Clemence Dane

The curtain rises on Margaret’s drawing-room. It is prettily furnished in a gentle, white-walled, water-colour-in-gold-frame fashion, and is full of flowers. In one corner is a parrot in a cage, and near it Miss Fairfield’s arm-chair and foot-stool and work-table. The fire-place has a white sheepskin in front of it, and brass fire-irons: on the mantel-piece is a gilt clock and many photographs. At right angles to the fire a low empire couch runs out into the room. There is a hint of Sydney in the ultra-modern cushionry with which it is piled. As the curtain goes up Bassett is showing in Gray Meredith.

Bassett. They’re still at lunch, Sir.

Gray. [Glancing at the clock] They’re late.

Bassett. It’s the visitor, Sir. He’s kept them talking.

Gray. Visitor?

Bassett. Yes, Sir, a strange gentleman. Will you take coffee, Sir?

Gray. I may as well go in and have it with them.

Bassett. The mistress said, would you not, Sir. She’d come to you.

Gray. [A little surprised] Oh, very well.

Bassett. I’ll tell Miss Sydney you’ve come, Sir.

Gray. [Lifting his eyebrows] Tell Mrs. Fairfield.

Bassett. Miss Sydney said I was to tell her too, Sir, quietly.

Gray. [Puzzled] Is—? [He checks an impulse to question the servant] All right!

Bassett. Thank you, Sir.

She goes out, leaving the door open. There is a slight pause. Margaret comes in hurriedly, shutting the door behind her.

Gray. [Smiling] Well, what’s the mystery?

Margaret. Gray, he’s come back!

Gray. Who?

Margaret. Hilary!

Gray. [Lightly] Hilary? What Hilary? Hilary!

Margaret. Yes.

Gray. Good God!

Margaret. He got away. He came straight here. I found him with Sydney.

Gray. Don’t be frightened. I’m here. Is he dangerous?

Margaret. No, no, poor fellow!

Gray. You can’t be sure. Anyway, I’d better take charge of him while you phone the asylum. No, that won’t do, there are no trains. We must ring up the authorities.

Margaret. Oh, no, Gray!

Gray. It’s not pleasant, but it’s the only thing to do.

Margaret. You don’t understand.

Gray. There’s only one way to deal with an escaped lunatic.

Margaret. But he’s not. He’s well.

Gray. What’s that?

Margaret. He’s well. He knows me. He—

Gray. I don’t believe it.

Margaret. Do you think I want to believe it? Oh, what a ghastly thing to say!

Gray. This has nothing to do with you. He has nothing to do with you. Leave me to deal with him. [He goes towards the door.]

Margaret. Where are you going?

Gray. ’Phoning for Dr. Alliot to begin with.

Margaret. Sydney’s done that already.

Gray. Sydney’s head’s on her shoulders.

Margaret. He’ll be here as soon as he can. He could always manage Hilary.

Gray. You’d better go up to your room.

Margaret. No.

Gray. Don’t take it too hard. It’ll be over in an hour. We’ll get him away quietly, poor devil.

Margaret. But it’s no good, Gray, he’s well. We’ve been on to the asylum already. They say we should have heard in a day or two even if he hadn’t got away.

Gray. Really well?

Margaret. The old Hilary—voice and ways and—oh, my God! what am I to do?

Gray. Do? You?

Margaret. Don’t you see, he knows nothing? His hair’s grey and he talks as he talked at twenty. It’s horrible.

Gray. What do you mean, he knows nothing?

Margaret. About the divorce. About you and me. He thinks it’s all—as he left it.

Gray. [Incredulously] You’ve said nothing?

Margaret. He’s like a lost child come home. Do you think I want to send him crazy again? He—

Gray. [With a certain anger] You’ve said nothing?

Margaret. Not yet.

Gray. You’ll come away with me at once.

Margaret. I can’t. I’ve got to think of Hilary.

Gray. You’ve got to think of me.

Margaret. I am you. But I’ve done him so much injury—

Gray. You’ve done Fairfield injury? You little saint!

Margaret. Saint? I’m a wicked woman. I’m wishing he hadn’t got well. I’m wishing the doctors will say it’s not true. In my wicked heart I’m calling down desolation on my own husband.

Gray. You have no husband. You’re marrying me in a week. You’re mine.

Margaret. I’m afraid—

Gray. Whose are you? Answer me.

