stirs about, righting small objects on
the table) I did want to see her settled, and happy.
I even wanted her, really wanted her in our family.
And now she is going to be literary ! {She goes to-
wards the screen to fold it back) How warm it is !
And everything upsidedown.
Reverend. Allow me.
{They fold it back together, disclosing the settle,
which stands with its back towards the audi-
ence, slanted r. up c. At the upper end of it is
visible the top of a large white garden-hat with
THE CHAMELEON. 9
long strings of mull, and an edge of scarf. The
hat zvears en air of lazy abandon. Both recoil,
dismayed.)
Rose. Really, Honora ! I have said nothing that
I — that I can possibly recall. But I think you might
have spoken before this ! (She turns superbly, and
sweeps across, up the steps and into the house, clos-
ing the door. Sylvester crosses after her; then
recovers his composure)
Reverend. {At the house steps) Ah, dear Mrs.
Hopefar, v/on't you stay? I beg of you. As you
will, then. {Urbanely) Honora and I are to have
a quiet little talk, and to set things once for all in
their true light. The truth, the truth, at any cost!
{He regards the hat expectantly, standing dozvn c.)
Come, — I was sure, my dear Child, that you felt this
a.11 more keenly than anyone seemiS to believe. Don't
suffer in silence. Mind you, I don't wish to intrude.
But tell me all your doubts ; and let us resolve them
completely. It is never too late. And with words —
{Advances winningly) It is sometimes with v/ords
as with stitches, Honora. A word in time saves
Nine ! Ha, ha. My dear girl, you are not weeping ?
{Crosses r., starts; then zvith an expression of
disgust, removes the hat from the parasol-handle
which had held it in place. There is no one sit-
ting there. He looks an considers) Hm! There
is a sound of whistling without. Schubert's Unfin-
ished Symphony theme. Rev. slowly and prophet-
ically) Whistling girls and hens that crow !
{Enter c, from the garden, Justin Hopefar. He
is a young man of abundant cheerfidness and
some distinction. He wears a straw-hat and
carries a pipe.)
Justin. Sylvester! How are you. I would
have known that back in Patagonia.
10 THE CHAMELEON.
Reverend. Justin, my dear fellow ! I mistook
you for Honora.
Justin. Have I changed so much? We may
look alike for aught I know. {Lays hat on table)
I hear that I must have seen Honora once, when she
was small and harmless. But I don't remember.
And it doesn't matter, for it seems that now at the
eleventh hour, she rejects us all. (ReligJits his
pipe) It has set the household by the ears though.
Are you come to hold parley with Honora?
Reverend. Yes. She was to see me here a little
while this morning, to see if I could not settle her
untimely doubts. Her own family, you know is
much distressed. She has no fault to find with
Wat; she cares for no one else. It must be read-
justed. But Where's Honora?
Justin. And what's that flag of truce?
Reverend. Oh, that's her Hat. (He hangs it on
the white parasol and they both inspect it dreamily)
Justin. Her Hat, " untenanted of its mistress? "
I say. It fills me with suspense, somehow. — Is
Honora becoming to her Hat?
Reverend. Eminently. But I fear she is a New
W^oman, {Turns away)
Justin. {Taking the parasol and lifting it, cau-
tiously) Never mind. If she keeps on wearing
such hats. In any case, I suspect the New Wo-
man isn't new. She is only more numerous at pres-
ent. She's a thoroughly logical outcome. I won't
quarrel with her till I understand her. . . . Now,
why those long streamers?
Reverend. Can't imagine.
Justin. It's something new, some hitching de-
vice instead of apron-strings, you may be sure. A
Hat without a woman ; like a man without a Coun-
try. A Hat, — like the sleeping lion, shorn of all its
terrors.
THE CHAMELEON. ii
{Sudden singing outside. Honora passes the win-
dow up R. Justin guiltily transfers the parasol
and hat to the hands of Sylvester who
clutches them absent-mindedly. They stand
still as Honora enters hatlcss, c. with an arm-
ful of green balsam boughs. She comes swing-
ing in, exuberantly and checks herself as she
sees them.)
Honora. Oh ! (She hastily goes to the fireplace
and deposits there the load of greenery; then turns
hack, dusting off her hands softly. Justin looks at
her fixedly)
Reverend. Good-morning, Honora ! (Jauntily)
Here is Justin, . . . your brother-in-law elect.
(She shakes Jiands with Justin ; but looking him in
the eyes, with a smiling negative head-shake.)
Justin. You don't remember me? But please
stay. Of course I'm going away at once.
Honora. No. Don't go away, Justin. It's a
strange kind of introduction. But you'd much
better stay. Look at the truth of it from the be-
ginning, and see what kind of a sister you are not
to have. And you'll bless me for not marrying him.
Yes, indeed, it's I, — this is how I've grown up. (As
he looks at her intently)
Justin. I see. And do you keep on growing?
Honora. (Exuberantly) Forever!
PvEverend. Hm !
Justin. I v/onder what you'll be like, seven
years from now.
Honora. Come and see ; if we're still neighbors.
Reverend. Hm ! My dear, Justin, this is all
very interesting to consider. But I had an engage-
ment to lunch, and whether they're still neighbors
I hardly
12 THE CHAMELEON.
HoNOKA. But surely, Reverend dear, you don't
need to wear my hat?
(Reverend still clutching the hat in one hand and
the parasol in ihe otJier, crosses to center.)
Reverend. I — I — dear me, Honora! I was try-
ing to fathom the mazes of your mind by — You
may remember that I came this morning to talk
Vv'ith you about certain distressing
Justin. Au rcvoir! {Taking his ozvn hat)
HoNORA. Don't go. Well then, just outside.
It's only right that you should hear, if you all think
I'm so unreasonable; and that 1 don't know my ovv^i
mind. I believe you'd be fair. — And I may need
you yet.
Justin. You have only to speak. {Exit c. He
is seen on the terrace, jnst outside the window sit-
ting with his pipe)
HoNORA. {Hospitably) Now then! Tell me
all about how horrid I am !
Reverend. {Sits dozvn l. c.) Honora, 3^ou well
know that you are singularly far from horrid. — But
you are unreasonable, untimely and exasperat-
ing.
HoNORA. I? — Reverend? — Justin! (Justin
turns) No, no, Justin; it was a weak appeal. Rev-
erend, I never heard you phrase anything so di-
rectly. Now, if you would only do that in your
sermons, you know, Reverend dear, I'd come to
hear them — positively on week-days. I would.
Reverend. {Resignedly) Ah! Get around me,
now. Begin !
Honora. Upon my word, why v/ill nobody re-
spect my search for Truth? (Justin wheels his
chair about and looks in) Why will nobody under-
stand that I've grown up suddenly, — tardily, if you
like; and that I must needs seem mulish about all
THE CHAMELEON. 13
manner of things; what I love, and v/hat I
hate ?
Reverend. Love? What do you love, Honora?
Ho NORA. I only wish I knev/.
Reverend. What do you hate?
Honora. Pretenses! Big or little. Compro-
mise. Old m.ake-believes. Life, at hear-say. Half-
way things, gray things, not black, not v/hite.
Everything, everything, everything except
]-lE
verend. What, Honora?
HoNORA. . . . Justin Vv'ould understand. I hear
his new book is all about Aspects of Truth.
Reverend. Oh, dear, dear ! {Impatiently)
Honora. Well then, I've discovered myself ; and
in a very different way. And my discoveiy is a
longing— a longing for Truth; in things big and
little. Yes, it's a comm.onplace. And yet, when I be-
gan to look about me, I could see very few things
in the world that were not boring and ugly, — when
they might be beautiful. If you looked at things
for yourself, and if you said what you meant, at
least you could never be bored. But people say so
glibly all the time, v/hat they don't miean. Nov/,
look at the v/ord " Obey " in your ovv-n marriage-
service.
Reverend. Ah, ah! iVt last. Nov/ v/e have it.
{Beaming zvlih relief and condescension) A very
common objection, my dear girl. And as trifling as
it is uarcasonabie. Ah, this modern self-seeking! —
Admit, Honora, that a house must have a Head.
Honora. {Kindly) If you like. Indeed, why
not?
Reverend. You see, of course, that a House
cannot have tv/o Heads.
Honora. Why, no. Reverend, I don't sec that, of
course, at all. There v/as Cerberus with three ; and
the Hydra, you know, with any number of heads.
I'm sure they found uses for them a'l. Indeed there
I-;. THE CHAMELEON.
are times, don't you truly think now, when one feels
oneself, rather short of heads?
Reverend. Er — er — my dear, this is trifling.
HoNORA. Solemn earnest. — " Obey " in such a
relation, at this age of this Planet! To put such a
moral indignity upon the free, all-giving service of
— of love !
Reverend. Free love!!
Ho NORA. Heavens, No ! Reverend, what are
you thinking of? {Incensed)
Reverend. {Incensed) I, thinking of! (Justin
starts to re-enter and turns away laughing) Oh,
dear me.
HoNORA. You know very well what I mean, if
you will let yourself look at it fairly.
Reverend. / let myself .'
HoNORA. {Earnestly) You knozv that Self-sac-
rifice is the essence of vvoman's nature, when she's
natural. What is obedience beside that?^
Reverend. My dear Honora, you picture an
ideal state of things.
HoNORA. Yes ; why not ?
Reverend. Ah, — But.
HoNORA. {Coaxingly) Ah, now, don't " But".
Once in a while, you see, somebody wants to be
ideal ; and then the whole world is astonished. — /
would like to be . . . ideal.
Reverend. But as society is now constituted, it
has to be safe-guarded against
Honora. Everything it doesn't live up to !
That's why it cannot grow. But religion. Reverend
dear, hasn't such stupid things to do. It has to up-
hold nothing but the truest, the deepest, the most
beautiful ! — Oh, Reverend, — and you're sitting on
my Hat !
Reverend. Er — Justin ! Er
HoNORA. Justin, come back, do ! Come and help
him if you can. Oh, Justin, tie is saying that two
THE CHAMELEON. 15
Heads are better than one! {Re-enter Justin, c.)
Eh, Reverend?
Reverend. Honora, where did you learn all this,
about Love?
Honora. Where indeed?
Reverend. There is someone else — besides
Walter.
Honora. {After a pause) Well, I do hope so!
{Shaking her head with a sigh)
Reverend. You care for someone else.
Honora. Not I ! And I did so want to love
somebod}^ And I don't.
Reverend. Then you never really cared for Wat.
Honora. {Honestly) No. Not at all. But I
am somehow so im.personal ; Walter didn't seem to
m.atter.
Reverend. {Groaning) Impersonal!
Honora. Now how hard you are to please.
Reverend. Are you a woman at all ?
Honora. {Meekly) I don't know. I think so,
at least, — I never can write a letter without adding
one or two postscripts, if that's convincing. But I
suppose I miust be a New Woman. You may have
me transfixed with a hat-pin, if you think it's best.
Or — or Justin will put me in a Book,
Justin. I will.
(Reverend rises.)
Honora. Thank you for coming to talk it over.
{Gives him her hand) It's no earthly good, to be
honest, but I'll think over all the wise things you've
said.
Reverend. Oh, / have said nothing, absolutely
nothing; if you recall the circumstance.
Honora. {Reproachfully) Oh, Reverend! And
when I have {going up center) trusted you — with
my whole — Hat. {Taking it from his nerveless
i6 THE CHAMELEON.
fingers) But what were you going to say then?
You shall have the last word.
Reverend. Ah !
HoNORA. What then?
Reverend. You freely offer me — the last word?
HoNORA. Solemn earnest. What is it?
Reverend. You are the Newest of New Women.
{Benignly) There, there, keep it yourself, my
child, for your honesty.
HoNORA. What ?
Reverend. {Upstage) The last word! {Exit
c by the garden-door)
(Justin's pipe is conspicuously lightless. Honora
arranges her hat on the head of Hermes, and
turns to him.)
HoNORA. You see ? All this talk about Love and
Marriage! And nobody will stand still and find
out, in the first place, what you are like, to love you
or not. Ah, well, of course, I have been most in-
considerate. But it won't hurt Walter, after this
week or two of duck-shooting. Did you see him be-
fore he left?
Justin. Yes, last night.
HoNORA. And did he look blighted?
