  Scene:—The Deanery garden. At the back is a wing of the Deanery, red-bricked, Norman-arched, with mullioned windows and a heavy door opening on to the lawn. On the right, three-quarters across the background, the house ends, and an old machicholated wall begins, with a great brass-studded double gateway in the middle of it, in the left side of which is a wicket with grating. The door opens on the Deanery Close and a view of the Cathedral in the distance. The garden is all lawn, flower-bed, and old trees. From the great door, and running diagonally across the stage and out to the left in front, is a stone-flagged path. Another path from the house-door joins it about the centre of the stage. On the lawn in the foreground stands a table spread for breakfast, with two chairs beside it. It is a brilliant Sunday morning in June. (When the curtain rises, John, the Dean’s butler and verger of the Cathedral, and Robert, the page, are putting finishing touches to the breakfast-table. After a moment the Dean enters and goes to the table.) Dean. What a morning! Fragrant! Exquisite! Ha! (He sniffs the air appreciatively, fixes his eyeglass and beams around him.) A happy Whitsun, John. John. Thank you, sir. Same to you, sir. Dean. Eh?... Oh, certainly! John. Yes, sir. It’s mornings like this, sir, that one feels a inclination to sing the tedium. Dean. To sing the—er——? John. The tedium, sir. Dean. The Te Deum! Ah, yes, to be sure! To sing the Te Deum. Most appropriate! (Looks at his watch.) A quarter to ten. John. Yes, sir. It’s highly significant to see so many people at early service this morning, sir. Highly significant. (Robert goes out.) Dean. Ah, yes!... Is Miss Clare in the garden? John. I believe she is, sir. Dean. Well, she’ll be here in a minute. I think, as it’s rather late, I had better begin at once. Is this all you’re giving me to-day, John? John. Oh, no, sir. There’s an omelette with asparagus-tops to come. Dean. Good. Very good! In the meantime these delicious fruits. (Sits at the table.) John. Yes, sir. If you please, sir, Mr. Cosway’s gardener was here this morning before you came back from church. As far as I could gather he had some message from her ladyship which he refused to leave. I gathered he had instructions to give it to you direct, sir. Dean. Oh ... ah ... h’m.... Is he here now? John. No, sir; I told him to come back at ten o’clock. He’s gone to the cemetery to visit the grave of his first wife. Dean. Bring him here when he comes. John. Very good, sir. (John goes into the house. The Dean daintily skins a peach, humming gently, “Every morn I bring thee violets.” After a moment Clare enters from the left, a bunch of pink and white may in her hand. She is obviously in a shocking temper.) Clare. Good morning, father. Dean. Good morning, Clare. May! Is it for me? Clare. You can have it if you like. (She lays it beside his plate and sits down.) Dean. Thank you, my dear. Fragrant, delicately-tinted, fresh and dewy as young girls. (He regards her critically.) But you don’t look quite yourself, my child. Clare. I? Dean. A little tired. Perhaps you slept badly? Clare. I’m as fit as a fiddle, and I slept like a log. Dean. These peaches are delicious. Try one. Clare. Aren’t there any cherries yet? Dean. I’m afraid not. “Fruits in due season,” you know, my dear! Clare. What about your peaches? Dean. That’s different, quite different. An early peach cannot be too early. They live in glass houses—— Clare. (Significantly.) And don’t throw their stones.... I’ll have a cup of tea. Dean. There’s an omelette with asparagus-tops on the way. Clare. I’m not hungry. Dean. Oh, that’s a pity! I suppose it’s this exceptionally early summer. Clare. Yes. I was unbearably hot all night. And so thirsty that I drank nearly all the water in my jug. Dean. Dear me! Wasn’t there any in the carafe? Clare. I drank that as well. Dean. Really? It seems to me that for a log you were somewhat restive last night. Clare. A log? Dean. I thought you slept like a log. Clare. I scarcely slept a wink. Dean. Well, well, my dear, so long as you feel—to use your expression—as fit as a fiddle, it—— Clare. I feel rotten. (John enters with the omelette, Robert with plates.) Dean. I’m sorry. I didn’t go to bed until very late myself. Those little additions to my sermon took me longer than I had anticipated. (John and Robert go out, having placed the dish before the Dean.) This looks most inviting. And as there doesn’t seem to be much of it, I’m not, on the whole, Clare. May I have some, please? Dean. Changeable young person! Clare. Well, of course, if you grudge me a little piece of your omelette—— Dean. Not at all, my dear! Not at all! (He offers her a liberal helping.) Clare. You needn’t give me three-quarters of it. Dean. Very well. You had better