Margaret. Yours.

Gray. You know it?

Margaret. I know it.

Gray. Then never be afraid again.

Margaret. No, not when you’re here. I’m not afraid when you’re here. But I must be good to Hilary. You see that?

Gray. What good is “good” to him, poor devil?

Margaret. At least I’ll break it gently.

Gray. Gently? That’s just like a woman. All you can do for him is to come away now.

Margaret. How can I? He’s got to be told.

Gray. Then let me tell him.

Margaret. No, no! From you, just from you, it would be wanton. I won’t have cruelty.

Gray. We’ll go straight up to town and get married at once. That’ll settle everything.

Margaret. You mustn’t rush me. I’ve got to do what’s right.

Gray. It is right. There’s nothing else to be done. You can’t stay here.

Margaret. No, I can’t stay here. Don’t let me stay here.

Gray. Come with me. The car’s outside. You say Alliot will be here in ten minutes. Leave him a note. He’s an old friend as well as a doctor. Let him deal with it if you won’t let me.

Margaret. Oh, can’t you see that I must tell Hilary myself?

Gray. [Angrily] Women are incomprehensible!

Margaret. It’s men who are uncomprehending. Can’t you feel that it’ll hurt him less from me?

Gray. It’ll hurt him ten thousand times more.

Margaret. But differently. It’s the things one might have said that fester. At least I’ll spare him that torment. He shall say all he wants to say.

Gray. [Blackly] I suppose the truth is that there’s something in the very best of women that enjoys a scene.

Margaret. That’s the first bitter thing you’ve ever said to me.

Gray. [Breaking out] Can’t you see what it does to me to know you are in the same house with him? For God’s sake come out of it!

Margaret. [Close to him] I want to come, now, this moment. I want to be forced to come.

Gray. That settles it.

Margaret. [Eluding him] But I mustn’t! Don’t you see that I mustn’t? I can’t leave Sydney to lay my past for me.

Gray. Your past is dead.

Margaret. Its ghost’s awake and walking.

Hilary’s Voice. Meg! Meg!

Margaret. [Clinging to him] Listen, it’s calling to me.

Hilary’s Voice. Meg, where are you?

Margaret. It’s too late! I’m too old! I shall never get away from him. I told you it was too good to be true.

Gray. [Deliberately matter-of-fact] Listen to me! I am going home now. There are orders to be given. I must get some money and papers. But I shall be back here in an hour. I give you just that hour to tell him what you choose. After that you’ll be ready to come.

Margaret. If—if I’ve managed—

Gray. There’s no if. You’re coming.

Margaret. Am I coming, Gray?

Hilary. [Entering from the hall] Meg, Sydney said you’d gone to your room. Hullo! What’s this? Who’s this? Doctor, eh? I’ve been expecting them down on me. [To Gray] It’s no good, you know. I’m as fit as you are. Any test you like.

Margaret. Mr. Meredith called to see me, Hilary! He’s just going.

Hilary. Oh, sorry! [He walks to the fire and stands warming his hands, but watching them over his shoulder.]

Gray. [At the door, in a low voice to Margaret] I don’t like leaving you.

Margaret. You must! It’s better! But—come back quickly!

Gray. You’ll be ready?

Margaret. I will. [Gray goes out.]

Hilary. [Uneasily] Who’s that man?

Margaret. His name’s Gray Meredith.

Hilary. What’s he doing here?

Margaret. He’s an old friend.

Hilary. I don’t know him, do I?

Margaret. It’s since you were ill. It’s the last five years.

Hilary. He’s in love with you! I tell you, the man’s in love with you! Do you think I’m so dazed and crazed I can’t see that? You shouldn’t let him, Meg! You’re such a child you don’t know what you’re doing when you look and smile—

Margaret. [In a strained voice] I do know. [She stands quite still in the middle of the room, her head lifted, a beautiful woman.]

Hilary. [Staring at her] Lord, I don’t wonder at him, poor brute! [Still staring] Meg, you’ve changed.

Margaret. [Catching at the opening] Yes, Hilary.

Hilary. Taller, more beautiful—and yet I miss something.

Margaret. [Urging him on] Yes, Hilary.

Hilary. [Wistfully]—something you used to have—kind—a kind way with you. The child’s got it. Sydney—my daughter, Sydney! She’s more you than you are. You—you’ve grown right up—away—beyond me—haven’t you?

