  The scene is the same as in Act 1. Miss Fairfield sits reading. Sydney is fidgeting about the room. Bassett comes in and begins to lay the cloth. Kit, who enters unseen behind her, sees Miss Fairfield and makes hastily up the stair on tip-toe. Sydney. [Turning] Oh, Bassett, isn’t it rather early for tea? Lunch was so late. Bassett. [Desisting] Oh, very well, miss. Miss Fairfield. Now, Sydney! Always trying to upset things! I’m more than ready for my tea. Bring it in at once, Bassett. Bassett. Very well, ma’am! Sydney. Auntie, I know Mother won’t want to be disturbed. Miss Fairfield. It’s high time she was. Talk! Talk! No consideration. She’ll tire Hilary out. [She goes towards the drawing-room.] Sydney. [Worried] Auntie, I think— Miss Fairfield. Then you shouldn’t! [She goes out.] Bassett. Shall I bring in tea, Miss Sydney? Sydney. [With a twinkle] I think we’ll wait half an hour. Bassett. [With an answering twinkle] Very well, miss. Sydney. Oh—Bassett—tell Mr. Kit that—er—that the coast’s clear. Bassett. He didn’t stay out with us, miss. Him and the puppy together was a bit too much for cook, with the turkey on her hands. [Looking round] He’s here somewhere, miss. [She goes out.] Sydney. [Addressing space] Kit, you idiot, come out! Kit. [Appearing at the head of the stairs] I spend half my life dodging your aunt. [As he runs downstairs he rakes a bunch of mistletoe from the top of a picture.] She spoilt the whole effect this morning, but now— [He advances on Sydney.] Sydney. [Enjoying herself] What do you want now? Kit. [Chanting] “The mistletoe hung in the old oak hall!”— Sydney. [Eluding him] Shut up, Kit! [They dodge and scuffle like two puppies till the drawing-room door opens, letting in the sound of voices.] Kit. Sst! [He dashes up the stairs and comes down again much more soberly as Sydney says over her shoulder—] Sydney. It’s only Mother. Margaret comes dragging into the room, shutting the door behind her. Sydney. [The laughter dying out of her] Oh, Mother, how white you look! Margaret. Has Kit gone? Sydney. No, but I can get rid of him if you want me to. Margaret. I want him to wait. I want him to take a letter for me to Gray. Sydney. Do you want Gray to come here? Margaret. I want him not to come here. Sydney. Oh, I see, not till after Father’s gone. Margaret. He’s not going. Sydney. Mother! Margaret looks at her with twitching lips. Sydney. Mother, you haven’t— Margaret. I can’t talk to you now, Sydney. Sydney. But Mother— Margaret. Please. Sydney. But Mother— Margaret. Ask Kit to wait a few minutes. Sydney. But— Margaret goes into the inner room and sits down to write at a little desk near the window. Her back is turned to them and she is soon absorbed in her letter. Sydney stands deep in thought. Kit. [At the foot of the stairs] All serene? Sydney makes no answer. Kit prances up behind her with the bunch of mistletoe. Kit. [Repeating his success] “The mistletoe hung in the old oak hall!” Sydney. [Violently] Oh, for God’s sake, stop it! Kit. [Quenched] What’s the row? Sydney. You never know when to stop. Kit. Well, you needn’t snap out at a person— Sydney. [Impulsively] Sorry! Oh, sorry, old man! I’m jumpy to-day. Kit. [Chaffing her] Nervy old thing! Sydney. [Stricken] I—I suppose I am. Kit. One minute you’re as nice as pie, and then you fizz up like a seidlitz powder, all about nothing. Sydney. All about nothing. Sorry, my old Kit, sorry! [She flings herself down on the sofa. Then, with an effort] Come and talk. What’s the news? Kit. I told you it all this morning. What’s yours? Sydney. I like yours better. How’s the pamphlet going? Kit. Nearly done. I put in all your