take the other piece, then. Clare. Oh, it doesn’t matter! (Impatiently she takes the larger helping.) Dean. (Genially.) I don’t mind confessing that I’m very hungry, so unless you really want it, my dear—— Clare. Oh, for goodness’ sake, father, take the whole Dean. What a peppery young lady it is! I was only joking. Clare. I may be sadly lacking in humour, but jokes about omelettes and the condition of one’s stomach never much appealed to me. Dean. Really, my dear child, I should much prefer your not using that word. Clare. Stomach? Dean. Yes. Clare. Oh! I do hope you’re not going to suggest I should say “Little Mary”! Dean. (Puzzled.) Little Mary? I—er—don’t quite see the connection.... Is there any reason for alluding to that—er—portion of the anatomy? Clare. I was under the impression that you made the first allusion to it. Dean. My dear, I merely mentioned the fact that I was hungry. Clare. Well, you’re not hungry with your foot, are you? Dean. Don’t you think this bickering rather silly and childish? Clare. Very. Dean. (After a pause, and with a change of voice but unabated cheerfulness.) Unclouded sunshine and a sense of deep peace and repose! My ideal of an English Sunday! John told me just now that he feels inclined to sing the Te Deum on mornings like this. Clare. Why don’t you come to the point, father? Dean. The point?... Clare. Yes. Dean. I don’t quite understand. Clare. I think you owe me some explanation of your extraordinary action last night. Dean. My extraordinary action!... Clare. Yes—in deliberately hiding yourself in the summer-house to overhear a private conversation. Dean. You amaze me, Clare! Instead of being grateful for my silence on the events of yesterday, you turn on me as though you had a grievance! My action was amply justified by the circumstances. Clare. I don’t see how eavesdropping can ever be justified. And now you’re bent on giving us “beans” from the pulpit. I’m awfully sorry to have to say it, father, but really it’s rotten bad form.... Dean. We won’t discuss the matter any further. Believe me, I am the best judge of my actions. Clare. And I of mine. Dean. You refer to the unhappy discoveries Mrs. O’Farrel and I made last night? Clare. I do. Dean. Certainly, if you’re heartily ashamed of yourself, you’re a competent judge of your actions. Clare. I’m not in the least ashamed of myself. Dean. Then, my dear child—— Clare. And why should I be? I’ve done nothing wrong. Dean. You have done very wrong indeed. But I don’t wish to exaggerate. Of course, I know this has been nothing more than a foolish flirtation. Reprehensible—most reprehensible. A grave error, but scarcely a sin. We will say no more about it.... One thing, however, I am bound to insist upon after what came to my knowledge last night. You must have nothing more to do with that young man. Clare. What young man? Michael’s forty, if he’s a day. Dean. I was not speaking of Mr. Cosway. Honestly, Clare. (Sitting up.) Bill! Dean. I think, my dear, we will leave the use of his Christian name to the unhappy lady—or ladies—with whom he is intimate. Certain facts have come to my knowledge. He is not a fit companion for a young girl. Your acquaintance with him must cease from to-day. Clare. Oh!... And may I ask what he has done? Dean. It is quite superfluous to go into—er—unsavoury details. Clare. You seriously expect me to cut him because he doesn’t quite meet with your approval? Dean. I expect you to obey me implicitly. Clare. (Rising.) I had better tell you at once, father, that I shall do nothing of the kind. (The gateway bell rings.) Dean. Clare! (The Dean looks at the gateway and lowers his voice.) You forget yourself! Clare. His crime hasn’t by chance anything to do with Patricia? Dean. H’m—well, since you appear to know something about this, it would be—er—affectation on my part to deny it. His conduct has been shameful, outrageous, and ungentlemanly. Clare. His conduct has been splendid. That detestable creature got hold of him somehow, and he behaved perfectly from start to finish. Of course you side with her because you think her pretty. But—— Dean. We won’t discuss the matter any further, my child. You are very young and headstrong and inexperienced, and must learn to repose implicit faith in your father’s judgment. You are not to see this young man again. Clare. I’m sorry, father, but I refuse to obey you. Dean. Clare! Clare. It’s grossly unjust—it’s mean and horrid. I (John enters and goes to the gateway.) Dean. Clare, remember I have forbidden it. Clare. (Beside herself.) I don’t care! I’m going to him now! I won’t go to church to be preached at. I’m going to him. You can turn me out of your house, if you like, father. But I won’t obey you. I won’t. (She storms into the house.) Dean. Clare, how dare you! (Directly