Margaret. Yes, Hilary.

Hilary. But I’m going to catch up. You’ll help me to catch up with you—Meg? [She doesn’t answer.] Meg! wait for me! Meg, where are you? Why don’t you hold out your hands?

Margaret. [Wrung for him] I can’t, Hilary! My hands are full.

Hilary. [His tone lightening into relief] What, Sydney? She’ll be off in no time. She’s told me about the boy—what’s his name—Kit—already.

Margaret. It’s not Sydney.

Hilary. What? [Crescendo] Eh? What are you driving at? What are you trying to tell me? What’s changed you? Why do you look at me sideways? Why do you flinch when I speak loudly? Yes—and when I kissed you—It’s that man! [He goes up to her and takes her by the wrist, staring into her face.] Is it true? You?

Margaret. [Pitifully] I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m trying to tell you. I only want to tell you and make you understand. Hilary, fifteen years is a long time—

Hilary. [Dully] Yes. I suppose it’s a long time for a woman to be faithful.

Margaret. That’s it! That’s the whole thing! If I’d loved you it wouldn’t have been long—

Hilary. [Violently, crying her down] You did love me once.

Margaret. [Beaten] Did I—once? I don’t know—

There is a silence.

Hilary. [Without expression] What do you expect me to do? Forgive you?

Margaret. [Stung] There’s nothing to forgive. [Softening] Oh, so much, Hilary, to forgive each other; but not that.

Hilary. [More and more roughly as he loses control of himself] Divorce you then? Because I’ll not do that! I’ll have no dirty linen washed in the courts.

Margaret. [Forced into the open] Hilary, I divorced you twelve months ago.

Hilary. [Shouting] What? What? What?

Margaret. I divorced you—

Hilary. [Beside himself] You’re mad! You couldn’t do it! You’d no cause! D’you think I’m to be put off with your lies? Am I a child? You’d no cause! Oh, I see what you’re at. You want to confuse me. You want to pull wool over my eyes. You want to drive me off my head—drive me mad again. You devil! You devil! You shan’t do it. I’ve got friends—Sydney! where’s that girl [Shouting] Sydney! Hester! All of you! Come here! Come here, I say! [Sydney opens the drawing room door.]

Sydney. Mother, what is it? [She enters, followed by Miss Fairfield. To Hilary—] What are you doing? You’re frightening her.

Hilary. [Wildly] No, no! You’re not on her side. You’re little Sydney—kind—my Sydney! What did you say—go slow, eh! Keep your hand here—cool, cool. [Then as Sydney, breaking from him, makes a movement to her mother] Stand away from that woman!

Margaret. Sydney, humour him.

Hilary. [At white heat] What was I calling you for, eh? Oh, yes, a riddle. I’ve got a riddle for you. There was a man at that place—used to ask riddles—the moon told ’em to him. Just such a white face whispering out of the blue—lies! He couldn’t find the answers—sent him off his head. But I know the answer. When’s a wife not a wife, eh? Want to know the answer? [Pointing to Margaret] When she’s this—this—this! [Confidentially] She’s poisoning me.

Miss Fairfield. Now, Hilary! Hilary!—

Hilary. Sydney, come here! I’ll tell you. [Sydney stands torn between the two.]

Miss Fairfield. What have you done to him, Margaret?

Margaret. I’ve told him the truth.

Miss Fairfield. God forgive you!

Hilary. [Raving] I tell you she’s pouring poison into my ear. You remember that fellow in the play—and his wife? That’s what she’s done. If I told you what she said to me, you’d think I was mad. And that’s what she wants you to think. She wants to get rid of me. She’s got a tame cat about the place. I’m in the way. And so she comes to me, d’you see, and tells me—what do you think? She says she’s not my wife. What do you think of that?

Miss Fairfield. [Grimly] You may well ask.

Margaret. [To Sydney] He won’t listen—

Sydney. Sit down, darling! You’re shaking.

Margaret. He’s always had these rages. It’s my fault. I began at the wrong end. Hilary—it’s not—I’m not what you think.

Hilary. Then what was that man doing in my house?

Margaret. In a week I’m going to marry him.

Hilary. D’you hear her? To me she says this! Is she mad or am I?

Margaret. [Desperately] I tell you there’s been a law passed—

Miss Fairfield. No need for him to know that now, Margaret!

Sydney. Of course he has to know.