stuff. Sydney. [Absently] Good. Kit. Though you know, I don’t agree with it. What I feel is—you’re not listening. Sydney. [Slowly] Kit, talking of that paper—I read somewhere—suppose now—is it true it can skip a generation? Kit. It? What? Sydney. Oh—any illness. Consumption or—well, say insanity. Suppose—you, for instance—suppose you were a queer family—a little, you Kit. Well? Sydney. What about the children? Kit. I wouldn’t risk it. Thank the Lord your father’s only shell-shock. Sydney. Why? Kit. You can’t pass on shell-shock. Sydney. Then you can pass on insanity—even if you’re fit yourself? Kit. Of course you can. Sydney. It would be very wicked, wouldn’t it—to children? Oh, it would be wicked. I suppose when people are in love they don’t think. Kit. Won’t think. Sydney. But isn’t there a school that says there’s no such thing as heredity? Kit. Well, all I know is I wouldn’t risk it. Sydney. It—it’s hard on people. Kit. My word, yes. They say that’s why old Alliot never married. Sydney. [High and mightily] Oh, village gossip. Kit. [Apologetically] Well, you know what the mater is. Sydney. [Abandoning her dignity] Who was it, Kit? Kit. Old Miss Robson. Sydney. Rot! Kit. Fact. Sydney. But she’s all right. Kit. Had a game sister. Sydney. Of course! I just remember her. She used to scare me. Kit. Oh, it must be true. They’re such tremendous pals still. Sydney. Poor old things! Kit. Rotten for her. Sydney. Rottener for him! What did she go on being pals with him for? Kit. Why shouldn’t she? Sydney. Well it stopped him marrying anyone else. She oughtn’t to have let him. Kit. You can’t stop a person being fond of you. Sydney. When it’s a man you can. Kit. My dear girl, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Sydney. My dear boy, if a girl finds out that it’s not right for her to marry a man, it’s up to her to choke him off. Kit. Rot! Sydney. Well, I think so. Kit. Couldn’t be done. Sydney. Couldn’t it just? Kit. Any man would see through it. Sydney. As if any man ever saw through anything! As if I couldn’t choke you off in five minutes if I wanted to! Kit. I’d like to see you try! Sydney. Would you? Kit. My dear girl, we’re not all fools where women are concerned. Sydney. I admire your air of conviction. Kit. Don’t be clever-clever, old thing. Be— [His arm slips round her.] Sydney. [Edging away] Don’t. Kit. [He glances round hastily at Margaret, but she is deep in writing.] Why not? Sydney. [Deliberately] I hate being pawed. [A pause.] Kit. Look here, Sydney, d’you call this a way of spending Christmas afternoon? Sydney. [Her lip quivering] It isn’t much of a way, is it? Kit. Well then, old thing! [Again the arm.] Sydney. [Icily] I told you to leave me alone. Kit. [Rising, huffed] Oh, well, if you can’t be decent, I’m going. Sydney. [Sweetly] Counter attraction? Kit. [Wheeling round on her] Now, my dear old thing, look here. I know it’s only a sort of way you’ve got into; but when you say—“men!”—with a sort of sneer, and “other attractions”—like that, in that voice, it just sounds cheap. I hate it. It’s not like you. I wish you wouldn’t. Sydney. Dear me! Kit. Now I suppose you’re annoyed. Sydney. Oh, no, I’m only amused. Kit. [Heavily] There’s nothing amusing about me, Sydney. I’m in earnest. Sydney. I’m sure you are. You got out of answering an innocent little question quite neatly. It looks like practice. Kit. [Harried] Now, look here, Sydney, I swear to you— Sydney. [Like the ghost in Hamlet] Swear! Kit. If you’re thinking of Alice Hewitt I’ve only met her four times. Sydney. Oh, so her name’s Alice! Kit. Didn’t you know? Sydney. Never heard of her till this minute. Kit. Then what on