she has disappeared, he laughs heartily.) Oh! Most satisfactory. (He changes plates and commences on Clare’s untouched omelette. John, who has looked through the grating and recognised Baldwin outside, goes to the Dean.) John. Mr. Cosway’s gardener has just called again, sir. Dean. Very well. Bring him round. John. Yes, sir. (He goes to the gateway and opens the wicket. The Dean continues eating his breakfast. John. Mr. Baldwin, sir. (John goes out.) Dean. Ah.... Good morning, Baldwin. Baldwin. Mornin’, sir. Dean. You have a message for me from her ladyship? Baldwin. Yessir. (He places his two books on the ground, plunges into his right-hand breast-pocket and produces a letter.) I would ’a lef’ this at the door, sir, without troublin’ you, but ’er ladyship when she give it me said most particular as I was to ’and it to you personal, sir. Dean. Quite so. Quite so. (Opens the envelope and reads.) Baldwin. (After fumbling in the left-hand breast-pocket, produces a second letter.) And ’ere’s the other letter, sir. Dean. Eh, what? Another? Baldwin. Yessir. As I was leavin’ ’ome, the master come up and give it me, and said most particular as I was to ’and it to you personal. Dean. Oh.... (Takes the letter and reads it through.) Er—thank you.... I understand you’ve been to visit the grave of the late Mrs. Baldwin? Baldwin. I ’ave that, sir. She was a good wife to me, sir, though she did give me ondly two.... I’ve ’ad thirteen, sir, an’ two of ’em by ’er. Dean. Thirteen! Excellent! Excellent! Baldwin. Yessir. Thirteen’s an onlucky number, I’ve ’eard tell, but I ain’t suspicious. Dean. (Laughing gently.) And how many of the thirteen are girls, Baldwin? Baldwin. Nine of ’em, sir—leastways, I think as ’ow nine of ’em is female. (He tots them off on his fingers.) H’Annie, and H’Effel, ’Enrietta, Louisa, Maggie, Dean. Nine! Dear me! What a terrible responsibility. Their upbringing must have been very trying. Nine! Baldwin. Yessir. They do give a bit more worry than boys. But Mrs. Baldwin’s a rare ’and at tacklin’ ’er own sects. Dean. Oh, really? And what measures did she take when they were fractious and disobedient? Baldwin. She ’anded ’em over to me, sir. Dean. And what did you do? Baldwin. I thrashed ’em. Dean. Did you really! That never dawned on me as a practical measure.... I wonder—I wonder whether all girls would derive benefit from—er—occasional chastisement. Baldwin. You take my word for it, sir. All my girls ’ave gorne straight and married respec’able. Dean. Gone straight and married respectably! All nine of them!... And do you put down this happy result to your special treatment? Baldwin. Yessir. Dean. Most interesting! Most interesting! I must think it over—I must indeed.... (John enters.) John. Mrs. O’Farrel has called, sir. Dean. Oh.... Ask her out here, John. John. Very good, sir. (He goes out.) (The Dean takes up the letters and glances through them. A pause. He looks up and sees Baldwin standing patiently watching him.) Dean. Ah, Baldwin—yes.... What was I saying? Baldwin. You said as you’d think it over, sir. Dean. Oh, to be sure! Physical chastisement for girls. Quite so. (Enter John from the house followed by Mrs. O’Farrel.) John. Mrs. O’Farrel. (He goes out.) Dean. (Rising with outstretched hands.) My dear Eileen! This is a most unexpected pleasure! Mrs. O’Farrel. Nonsense. You guessed I should turn up. Dean. Well, I may have hoped it. Mrs. O’Farrel. Good morning, Baldwin. Baldwin. Mornin’, ma’am. Dean. Baldwin has been giving me sage advice on the up-bringing of girls. Mrs. O’Farrel. You need it. Dean. He’s a great advocate of—er—corporal punishment. Mrs. O’Farrel. Oh!... That’s all very well when they’re in short frocks, Baldwin. But afterwards, I don’t exactly see how—— Dean. Quite so.... Baldwin. I thrashed Milly when she was turned twenty, mum. Mrs. O’Farrel. Upon my word! What on earth had the girl done? Baldwin. Mrs. Baldwin found ’er sittin ’on Constable ’Iggins’ knee—’e was a married man, as you may remember, sir, and ’e—— (Mrs. O’Farrel bursts out laughing.) Dean. (Hastily.) Yes, yes, yes, Baldwin.... Neither of these notes requires an answer, thank you. Good morning. Baldwin. Mornin’, sir. Mornin’, ma’am. (He goes out slowly, inadvertently leaving his books on the ground. Mrs. O’Farrel is still amused.) Dean. Well? Mrs. O’Farrel. Well?... Dean. I said it first. Mrs. O’Farrel. And I’m a woman. Dean. True. To begin with I’ve just received these two notes. (Hands her the letters.) Mrs. O’Farrel. (Opening a letter.) From Patricia!... Now I really wonder whether this terribly agitated handwriting is put on. Dean. Be generous, Eileen! Mrs. O’Farrel. What on earth does the woman mean by scrawling “Sunrise” on the top of the page? Dean. Presumably that was when she wrote the letter. Mrs. O’Farrel. Oh, I