Miss Fairfield. Not now.

Margaret. [On the defensive] I don’t know what you mean, Aunt Hester!

Miss Fairfield. Let us rather thank God that he has come back in time.

Margaret. [Uneasy] In time? In time?

Miss Fairfield. To snatch a brand from the burning.

Margaret. I’m a free woman. I’ve got my divorce.

Miss Fairfield. Whom God hath joined let no man put asunder.

Margaret. [At bay] I’m a free woman. I’m going to marry Gray Meredith. This is a trap! Sydney!

Miss Fairfield. Is this talk for a young girl to hear?

Margaret. Sydney, you’re to fetch Gray.

Hilary. [With weak violence] If he comes here I’ll kill him.

Margaret. [Catching Sydney back] No, no! D’you hear him? What am I to do?

Sydney. It’s all right, Mother! We’ll manage somehow.

Bassett. [Entering] Dr. Alliot is in the hall, ma’am.

Margaret. [With a gasp of relief] Ask him to come in here. At once.

Dr. Alliot trots in. He is a pleasant, roundabout, clean little old man, with a twinkling face and brisk chubby movements of the hands. He is upright and his voice is strong. He wears his seventy odd years like a good joke that he expects you to keep up, in spite of the fact that he is really your own age and understands you better than you do yourself. But behind his comfortable manner is a hint of authority which has its effect, especially on Hilary.

Dr. Alliot. What’s all this I hear? Well, well! Good afternoon, Mrs. Fairfield! Good afternoon, Miss Fairfield! Merry Christmas, Sydney! Now then, now for him! Welcome back, Fairfield! Welcome back, my boy!

Hilary. It’s—it’s old Alliot, isn’t it?

Dr. Alliot. Your memory’s all right I see.

Hilary. I suppose they’ve sent for you—

Dr. Alliot. Well, well, you see, you’ve arrived rather unconventionally. I’ve been in touch with—

Hilary. That place?

Dr. Alliot. Why, yes! You may have to go back, you know. Formalities! Formalities!

Hilary. I don’t mind. I’m well. I’m well, Alliot! I’m not afraid of what you’ll say. I’m not afraid of any of you.

Dr. Alliot. Well, well, well! that sounds hopeful.

Hilary. But I can’t go yet, Doctor.

Dr. Alliot. Only for a day or two.

Hilary. It’s my wife. I lost my temper. I do lose my temper. It means nothing. Go slow, eh? My wife’s ill, Doctor. She’s not right in her head.

Dr. Alliot. [Alert] Ah!

Hilary. [With a wave of his hand] So are the rest of them. Mad as hatters.

Dr. Alliot. Hm!

Hilary. [Checked, glances at him keenly a moment. Then chuckling] Oh, you’re thinking that’s a delusion.

Dr. Alliot. [Humouring him] Between you and me, it’s a common one.

Hilary. [Half flattered] Ah, we know, don’t we? Served in the same shop, eh? Only the counter between us.

Dr. Alliot. [Feeling his way] Well, well—

Hilary. But look here! She says she’s not my wife.

Dr. Alliot. [Enlightened] Oh! Oh, that’s the trouble!

Hilary. She says she’s not my wife.

Dr. Alliot. [Soberly] It’s a hard case, Fairfield.

Hilary. What d’you mean by that?

Dr. Alliot. It’s the old wisdom of the scape-goat—it is expedient—how does it go? expedient—?

Sydney. “It is expedient that one man should die for the people.”

Dr. Alliot. That’s it! A hard word, but a true one.

Hilary. What has that got to do with me?

Dr. Alliot. Well, the situation is this—

Hilary. There is no situation. I married Meg. I fell ill. Now I’m well again. I want my wife.

Dr. Alliot. Why, yes—yes—

Hilary. [Picking it up irritably] “Yes—yes—” “Yes—yes—” I suppose that’s what you call humouring a lunatic.

Dr. Alliot. Why, I hope to be convinced, Fairfield, that that trouble’s over, but—

Hilary. But you’re going to lock me up again because I want my wife.

Dr. Alliot. [Patiently] Will you let me put the case to you?

Hilary. You can put fifty cases. It makes no difference.

Sydney. [At his elbow, softly] Father, I’d listen.

Hilary. [Slipping his arm through hers] Eh? Sydney? that you? You’re not against me, Sydney?