earth have you been driving at. Sydney. Trying an experiment. Kit. If it’s because you’re jealous— Sydney. Jealous! Jealous of a—What colour are her eyes? Kit. [Carelessly] How’d I know? Sydney. [With a sudden spurt of suspicion] Kit! What colour are mine? Kit. [Helplessly] Oh, er—oh— Sydney. [Terribly] Kit! What colour are mine? [Relenting] Look at my frock, you donkey! What do you suppose I wear blue for? So Alice has got blue eyes! Kit. How do you know? Sydney. I know you, Kit. You’re conservative. Kit. As a matter of fact, she isn’t unlike you. That’s what made me talk to her. Sydney. Oh, you’ve talked to her? Kit. [Warming] Oh, yes—quite a lot. She’s a friend of my sister’s. Sydney. She always is. Kit. What d’you mean—“she always is”? I tell you I’ve only met her four times. I can’t make you out. Sydney. No? Kit. I wish I could make you out. Sydney. [An ache in her voice] Oh, I wish you could. Kit. [Responding instantly] I say, old thing, is anything really the matter? Sydney. [With a glance at Margaret] I’m worried. Kit. Oh, that! Yes, it’s beastly for your mother. Sydney. Oh, it’s not that. At least— Kit. What? Sydney. [Lightly] Oh, I don’t know. Kit. [Puzzled] Can’t you tell me? Sydney. No, old man. Kit. [As in Act. I.] But—look here—marriage has got to be a sort of mutual show, hasn’t it? Confidence, and all that? Sydney goes off into a peal of laughter. Kit. What’s the matter now? Sydney. Do you preach this sort of sermon to Alice? Kit. Sydney—that’s—that’s rude—that’s—that’s Sydney. Take time, darling! Kit. You’re being simply insulting. Sydney. Too bad! I should go and tell Alice. Kit. Damn Alice! Sydney. Oh, no, Kit, she’s got blue eyes. Kit. [Storming] Look here, what’s up? Sydney. Nix. Kit. Have you really got your back up? What’s the matter with you, Sydney? Sydney. D’you want to know? Kit. [With a certain dignity] I think I’d better. Sydney. Well, it’s [yawning] “jam to-morrow, jam yesterday, but—” Surely you know how it ends? Kit. I don’t. And I don’t want to. Sydney. [Drearily] “But never jam to-day.” Kit. [Startled] Why, Sydney! Sydney. [Recovering herself, lightly] D’you know what that’s out of? Kit. No. Sydney. [Mischievously] You ought to—“Alice”— Kit makes a furious gesture. Sydney. [Appeasing him] No, no, no! “Alice through the Looking-glass!” [More soberly] I can’t help it, Kit. When I look in the looking-glass I see—Alice. Kit. Once and for all, Sydney, will you shut up about Alice? Sydney. Can’t. It’s her jam to-day. Kit. I wish you’d talk sense for a change. Sydney. But I am. I’m conveying to you as nicely and tactfully as possible that I’m— Kit. [Apprehensive at last] What, Sydney? Sydney. Tired of jam. Kit. [Heavily] D’you mean you’re tired of me? Sydney. That would be putting it crudely. Kit. What’s got into you? I don’t know you. Sydney. P’raps you’re beginning to. Kit. But what have I done? Sydney. [Flaring effectively] Well, for one thing you shouldn’t have told your father we were engaged. What girl, do you suppose, would stand it? You ask Alice. Kit. [Flaring in reality] If you’re not jolly careful I will. Sydney. [Egging him on] Good for you! Kit. [Furious] And if I do I’ll ask her more than that. Sydney. [Clapping her hands] I should go and do it now, if I were you. Strike while the iron’s hot. Kit. You’re mad. Sydney. [With intense bitterness] Yes, I suppose that’s the right word to fling at me. Kit. [Between injury and distress] I never meant that. You’re twisting the words in my mouth. You’re just picking a quarrel. Sydney. [Lazily] Well, what’s one to do with a little boy who won’t take his medicine? I tried to give it you in jam. Kit. [Curt] You