Justin. Candidly, no. After all, he is still some-
thing of an unlicked cub. You have your eyes
open; he has not. I don't understand how it ever
went so far, — for you.
Honora. Neither do I. I don't suppose I can
make it clear to you. I sound sillier and sillier.
{Comes down)
Justin. Please remember how much I am con-
cerned with Aspects of Truth. As much concerned
as you. Let us dig up some now. {Invitingly, he
pushes out a chair. She sits on the edge of it, with
sudden seriousness. Justin takes one opposite and
THE CHAMELEON. 17
listens, with an occasional resort to his smokeless
pipe) I used to hear of you when he was still in
college.
HoNORA. Oh yes, long ago.
Justin. And when he went abroad ?
HoNORA. I wrote to him. {She digs patterns
with her parasol on the floor earnestly)
Justin. And when he came back ?
HoNORA. You see, it was horribly dull down
here, there wasn't a human creature to relieve the
landscape ! Not satisfactorily human. And it used
to come over me, how impossible it must be to know
one's self ever, unless one can love somebody, some-
day. And then, just then, Walter came back, and
I was so glad to see him ! I would have loved any-
body,— anybody ; without stopping to look. And so
it was with Walter.
Justin. The landscape required somebody.
HoNORA. And I — tried — to make — him — '" do.'*
—It's the Truth.
Justin. I honor you for telling it.
HoNORA. I thank you — for understanding; if —
if you do.
Justin. I do.
HoNORA. You see?
Justin. Yes. You are the first woman I ever
saw.
Honora. Ah, I'm so glad someone understands.
And I've said it, and now . . . I'll take my book,
and I'll take my hat . . . {Disengaging it from the
head of Hermes)
Justin. {Rapt) Yes, do! I mean — er — put it
on. I — only wanted to — er — see it on. (r. front)
Honora. What ?
Justin. Your Hat.
Honora. {0 pen-mouthed) On what?
Justin. On you; — your head, you know. You
seem to prefer chairs and parasols and all manner
i8 THE CHAMELEON.
of still-life. Ah! — (Honora puts on her hat, with-
out trying it, and looks at him inquiringly) We —
we were wondering — before you came — what those
long streamers were for, down behind
HoNORA. Those are strings, to tie the Hat on.
Justin. Most provident.
Honora. Otherwise, you see, it would come off,
easily.
Justin. And what was that you said about some
Book?
Honora. Oh, my book ! It's in the right-hand
cupboard there. {Pointing to the cabinet up r. of
fireplace)
Justin. You are writing a Book? {Goes up to
cupboard)
Honora. Yes, I was. I mean I am. No, let me
find it. Yours is a real book.
Justin. And it's in the left-hand cupboard! I
locked it there last night. But, your Book — ?
Honora. Oh, it's nothing but a Novel. {Goes
down L.)
Justin. Nothing but ! — The name — the name —
what's it about?
Honora. It's about — yes, I'll tell you. It's about
—Truth! Aspects of Truth! But I call it,— The
Chameleon! {Gleefidly) You know why. Be-
cause you think you have it, and you haven't. Be-
cause it changes color all day long. Because, now
it's green and lovely; and then it's gray and ugly;
and then it's rainbow; and then it's piebald. And
it's so hard to catch and keep, and know what color
it is. The Chameleon, — the Chameleon! Truth,
the Chameleon.
Justin. And you were writing, — here, all these
days ?
Honora. Yes, — and I suppose it's true that I
w^as writing myself into a state of mind, and out of
it again. But I've begun to grow up! and I can
THE CHAMELEON. 19
only cling to my bean-stalk and see where it takes
me. So— I'll just take my hat and my Book, and
begone.
Justin. Wait. Let me see the Book.
HoNORA. Oh, no one has seen anything of it but
Mr. Carrick.
Justin. Ouentin Carrick? Hm. But he knows
something of style. Do you like Carrick?
HoNORA. He's charming — on paper. {Goes to-
ward cupboard)
Justin. You shall leave the Book. (Stopping
ker way to the cupboard) And you shall go on
writing here.
HoNORA. • Here ? After all this ? — Ah, I believe
you are a philosopher, a real one.
Justin. Why not? 1 heard you say just nov/
that you wanted yourself to be a something ideal.
Now I
Honora. Yes ? You ? —
Justin. An I for an I ! — All these good home
people believe that an idealist is a man who goes to
sea in a bovvl. I'm simply trying
Honora. Yes
Justin. To find out
Honora. Yes — —
Justin. How to begin
Honora. Go on — go on !
Justin. To be Real.
Honora. (Rapturously) Ah . . . But I ought
to go. Good-bye, and thank you. (Going, she turns
back) And don't forget, when you are writing
about Truth, that wretched world-old phrase, " too
good to be true ; " — it's a perfect zvorni. We shall
find out some da}^ that all our " hateful " truths
were hateful only because they were not true
enough. Some day it will be all beautiful. It's so
hard to find th(7 beginning. If only — zve could ever
begin at the beginning! (Going)
20 THE CHAMELEON.
Justin. Come back! (Honora turns to look at
him) You were going without your hat; — I mean
your I:)Ook.
Honora. Oh!
Justin. No, it has nothing to do with your Book.
{Facing her with determination) Here is a chance
for something to begin from the beginning.
Honora. What?
Justin. You : — and the Truth.
Honora. You don't ask me to marry Walter?
Now ?
Justin. No. I ask you . . .
Honora. What then?
Justin. To marry me. {She hacks away and
stands looking at him with concern) I haven't lost
my wits. Don't be frightened away. You asked
me to listen while you told your perplexities, poor
child. I listened, and underneath your words, I
heard my own heart talking. Yes, my heart. I
knew I must have one. {Smiling) Your discovery
was mine; your efforts were mine. And you, poor
Truth, so young and green and valorous ! You
were like some dream of mine that took on a human
likeness and faced me here. And I never could
have uttered this v/ild thing to anyone else. It
happens, because you are you, and I am I.
Honora. {Daneddy) Because I am I . . .
Justin. Yes. — Did you not say just now that we
blame Truth for coming late? But we ourselves
never begin at the beginning? And that people
must always speak of things " too good to be true? "
You seem to me too good to be true. But I know
you are true. And I dare to tell you now. I'm
going to begin at the very beginning. {She looks
at him with wide eyes and growing fascination)
Oh, it seems crazy, no doubt. But one thing is cer-
tain. I could not have begun much sooner ; could I ?
{She laughs nervously) Truth is the one ad-
THE CHAMELEON. 21
venture: You know that. And you must share it
with me. Truth, from the beguming — From the
moment that I saw you, I knew that you were She
— Your hunger, child ; for you were hunghy. {She
nods) Your ioneUness; for you were lonely,
weren't you? {She nods) Do you know that your
face turned towards me, three times while you were
talking? {She shakes her head) And you were
right. If you will only trust me, as I trust you, you
shall never be alone in the v,-orld again. {Sounds
from the house-door. Honora starts out of her
spell)
Honora. Oh, there is som.ebody! {Takes flight
c. to the garden)
{Enter L., RuFUS, hastily.)
RuFUS. Hello, has Sylvester gone?
Justin. Yes.
RuFUS. And v/hat's the upshot of it all? {Sits
on table) Will she, — won't she?
Justin. She won't marry him.
RuFUS. {Chuckling) Poor Wat! To think
Honora should break up a happy household like
this!
{Enter Rose l.)
Rose. You might have waited to tell me what
they said.
Justin. Ah, you m.ust ask Sylvester.
Rose. But will she ?
RuFus. No, she won't. And after all she's much
too clever for Wat, if he is my brother. Cheer up.
You've ahvays been so chummy with Honora.
Everything will be just the same.
Rose. {Coming down c, tragically) — How like
a man ! There is a grave side to the matter, Rufus.
22 THE CHAMELEON.
It's one thing for a Writer — excuse me, Justin, — a
Writer of Books to set people all examining their
minds in this modern unwholesom^e way. Because
they simply cannot write any kind of book without
analyzing something, —
RuFUS. If it's only a Cook-book!
Rose. They Write. But it is we who Live
RuFus. And Eat.
Rose. And to us, who are Living
RuFUS. Or eating
Rose. It's a very different matter. ITonora has
not only broken a happy and suitable engagement;
but she has walked off in high feather, to finish her
novel. The book's the thing ! It always was. And
it matters nothing to her that she has set everyone
else self -searching and hair-splitting about the mat-
ter of Truth, — Truth — in all things, from the very
beginning. And here is Justin v/ho seem.s to sympa-
thize with her.
Justin. I do !
RuFUS. By Jove !
Justin. And I have begged her to go on writing
here every morning, all summer — er — in the corner
somewhere. It's so cool and quiet.
Rose. But you ! Your Book.
Justin. I won't let her disturb me. — My book's
done, — or very nearly. Come. I've heard you talk-
ing Honora for years. Do stand by her, now.
Rose. Well, you are brotherly 1
Justin. Heaven forbid!
Rose. Oh, then you wouldn't like her for a sister
of your own, on second thought.
Justin. {Judicially) No. Perhaps not : on sec-
ond thought. But I'm immensely interested in her
Book.
Rose. Well, of all the cold-blooded things I have
ever seen, there is nothing to equal a man of letters !
Honora is positively charming; if you took the
THE CHAMELEON. 23
trouble to look at her. I give you up. Rufus, come.
We are interrupting him; and I know you'll both
talk if I go away; and I want to hear.
(Exeunt Rose and Rufus l. to the house. Justin
watches them out, smiling ; then turns expect-
antly c. Honora appears up c. and re-enters.
She has a shy and younger air.)
Justin. Ah! — Again, you've comie true. You
left — your Book?
HoNORA. Yes, but I did not come for that. I
came, because — I wanted — to hear m.ore. (Coming
down a step or two)
Justin. You wanted to hear more !
Honora. Yes.
Justin. (Rapturously) Ah, don't you see ? We
two have more to give each other than any man and
woman on the planet? — If you are not afraid to be
'' fantastic '\
HoNORA. Ah ! (Drawing nearer)
Justin. And we have only to make one solemn
compact — To tell each othei the absolute truth — in
all things ; at all times ; on demand.
HoNORA. But others could do that.
Justin. Indeed they could! But they seem not
to know it. They never learn. They are bound to
live on saw-dust, and die of boredom ! — When they
might explore the stars. (Radiantly)
HoNORA. But — but of course — I don't love you,
Justin.
Justin. How can you be sure you don't ? You've
only seen me some twenty-five minutes. Now the
moment I saw you, (Solemnly) I knew that you
were She. I knew. So, even if you did not know
that I was He
Honora. What then ?
24 THE CHAMELEON.
Justin. I must be He, you know. There Isn't
anybody else for me to be. {He takes her hands
firmly and looks at her) Honora, I am He.
HoNORA. I — I must go.
Justin. {Letting her hands go, and standing
away a little) You are coming back; every morn-
ing, all the summer, till your Book's done, and my
Book's done, and we are both wise enough to say
a thing or two to this generation ! Yes, wise enough
to look the old world through the eyes and say
"Good-Morning"! — Will you?
Honora. Y — n-n-n — Yes !
Justin. And you accept what I tell you?
Ho NORA. N — nn — Yes !
Justin. You are She; and I am He. And you
shall walk up and down and round and round my
heart until you know us both, completely. It's a
pledge. I am yours, Honora, whether you are
mine, or not. But you are coming true. . . .
Honora. What would they
Justin. No one will know. They couldn't un-
derstand yet. What do they know of Life? Who
never dream? You're coming true, Honora?
HoNORA. {Firmly) Yes. Good-bye. {Goes;
turns and comes hack) Justin
Justin. Honora !
Honora. I just remembered. I — it wasn't . . .
it wasn't quite true about
Justin. Oh, you eighth Wonder ! About what ?
Honora. Those hat-strings. The Hat wouldn't
really come off at all, you know, without ; — save in
a high wind. They are often in the way. But I
wear them; because I think they — I thought they
were — more becoming. {Starting hack a little)
Are they?
Justin. {Earnestly) Yes.
Honora. {Starting hack a little) Good-bye!
{Going, she returns slowly) Oh, one thing more.
THE CHAMELEON. 25
Justin — I — it Vv'as not entirely true, this last thing I
said, about the Hat-strings. I mean, I didn't really
come back to tell you that. I really came — to tell
3'ou . . .