Sydney. Nobody’s against you. We only want you to listen.

Hilary. Well, out with it!

Dr. Alliot. D’you remember—can you throw your mind back to the beginning of the agitation against the marriage laws? No, you were a schoolboy—

Hilary. Deceased wife’s sister, eh? That’s the law that lets a man marry his sister-in-law and won’t let a woman marry her brother-in-law. Pretty good, that, for your side of the counter.

Dr. Alliot. Well, well, that hardly matters now.

Hilary. It shows what your rotten, muddle-headed laws are worth, anyhow.

Sydney. Father.

Hilary. All right! Go ahead! Go ahead!

Dr. Alliot. Well, as the result of that agitation—and remember, Hilary, what thousand, thousand tragedies must have had voice in such an outcry—a commission was appointed to enquire into the working of the divorce laws. It made its report, recommended certain drastic reforms, and there, I suppose, as is the way with commissions, would have been the end of the subject, if it hadn’t been for the war—and the war marriages.

Hilary. [Lowering] So that’s where I come in! Margaret, is that where I come in?

Dr. Alliot. Never, I suppose, in one decade were there so many young marriages. Happy? that’s another thing! Marry in haste—

Margaret. They weren’t all happy.

Dr. Alliot. But they were young, those boys and girls who married. As young as Kit, and as impatient as Sydney. And that saved them. That young, young generation found out, out of their own unhappiness, the war taught them, what peace couldn’t teach us—that when conditions are evil it is not your duty to submit—that when conditions are evil, your duty, in spite of protests, in spite of sentiment, your duty, though you trample on the bodies of your nearest and dearest to do it, though you bleed your own heart white, your duty is to see that those conditions are changed. If your laws forbid you, you must change your laws. If your church forbids you, you must change your church; and if your God forbids you, why then, you must change your God.

Miss Fairfield. And we who will not change?

Margaret. Or cannot change—?

Dr. Alliot. Stifle. Like a snake that can’t cast its skin. Grow or perish—it’s the law of life. And so, when this young generation—yours, not mine, Hilary—decided that the marriage laws were, I won’t say evil, but outgrown, they set to work to change them.

Miss Fairfield. You needn’t think it was without protest, Hilary. I joined the anti-divorce league myself.

Dr. Alliot. No, it wasn’t without protest. Mrs. Grundy and the churches are protesting still. But in spite of protest, no man or woman to-day is bound to a drunkard, an habitual criminal, or—

Hilary. Or—?

Dr. Alliot. Or to a partner who, as far as we doctors know—

Hilary. But you can’t be sure!

Dr. Alliot. I say as far as we know, is incurably insane—in practice, is insane for more than five years.

Hilary. And if he recovers? Look at me!

Dr. Alliot. [With a sigh] “It is expedient—”

Hilary. And you call that justice!

Margaret. At least call it mercy. All the days of your life to stand at the window, Hilary, and watch the sun shining on the other side of the road—it’s hard, it’s hard on a woman.

Dr. Alliot. At least call it common sense. If a man can’t live his normal life, it’s as if he were dead. If he’s an incurable drunkard, if he’s shut away for life in prison—

Hilary. But I’m not a drunkard. I’m not a convict. I’ve done nothing. I’ve been to the war, to fight, for her, for all of you, for my country, for this law-making machine that I’ve called my country. And when I’ve got from it, not honourable scars, not medals and glory, but sixteen years in hell, then when I get out again, then the country I’ve fought for, the laws I’ve fought for, the woman I’ve fought for, they say to me, “As you’ve done without her for fifteen years you can do without her altogether.” That’s what it is. When I was helpless they conspired behind my back to take away all I had from me. [To Margaret] Did I ever hurt you? Didn’t I love you? Didn’t you love me? Could I help being ill? What have I done?

Sydney. You died, Father.

Margaret. Sydney, don’t be cruel.

Miss Fairfield. Ah, we cry after the dead, but I’ve always wondered what their welcome back would be.

Hilary. Well, you know now.

Dr. Alliot. I don’t say it isn’t hard—

Hilary. Ah, you don’t say it isn’t hard. That’s good of you. That’s sympathy indeed. And my wife—she’s full of it too, isn’t she? “Poor dear! I was married to him once. I’d quite forgotten.”

Margaret. For pity’s sake, Hilary!

