Mrs. Denham.

(listens for a while, then starts up) He had tears in his eyes when he kissed me.  Poor Arthur! he thinks we are going to patch it up, I suppose.  I am to live on pity—­a man’s pity, more akin to contempt than to love.  Why should he love me?  I was not born to be loved, not made to be loved.  And yet I wanted love so much.  I wanted all or nothing, and I have got pity—­pity that puts you in a madhouse, and comfortably leaves you to rot!  Oh, my God! is this madness—­this horror of darkness that seems pressing on my brain? (A knock at the door.) What’s that?  Come in! (Enter Jane with tea.) No, not there, Jane—­the small table; and bring another cup, will you?

Jane.

Yes, m’m.

(Jane places tea-things, and exit.)

Mrs. Denham.

What have I to do?  Ah, yes. (Sits at the table and writes hurriedly.  Re-enter Jane with a cup.) Jane, take this note to Mrs. Tremaine’s at once.  You know the house?

Jane.

Yes, m’m.

Mrs. Denham.

(giving note) Take it at once.

Jane.

Yes, m’m.  Was I to wait for an answer, please?

Mrs. Denham.

No, Jane; no answer. (Exit Jane.) She will be here directly.  She must come—­and I?  Yes—­yes.  There is no other way of quitting the wreck for me.  The key? (Searches her pockets.) Yes! (She goes to the cupboard, opens it, and takes out a small bottle, places it on the tea-table, and looks at it; then takes out the stopper, and smells the poison.) It smells like some terrible flower. (Re-stops and replaces the bottle.) And now to arrange—­to arrange it all decently. (Pushes the couch behind the screen, returns to the table, and pours out a cup of tea.) My throat is parched. (Drinks eagerly.) Poor Arthur!  He will be sorry—­perhaps he will understand a little now. (She pours the contents of the bottle into the cup.) The Black Cat had a friend; I am not so fortunate.  It is a survival of the fittest, I suppose.  The world was made for the sleek and treacherous. (She replaces the bottle in the cupboard, then returns, and lays the keys on the table.) Yes, my little Undine, mother is tired too—­so tired!  Oh, sleep, sleep!  If it were but eternal sleep—­if I could be sure I should never wake again!  No more life.  And yet I want to live.  Oh, my God, I want to live! (Paces to and fro, mechanically putting things in order; sees Undine’s handkerchief on the ground, and picks it up.) Undine’s little handkerchief, still wet with her tears—­the last human thing on the brink of the abyss.  Poor little rag; it will give me courage to face the darkness. (Kisses it, and thrusts it into her bosom, then goes back to the table.) Perhaps I do think too much of things—­even of death.  And now! (Takes up the cup and shudders.) Who