Justin. Tell me! —
HoNORA. {Backing away from hhn by degrees,
zvith a shining face) All that you say — is wonder-
ful to me. ... It makes m.e — almost — Love you I
(She runs away through the garden.)
CURTAIN.
ACT II.
Scene: — The same; three months later. Autumn
afternoon. There is now a tall cuckoo-clock
on the house stairway. The garden door is
closed. There are autumn flowers about.
Honora's hat adorns the head of Hermes
L. c. L. down, at a paper-strewn table,
HoNORA. R. dozvn, at another table, Justin.
Betzueen them, down c. the Japanese screen
half-folded back. They are both abstracted;
HoNORA playing with her pen nervously;
Justin gazing at her like a visionary. Honora
seizes her pen, poises it ominously, and writes
something with an air of finality and deter-
mination; then puts down her pen.)
Justin. At last! — The End. And now — {He
rises jubilantly. Knock at the house-door)
(Rose appears there.)
Rose. I know I'm interrupting. But you've
written as long as it's good for you to.
26 THE CHAMELEON.
Justin. My dear, we're horribly busy.
Rose. I must talk to somebody.
Justin. Wait a bit, do. I was entirely wrapped
up — (Exit Rose impatiently) star-gazing; — at
Honora.
HoNORA. You moved it.
Justin. What?
HoNORA. The screen.
Justin. Place was growing as bleak as a barn.
HoNORA. This warm day!
Justin. I couldn't see you. Does it bother
you, really? (He crosses; and folds the screen
round her chair completely) There you are, Truth,
at the bottom of the well.
HoNORA. (Hidden) He —
Justin. Out of sight and out of mind ! Do you
see any stars down there?
HoNORA. Oh !
Justin. Nobody knows you and nobody cares.
You're the unwelcome Truth: do you hear? And
whenever you show your disagreeable face, you
crack an illusion !
HoNORA. Justin, — Justin Aurelius, help!
Justin. What will you give me, Truth, if I let
you out?
HoNORA. Ah !
Justin. The time is up — Have I kept all my
promises? Have I been good?
Honora. Yes.
Justin. Have I loved you far off — enough?
HoNORA. Yes.
Justin. Then stand forth — Dearest. Show
yourself — to the world and me! (He lifts away
the screen suddenly and surprises her with her
hands over her eyes) Honora! — Tears?
HoNORA. (Laughing nervously) Oh, nothing,
nothing! I — You see — it was so dark down in
the well ! (He holds out his arms) Oh, not yet !
THE CHAMELEON. t.^
{Knock on the garden door. Enter c, Rufus, pipe
in hand'.)
Rufus. I say, I want to — What's the matter
with the screen?
Justin. My dear fellow, we're awfully hard at
work. - And I find my presence disturbs Honora.
She's absorbed in her last chapter!
Rufus. By Jove, Honora, is it a bad ending?
Don't! I'm a perfect child about bad endings. —
I'll go. — Thought your working hours were over.
Justin. Not to-day, though. See you soon: if
you don't mind. {Returns to his table with a
desperate air of business, taking the screen after
him and setting it up before his own table. Exit
Rufus)
(Honora rises and crosses r., knocks on the screen
as if it were a door.)
Honora. {Meekly) Justin.
Justin. Is it Truth?
Honora. No. Nothing but Honora.
Justin. Nothing But ! — {Pushes aside the screen
and gently takes her hands. He kisses them: and
looks at her gladly) Nothing But! — Tell me.
It's really done ?
Honora. Yes . . . But yours? {He points to
tJie left-hand cupboard happily) How beautiful it
is!
Justin. Where you touched it.
Honora. I have done nothing but delay it.
Justin. You did that. For I had to write it all
over again; all over again in the light of you. —
Ah — {Cuckoo-clock chirrups four) Oh, be quiet.
{To Honora) Do you really find it beautiful,
you?
Honora. The whole world will find it beautiful.
And so brave.
28 THE CHAMELEON.
Justin. Brave ?
HoNOKA. Yes. Because it is simple: or sounds
so. You've been gixat enough to say wise things
simply. It is all as limpid
Justin. But that's all you! If anything had
shaken my faith in you, there would have been no
more Book.
HoNOJiA. Do you mean that? (^He smiles at
her) Yes, yes. Of course I knov/ you m^ean it.
But it's too much,
Justin. Then let us talk of your Book. For I
know it, all but the ending. And how beautiful it
is ! What a marvellous Chameleon, — a rainbov/
beast ! Ah, you'll know some day how proud I am
of you. And Carrick says . . . Do you knov/ why
I'm never jealous of Carrick? He isn't a man;
He's a Book. But now ! — Summer's over ; the
books are done. — Life begins. . . . Was I selfish
to ask it, when I've had you to look at, all these
mornings? And v/hen I've heard you say . . . .
that you love me — that you do, you do love me ?
HoNORA. To ask ?
Justin. At the end of the summer
HoNORA. You mean?
Justin. My kiss ...
HoNORA. {Shrinking a little) I — I — all the
time — {A knock) I v/as
Justin. Yes — {A knock) You vv^ere ?
HoNORA. {Hurriedly) I was — saving it!
{Enter c, Walter, zvith a shot-gun and a cloth
wherewith to polish it. Justin impatient.)
Walter. I say, you two have worked long
enough. It's after four.
Justin. It's the last day.
Walter. Well, and it takes the last trump to
make any impression upon your hearing. 'Ought to
THE CHAMELEON. 29
beg pardon, may-be. But you see Rose is out there,
in tears.
Justin. Rose ?
KoNORA. What nov/?
Waltlr. 'M-hm — Crying on the verandah —
Sa}'S you have iiaished your books and her happi-
ness together; vvith a single 'Finis, as it Vv^ere.
There's an indictment for you. That's what conies
of being Literary! — Came in for a home-thrust
m3'self. She told me that if you, Nora, had not dis-
covered that 3'ou Avere far too clever for me, you
never would have
Justin. Oh, come, come !
HoNORA. Wat, how shabby of you !
Walter. M-hm. She did. And I told her,
Nora, that you were quite right; and that I had
come to — sight — it (Looking along his gun-harrcl
cere fully) precisely as 3'ou do. But it did not cheer
her. This dissatisfaction of hers with Rufus seems
to have blamed little to do with Rufus ! — It's very
modern. So you'd better let her in, and find out
Vvhat you've been up to. (Exit Justin) You
probably don't know. — Literary People are so
absent-minded. You are like P^ousseau stirring up
the French Revolution; you are like the shilling
shockers that lure small hoys to run av/ay, and play
Pirate. Flose— is playing pirate. (Still ke pol-
ishes) Now murder is all very v/ell in its v/ay, and
even necessary ... at times. But when it comes
to the choice of guests she has made for to-morrov/
night ! I v/ish she wouldn't be so unscrupulous.
Hgnora. Oh, that dinner?
V/alter. Of course, / am good-looking: and
'''you have your Mind," as Rose says. And v/e'll
be there. — But then there's the Reverend, ar.d
Aunt Eunice.
KoNORA. Really ?
Walter. And Kilmayne, that old sport!
30 THE CHAMELEON. ^
HoNORA. She hadn't seen him for years.
W^ALTER. Why ask him?
HoNORA. Auld acquaintance?
Walter. — There is, now and then, an " auld
accjuaintance " that should be forgot, distinctly.
Then, Mrs. Van Wyck ! Oh, wait till you see Mrs.
Van Wyck. — I tell you, it's going to be a feast of
Nero, with all of tis living torches. — And Thomas
is coming, Nora, James Roberts Thomas.
HoNORA. Oh, Wat ! Don't tell me that.
Walter. I thought you liked him. You ought
to. He's Literary.
HoNORA. Ugh !
Walter. He is, though.
HoNORA. {Simulating the gushing hostess)
"So-and-so" you'll be so drawn to Who's this! —
You both carry umbrellas, I know, in bad weather !
Walter. Come now, he has been chasing you
about, to read that thesis of his, as it were one
bitten by a gad-fly.
HoNORA. Oh, that thesis ! {She begins to clear
up her papers)
Walter. Must be deep, you know. He read me
a page of it, and I couldn't make head or tail of the
thing; so I referred him to you.
Honora. Ah, Wat ! — I have put off hearing that
thesis for eight weeks, upon a hundred excuses.
Walter, Ah, Truth !
HoNORA. All based upon three excellent reasons :
I don't want to : I don't want to : I don't w^-ant to f
(Walter picks up a card from the table and
reads. )
Walter. Car rick. Hm — hm
HoNORA. But surely he can't read his thesis to
me to-morrow night? At dinner?
THE CHAMELEON. 31
Walter, Oh, can't he ? You don't know him. —
Never mind, Nora. At least, he shan't take you
out. You shall have Carrick. And he's Literary.
Why you like him I don't know. But he's plainly
interested in you, as far as a man of letters can be
— now-a-days. Once upon a time literary people
fell in love; or said they did: and wrote about it
W^hat comes over the young man's fancy, I won-
der ? Look at Justin, now. He writing in one win-
dow ; and you in the other all summer ! And by the
year after next it v/ill dawn upon him that he might
have been making love to you, a few days at least —
Spite of that, though, I'm not half ashamed of him.
In a crowd of lions, you'd take him for a man — I
even like the stuff he writes — And I'm nothing if
not severe.
HoNORA. I know. {Crosses r., zvith her MSS.
and locks them in the right-hand cabinet, linger-
in gly)
Walter. Won't it be funny to try for a plain
unbiased opinion of yours when it's out? I sup-
pose it will knock everything flat. — You have such
a way of saying Nothing so fetchingly. I'm told
that indicates Style. And it is seldom seen in Eng-
Hsh.
Honora. Who told you that?
Walter. Your loving Publisher. Met him in
town yesterday. Wish I'd asked him to join the
procession of animals to-morrow night. He told
me — that if the ending is up to the rest of it, it will
be — (steady, now!) The Book of the Season.
Yes, — The Chameleon: Book of the Season! — He
was struck with your graphic insight into the Mod-
ern Man. — I say, Nora, did you dig all that out of
Carrick, or me? Or do I furnish just the super-
ficial element that's going to make it sell? Poor
Wat! By the way, Nora, you'll find my perfect
portrait in the works of William Shakespere — if
Z2 THE CHAMELEON.
you Literary people ever read him. Yes, you will
though; here it is. {Going to hook-case and pull-
ing out a vohinie. He declaims cheerfully, till he
finds the place) " By this, poor Wat, far off, upon
a hill "... Here we are ! " Stands on his hinder
legs, with listening ear ! " What a picture. Poor
Wat! — {The house door opens) Here's Rose.
And she is going to tell you " precisely " what she
means'; i£ you think you can " catch the idea ! "
{Exit c, hastily)
{Re-enter l., Justin, with Rose who is filled with
tragic importance.)
HoNORA. Rose, dear, is it anything new? Wat
tells me there is something wrong with you.
Rose. I tried to tell you before now. But you
were writing aw^ay, both of you, oblivious of all real
life ; — writing, like Bats !
Justin. You may call me a Bat or anything else
you choose, sis. But what's it all about? Surely
you and Rufus
Rose. In a word : we have decided upon a legal
separation.
Justin. Eh ?
HoNORA. No, no !
Rose. Yes. We have agreed. — That is, I have.
HoNORA. Oh, Rose, Rose! How mistaken.
How preposterous.
Rose. You call me mistaken ! — and if it had not
been for you — and Justin too! — digging after the
foundations of Truth in everything, we might have
lived on in perfect comfort:
HoNORA. Rose !
Rose. Utterly unsuited as we are.
HoNORA. Rose !
Rose. Can you suppose that you two are monop-
olists of the search for the Ideal ?
THE CHAMELEON. 33
Justin. Rose !
Rose. That you are a Truth Trust? . . . You
write. But it is we who Live! For you it may be
all most painless and lovely theorizing, with your
One adventure of Truth in all things great and
small. But it rem_ained for us to practise v/hat you
talk about, for us to live it. And so I found
out
Justin. Vv^ell?
Rose. {Weeping) That Rufus
Justin. Yes, yes?
Rose. Was really in love v/ith someone else
Justin. \
\ He is?
Ho NORA. J
Rose. Not now, of course! {Indignantly)
Was v.^hen he miarried me.