see! She wants you to believe she paced her room in wakeful agony all night. (Reads.) “Sunrise. I have need of confession. I will call at the Deanery before morning service—Patricia Cosway.” Confession! Evidently she means to enjoy herself!... (Opens the other note and reads.) “Dear Dean,—I am calling on you before morning service to-day. I trust, in spite of all that has happened, you will not refuse to receive me—Michael Cosway.” Very interesting. What do you intend to do? Dean. Honestly, I haven’t made up my mind yet. Mrs. O’Farrel. I protest against your giving Patricia and yourself the luxury of private confession. She owes me her precious confession, not you. Have her out here, and we’ll trounce her together. Dean. Poor woman! Mrs. O’Farrel. Fiddle-de-dee! She’s having the time of her life. I wonder whether they’ve confessed to each other. Dean. I shouldn’t think so—but I mean that they shall. Mrs. O’Farrel. So do I.... Well, Dean, I’ve had it out with my son. Dean. Ah.... Mrs. O’Farrel. Driving home last night I talked about the likelihood of a thunderstorm, CrÊme de Menthe and lawn-tennis, and made him thoroughly uncomfortable. Dean. Then you said nothing about—— Mrs. O’Farrel. Not a word. And we both went to bed. He came down to breakfast in a shocking temper. I cheerfully exhausted two tedious subjects: the House of Lords and domestic servants. Suddenly he lost his manners—cut me short—and plunged into the sad story of Patricia and himself.... Now, I’d had time to think the matter over! I treated the whole thing as a youthful peccadillo and mildly suggested he had better put an end to it. The poor dear boy was completely floored. I’m sure he’d prepared himself against a regular tornado. He simply sat there and stared at me.... Then abruptly I turned the conversation on to your daughter. Dean. Eh? Mrs. O’Farrel. I described her conduct as scandalous, herself as a hussy, and wound up with a burst of gratitude that he’d been Patricia’s victim instead of hers. Dean. Most remarkable! And what did the young man say? Mrs. O’Farrel. He dazzled me with an amazing flare-up. Exhausted his vocabulary on my injustice and Clare’s Dean. And now? Mrs. O’Farrel. Presumably he’s gone in search of this maligned young woman. My blessings attend on him!... Well, Dean, I’m a brilliant and original tactician, what? Dean. Brilliant, certainly—original, no! Mrs. O’Farrel. No? Dean. Not ten minutes ago I adopted precisely the same tactics with Clare and achieved precisely the same result. She’s searching for your worthless son at present. Mrs. O’Farrel. Upon my word, I should never have credited you with so much sense! Dean. My dear Eileen, I put down the tragedy of so many women’s lives—— (Enter John.) John. (Announcing.) Lady Patricia Cosway. (Enter Lady Patricia. She is dressed in black from head to foot. John goes out.) Dean. (Rising.) Lady Patricia, this is indeed an—— Mrs. O’Farrel. No, Dean; it’s neither unexpected nor a pleasure. Dean. I must really beg of you, Eileen! (To Patricia.) Won’t you sit down? Lady Patricia. (Who has been standing at the back in an attitude of majestic humility. She speaks with pleading dignity.) Do you refuse me your hand?... Dean. (At her side, and taking her black-gloved hand in both of his.) My dear lady! Lady Patricia. Ah.... You were always large-minded and gentle and tolerant.... Aunt Eileen.... Mrs. O’Farrel. Well? Lady Patricia. They told me you were here, so I came out. I am determined to speak before you both. It was not what I had meant to do. I had hoped to lay bare my secret soul in secret to the Dean. Deliberately I have chosen the fiercer ordeal. For Mrs. O’Farrel. I think I understand you well enough, Patricia. Lady Patricia. But do you? Oh, do you? Can any one so sane and practical understand this living paradox? Can prose ever understand poetry? I am the refined essence of spirit and sense. I am a thing of fire and dew. I have in me the making of a great saint and a great courtesan.... Dean. (Hurriedly.) Yes, yes; we quite understand.... Mrs. O’Farrel. Go ahead, Patricia. Lady Patricia. If you really understand, my task will be so much the easier! For understanding is the beginning of sympathy. And sympathy ends in forgiveness.... Dean, Aunt Eileen—will you be patient and listen to me for a moment? Dean. Of course we will. But won’t you sit down? Lady Patricia. I should prefer to stand. Mrs. O’Farrel. It’s more effective, Dean. Lady Patricia. What you overheard yesterday gave you only a crude outline of my tragedy and sin. All the colour, all the light and shadow were missing; and without these you are bound to misjudge me.... Ah! don’t believe for a moment I am seeking to justify myself! No! No! There can be no real justification for my sin.... But I do want your understanding—I