want me to go? Sydney. Yes. Kit. For good? Sydney. Yes. Kit. Honest? Sydney. Yes. Kit. Right. [He turns from her and goes out.] Margaret. [Looking up] Was that Kit? Sydney, don’t let him go. Sydney. Kit! Ki-it! Kit. [Returning joyfully] Yes! Yes, old thing? Sydney. [Impassively] Mother wants you. Margaret. Oh, Kit—would you take this for me? It’s for Mr. Meredith. I expect you’ll meet him, but if not, I want you to take it on. At once, Kit. Kit. Right, Mrs. Fairfield! Margaret. [Detaining him] What’s the matter, Kit? Kit. [His head up] Nothing, Mrs. Fairfield. Sydney. Mother, Kit’s got to go. Kit. [Resentfully] It’s all right. I’m going. You needn’t worry. Margaret. [Humorously, washing her hands of them] Oh, you two! She turns away from them and stands, her arm on the mantel-piece, staring into the fire. Kit marches to the door. Sydney. [In spite of herself, softly] Kit! Kit. [Quickly] Yes? Sydney. [Recovering herself, impishly] You’ll give her my love? Kit. You’re a beast, Sydney Fairfield! [He goes out with a slam.] Sydney. [In a changed voice] You’ll give her my love. [Running to the door.] Kit! [The door opens again, but it is Gray Meredith who comes in.] Gray. Sydney, what’s wrong with Kit? He went past me like a gust of wind. Margaret. [Coming up to them] He didn’t give you my note? Gray. He never looked at me. What note? Margaret. I— Gray. Aren’t you ready? Why aren’t you dressed? Margaret. I— Gray. You must be quick, dearest. Margaret. I— [She sways where she stands.] Gray goes to her, and half clinging to him, half repulsing him, she sits down with her arm on the table and her head on her arm. Gray. Of course! Worn out! You should have come an hour ago. Margaret. Yes. Gray. Never mind that now. Sydney, get your mother’s wraps. Margaret. [Agitated] Sydney—wait—no. Gray. Warm things. It’s bitter, driving. Sydney. [Uncertainly] Gray, I think Gray. Get them, please. After a tiny pause and look at him Sydney obeys. You see her go upstairs and disappear along the gallery. Gray. [Solicitous] I was afraid it would come hard on you. Has he—? But you can tell me all that later. Margaret. I must tell it you now. Gray. Be quick, then. We’ve got a fifty mile drive before us. Margaret. [Not looking at him] I—I’m not coming. Gray. [Smiling] Not? There, sit quiet a moment. My dear—my dear heart—you’re all to pieces. Margaret. I’m not coming. Gray. [Checking what he takes for hysteria] Margaret—Margaret— Margaret. I’m not coming. It’s Hilary. Gray. What? Collapsed again? I thought as much. Margaret. I— Gray. Tragic! But—it simplifies his problem, poor devil. Has Alliot charge of him? Margaret. No, no. It’s not that. He’s not ill. He’s well. That’s it. He’s well—and—he won’t let me go. Gray. He won’t, won’t he? [He turns from her.] Margaret. Where are you going? Gray. To settle this matter. Where is he? Margaret. Leave him alone. It’s me you must punish. I’ve made up my mind. Oh, how am I to tell you? He convinced me. He—cried, Gray. [Then, as Gray makes a quick gesture] You mustn’t sneer. You must understand. He’s so unhappy. And there’s Sydney to think of. And Gray, he won’t marry us. Gray. What’s that? Margaret. The Rector. He’s been here. Gray. [Furious] My God, why wasn’t I? Margaret. And Aunt Hester—she made it worse. [Despairingly] You see what it is—they all think I’m wicked. Gray. Damned insolence! Margaret. But it’s not them—it’s Hilary. I did fight them. I can’t fight Hilary. I see it. It’s my own fault. I ought never to have let myself care for you. Gray. Talk sense. Margaret. But there it is. It’s too much for me. I’ve got to stay with him. Gray. [For the first time taking her