Honora. 1
\ He told you that?
Justin. J
Rose. He thought I would like it! It was the
Truth. — The hideous truth. It means that I was
a second thought: that — in that vulgar phrase — I
was caught on the rebound ! / was — / was !
Justin. He up and told you that out of a clear
sky? He's a brute.
Rose. He is not a bi-ute. He was blindly fol-
lowing your lead : — and mnne.
Justin. Yours?
Rose. Of course he knew I was not — wildly in
love with him, when I miarried him. But I was very
young. It took me longer to grow up than it takes
most girls. Of course I was fond of him. But
I was full of idealism — (Justin and Honora look
at each other incredidously) the hero-worship of
a very young girl. If you understand what I
mean. — And Rufus has no idealism in his nature.
34 THE CHAMELEON.
Justin. Mm. — Did you worship some hero
when you married Rufus?
Rose. There was someone I — I knew — very
slightly.
Justin. Ah !
Rose. But he affected my imagination in a way
that you two can hardly understand. If you ever
fall in love, — you will learn how much it has to do
with unreachable ideals. I used to see him ride by
the house ; and once I danced with him, somewhere.
Justin. Ah. And he said ?
Rose. Oh, almost nothing. The merest noth-
ings. But you'll find out, when once you begin to
Live, how little there is in Words.
Justin. By Jove! Then it was rebound with
Rufus, too.
Rose. That is a very different matter with a
young girl, too young to understand herself. —
And I never saw him again: — after that dance.
HoNORA. He — he died?
Rose. No.
HoNORA. What did he do?
Rose. How do I know ? Aren't you two always
saying that it isn't what one does; it's what one
Is? — But when it comes to practise
Justin. Ah ! And you are ready to give up all
that's in your hands for this dream out of ancient
history ?
Rose. Aren't you both always saying that one
must begin with the very beginning?
HoNORA. Ah !
Rose. {Darkly) Yes. And in Real Life, Justin,
we go further. {Impressively) I will go further.
If the Beginning is not apparent, I am ready to Dig
it Up !
Justin. But surely Rufus doesn't care a jack-
straw about the other woman now.
Rose. He shall have opportunity to decide.
THE CHAMELEON. 35
HONORA. How ?
Justin. For the love of heaven !
Rose. You will see her to-morrow night.
Justin. Not Aunt Eunice !
HoNORA. Mrs. Van Wyck!
Rose. Mrs. Van Wyck. We have talked it all
over; — quite as dispassionately as if we were Lit-
erary. And I hope that you may both learn —
painlessly — som.ething from our experience. —
Mrs. Van- Wyck is a widow.
HoNORA. And — your hero?
Rose. It seems — R.ufus heard — he's visiting the
Reverend. We've asked them both. {Moved to
tears)
Justin. W^ho is he? W^ho the devil? Not Car-
rick ! He 7iever says nothing.
Rose. R.ufus told me so much about that
woman's charm.ing laugh ! I rely on you to — keep
her laughing all through dinner-time. And I hear,
she sings !
Justin. What about Him? Be fair. What can
he do that's irresistible? Ride — ride! — Shall we
make hira ride? And if so, w^here?
Rose. How like a man. — But Rufus, at least, did
catch my idea. We are not going to hold each
other to a bond that does not satisfy the highest de-
mands of our natures. — We are going to be truth-
ful, from the heginning: and as generous as we can.
There shall be no reproaches. {With lofty pity)
In Real Life, Justin, — people Do things. — If that
v.'oman with the laugh still charms him, he shall
marry her, {sohhing) if she were a laughing hy —
hy — hyena !
Justin. But who's the man?
Honora. Major Kilmayne ! — Oh, Rose, Rose ! —
And here comes Mr. Carrick through the garden. —
(Rose starts up and dries her eyes.)
36 THE CHAMELEON.
R.CSE. That man again ! — Do be composed, all
of you. I'll come back when I'm fit to behold.
{Starting away, she turns, at the foot of the house-
steps and says zvith a fluttered air) I — I — you may
think me very self-conscious; but it does seem to
me that he comes here almost too often. (Exit l.)
Justin. (Hurriedly) I won't have her black-
guarding you like this, as a destroyer of public
peace. Let her take me for a frozen ink-well ! —
Come, tell her, dearest, — tell her you are going to
be mine. — Give her another idea: — suggestion,
suggestion, — hypnosis ! — She'll come back with an
olive-branch in her beak.
HoNORA. Oh, Justin, not yet ! Don't tell her ! —
Some day I will — if I must. Not yet.
Justin. Soon, then. Ah, can't we be married
soon? (CARracPC appears c, outside) Oh, con-
found him !
HoNORA. Go and soothe her feelings if you can.
But don't tell— yet.
(Exit Justin l., into the house. Carrick knocks
at the door c. Honora goes and opens it
slowly, disappearing behind it, at the same
time, while she holds the knob.)
Carrick. (Inquiringly) Good-afternoon.
(He is a faidtlessly dressed man, between forty
and fifty; a literary man of the world, with a
carefully impassive, pale face, that lights up
once in a zvhile with curious interest. He
stands on the threshold and zvaits for Honora
to re-appear.)
Honora. (Emerging, slowly) Good-afternoon
to you.
THE CHAMELEON. 37
Carrick. {Blandly) Why do you hide? You
look rather like the dweller in a glass-house, wait-
ing to thro^v stones.
HoNORA. (Hastily) Oh!
Carrick. Dare I come in?
HoNORA. (Recovering herself) Come in, come
in ! Work is over ; and well over.
Carrick. The Book is done? — I cangratulate
you. — And Hopefar's Book, of course.
Honora. Oh yes, that's done, too.
Carrick. Do we congratulate Hopefar?
Honora. We do. It is indeed a Book ! But You
don't know it, yet.
Carrick. No. You do.
Honora. Oh, yes. He says ... in fact . . .
I — I shall be proud to have had a hand in that book.
Carrick. (Looking about) I haven't seen ycu
here for some time, v.dthout that good Argus pre-
tending to ply his quill.
Honora. Pretending?
Carrick. My child ! . . . Candidly, v/hen is this
game 01 truth to end? It ought to reach a climiax
now : since the Books are done. Unless Hopefar
persuades you to rewrite the last chapter. (IVatch-
ing her)
Honora. Oh, he did !
Carrick. The devil he did !
Honora. (Glibly) I've been re-writing it these
five days. Nov/, it's done.
Carrick. (Lighting a cigarette) May I?
Thanks. As one of the sponsors of your work,
aliov/ m.e to remark, you are a v/oman of the riiost
extraordinary temperament.
Honora. Ah ! " Temperament ! " — Br-r.
(Shrugging her shoulders)
Carrick. I'm awfully grateful to 3^ou. You set
me guessing-- Hov/ you're going to dispose of
Hopefar.
^S THE CHAMELEON.
HoNORA. (Nervously) Why should I have to
dispose of him? — Dear me! Haven't you heard
Rose's complaints that I'm v/asted on the library
air? — Eh? They who Live; and we that Write!
Carrick. Yes . . . You see, I write, myself. I
knov/ something about the point of view.
HoNORA. (Rallying) Not Justin's !
Carrick. Hm ! — (Looks at the table, down r.
and sits tkere, looking at her) Let's try Justin's
point of viev/. Really, — not half bad. (She makes
an impatient gesture) Don't apologize. The first
time I ever saw you, I had a singular curiosity to
see you — angry. Yes, really, I believe you're al-
most capable of a rage. And it's a very rare gift,
you know, — in these good old Peace-Conference
times. I'm sure you could hate somebody if you
tried. It's a lost art. Loving is a much more
obvious virtue. Though one could never expect
you to love, like an ordinary woman. You have too
much temperament. Er — I beg you — don't lose it.
Honora. How should I lose it? (She stands
facing him)
Carrick. Ah, wxll ! — You see; if it were not
an easy word to abuse, I should almost say you
have a complicating streak of genius. But from
Justin's point of view — and it's a very comfortable
one — you look— er — almost appealingly Feminine.
Just that ; nothing more.
HoNORA. Well? (She has started half -angrily
from her former attitude)
Carrick. What Justin is like, from your point
of view, — he doesn't know.
Honora. (Calmly) Do you?
Carrick. Brava! (Laughing) No matter.
It's in your book that we shall all find Justin. (He
crosses and hands her the cigarettes) Do. (She
hesitates and makes a negative gesture; then takes
one and lights it, trying to be tranquil) He'll be
THE CHAMELEON. 39
there. And I'm rather sorry fr Justin. He's a
good fellow, mind you, — even if his ethical turn of
mind is a bit — er — ridiculous. He might go into
the book, you know, — unexpurgated.
HoNORA. How do you know Justin is in the
book?
Carrick. My dear young lady !
HoNORA. Not an explicit reply.
Carrick. Pardon me, it is. For you are very
young; and you understand so little of men. —
Shall we play your game of Truth?
HoNORA. Yes ; if it's new to you.
Carrick. Ah ! — Tke Chmneleon is turning
dark. — You're almost angry. Don't apologize.
It's something I wanted to see, you know.
(HoNORA Startled, coughs over her cigarette, throws
it away pettishly; pulls a rose out of the flower
bowl on the table, and eats it absent-mindedly, petal
by petal) Well, then. A statement and a piece of
counsel all from your admiring servant. — The
Book is full of Justin. For you were young and
wise enough to know you knew nothing of men;
you were charmingly foolish enough to suppose it
had to be true: You wanted to dig it all out of
some man's — er, heart. And Justin is the man to
let you do it.
HoNORA. Go on. It's very interesting.
Carrick. Indeed, my — er, my dear young thing,
it is uncommon interesting. I've regarded it, going
on under my nose, — to be figurative — and I've
marvelled at the greenness of our sage, Justin.
HoNORA. Sage-green, maybe? Justin is not the
Chameleon: that is certain. His hue is too unvary-
ingly— green.
Carrick. He understands as little about women
as any of us understand about — say, to preserve the
unities, — Truth.
40 THE CHAMELEON.
HoNORA. Well? — I've been digging my novel
out of Justin's mind and experience? Yes? And
now ? Next ?
Carrick. Oh, as to that, there's no earthly rea-
son \vhy you shouldn't dig your book out of Justin
— or me — or any of us. Types are rare: individu-
als even rarer. And Justin is an individual. But —
er — don't — marry Justin.
(HoNORA walks deliberately around her table once
and then faces him, with sudden good humor,
inscrutably. )
HoNORA. Why not?
Carrick. {With a chagrined laugh) Brava ! —
The only woman I ever met who could argue. Why
shouldn't you marry Justin? Why, you should, if
you want to. — And it would be in keeping with
your temperament to be able to want things — Only
— you don't want to.
HoNORA. "The King of France with twenty
thousand men! "
Carrick. And Justin will, of course, ask you to
marry him. {Relighting his cigarette) Because —
HoNORA. Because?
Carrick. Justin is so prone to do the obvious
thing. (Ah, the Chameleon grows resplendent.)
Because he thinks he understands you from the
beginning. He believes in one simple You.
Whereas you are not a woman ; but a mind ; a Will,
an eagerness ; an illusion.^ — And you have a right
to your own life; and experiments.
HoNORA. Experiments ?
Carrick. Mark me. Vm quite serious. With
your temperament and will-power, there are few
things you could not do.
HoNORA. {With gay challenging) Then I might
even fall in love with Justin, if I tried ? — Do you
think I could?
THE CHAMELEON. 41
Carrick. (Piqued) Ah, — already . . . And
you'll fool him to the end of the chapter.
HoNORA. It's more than likely. — But how will
the chapter end ?
(Enter from the house l., Reverend Sylvester
saying " Not at all, not at all! " and escorting
Mrs. Shuttleworth, stout, elderly, deaf and
splendid, — followed by James Roberts
Thomas, Ph. D., with a MS. under his arm, —
Walter, Rufus and Rose.)
Carrick. (Half to himself) Most tim^ely enter
of the leading heavy !
Rose. We'll have our tea here, Nora. (I don't
believe in letting them work too long) Here's Aunt
Eunice, — and the Reverend — and Mr. James!
HoNORA. You mean Roberts, dear.
Thomas. I beg pardon, — Thomas. It is rather
confusing. So happy to have caught you here, Miss
Thorpe, at last. Walter told me you were to be
found here almost every day; in the library.