Dr. Alliot. Why, face it, man! One of you must suffer. Which is it to be? The useful or the useless? the whole or the maimed? the healthy woman with her life before her, or the man whose children ought never to have been born?

Hilary. [In terrible appeal] Margaret!

Sydney. Is that true, Dr. Alliot? Is that true?

Margaret. [Her voice shaking] I think you go too far.

Dr. Alliot. Mrs. Fairfield, in this matter I cannot go too far.

Miss Fairfield. For me, at any rate—too far and too fast altogether! Before ladies! It’s not nice. It’s enough to call down a judgment.

Bassett. [Entering] Mr. Pumphrey to see you, ma’am. [To Sydney] And Mr. Kit.

Miss Fairfield. [Justified] Ah!

Margaret. I can’t see anyone.

Bassett. He said, ma’am, it was important.

Hilary. Who? Who?

Miss Fairfield. The Rector. I expect he’s heard about you.

Hilary. I can’t see him. I won’t see him. Let me go. I’ve met the Levites. Spare me the priest. [He breaks away from them and goes stumbling out at the other door.]

Sydney. [Following him anxiously] Father!

Dr. Alliot. [Preventing her] No, no, my child! I’ll look after him. [He goes out quickly.]

Rector. Ah, good afternoon, Mrs. Fairfield—Miss Fairfield—

Margaret. [Mechanically. She is very tired and inattentive] A happy Christmas, Mr. Pumphrey!

Rector. Ah! Just so! Christmas afternoon. An unusual day to call, Mrs. Fairfield, and, I fear, an inconvenient hour—

Margaret. Not at all, Mr. Pumphrey.

Rector. I can give myself [he takes out his watch] till three fifteen, no longer. The children’s service is at three thirty.

Margaret. [Turning to the bell] Mayn’t I order you an early cup of tea?

Rector. Thank you, thank you, no. Busy as I am, I should not have disturbed you—

Miss Fairfield. Rector, it’s as if you had been sent!

Rector. Ah! gratifying! I did not see you at the morning service, Miss Fairfield. But last night—late last night—

Miss Fairfield. [With a look at Sydney] Three A.M., Rector?

Rector. Three fifteen, Miss Fairfield.

Kit. Look here, Father—

Rector. I received certain information from my son—

Kit. No, you don’t, Father. I’ll have my say first. It’s just this, Mrs. Fairfield—

Rector. [Fussed] Christopher? Christopher?

Kit. [He is very much in earnest and he addresses himself solely to Margaret] I want you to know that it is nothing to do with me, Mrs. Fairfield. I don’t agree with my father. [Confidentially] You wouldn’t think it but I never do.

Rector. Christopher?

Kit. [Ignoring him] And it was only coming up the drive that he sprung on me why he wanted to see you, or I wouldn’t have come—

Margaret. [Liking him] I think Sydney would have been sorry, Kit.

Kit. [With a touch of his father’s manner] Yes, well, Sydney and I have talked it over—and I know I’m going into the church myself—but I think he’s all wrong, Mrs. Fairfield. [Unconscious of plagiarism] I’m not nineteenth century. [But Sydney giggles.]

Miss Fairfield. Rector, what’s the matter with the young man?

Kit. [Forging ahead] You see, I’m pretty keen about Sydney, and so, naturally, I’m pretty keen about you, Mrs. Fairfield.

Rector. Miss Fairfield, I’m without words.

Kit. [Burdened]—and I just wanted to tell you that I can’t tell you what I think of my father over this business. It makes me wild.

Sydney. Kit, you’d better shut up.

Kit. [Turning to Sydney] Well, I only wanted her to understand that I’m not responsible for my father—that he’s not my own choice, if you know what I mean. [They talk aside.]

Rector. His mother’s right hand! I don’t know what’s come over him.

Miss Fairfield. [Grimly] A pretty face, Rector!

Rector. Ah! the very point! I shall be glad to see you alone, Mrs. Fairfield—not you, of course, Miss Fairfield, but—er— [He glances at Kit and Sydney.]

Margaret. [Resignedly] Sydney, have you shown Kit all your presents?

Sydney. [Reluctantly taking the hint, but continuing the conversation as they go out] What did you let him come for? Oh, you’re no good! [The door bangs behind them.]

Margaret. [Half smiling] Well, Mr. Pumphrey, I suppose it’s about Sydney and Kit?