do want your pity—I do want your pardon. And from you, Dean, I have come for punishment—for penance—— Mrs. O’Farrel. Hand her over to Baldwin. Lady Patricia. Baldwin? Dean. Eileen! I beg of you! Lady Patricia. On the surface my marriage has been perfect. Michael is the husband of old romance, steel-true, chivalrous, and devoted—oh! as no man was ever devoted to a woman before! (Mrs. O’Farrel and the Dean exchange significant glances.) But he just lacked what the depths of my complex nature cried out for—passion, simplicity, primeval energy. These he hadn’t in him to give, and I Mrs. O’Farrel. A moment, Patricia. I understand that my son has “primeval energy.” I’ve never noticed it myself. What are its manifestations? Dean. Don’t you think we can leave that to—er—the imagination? Mrs. O’Farrel. Oh ... by all means! Then what do you mean by “rushing together”? Lady Patricia. I use the expression metaphorically ... spiritually. (With sudden drama.) Dean—Aunt Eileen—I swear to you by all that is beautiful and sacred that our love has been pure. You believe me? Ah, say you believe me! Dean. Why, of course we do! Mrs. O’Farrel. If you swore to the contrary, I should call you a liar! You’ve neither the strength nor the courage to do more than play with sin. Lady Patricia. I? I! Oh, how little you know me! Had you looked into my heart when first this temptation stole upon me you would have never said anything so foolish.... Shall I ever forget those long nights of battle when my skin was dry and fevered—my pillow wet with tears? I lived with clenched hands and bitten lip, and fixed my thoughts steadfastly on high and holy things. Yes, I fought the good fight well—and if I was half defeated ... I am but human.... At last it came—the day came when I lost the battle.... Spring was in the air, sweet perfumes of budding and burgeoning things ... above my head a blackbird fluted ... I had an early snowdrop in my hand. He looked at me; I felt his eyes devouring my face. Slowly I lifted mine—our eyes met—and no force on earth could have torn them apart; and the world reeled and sang about us—— Oh, and that bluer blue, that greener green!... Mrs. O’Farrel. That bluer blue—that——? Lady Patricia. Stephen Phillips.... Ah, that moment! I was mad—I was drunk with love and spring!
Lady Patricia. Fate intervened and saved us. Mrs. O’Farrel and Dean. (Unfeignedly disappointed.) Fate? Lady Patricia. Baldwin returned with the water. Dean and Mrs. O’Farrel. The water? Lady Patricia. For the snowdrop. (The Dean coughs. Mrs. O’Farrel solemnly scrutinises Patricia through her lorgnette.) Mrs. O’Farrel. Doesn’t it occur to you that was rather funny? Lady Patricia. Funny? No, oh no! I see a certain ironical humour in such banal intervention. But it’s far too mysterious to be called funny. After that I struggled no more against the stream. I drifted; I was carried down the great ocean of love. But I never once faltered in my high resolve to keep that ocean pure, and—— Mrs. O’Farrel. Ocean? What ocean? Lady Patricia. The ocean of love. Mrs. O’Farrel. Sorry; my fault. Lady Patricia. To keep that ocean pure, and come what might, to shield Michael from the least suspicion that his wonderful love was not returned. Deceit? Oh, yes! But surely, surely deceit is justified when the alternative means—death! Dean. Death! Dear me! Mrs. O’Farrel. Do you really think poor Michael would succumb if he learned the dreadful truth? Lady Patricia. I know it. Have you ever seen such devotion as his? Mrs. O’Farrel. It’s certainly remarkable.... Dean. (Briskly.) Now, Lady Patricia, are you prepared to put yourself unreservedly in my hands? Lady Patricia. I am. Dean. Then I shall require two things of you. Firstly, that you break off these relations with young O’Farrel. Lady Patricia. I have determined on that already. I won’t speak of the suffering it will cause me. I have merited suffering and will bear it in silence. But when I think of him——! My poor, poor boy! What is to become of him without me?... Oh, you are his mother—can you devise no means of softening this blow for him? Mrs. O’Farrel. (Reverently.) I think we may safely leave that in the hands of Providence. Dean. I quite share your opinion. Secondly, Lady Patricia, I wish you to tell your husband everything. Lady Patricia. (Genuinely startled.) Michael! Dean. Everything. Lady Patricia. (Very much in earnest.) No—no. It’s impossible. I could never think of doing that. Dean. You said just now you would place yourself unreservedly in my hands. Lady Patricia. But I never dreamt you intended to punish the Mrs. O’Farrel. I think it’s just possible Michael may survive the shock. Lady Patricia. And I know that it will kill him. It’s impossible! Dean. (Sternly.) I insist. Lady Patricia. And I refuse. Mrs. O’Farrel. That brings me into the fray! The Dean, as your confessor, no doubt considers himself bound to keep your story secret. I don’t. So look here, Patricia; unless you make a clean breast of this to Michael, I shall go to him with it myself. Lady Patricia. You! Mrs. O’Farrel. I. Lady Patricia. No! No! I don’t believe you’re capable of such infamy. Mrs. O’Farrel. Oh, yes I am. Lady Patricia. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it! It would be too cruel and wicked! Aunt Eileen, for pity’s sake—— Mrs. O’Farrel. You won’t get any pity out of me, my dear—not an ounce! Either you or I tell Michael the story from start to finish—and if I tell him, there won’t be much left of your character when I’ve finished. Lady Patricia. (Wildly.) What am I to do? What am I to do? Dean—Dean—will you allow my aunt to wreak her horrible vengeance on me by murdering my husband? Dean. Oh, but really, I don’t think it will be quite so bad as that. Lady Patricia. But I know it—I know it! Dean. Besides, how am I to prevent her—even if I wished to? Lady Patricia. As the mouthpiece of spiritual authority.... Mrs. O’Farrel. I don’t care a rap for his spiritual authority. Dean. You see. (A pause. Lady Patricia stands rigid, with clenched hands. Finally she speaks in a low, dull voice.) Lady Patricia. Then—you—really—mean—to—do—this? Mrs. O’Farrel. Certainly. Lady Patricia. I—am—ruined. Mrs. O’Farrel. Nonsense! I’ve a strong idea this may be the saving of you both. Lady Patricia. Ruined.... I should like to sit down. Dean. My dear lady—— (Brings her a chair.) Lady Patricia. (Sits, and points blindly to the breakfast table.) Is that ... milk? Dean. Yes. Would you Lady Patricia. I should like a little milk. (The Dean gives it to her.) Thank you.... I—I will tell Michael all. Mrs. O’Farrel. Bravo! We shall make a woman of you yet! Lady Patricia. You are very hard and cruel and vindictive.... But I forgive you. (John enters.) John. Mr. Cosway has called, sir. Lady Patricia. (In a whisper.) Michael! Dean. Where is he? John. In the study, sir. Dean. Lady Patricia—— Lady Patricia. No—no—no. Dean. Just a minute, John. John. Yes, sir. (Retires to the back.) Lady Patricia. What does it mean? Why is he here? Dean. He said he might call this morning on the way to church. Lady Patricia, go to him now. Tell him everything now. Lady Patricia. I can’t—I can’t—— Mrs. O’Farrel. Get it over, Patricia. Dean. Come, dear lady—— (He offers her his arm. Lady Patricia rises unsteadily, stares for a moment wildly before her, then sits down again.) Lady Patricia. I haven’t the strength—I haven’t the strength to go to him.... My knees tremble. Bring him here and leave us together.... Dean. (Calling.) John. (John re-enters.) John. Yes sir? Dean. Ask Mr. Cosway to come here. John. Yes sir. (John goes out.) Mrs. O’Farrel. Cheer up, Patricia! Lady Patricia. A little since and I was glad, but now I never shall be glad or sad again.... Dean. I—er—beg your pardon? Lady Patricia. Swinburne.... For the last time—for the last time, Aunt Eileen, I ask you to spare me. Dean. Perhaps, after all, we had better—— Mrs. O’Farrel. No! Don’t be a fool, Dean! No, Patricia, you’ve got to go through with this. Believe me, the result will astonish you. Lady Patricia. What do you mean? (Michael enters from the house.) Dean. Ah, good morning, Cosway. Michael. (Standing still at the back and looking at Lady Dean. Hsh! (Without greeting Mrs. O’Farrel he goes to Patricia, who stares straight before her.) Michael. Patricia, dearest.... I—I didn’t expect to find you here. Lady Patricia. Nor—I—you.... Dean. Lady Patricia wants to speak to you privately. We—er—will leave you together. Michael. (In a whisper.) Privately? Mrs. O’Farrel. Good morning, Michael. Michael. Er—good morning. Mrs. O’Farrel. Delightful weather! Michael. Yes—er—ver—very nice. Mrs. O’Farrel. Come along, Dean. (Takes his arm and leads him to the house.) Dean. (As they go in.) Poor woman! Mrs. O’Farrel. Fiddlesticks! (They go into the house.) Michael. You—you look so white and strange, dearest. Are you ill ... Patricia? Lady Patricia. I am thirsty.... My throat is parched.... Please give me some milk.... Michael. Milk?... Yes, dear. (Moves towards the house.) I’ll be back in a moment. Lady Patricia. No—no. It is on the table. Michael. The milk?... Oh, yes. I see. (Pours her out inadvertently some of the hot milk for the coffee, and kneeling at her side, offers it to her.) Lady Patricia. (Taking milk.) Don’t kneel to me—don’t kneel to me! (She takes a sip of milk and hands it Michael. (Returning to her.) Patricia! Lady Patricia. No—no—no—no! Don’t look at me—don’t touch me—stand up—stand away from me.... Michael. Patricia! Lady Patricia. Do as I say. Michael. (Getting to his feet with a terrified face.) They—they have