HoNORA. How very kind of you, Walter. (Goes
to the cup-hoard with her MSS.)
(The man, Thomas, brings in the tea-things and
places them down r. by Honora. Rose, Mrs.
Shuttleworth and the Reverend Sylvester
down l. The others about, partaking in both
conversations.)
Thomas. And I greeted the opportunity, neces-
sarily. I've called so often at your own house, and
never had the good fortune to find you at hime.
Honora. Oh! (He unfolds a MS.)
Thomas. I want — yes, yes — hm, — perhaps after
a little. But, it seems a bit noisy.
Honora. Oh, don't think of it! It's far too
noisy.
42 THE CHAMELEON.
Thomas. What a delightful woman, Mrs. Shut-
tleworth ! — So extraordinarily appreciative for
one of her years. I never met her before, you
know. But I found her an enchanting listener. A
rare gift, that, of listening gracefully. {Turning
over his MS. Honora pours tea)
Reverend. (To Mrs. Shuttleworth) And
how are you, now-a-days, dear lady? The — ah —
difficulty of the — ah
Mrs. Shuttleworth. (Touching her ear) It
come and goes; it comes and goes. I left my fan
in the carriage, I think. Ah, here comes Justin.
(Enter Justin with her fan) Here — Thank you.
(Holds her fan, later, between her teeth, to hear the
better) Tell me again, who's that young man talk-
ing to Honora. — He seems to be veiy full of in-
formation ; of some kind. He talked to me uninter-
ruptedly all the way, as we drove here, but I didn't
catch a word.
(Reverend replies in her ear.)
Thomas, (r. to Honora over the tray) Oh,
thank you very much. Is this for me? But, I —
er — if you please, no lemon thank you ! Only a lit-
tle hot water; and one lump. Oh, no Tea, if you
please. Only a Little Hot Water; and One Lump,
one Lump. — As I was saying, I have rarely met so
keenly appreciative a — (Observes Mrs. Shuttle-
worth and her Fan — the Reverend shouting in her
ear) Oh, dear me, is it possible?
Honora. I fear so. — And all your philosophy
gone to waste ; like attar of rose.
Thomas. Oh, you're really too gracious. — A
heavy trial this, of deafness; — Oh no, no cake,
thank you ; no cake, no cake ! I never take sweets.
Save, indeed, the one Lump with a little hot water.
(Cuckoo-clock chirps five.)
THE CHAMELEON. 43
Reverend. What a vivacious monitor! Surely
it's new?
Rose. There ! I told them it was needed. I put
it in two months ago. I had to insist. Before that,
you see, I had to look in every fev/ minutes to tell
Justin what time it was. (I knew he w^ould never
stop to look at his watch.) One has to take such
care of men of letters. And they are never grate-
ful.
Carrick. Ah, really, you know! (Crossing l.)
Rose. So nice to see you. I found your card
here, on the table this morning. So stupid of them
not to send it to me. I was close by in the summer-
house.
Mrs. Shuttleworth. (Loudly) Who is that
horsey person you are asking to-morrow evening to
meet us?*
RuFUS. (Quickly) Kilmayne? Ah, you've met
him? He's an old friend of Rose's, it seems. I
don't know him.
Rose. I used to know him — very slightly. And
I thought it would be pleasant to ask him. He's
stopping v/ith the Reverend. He used to — to— to
ride like a centaur!
Mrs. Shuttleworth. A centaur! Most un-
pleasant idea. A centaur at the table. — I saw him
this afternoon.
RuFus. And can he talk ?
Mrs. Shuttleworth. If he can, I didn't hear
him.
Reverend. Oh, you may be sure it didn't signify
at all. But he's a good fellow, Kilmayne: good
family. Mother w^as a
Mrs. Shuttleworth. I insist that I don't want
a centaur to take me out to dinner. Most unpleas-
ant simile. As bad as a two-headed Girl.
Reverend. ( l. ) Oh, when it comes to that, you
know, there was Cerberus with three heads, and the
44 THE CHAMELEON.
Hydra with any number of heads at all ! I'm sure
he found them all convenient.
HoNORA, More tea, Reverend?
Reverend. Er — thank you. With cream.
(Genially) And, as to that, you know. I have
sometimes found myself Vv'ishing that I had — er —
two heads.
Carrick. Never! Believe me, — you are almost,
an ideal type, quite as you are.
Reverend. ''Almost! '' Ah, but — (Viva-
ciously) to be confidential, I'd like to be ideal, my-
self; quite, quite Ideal. Why not, indeed? Why
not? (Cuckoo-clock)
Justin, (r. to Honora) You look tired and
distraite. What has anybody been saying to you?
Honora. What indeed, but Quack-quack! Baa-
baa!
Justin. Poor Truth ! I'll get tliem away as
soon as I can. And then you'll tell me
Honora. Quack-quack! Baa-baa!
(Reverend draws near, stirring his tea.)
Justin. You need some tea. (Pours some out
for her)
Honora. I can't say anything else. I'm catch-
ing it.
Justin. I'll break the spell. Here.
Honora. Quack
Thomas. (Approaching) You look as if you
were saying something so interesting.
Honora. (Benignly) Quack! — Baa-baa.
Thomas. You're so irresistibly humorous. A
rare gift now-a-days, that of true humor. I often
resent the lack of it in others. As I say, some-
where in — let me see — (Taking out his MS. again)
hm-hm, — yes, yes
Reverend, (l. to Rose) Extraordinary thing,
this hour of five o'clock. No matter how serious
THE CHAMELEON. 45
one's vocation, talk always degenerates, most de-
lightfully, into a kind of — I might almost say — er —
Quack-quack — Baa-baa!
Rose. How dear of you !
^,1rs. Shuttleworth. I didn't quite catch it.
Reverend. (Embarrassed) Well I — I
Mrs. Shuttleworth. Surely I didn't under-
stand you to say Quack, quack !f
Reverend. I — er
]\iRS. Shuttleworth. What is the point?
RuFUS. {Interposing) Tell us more about
Kilmaync.
Reverend. Oh, but you'll see him to-morrow.
So good of you to ask us. (Rises. Justin speaks
zi'ith him)
Carrick. (r. to Honora) it's awfully banal, you
knov/, to read the ending before you come to it.
But one thing is clear, in the largest type. — You've
made a magnificent fool of Justin.
(Mrs. Shuttleworth rises to go.)
Reverend. Not at all, not at all ! Thomas and
I will see you to your carriage.
Carrick. We will all see you to your carriage, —
And ni carry your fan, like Peter.
(Exeunt all but Justin and Rufus: PIonora last.)
Justin. (To Honora) Come back. Comie
(Exit Honora l.)
Rufus. See here. Did you ever hear of a man
wdio v/as angel-pecked? Well, I am. And I v/ant
a word with you about all this infernal nonsense.
Justin. Nonsense?
46 THE CHAMELEON.
RuFUS. Yes. To-morrow night, the dinner ; and
the old sweethearts.
Justin. What do you mean by it? Rose has
just unburdened her mind. What was the origin
of your untimely candor?
RuFUS. Untimely it was. As for the origin of
it, — it's Honora! {Explosively) For a good-look-
ing girl, with brains beside, she stirs up more
trouble in the world! — That's just the row. Be
brainy, if you like; but hideous. Or be good-look-
ing if you can ; and all is well.
Justin. What has Honora got to do with it ?
RuFUS. Honora has to do with everything that
Rose does ! Only Rose doesn't know it. Honora
makes a pattern, of some fantasticality. And Rose
cuts up everything she owns, in a fever of emula-
tion, and tries to make it fit. There you are.
Justin. But the widow! Mrs. Van Wyck?
RuFUS. The devil fly away v/ith her ! — Haven't
seen her for years. Boy's first love; cind all that.
Laughed at a fellow's jokes. All wonder; {Sketch-
ing on the air) and bushy hair; and arched eye-
brows, and ''Do tell me all about it! Precisely,
what do you meanf " — Had an awfully fetching
laugh. — I say! — {Firmly) Yes, she did! When
I heard she'd married somebody I was all broken
up.
Justin. You never asked her to marry you?
RuFus. Certainly not. Nothing but a boy. I
raked up all this to satisfy Rose's thirst for a per-
fect confidence. And as you might know, it's the
first and last time I ever tell the truth, the whole
truth and nothing but the truth. — Put that in a
footnote of your "" Aspects of Truth." I've had
enough of it ! — As a matter of fact, she really does
want to see that beggar, Kilmayne.
Justin. Have no fear. He's a sport, and noth-
ing more.
THE CHAMELEON. 47
RuFUS. No accounting for women. They love
extremes. Now I'm no extreme. I'm neither a
sport, nor a man of letters. — It needn't have hap-
pened. I say it's too damned superfluous ! — I'm
thankful Honora's old book is done. — It ought to be
illustrated with X-ray plates, and bound in human
skin.
Justin. Oh, come!
RuFUS. She has set the household by the ears ; —
v/asted your time ; stirred up trouble between Rose
and me, put everything ■
Justin. Hold on !
RuFus. —Asunder ; — thrown over one brother —
Justin. She's going to marry — the other.
RuFUS. Who ? What ? How ? Not me !
Justin. She's going to marry me.
RuFus. You! Honora? — My dear boy! I say
— I never dreamed of it! {Confounded) All this
time — {Shaking hands madly)
Justin. Yes, hush. Not a word, yet, to anyone.
Have your cannibal feast to-morrow night. Face
your old sweethearts, and see how they look to you
now. But don't blame this nonsense on Nora.
She is the one soul of — Ah, here she comes !
{Re-enter Honora l. from house.)
Honora. Justin — I must speak to you. I have
something to — {Seeing Rufus) Oh! to-morrow,
then. To-morrow! Another time. {Going to-
wards garden door)
Rufus. I say, wait a second, — Honora! {To
Justin) Not a word to anyone else. — I've only
heard this minute, Nora. And truly, I'm more glad
than I can say! — 'Though Rose would never have
fallen out with me, you see, if she hadn't been bit-
ten with your mania for truth, you know, — the daz-
zling truth in all manner of damned little details. —
48 THE CHAMELEON.
But I take it all back. (Joyously) And I beg your
pardon. You know I'm awfully fond of you, Nora.
Always was. — When she knows you're going to
marry Justin
HoNORA. Ah !
Justin. Had to tell him. Dear.
RuFus. Really had to ! — You settle down ; and
she'll settle down; and we'll all live happily ever
after, and never tell the truth again ! — I'm mighty
glad. — On my honor, I am. You were bound to
marry one of us. I'm proud to have you for a sis-
ter. Better late than never! There. — (Enfolds
HoNORA in a brotherly hug to the bitter wrath of
Justin, and kisses her left ear which is all that's
visible of her face. Honora takes flight, hatless)
HoNORA. Oh, Rufus ! I — good-bye !
Justin. Don't go — You've left your hat.
Honora! — (Exit Rufus joyously to the house l.)
Confound him !
Honora. (Waving him away, hysterically) No,
no — I can't stop. Don't come. — I'm going.
Justin. You wanted to tell me something.
Honora. Yes, I did. But I don't. — I must. But
I can't. — To-morrow! — I must think: — I must go,
I must run away. — To-morrow ! To-morrow.
(Hastens out c.)
(Justin holding her hat, bewildered. Rufus re-
enters L. to shake his hand once more in a burst
of jubilation.)
CURTAIN.
THE CHAMELEON. 49
ACT HI.
Scene I: — The following evening — The library is
lighted and the curtains are drawn. Door to
the House l. wide. A wood- fire burning on
the hearth. The high-backed sofa is drawn to
face the fireplace. A lighted lamp on the table
L. Flowers about. Honora's hat on the head
of Hermes as in Act H.
{Enter l. Honora in feverish haste. She is in
evening dress; throws her fan and gloves upon
the table, and pushes her hair back from her
temples, with distracted relief. She sees her
Hat, catches it from Hermes and goes to the
right-hand cabinet and stuffs the Hat in, on
top of her MSS. — Then she looks at the house-
door watchfully ; and at the MSS.)
Honora. "' You had to dig it out of some man's
heart. And Justin was the man to let you do it".
{Between her teeth) Yes, — he was. {Shuts cab-
inet quickly)
{Enter l. Rose, Mrs. Shuttleworth and Mrs.