Rector. Mrs. Fairfield, until last night we encouraged, we were gratified—

Margaret. Last night? Oh, the dance!

Rector. I sat up for my son until three fifteen of Christmas morning. His excuse was your daughter—

Margaret. [With dignity] Do you take objection to Sydney, Mr. Pumphrey?

Rector. Now, my dear lady, you mustn’t misunderstand me—

Margaret. [Quietly] To me, then?

Rector. Mrs. Fairfield, I beg—But in the course of a slight—er—altercation between Christopher and myself it transpired—

Margaret. [She has been prepared for it] I see, it’s her father—

Rector. I am grieved—grieved for you.

Margaret. But his illness was no secret.

Rector. My heart, Mrs. Fairfield, and Mrs. Pumphrey’s heart has gone out to you in your affliction. When the light of reason—

Margaret. Then you did know. Then I don’t follow.

Rector. But according to Christopher—

Margaret. Well?

Rector. Mrs. Fairfield, is your husband alive or dead?

Margaret. My former husband is alive.

Rector. [With a half deprecatory, half triumphant gesture] Out of your own mouth, Mrs. Fairfield—

Margaret. [Bewildered] But you say you knew he was insane?

Rector. But I didn’t know he was alive.

Miss Fairfield. [Irritated] Don’t be so foolish, Margaret. It’s not the insanity, it’s the divorce.

Rector. When I realised that I had been within a week of re-marrying a divorced person—

Margaret. [Coldly] Why didn’t you go to Mr. Meredith?

Rector. Mr. Meredith is—er—a difficult man to—er—approach. I felt that an appeal to your feelings, as a Christian, as a mother—

Margaret. You mean you’ll prevent Kit marrying Sydney—?

Rector. It depends on you, Mrs. Fairfield. I won’t let him marry the child of a woman who remarries while her husband is alive.

Margaret. But the church allows it?

Miss Fairfield. [Correcting her] Winks at it, Margaret.

Rector. [With dignity] “Winks” is hardly the word—

Margaret. Then what word would you use, Mr. Pumphrey?

Rector. I am not concerned with words.

Margaret. But I want to know. I care about my church. It lets me and it doesn’t let me—what does it mean?

Rector. [Much moved] I am not concerned with meanings, Mrs. Fairfield. I am concerned with my own conscience.

Miss Fairfield. Margaret—you’ve no business to upset the Rector. Why don’t you tell him that the situation has changed?

Margaret. Nothing has changed.

Rector. Changed?

Miss Fairfield. My nephew has recovered—returned. He’s in the house now.

Rector. Providence! It’s providence! [With enthusiasm] I never knew anything like providence. Changed indeed, Miss Fairfield! My objection goes. Dear little Sydney! Ah, Mrs. Fairfield, in a year you and your husband will look back on this—episode as on a dream—a bad dream—

Margaret. [Stonily] I have no husband.

Rector. Ah! the re-marriage—a mere formality—

Miss Fairfield. Simpler still—the decree can be rescinded.

Margaret. [Stunned] Aunt Hester, knowing his history, knowing mine, is it possible that you expect me to go back to him?

Miss Fairfield. He’s come back to you.

Rector. A wife’s duty—

Margaret. [Slowly] I think you’re wicked. I think you’re both wicked.

Rector. Mrs. Fairfield!

Miss Fairfield. Control yourself, Margaret!

Margaret. [With a touch of wildness in her manner] You—do you love your wife?

Rector. Mrs. Fairfield!

Margaret. Do you?

Rector. Mrs. Pumphrey and I—most attached—

Margaret. Suppose you weren’t. Think of it—to want so desperately to feel—and to feel nothing. Do you know what it means to dread a person who loves you? To stiffen at the look in their eyes? To pity and—shudder? You should not judge.

Rector. I—I—

Miss Fairfield. There it is, you see, Rector! She doesn’t care what she says.

Dr. Alliot enters.

Dr. Alliot. [Gravely, holding the door behind him] Margaret, my child— [He sees the others and his voice changes] Hullo, Pumphrey! You here still? Well, well—you’re cutting it fine.

Rector. The service! [He pulls out his watch, stricken.]

Dr. Alliot. I’ll run you down there if you’ll wait a minute. [To Margaret, privately, poking a wise forefinger] What you want, my child, is a good cry and a cup of tea.

Rector. [Coming up to Margaret, stiffly] Goodday, Mrs. Fairfield! You will not—reconsider—?