told you—they—— Lady Patricia. Hush!... don’t speak. Give me time.... I—I am a broken woman. Michael. No, no, no! I will cherish you—I will worship you—I will serve you on my knees—— Lady Patricia. (Genuinely puzzled.) Michael! Michael. All the rest of my life—every hour—every moment—will be given to making up for my sin. Lady Patricia. (Amazed.) Your sin? Michael. My crime then. Lady Patricia. Your——! Michael. (Pouring forth the words in a torrent of passionate entreaty. Lady Patricia stands staring at him first in bewilderment, then in amazement, then in dawning comprehension, finally in arctic realisation.) It was cruel of them—it was unfair to steal a march on me like this. For your sake—for mine—they should have left the confession to me. I would have withheld nothing. I would have told you all of my own free will. But they’ve spoken. And I see it—they’ve put the vilest construction on the few words they overheard last night. They have made you believe the worst of me. But it’s not true, Patricia. I swear it. It’s not true. (Lady Patricia makes a gesture as though to speak.) No, no, let me speak!... I have been faithful to the letter of our marriage vow—I have been unfaithful to the spirit. I am a man with a man’s passions, but for your sake I fought and kept my sinful love pure. Doubt all else—but believe that. You must believe it. You shall.... I am not trying to excuse myself. There is no excuse for what I have done. But O, Patricia, you know that to love and not Lady Patricia. (In a cold, level voice.) What are you talking about? Michael. (Floored.) Eh ...? Lady Patricia. You appear to be under the impression that the Dean and Aunt Eileen have told me something unpleasant about you. Michael. Well, haven’t they? Lady Patricia. They have told me nothing. Michael. Oh.... I—I thought they had.... Lady Patricia. And now perhaps you will kindly explain the meaning of all this. Michael. I—I’ve told you everything. Lady Patricia. Who is the woman? Michael. Clare Lesley. Lady Patricia. Clare—Lesley!... I don’t believe it—it’s impossible. I don’t believe it!... (Michael is silent.) Do you mean to tell me that you don’t adore me? Michael. I’m—I’m very fond of you. Lady Patricia. Fond of me? Then all your passion has been a sham, and you’ve been making love to that—that—oh, what is the horrible word?... Michael. (Deferentially.) Er—impossible ...? Lady Patricia. No—no ... with two “p’s.” ... Michael. Appalling ...? Lady Patricia. No.... Flapper.... Oh, how I’ve been fooled! And they know it—the Dean and Aunt Eileen. You’ve made me a figure of fun—something to point and jeer at.... Oh, I could kill myself and—you! Michael. I am not worthy to live. Lady Patricia. And to think of all I have gone through for your sake—how I’ve forced myself to take your kisses and return them—how for months and months I fought and struggled to keep down the one great passion of my life. All for your sake—all because I thought you loved me! Oh, the bitter irony of it! Michael. What do you mean by this? Lady Patricia. But now the one obstacle to my love has been removed. I will go to him now—I will put my arms around him. He shall love me and I will love him. Michael. What are you saying, Patricia? Are you mad? Of whom are you speaking? Lady Patricia. Bill. Bill O’Farrel—Bill, whom I love and who loves me. Michael. Bill O’Farrel! Lady Patricia. For two years he has been the passion of my Michael. You! Lady Patricia. Yes, I! I remained with you—I pretended to be absorbed in you, because I thought it would kill you if you realised that I wanted something more than you. Michael. Bill O’Farrel.... Lady Patricia. Yes—Bill O’Farrel! Michael. Does any one know of this? Lady Patricia. They all know. Michael. That you’ve tricked and fooled me and made a laughing-stock of me? Oh—— Lady Patricia. What have you done with me? Michael. When did they find it out? Lady Patricia. They overheard us last night. Michael. You and O’Farrel? Lady Patricia. Yes. Michael. In the tree—when they overheard us? Lady Patricia. You, too! Ah, I see it all now—I see it all. She said I must confess to you—that aunt—she said the result would astonish me. And now—now she’s hugging herself with vindictive joy at having humiliated me to the dust. But she has not finished with me yet. No! I can still strike back—and strike I will! You have no love for me. Very well. I know where to go for love. Michael. What do you mean? Lady Patricia. Bill loves me—he loves me—he worships me. I shall go to him—I shall hold him to me—I shall love him. Michael. I forbid it. Lady Patricia. Who are you to forbid me? Michael. I am your husband. Lady Patricia. You! You are no husband of mine! He is my husband because he loves me! Michael. If you go to him, I will return to Clare. Lady Patricia. To