Van Wyck followed by Thomas the man with
the coffee tray, which he passes and leaves
upon a low table near Rose. Mrs. Van Wyck
slender, silly and of uncertain age, an exagger-
ation of RuFus' portrait in Act H — utters no
laughter at present. She gazes about with va-
cant smiles and an attempt to be interested.
Rose triumphant but nervous. Mrs. Shuttle-
worth politely hostile.)
Rose. This is my brother-in-law's work-shop,
dear Mrs. Van Wyck. {Hastily to Honora, aside)
Isn't it fearful? — You look worn out.
50 THE CHAMELEON.
HoNORA. I am.
Mrs. Van Wyck. {With vacant rapture) And
this is where he writes ! — How quaint — ah yes !
And it will be so interesting, so Intimate, to remem-
ber this room, when one reads Mr. Hopefar's new
book, — the — ah — Aspects of Youth, — is it not?
{Cuddling up to Mrs. Shuttleworth upon the
smaller settle, down r. Mrs. Sunttleworth turns
towards her with an effort)
Mrs. Shuttleworth. Eh?
Mrs. Van Wyck. {Loudly) Aspects of Youth!
Mrs. Shuttleworth. What is the point?
HoNORA. Aspects of Truth; the merest matter
of a rhyme! {Clock peals nine)
Mrs. Van Wyck. Ah, what a sweet clock ! I'm
so devoted, you know, to all old things.
Mrs. Shuttleworth. {Putting up her fan) I
difdn't quite catch ?
Mrs. Van Wyck. {In a high voice) I was
merely saying, Fm so devoted to All Old Things!
Mrs. Shuttleworth. {Glaring at Honora and
ignoring Mrs. Van Wyck) Indeed? — Pray, my
dear Honora, — is it really true that this book of
yours has something to do with Truth-telling?
Mrs. Van Wyck. How quaint!
Honora. Yes, something. But then, it's a work
of fiction, you know.
Mrs. Shuttleworth. Oh, this generation has
such talent for making a cat's cradle of a simple
matter !
Mrs. Van Wyck. But how quaint !
Mrs. Shuttlew^orth. Eh? Quaint and use-
less; like a spinning-wheel in a modern drawing-
room.
Mrs. Van Wyck. Ah, do you think so? Now
I'm so devoted to old things.
Mrs. Shuttleworth. What's that?
THE CHAMELEON. 51
^Irs. Van Wyck. I simply cannot be torn from
{Shrieking) such sweet Old Things! {Smiles
about the room)
Mrs. Shuttleworth. {To Honora) Appar-
ently, it requires personal violence. (Rose draws
Mrs. Van Wyck away) Will you exert your
modern intelligence, and tell me why my niece in-
vited this person to meet mef' Am I the object of
her antiquarian interest? (Mrs. Van Wyck's
laugh revives hrilliantly, in arpeggios) That
means, the Men are coming!
{Enter l. Rufus, Reverend Sylvester, Justin,
Carrick, Thomas Ph. D., and Major Kil-
MAYNE with Walter.)
Reverend. {Entering) Not at all — not at all!
On the contrary, I'm sure vre have missed some-
thing better worth hearing. — Although, dear lady, —
{Advancing towards Mrs. Van Wyck) this after-
dinner table novv-a-days is apt to degenerate into
the merest — er — Quack — quack — Baa — haa! Pour
ainsi dire!
Mrs. Van Wyck. {Laughing) So quaint of
you!
Thomas, (l. to Honora) How singuarly ab-
sent-minded ! Do you know, I'm quite positive I
heard you say that yesterday to Mr. Sylvester. But
he seems not to recall it.
Carrick. {To Honora) Really, you know,
you'll have to read copy-right law.
Thomas. You have such a gift of humor. (A
rare gift, that, — of humor) And you are always —
er — scattering about little mots like — er — a — pearls,
• — as the saying goes, before — er — a
Honora. {Debonairly) But what is one to do,
if one utters nothing but pearls
Kilmayne. {Nearby) — 'Aw!
52 THE CHAMELEON.
HoNORA. And meets chiefly — er
Thomas. {With loud eagerness) "Swine!''
Yes, yes. — Er — {Takes sudden thought; looks at
her again, and takes his coffee-cup away with
dignity, to a corner, zvhere he thinks it over, frown-
ingly)
KiLMAYNE. {Laughing) — 'aw ! — 'Aw ! — 'Aw.
Mrs. Shuttleworth. {To Rufus r.) I ob-
serve that your Centaur has opened his mouth at
last. What did he say?
Rufus. {Looking at Rose) — 'Aw! {Who
draws near)
Mrs. Shuttleworth. What else?
Rufus. — 'Aw — 'Aw! — You are very exacting.
All men can't talk v/ell. He's a man of action. He
can ride.
Mrs. Shuttleworth. " Like a Centaur! " Yes,
I know.
Walter, (r.) And so, every time he opens his
mouth,
Mrs. Shuttleworth. Do not repeat that worn
expression. I am not devoted to old things.
Walter. This isn't old. It's greatly improved.
I was going to tell you that every time he opens his
mouth, being a centaur, he puts four feet in it !
Mrs. Shuttleworth. Ugh !
Rose. Wat, you are not very gracious about our
guests.
Walter. Ah, now ! — Let me be helpful. Which ?
— Mrs. Van
Rose. No. Let Rufus entertain Mrs. Van Wyck.
Talk to Major Kilmayne. He's more your style.
Walter. Mine ! — well, a man's a man for a' that.
{Crosses l. and joins the group around Honora.
Reverend is saying)
Reverend. And does this novel of yours,
Honora, exalt your extraordinary views of matri-
mony ?
THE CHAMELEON. 53
HoNORA. Perhaps. But most of all, it exalts
Carrick. What indeed?
HoNORA. Single Blessedness.
KiLMAYNE. 'Aw ! (Incredulously)
Reverend. Oh, the New Woman, the New
Woman ! The dear, dear Selfish thing !
Honora. Surely, surely, — Single Blessedness is
better far than .... Double Cussedness?
KiLMAYNE. (Delighted)— 'Aw !— 'Aw !— 'Aw !
Walter. (To him) You will lose all your
idealism, Kilmayne, all of it, if you listen to these
cynical opinions. {Drawing him aside towards
Rose)
KiLMAYNE. 'Aw — 'Aw ! " Double Cussedness ! "
Walter. Come.
KiLMAYNE. Deuced clever girl. — 'Aw !
Walter. She is that.
KiLMAYNE. Never'd know she v/rote books.
Walter. Why not?
KiLMAYNE. So deuced clever. *Aw! — Never
read, myself. No time.
Walter. Perfect waste of time.
KiLMAYNE. Why don't she marry?
Walter. (After a pause) Too deuced clever.
KiLMAYNE. " Double " — 'aw — 'aw !
Walter. (Thought fully to him.self) "Stands
on his hinder legs with listening ear."
Rose. (Szveetly) Do take Major Kilmayne to
talk to Mrs. Van Wyck, dear. Pve bored her hor-
ribly. She won't laugh for me. (They join Mrs.
Van Wyck whose laugh rings higher)
RuFus. (To Justin) See here. — Did I ever
strike you as an imaginative Man?
Justin. No.
RuFus. Well, I was.
Justin. That wasn't Imagination. It was
Youth. (He draws Rose nearer) — Aren't you both
glad that you rebounded? — Ah, laugh. Sis, laugh!
54 THE CHAMELEON.
Rose. You mean, that for me, Truth is always
to be incongruous and comic?
Justin. You're not calHng Kilmayne comic?
Haven't you any reverence for a young girl's ideal-
ism ?
RuFus. Oh, but she'll laugh 3^et, when I tell
her
Justin. Hush.
(Rose crosses, pettishly to Mrs. Van Wyck and
speaks; Reverend joins Mrs. Shuttleworth
R. and speaks.)
Mrs. Shuttleworth. Oh, it comes and goes.
It is very trying, certainly.
Rose. Mrs. Van Wyck is going to sing for us.
Mrs. Shuttleworth. But there are compensa-
tions.
Reverend. No doubt, — no doubt ! How very
sweetly you take it.
Rose. I've heard so much of Mrs. Van Wyck's
voice. — And now — so good of you ! — we are to hear
it! Shall we go to the music room? — (Leading the
way, to RuFUs) Mrs. Van Wyck is going to sing.
(Exeunt l. Rose, Mrs. Van Wyck Kilmayne,
Mrs. Shuttleworth and Reverend.)
Justin. (Slapping Rufus on the shoulder)
Come. Face the music! (Outside, a chord on the
piano, a prelude. To Carrick) Come you Epi-
curean ; come and share the hardships of the world.
(Exeunt Justin, Rufus, Carrick. Honora delays.
Anon, a dramatic soprano uplifted in romantic
song. A door within, closed suddenly, cuts
it off.)
Walter. What's up? You're so funny this
evening, Nora. You look used up ; and you're talk-
ing like a riddle-book.
THE CHAMELEON. 55
HoNORA. Yes — So I am. — But don't wait for
me. I want to stay here later. I have something
more to do — to the book; — truly. And TU let — I'll
let Mr. Thomas take me home.
Walter. Thomas ! — Turn his head completely.
Be advised. No? Think twice, then. / won't tell
him. I positively won't. (Exit L.)
(HoNORA darts towards the right-hand cupboard.
Re-enter Carrick l. She turns away.)
Carrick. I see no reason why we should exert
ourselves further. Let's join the choir invisible,
{Coming down) May I tell you? — You're very
lovely, this evening.
Honora. Oh, do. — It's so like what they say in
Books. Rose insists that men don't talk that way in
Real Life.
Carrick. Ah! Either men don't talk that way
to Rose
Honora. Or this isn't Real Life ! {Laughs and
sits down)
Carrick. Justin — takes it for Real Life, you
know.
Honora. Justin ?
Carrick. Yes. For him, the Chameleon is all
rainbow color to-day. He's radiant; like a Romeo.
It's a marvel to me how you've managed to — er —
do it. And you so — distraite!
Honora. I thought I was lovely to behold this
evening! Now you admit like Rose, that I look
tired out.
Carrick. All the more beautiful. You are as
disquieting and double as Mona Lisa. — And Justin,
our sage, doesn't know it.
Honora. Doesn't he?
Carrick. Not he! Only yesterday, he rather
resented my reading of you. For him, you are the
56 THE CHAMELEON.
soul of single purpose; and your one desire is to
follow the Truth, and see where it takes you. Good
old Justin ! — It's charming. Far be it from me to
poke fun at Justin. He's an original. Besides, —
I'm on his hands to-night. I can't laugh at him till
to-morrow. May I run over and see you, by the
bye, — early ?
HoNORA. Oh, as early as you will.
Carrick. Thanks. Maybe, you know, I shan't
laugh then. For I don't know the end of the story.
HoNORA. The Chameleon f
Carrick. Yes; the end of the Chameleon.
HoNORA. No. No, I believe you don't. That's
one thing you've helped me to, — a new ending.
Carrick. Might one know if it is good or bad?
FIONORA. Both.
Carrick. Ah, you do keep us guessing. Well,
I'll wait; until to-morrow. And don't forget my
counsel.
HoNORA. You think I'm very double, don't you?
Carrick. O blessed Singleness! did I say that?
I mean merely, you are a woman with a mind.
HoNORA. Let me tell you then: I believe you
have made me see Justin . . . for the first time.
Carrick. That's candid.
HoNORA. (Doggedly) On the contrary, it's as
double as anything can be! But you have shown
me much about Justin, and about myself. And I —
I thank you.
Carrick. When the New Woman tries to hit it
off with the old Adam you know, — something goes
to pieces.
Honora. Yes, something.
(Re-enter Justin l.)
Justin. You're wanted, Honora.
Carrick. And I? (Rising)
THE CHAMELEON. 57
Justin. They clamor for you in the music-room.
HoNORA. Yes, yes, of course. I ought to go
back. (Rising)
(Exit Carrick l. Honora crosses l. Justin bars
the way, coming down.)
Justin. I want you. — Never mind the others.
Oh, I thought this thing would never be over. Not
a v/ord with you since yesterday, — a thousand days
ago ;— since you ran away through the garden, with
your words unspoken, and good heavens ! . . .