Margaret. I will not.

Rector. I regret—I regret— [To Miss Fairfield] My dear lady, you have my sympathy. I think I left my hat— [Miss Fairfield escorts him into the hall.]

Dr. Alliot. Hilary’s coming home with me, Margaret. He wants a word with you first. Can you manage that?

Margaret. Of course.

Dr. Alliot. [Abruptly] Where’s Meredith?

Margaret. [Eagerly] He’s coming. He’s taking me away.

Dr. Alliot. Good. The sooner the better.

Rector. [Reappearing at the door] Dr. Alliot—it now wants seven minutes to the half.

Dr. Alliot. Coming! Coming! See now—you can be gentle with him—

Margaret. Of course.

Dr. Alliot. [With a keen look at her] Nor yet too gentle. Well, well, God be with you, child! [He trots out.]

Hilary. Have they gone? [Reassuring her] It’s all right. I’m going too. [He waits for her to answer. She says nothing] I’m going. I’ve got to. I see that. He’s made me see.

Margaret. Dr. Alliot?

Hilary. I’m going to stay with him till I can look round. He’s going to make it right with that place.

Margaret. I’m glad you’ve got a good friend, Hilary.

Hilary. Yes, he’s a good chap. He’s talked to me. He’s made me see. [He comes a little closer.] He says—and I do see—It’s too late, of course— [his look at her is a petition, but she makes no sign] isn’t it? [He comes nearer.] Yes—it’s too late. It wouldn’t be fair—to ask you— [again the look] would it?

Margaret. [Imploringly] Oh, Hilary, Hilary!

Hilary. [Encouraged to come closer] No woman could be expected—you couldn’t be expected— [she makes no sign] could you? [Repeating his lesson] It’s what he says—you’ve made a new life for yourself— [he waits] haven’t you? There’s no room in it—for me—is there? [He is close to her. She does not move.] So it’s just a case of—saying good-bye and going, because—because—I quite see—there’s no chance— [Suddenly he throws himself down beside her, catching at her hands, clinging to her knees] Oh! Meg, Meg, Meg! isn’t there just a chance?

Margaret. [Faintly] Hilary, I can’t stand it.

Hilary. [And from now to the end of the scene he is at full pelt, tumbling over his words, frantic] Yes, but listen to me! Listen to me! You don’t listen. Listen to me! I’ve been alone so long—

Margaret. Gray! Gray! Why don’t you come?

Hilary. I’ll not trouble you. I’ll not get in your way—but—don’t leave me all alone. Give me something—the rustle of your dress, the cushion where you’ve lain—your voice about the house. You can’t deny me such little things, that you give your servant and your dog.

Margaret. It’s madness—

Hilary. It’s naked need!

Margaret. What good should I be to you? I don’t love you, Hilary—poor Hilary. I love him. I never think of anything but him.

Hilary. But it’s me you married. You promised—you promised—better or worse—in sickness in health—You can’t go back on your promise.

Margaret. It isn’t fair.

Hilary. Anything’s fair! You don’t know what misery means.

Margaret. I’m learning.

Hilary. But you don’t know. You couldn’t leave me to it if you knew. Why, I’ve never known you hurt a creature in all your life! Remember the rat-hunts in the barn, the way we used to chaff you? and the starling? and the kitten you found? Why, I’ve seen you step aside for a little creeping green thing on the path. You’ve never hurt anything. Then how can you hurt me so? You can’t have changed since yesterday—

Margaret. [In despairing protest] It’s half my life ago—

Hilary. It’s yesterday, it’s yesterday!

Margaret. [With the fleeting courage of a half caught bird] Yes, it is yesterday. It’s how you took me—yesterday—and now you’re doing it again!

Hilary. [Catching at the hope of it] Am I? Am I? Is it yesterday? yesterday come back again?

Margaret. [In the toils] No—no! Hilary, I can’t!

Hilary. [At white heat] No, you can’t. You can’t leave me. You can’t do it to me. You can’t drive me out—the wilderness—alone—alone—alone. You can’t do it, Meg—you can’t do it—you can’t!

Margaret. [Beaten] I suppose—I can’t.

Hilary. You—you’ll stay with me? [Breaking down utterly] Oh, God bless you, Meg, God bless you, God bless you—

Margaret. [Puzzling it out] You mean—God help me?

CURTAIN.