seriously] Say that again, Margaret, if you dare— Margaret. I’ve got to—stay— [With a sharp crying note in her voice] Gray, Gray, don’t look at me like that! He turns abruptly away from her and walks across to the hearth. He stands a moment, deep in thought, takes out and lights a cigarette, realises what he is doing, and Gray. [Very quietly] This—this is rather an extraordinary statement, isn’t it? Margaret. [Shrinking] Don’t use—that tone. Gray. I am being as patient as I can. But—it’s not easy. Margaret. Easy—? Gray. Do you mind telling me exactly what you mean? Margaret. I can’t talk. You know I’m not clever. I’m trying to do what’s right— Gray. Then shall I tell you? Margaret makes a little quick movement with her hands, but she says nothing. Gray. [Watching her keenly while he speaks] You mean that you’ve made a mistake— Margaret. [Misunderstanding] Yes. Gray.—that the last five years goes for nothing—that you don’t care for me. Margaret. Gray! Gray. Wait. That you’ve never cared for me—that you don’t want to marry me— Margaret. How can you say these things to me? Gray. But aren’t they true? Margaret. You know—you know they’re not true. Gray. Then what do you mean when you say, “I won’t come?” Margaret. I mean—Hilary. I’ve got to put him first because—because he’s weak. You—you’re strong. Gray. Not strong enough to do without my birthright. I want my wife and my children. I’ve waited a long while for you. Now you must come. Sydney comes down the stairs, a red furred cloak over her arm. She pauses a few steps from the bottom, afraid to break in on them. Margaret. If Hilary’s left alone he’ll go mad again. Gray. Margaret—come. Margaret. How can I? Gray. Margaret, my own heart—come. Margaret. You oughtn’t to torture me. I’ve got to do what’s right. Gray. [Darkening] Are you coming with me? I shan’t ask it again. Margaret. Oh, God—You hear him! What am I to do? Sydney comes down another step. Gray. Why, you’re to do as you choose. I shan’t force you. I’m not your turn-key. I’m not your beggar. We’re free people, you and I. It’s for you to say if you’ll keep your—conscience, do you call it?—and lose Margaret. I’ve lost what I love. There’s no more to lose. Gray. You sing as sweetly as a toy nightingale. Almost I’d think you were real. Margaret. [Wounded] I don’t know what you mean. Gray. “What you love!” You don’t know the meaning of the notes you use. Margaret. [Very white, but her voice is steady] Don’t deceive yourself. I love you. I ache and faint for you. I starve— Sydney. [Appalled, whispering] What is it? I don’t know her. Margaret. I’m withering without you like cut grass in the sun. I love you. I love you. Can’t you see how it is with me? But— Gray. There’s no “but” in love. Margaret. What is it in me? There’s a thing I can’t do. I can’t see such pain. Gray. [Hoarsely] Do you think I can’t suffer? Margaret. I am you. But he—he’s so defenceless. It’s vivisection—like cutting a dumb beast about to make me well. I can’t do it. I’d rather die of my cancer. Gray. [The storm breaking] Die then—you fool—you fool! Sydney descends another step. The cloak slides from her hands on to the baluster. Gray. [Without expression] Good-bye. Margaret. [Blindly] Forgive— Gray. How can I? Margaret. I would you— Gray. D’you think I bear you malice? It’s not I. Why, to deny me, that’s a little thing. I’ll not go under because you’re faithless. But what you’re doing is the sin without forgiveness. You’re denying—not me—but life. You’re denying the spirit of life. You’re denying—you’re denying your mate. Sydney. [Strung up to breaking point] Mother, you shall not. Margaret. [As they both turn] Sydney! Sydney. [Coming