Rufus, Rufus — to think of Riifus — kissing you !
HoNOi^. Oh, no, no, no! He didn't. It was
just the very edge of my ear, somewhere. It didr't
happen.
Justin. It was torment. Hov/ can you under-
stand? And the poor fool didn't know — what a
poor fool stood looking on ! That, at least I won't
stand again.
Honora. But Justin — Wait, — listen! I have
so wanted to speak to you— all to-day; and yester-
day . . . about — about — the Book.
Justin. Ah, don't waste this moment, now! —
(He takes her in his arms. She stands with her
face hidden on his breast, while he goes on, ex-
ultantly) I have w^aited so long. I have thought
of you — and looked at you — and loved you — as all
bright dreams — as youth; and Truth and Honor, —
and Life. But to hold you here, — something like a
woman, I suppose, . . , more like a stray child,
... to live and die for ! — My love.
(He lifts her face from his coat, looks down an in-
stant on her shut eyelids; and kisses her.
HoNORA blindly releases herself, and reaches
towards the back of a chair, with a little
moan.)
58 THE CHAMELEON.
HoNORA. Ah — Justin! — {In a straggling voice)
I have tried to tell you. I have tried . . . Now I
must,— I must.
Justin. Honora ?
HoNORA. Oh, how can I tell you?
Justin. You can tell me anything, my dearest ; —
as you always have.
Honora. Yes, yes, I have told you the truth,
haven't I ? in all manner of small things. Always !
Justin. Always.
Honora. But they were so small. — The great
thing, Justin, — all summer long — has not been true.
—And I half knev/ it! I half knew it! Only I
couldn't tell you. I let you go on believing.
Justin. Believing . . . that you loved me?
Honora. Yes, I let you think that. I was pos-
sessed to know — to know — . To know what people
and things are ; and v/hat a man's heart is ; and
what he thinks ... a woman may be !
Justin. Ah !
Honora. {Passionately) You are the only
creature I ever saw, who trusted me as I longed to
be trusted. And that belief alone was so beautiful
to me, — so beautiful, I came to forget what it was
that you believed in. And I — made use of you!
I let you love me. I adorned myself with your love,
because it made me feel all-beautiful: — as we long
to be. — I myself. — I did so love to be loved !
Justin. Oh, child
Honora. And I did not know — what Love —
was. — I pretended. Yes, yes, I pretended all the
time. — I don't myself know how much ! — It was all
such a new world. I seemed to walk, and see, and
be myself, for the first time. I looked at the world
through your mind. I made the Book of you; —
that wretched Book ! I wrote it, like a thief, — out
of your mind and heart. . . . These last few
days,
THE CHAMELEON. 59
Justin. I see.
HoNORA. I have been so wretched. I tried to
find words . . .
Justin. I see.
HoNORA. I might even have let it all go on. But
something opened my eyes.
Justin. Opened your eyes ?
HoNORA. To the fraud I had been. / — Truth,—
and bright dreams, and honor ! Dreams, if you like,
that have no home — and deserve no home! — But
Truth,—//
Justin. Something opened your eyes. And you
learned
HoNORA. That I had never known — before . . .
what Love is. — I have taken that name in vain.
Justin. Then it was all — mirage.
HoNORA. (Repressing herself) It was all . . .
oh, I shall atone. Believe that: — I shall atone.
Justin. There is no question of atonement.
HoNORA. There is : and it is mine. Oh, go away,
Justin; go away. (Wildly) I have said enough.
I do not want to say more.
Justin. My child, I will not trouble you.
(HoNORA bursts into tears. He makes a step to-
ward her hut she motions him away.)
HoNORA. No, no. — Justin, I implore you, — go
away. I do not want to say more. / must not! —
Heaven knows I want to — I want to. But I will
not!
(Justin turns hack from the garden-door.)
Justin. There must be something here I do not
understand. If it is your will to leave me blind, I
will go. But one word. — Is this the truth, now?
Or am I dreaming?
6o THE CHAMELEON.
HoNORA. It is true. Go away — go away!
Justin. Is it all ? Are you telling me the whole
truth, now?
HoNORA. No ! — Not even now ! Not the wJiole
truth: — no — no — no! {He turns and goes out by
the garden door. Honora hears the door close;
springs up, drying Jier eyes feverishly, and tries to
calm licrself. Then she crosses r. to the cup-hoard,
that holds her MSS. and pauses, with her hand on
the lock)
{Re-enter l. from the house, Thomas Ph. D., with
his hat and coat in his hands.)
Thomas. You look as if you were thinking of
something so interesting, I hope you'll forgive me
for interrupting. Won't you?
Honora. {Faintly) Oh — oh, of course. I —
How do you do? I thought everyone had gone —
home.
Thomas. {Delightedly) Yes, everyone else has !
I'm always perfectly sure, you knovv% to stay and
lock up the house! You see, I heard you say that
you thought of staying here in the library, late ;
and I thought it would be perhaps my last oppor-
tunity. {Taking his thesis out of his overcoat
pocket) ... If it won't bore you!
Honora. Oh, how could it! {Despairing)
Thomas. You're so very gracious. — Really, I
shall be indebted to you. — So I said good-night to
our hostess; and indeed I believe she thinks I have
gone home ! But I couldn't resist making one more
effort — to get your opinion on my thesis. I have it
here — in my overcoat pocket; that is, a portion of
it. {Archly) You won't run away from me, now,
— will you?
Honora. {Meekly) Oh, no, indeed. — I — I'm
too — too tired to run.
THE CHAMELEON. 6i
Thomas. You know, your humor always seems
to me the m.ost dcHghtful thing. Somehow, you
have the gift of drawing me out, as no one else
does. I'm a bit diffident, — socially, as a rule. But
with you, never !
HoNORA. (Keeping well to the rig Jit and trying
to conceal her tears) Oh, really? — Hov/ warm it
is. Shall we — turn down the lights? My eyes are
— a bit — tired. (She turns out tJie lamp r. and
points to the chair and table l. c. for Thomas)
Don't you v/ant to sit there, by the lamp? — And er
— read me a — a page or two? And I will stay here,
where the light doesn't hurt — my eyes. (Stifling a
sob. She sits upon the sofa before the fire so that
the high back conceals her. She curls up there
against the cushions, facing front)
Thomas. But I can't see you !
HoNORA. But I can hear, perfectly. — And I — it
feels— a little — cold.
Thomas. Indeed, indeed! (He sits l. c. beside
the lamp, bustling over his papers; and at length
begins on the title, with elaborate emphasis. Just
before, someone outside begins to play softly, on
the piano. The music comes dimly)
(HoNORA, exhausted, tucks up her feet on the
sofa also, and sinks back, the picture of desolation.
Her eyes shut) The — ah — subject, of course, I
have told you. — " The Influence of Imperfect Co-
ordination of the Cerebral Hemispheres on some
Phenomeiia resembling Conscious Unveracity, oc-
curring in the Lov/er Vertebrates : Based upon a
Sympathetic Study of the Psychic Processes of the
Guinea-Pig." (Music goes on softly) Hm — yes,
yes. I think that may be called thoroughly inclu-
sive. " Influence — Co-ordination — Cerebral Hemi-
spheres, of course — Phenomena resembling Con-
scious Unveracity — Lower Vertebrates. Based
upon a Sm.pcthetic study of the Psychic Processes
62 THE CHAMELEON.
of the Guinea-Pig." (Music stops) Ah, now we
can be undisturbed! — I must say that I have no
fondness for reading science to a musical accom-
paniment. It may be all very well for Enoch Arden.
But it must needs be most disconcerting to you and
me. I fear this paragraph has been lost upon you. —
Shall I — er — re-read it? — {Silence from Honora)
No trouble at all, I assure you. I should enjoy it.
But first, do tell me if the title seems to you quite
comprehensive. {Silence) Off-hand, you know.
Of course it takes time and thought. Oh, don't give
it too much thought you know. Awfully good of
you! — May I take that as a compliment? Thank
you so much. — Oh, don't weigh it too heavily, you
know! I should like very much, as a specialist, to
know precisely how that title will strike the lay
mind. You are doubtful ? — Tell me, I beg. Shall I
re-read it? — Perhaps you'd like to cast your eye
upon it 3^ourself. Quite so; quite so! — {Rises and
cross R. with his MSS. Her silence strikes him.
He adjusts his glasses, uneasily and walks around
the settle, looks at her with hitter incredulity. She
is asleep. Pause.)
{Overcome with vexation, Thomas Ph. D. tiptoes
away, glares at the house-door l. and the gar-
den-door c. — listens, looks, bundles up his
thesis, jealously. Then with one parting look,
he puts on his overcoat, takes his hat, and with
an air of offended dignity, goes out c, by the
garden door.)
{Enter l. from the house, Thomas the butler with
a lighted candle, to lock up. He bars the win-
dows and door c, draws the curtains, looks
about, without seeing Honora; puts out the
lamps; and taking with him a forgotten coffee-
cup from the table, goes out l., to the house,
locking the door behind him, audibly.)
THE CHAMELEON. 63
{The stage is dark; save for a gleam of fire-light,
HoNORA sleeps. The voice of the cuckoo peals
twelve o'clock.)
CURTAIN.
{The curtain remains dozvn for one moment only.)
Scene H : — The same. Stage dark, save for a
gleam of fire-light. Honora asleep. The
cuckoo-clock sounds twice. Honora stirs,
turns, wakes, and sits up, dazed. She looks at
the f^re and round the room, uttering faint ex-
clamations of dismay as she realizes the situa-
tion.
Honora. Oh — ? {She springs up and feels her
way to the door c. shut and bolted; then to the
house-door l. locked on the other side) Oh!
{Wildly under-breath crossing to the table near the
fireplace R.) Where v/as that candle? Where was
that candle?
{Finding the candle, she takes it, and lights it
with frantic haste, from the wood-fire. Then she
steals over to the house-steps and inspects the clock
with another horror-stricken) Oh! —
{She comes down, evidently trying to piece
things together and account for the situation; looks
at the table where Thomas had sat, and shakes her
fiist at them darkly) That was how ! — that was
how ! — But why didn't they find me ? — Oh, I see, I
see. And I never asked him. And they thought I'd
gone home. And nobody found me. — And I'm glad.
I'm not worth looking for! {Sobbing) And here
I am, here I am again, — like a b-bad Penny.
{Desolately) — Oh! — {Cuckoo-clock sounds once,
for 2:30 a. m.) Oh, you silly bird, — I'm sorry! I
didn't mean it. I'm glad you're not deaf and dumb
after all. Oh good-bye, you idiotic creature !
{Stands up resolutely, with a sudden thought)
64 THE CHAMELEON.
Good. I have been trying to do it, all these
days. Now I'm locked in, with my penance ! I
will do it now. I will do it now. {She puts her
anus around the bust of Hermes and weeps upon
his shoulder) Oh — Oh — good-bye, you stupid
lovely thing. Til never tease you with my hateful
hat any more.
(Crossing r. she pauses before the left-hand cup-
board that holds Justin's A-ISS. and kisses her
hands zvhich she presses against the door) Ah —
Justin's Beautiful Book ! — I don't dare kiss you —
But do forgive me. You shall see —
(She backs away; draws a long breath, then goes
quickly to her own cup-board; takes out first her
Hat, which she shakes off, on the floor — then the
MSS. of her Book. She gathers it into her hands,
with alternate scorn and longing) Ah — you miser-
able Sinner, — you poor, poor — darling — oh — (Kiss-
ing it madly) How can I? How can I? — Yes, I
can. I can. (Fiercely) And I will — I will — I
will. It's the only way. It's all I have. —
(She holds it close against her breast for a mo-
ment, with her face set. Then mutters) Good-
bye— good-bye — good-bye — !
(She throws it into the fireplace; then kneels
dozvn, and with her arm before her eyes, heaps
paper and ashes together; and revives the flame
with the bellows. It flares up. Sound of a hand on
the house-door knob. Then the key grates in the
lock. HoNORA starts up like a deer; blows out her
candle instantly; and crouches between the high
settle and the fireplace, peering with great eyes)
(The house-door l. opens. Enter Justin. He is
still in evening dress and carries a lighted candle.
He shuts the door behind him and comes down,
slowly, his face pale and set. Mechanically, he
places his candle on the table l. c. and crosses R.
and sits, facing Honora's old place down l.)