Clare! Michael. To the girl who loves me with all the strength of her young heart and soul. Lady Patricia. You shall never do that! Michael. And who’s to prevent me? Lady Patricia. I. Michael. You—the woman who has tricked me—fooled me, and now threatens to leave me for another! Lady Patricia. Threatens! I don’t threaten. I mean to do it. Michael. Very well, then. Leave me to go my own way. Lady Patricia. Go to her. Go to her. And I will go to him. (She turns and moves towards the house. He takes a step or two to the left, then stops with an exclamation.) Michael. Clare!... Lady Patricia. (She turns, looks to the left, and starts with a faint cry.) Bill! (They both stand irresolute and embarrassed. Bill and Clare enter from the left, also irresolute and embarrassed.) Bill. Er—good morning, Cousin Patricia. Lady Patricia. Good morning, Bill. Clare. Good morning, Mr. Cosway. Michael. Good morning, Clare. Bill. (A pause. He says in a whisper to Clare:) I say—you tell them. Clare. (In a whisper.) No—you. Bill. Awfully—er—jolly morning, Cousin Patricia, isn’t it. Lady Patricia. Yes ... very ... jolly. Clare. I’ve been for—for a walk, Mr. Cosway. Michael. Oh, yes—it’s nice weather for walking. Are you tired? Clare. Oh, no, thank you. (To Bill in a whisper:) Tell them.... Bill. I say ... I say, Michael. Michael. Sir? Bill. You’ll be glad—I mean you’ll be awfully surprised to hear that I—that Clare and I—that’s to say, that we’re—Clare and I, you know—— Clare. (In a whisper.) Oh, get it out! Bill. Well, you see—we’re engaged. Lady Patricia and Michael. Engaged! Bill. Yes. We hadn’t meant to be—but ... we are. Clare. We tried awfully hard to hold out for—for the sake of others ... but—— (She goes impulsively up to Michael, puts her hand on his arm and speaks in a low voice.) I’m awfully sorry, Mike. I’m a beast, I know. But I can’t help it.... Michael. (Rigid and staring before him.) How long have you loved him? Clare. Oh ... ages ... I ought to have told you, but—— Michael. I don’t wish to hear another word. (Bill has gone up to Lady Patricia, who stands motionless with a tragic face, staring before her. His appearance is that of a naughty schoolboy, hat in hand and shifting from one foot to the other.) Bill. (To Lady Patricia.) I—I—I—I’m sorry—I’ve behaved rottenly—but I—I—I’m awfully fond of you.... Of course I ought—but you see—I—that’s to say—but she—she’s—you know what I mean—I’m—— Lady Patricia. Enough.... (Bill goes to Clare, who gives him her hand.) Clare. Now for the pater.... Bill. Help!... (They go into the house. Michael and Lady Patricia stand motionless, with clenched hands, staring before them. A long pause. The gateway bell rings. A pause. John enters from the house and opens the wicket door. Baldwin enters.) Baldwin. ’Scuse me, Mr. John, but I think as I lef’ my ’ymn-book and prayer-book on the lawn. John. I haven’t seen ’em. Baldwin. That’s them yonder. (Distant sound of church Michael. That will do, Baldwin. Baldwin. Thank ’ee, sir. (He is just about to go out when the house door opens and the ringing laughter of Bill and Clare brings him to a standstill. They enter, followed by the voice of Mrs. O’Farrel: “Be off—both of you!” and her laugh.) Bill. I say, darling, weren’t they corking? Clare. (Pointing to the motionless Michael and Lady Patricia and putting a finger to her lips.) S-sh!... Bill. Oh.... (Very sedately they pass up the path to the gateway, but just as they go out Bill passes his arm through Clare’s and Dean. (Jovially.) So much for tact and diplomacy! Mrs. O’Farrel. And common-sense! Dean. (Lowering his voice and indicating the rigid Michael and Lady Patricia.) And these two? Mrs. O’Farrel. Best leave them alone. Dean. No, no!... (Goes up to Michael and Lady Patricia, while Mrs. O’Farrel goes out; John, standing near the door, waits for the Dean.) Are you not going to join us in church? (A pause.) My dear friends, on such a morning as this we should all sing the Te Deum, and forget everything but the joy of being alive.... (He looks smilingly from one to the other, then goes out, followed by John. Robert waits at the door. A pause. Baldwin stands hesitating. Lady Patricia turns to Michael.) Lady Patricia. Michael!... Michael. Yes. Lady Patricia. Under the great rose window in the south transept our pew is now full of purple and amber lights and shafts of chrysoprase. Shall we not sit there again together? Michael. I don’t see what else there is to do.... Patricia! Lady Patricia. Michael!... Repentance is very exquisite, and how beautiful is forgiveness. Come.... (Followed at a respectful distance by Baldwin, they go out together in silence side by side, and the Curtain falls as they pass under the gateway.) The End. The Gresham Press, |
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