THE CHAMELEON. 65
(HoNORA R. meanwhile creeps on her hands and
knees behind the settle, up towards the hack of the
stage, and watches frm her hiding-place with more
and more wonder and misery. Justin disturbed
by evident reminiscence, turns away slightly, and
looks into space, evidently taking some resolve.
Then with a sharp sigh, he rises suddenly, and turns
to his left-hand cabinet. H^onora creeps c. cs he
turns R.)
(He opens the cupboard and takes out his MS.;
holds it a moment, thinking — then he goes towards
the fireplace. He sits upon the settle facing it.)
(IIoNORA watches with, horrified amazement.)
(He takes a handful of pages and puts them in
the fire)
(Honora springs out of hiding and falls on her
knees by the edge of the settle, catching his arm.
Honora, piteously) No, no ! — no, no — no, no !
(Justin, violently startled, turns and sees her, then
he rises.)
Justin. You — Honora! — Here? What does
this mean ?
Honora. I don't know.
Justin. Why are you not at home?
Honora. I don't know. I meant to go home;
but nobody took me. I mean — I went to sleep,
somehow. And nobody found me. (He stands
looking at her in deep perplexity. She replies,
equally dazed, like a tired child) When I woke up,
I was here, locked in.
Justin. You poor child.
Honora. (Weeping) Oh, don't— don't say that,
after all I have been. I cannot bear it !
Justin. I must take you home.
Honora. Oh, don't — don't take me home ! No
one has missed me, yet. I'll go, whenever it's light.
66 THE CHAMELEON.
But your Book, — your Book. What were you goings
to do to your Book?
Justin. (Laying aside the MS. on the settle)
Oh, never mind the book. Of course I did not
dream that you were here.
Ho NORA. Tell me the truth. You were going to
burn it?
Justin. (After a pause) Yes. I'm going to
burn it.
HoNORA. (Stifling a scream) Justin, no, no ! —
Oh, Justin, it is not like you, to be so cruel.
Justin. Cruel?
HoNORA. You mean, it is ruined; because there
was so much of me there, as you said.
Justin. Oh, my child, do you think I burn it, to
be cruel?
HoNORA. No, — no. But why do you want to
burn it? Why, — why? Tell me. I can stand it.
I must know.
Justin. Why, — I meant to burn it, because it
seemed to me . . . worthless.
HoNORA. Not true? Not true?
Justin. Not true.
HoNORA. Because of me !
Justin. Don't. Let us say: It is not the book
I meant to write. It is not the book I thought I had
written. Surely you understand that. Let us call
the whole thing a dream, merely. But let me burn
up, now — everything that was not — Real. (Takes
the MS. up. With a cry, Honora flings herself
upon it, and takes it from him) Honora!
HoNORA. Come away. Come away from the fire.
I'll tell you all. But you must promise me not to
burn it. You will kill me, if you burn it. You will
put me out of the world ! I'll tell you all.
Justin. All ?
HoNORA. You know I told you, last night, it was
not the whole truth; not the whole. But you shedl
THE CHAMELEON. 67
have the whole truth now. Because it's my pen-
ance, and I must. Now that you care no longer, — ■
now that I've ruined the book; — now that I'm
none of those things you loved me for, — now that
I'm dethroned
Justin. Honora !
HoNORA. (Tonelessly) It's now, — I love you.
I love you. I never knew what it meant — before.
(Justin takes a step towards her, never moving his
eyes from her face. She shrinks from him a little;
then goes on) I tried so not to tell you, last night.
For I knew you would try then, to make it all seem
v/ell, — for my sake. And I had not been Real —
until then. It's not easy. {She catches his intense,
sad look and cries) Oh — you don't believe Jiie!
Justin. I try to understand. But — child
HoNORA. I tell you, now, — only to save the Book.
Justin. Yes. — That's only too clear.
HoNORA. Clear? — You — don't believe me? Oh,
I see, (brokenly) I see. How childish of me. But
I'll make you understand. Didn't I know you well
enough, to know that you could never love me,
when you learned of my pretending all this summer
long? Oh, yes, I knew that well. But these last
few days, my eyes were opened to what I had been
doing. I saw myself. And I saw you. And then,
last night, ... I loved you. And I saw that I had
never understood, before.
Justin. Honora
HoNORA. So don't punish this! (Holding out
the Book) I tell you only for penance. And — I've
burned — mine.
Justin. What do you mean? You've burned
what?
Honora. My Book. He said I had u'ritten it
out of your heart. And that was true. — I didn't
know Vv'hat love was, though I'd said so much about
it. Now I knov/. It's — This. (She adds vacantly)
6S THE CHAMELEON.
So I — burned the Book. (Justin turns to the fire-
place and catches up, with incredulous pain, a hand-
ful Of scraps. As he turns back to her, speechless,
HoNORA, half smiling) You see, there's nothing
left but the Truth; and this. {Touching his Book
wist f idly. He catches it from her)
Justin. Nothing — nothing — nothing but the
truth! {He tosses the hook into the fireplace,
catches Honora in his arms and holds her there,
fast)
Honora. {Struggling) The Book — Justin!
Justin. I have the truth. I have you. I v/ant
nothing more — nothing — nothing !
Honora. It v/as so Beautiful !
Justin. Not beautiful enough.
Honora. Oh, it, v/as true !
Justin. Not true enough.
Honora. Oh, what will you have ?
Justin. Say it — say it.
Honora. I love you — I love you. You are
everything I have in the world.
Justin. Ah! {They fold each other in. After
a pause, Justin says radiantly) Was anything ever
true before?
Honora. No. I feel new-born. Ah, but your
Book!
Justin. Who wants it? I'll begin a better one
to-morrow. We'll both begin — To-day! {Looking
at the clock) Do you know, it's morning! The
First Morning!
Honora. And you are the first Man I ever sav/.
Justin. Ah, I knew you long ago, for the First
Woman. And you've come true !
{Cuckoo-clock peals four.)
Honora. Oh, that disgracefully early bird !
Justin. Oh, darhng — Worm! {Embracing
THE CHAMELEON. 69
her) What shall I do for you? You Child — tired,
hungry, cold, lost.
HoNORA. Must I go home?
Justin. Home? I am home; and I am he.
{Unhooks a portiere from the French window up
R.) Here is a cloak for you. {Wraps it around
her. Blows out his candle. Pushes hack the cur-
tains. It is dawn outside) Now then; — Food!
Shall I rouse them?
HoNORA. No, no ! '
Justin. Look out. {They go to the window to-
gether) Behold— the garden of Eden! — And yon
herd of beautiful beasts, — golden and cinnebar —
stars on their foreheads : — horns of pearl ! What
do you call that creature, Eve? It isn't a river-
horse, surely.
HoNORA. Let it be named Cow, my dearest.
Justin. And shall I — I have it! {Suddenly)
Something to eat! — Grapes, grapes, grov/ing all
over the summer-house !
{Exit R. c. through the French window — Stage
grows lighter. Honora calls softly.)
HoNORA. Don't be gone — long. I'm afraid, all
alone . . in such a new world; and the very first
morning !
{She turns hack to the room with a rapturous sigh:
goes up to FIcrjnes and hugs him)
{Re-enter Justin with grapes and leaves.)
Justin. Come from the thing of clay! {She
turns to him and sees her Hat on the floor)
HoNORA. I'll burn that, too. The deceitful thing,
all frills and pretences !
70 THE CHAMELEON.
Justin. No, no! — Books if you will. But not
the Hat!
HoNORA. Yes, I will burn my Hat, too ! {Stuffs
it in the fire.) I will!
Justin. Eat, — eat ! I have brought you the best
of Eden. {Voices in the house l.) — By Jove,
they're up.
Ho NORA. Oh, oh, the time, the explanations !
(Justin rushes to the mckoo-clock.)
Justin. Shall it be early or late? Speak. It's
any time you like. — It's the golden age. {He twists
the hands backward, forward, round, recklessly to
six. The cuckoo shrills and keeps on shrilling;
voices approach)
Honora. Oh, Justin — the bird, the bird ! You've
upset him altogether !
(Justin hastens down the steps, and stands before
Honora, down r. c, who is still enveloped in
her curtain and shaking with laughter. The
Cuckoo chirrups without intermission during
the rapid dialogue and chorus that follows:
The house-door l. opens, admitting Rufus, in
the evening dress of Act III. Rose, likewise,
with a long wrap; Walter, dishabille and ul-
ster; Carrick in a great coat; last of all,
Thomas Ph. D., in miscellaneous lendings.
They stand huddled on the steps l. and all
speak together.)
Rose.
Carrick.
Rufus.
Walter.
It was certainly here.
Never knew it was an alarm-clock
as well
Saw him getting in the window !
By Jove. Nobody here !
THE CHAMELEON. 71
(A pause. Then.)
Rose. 1 Honora !
RuFUS. I Justin !
Walter. 1 Honora !
Carrick. J Most unexpected !-
Walter. In the name of wonder, Honora ! You
look as if you'd been out all night !
Honora. I — I have!
(Thomas Ph. D., appears l. on the upper step, clad
in a bath-robe and spectacles and with an
umbrella in his hand.)
Thomas. Oh, dear me, how perfectly extra-
ordinary! I hope I don't intrude.
{They turn.)
RuFus. By Jove, no. Glad to see you. Had no
idea you were staying.
Thomas. Er — no. You see I stayed later than
I intended. And I missed the last train. So I came
back; and Walter very kindly put me up — and lent
me
Walter. Don't mention 'em
Thomas. And lent me
Walter. Yes, yes!
{They all turn back to Justin and Honora.)
Thomas. But I had no idea you were in the
habit of rising so early !
Justin. In a word, — Honora's burned out!
72
THE CHAMELEON.
(HoNORA hides her laughter in the portiere,
speedy chorus follows.)
A
Rose.
RUFUS.
Walter.
Carrick.
Honora ! Dear-
thing ! And
wrapt in a
curtain !
By Jove, can't
understand
it.
Never heard a
thing.
Never heard a
sound all
night.
{They rush to
the windows
and look out,
for signs of fire
in the neigh-
borhood.)
Justin. — I'll tell you the whole thing. But not
a word until she's fed and rested. Go, get up
Thomas; Honora's cold and hungry.
Chorus. — Of course ! — Quite right. — Never
heard a thing ! — Don't see how it happened.
Thomas. {Lifting his nose, like a pointer) Yes,
yes, — I smell smoke ! I smell smoke distinctly.
Rose. {Hurrying to Honora) Oh, how self-
absorbed we were. I can't believe it !
Honora. Who ?
Rose. {To Honora in a joyful whisper) I'm
so happy! {Rufus told me! {Aloud) We sat up
in the arbor. Rufus and I. We — were talking it
all over. And we quite forgot the hour.
Rufus. {Gladly) Like a perfect Romeo and
Juliet; 'Pon my word — Saw the sun rise! 1 say,
did any of you ever see the sun rise?
Rose. And only just now, we thought we heard
somebody and we looked out just in time to see
Rufus. See the Sun rise! {Proudly)
Rose. — A man going through that window.
THE CHAMELEON. 73
RuFUS. ] So we hurried back-
Walter. I So you roused us all up-
Carrick. > Most adventurous morning!
Thomas. I Oh, dear me, how very extra-
J ordinary !
Rose. (To HoNOiiA) And Justin saved you!
And the others
Honora, All safe! — Yes, Justin saved me!
Carrick. Idyllic ending, I'm sure.
HoNORA. Isn't it? — Isn't it a good ending?
Justin. {With authority) Come. Make a fire.
Get something to eat. Bestir, bestir I We're com-
ing.
Chorus. That's so. Where's Thomas ? Coffee !
Eggs ! Quick. Tell us all about it.
{They all scatter out, confusedly.)
Justin. {Laughing, and pointing to the fire-
place) Honora's burned out! — But it wasn't a
Cliameleon ! 'Twas a phoenix. And she rises from
her own ashes — to-day I Off with your dark dis-
guise, my chrysalid! {He lifts the portiere from
her shoulders, and wreathes the grape-leaves in her
hair.) Come, Truth, — come. Beggar-maid, and
say —
HoNORA. Ah, good, — good Morning!
CURTAIN.
'£
'Jp?;
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