down to them] I tell you—I tell you, you shall not. Margaret. [Sitting down, with a listless gesture] I must. There’s no way out. Sydney. There is. For you there is. I’ve thought it all along, and now I know. Father—he’s my job, not yours. Margaret. [With a last flicker of passion] D’you think I’ll make a scape-goat of my own child? Sydney. [Sternly] Can you help it? I’m his child. [She throws herself down beside her] Mother! Mother darling, don’t you see? You’re no good to him. You’re scared of him. But I’m his own flesh and blood. I know how he feels. I’ll make him happier than you can. Be glad for me. Be glad I’m wanted somewhere. Margaret. [Struggling against the hope that is flooding her] But Kit, Sydney—Kit? Sydney. [With a queer little laugh that ends, though it does not begin, quite naturally] Bless him, I’ll be dancing at his wedding in six months. Margaret. But all you ought to have— Sydney. [Jumping up flippantly] Oh, I’m off getting married. I’m going to have a career. Margaret.—the love—the children— Sydney. [Strained] No children for me, Mother. No children for me. I’ve lost my chance for ever. Margaret. [Weakly] No—no— Sydney. [Smiling down at her] But you—you take it. I give it to you. Margaret. But— Sydney. [Dominant] What’s the use of arguing? I’ve made up my mind. Margaret. But if your father— Sydney. [At the end of her endurance] Go away, Mother. Go away quickly. This is my job, not yours. [She turns abruptly from them to the window, and stands staring out into the darkening garden.] Margaret. [Dazed] So—so— [She sways, hesitating, unbelieving, like a bird at the open door of its cage] So—I can come. Gray makes no answer. Margaret. [With a new full note in her voice] Gray, I can come. Gray. [Without moving] Can you, Margaret? Margaret. [In heaven] I can come. Gray. [Impassively] Are you sure? Margaret. [In quick alarm] What do you mean? Gray. [Stonily] Why, you could deny me. You’ve chopped and changed. I want proof that you’ve still a right to come. Margaret. [Like a child] You’re angry with me? Gray. No. Margaret. You’re angry with me. Gray. I want proof. Margaret. I get frightened. I’m made so. Always I’ve been afraid—of Hilary—of everyone—of life. But now—you—you’re angry, you’re so angry, you’re very angry with me—and I— [She goes steadily across the room to him. He makes no movement] I’m not afraid. [She puts up her hands, and drawing him down to her kisses him on the mouth.] Is that proof? Gray. [Quietly] Proof enough. Come. He takes the cloak and throws it round her. They go out together. As Sydney, forgotten, stands looking after them, Bassett enters with the tea-tray. She puts it down on the table and turns up the lights. Bassett. Is the gentleman staying to tea, miss? Sydney. [Correcting her] Mr. Fairfield. It’s my father, Bassett. Bassett. We thought so, miss? Sydney. [Smiling faintly] Did you, Bassett? Bassett. He’s got your way, miss! Quick-like! [She opens the drawing-room door] Tea’s ready, ma’am. [Outside the motor drives away.] Miss Fairfield. [Entering with Hilary] Tea’s very late. [Bassett goes out.] Hilary. I thought I heard the sound of a car. [Suspiciously] Where’s your mother? Sydney. She’s gone away. Hilary. [Stricken] Gone? Sydney. Gone away for good. Hilary. Where? Sydney. Out of our lives. Hilary. With—? Sydney. [Quickly] Out of our lives. Miss Fairfield. [Furiously] This is your doing, Sydney. Hilary. [Dazed] Gone. Everything gone. Sydney. I’m not gone. Hilary. But that boy—? Sydney. That’s done with. Miss Fairfield. You’ve jilted him? Sydney. Yes. Miss Fairfield. Like mother, like daughter. Sydney. Just so. Miss Fairfield. I pray you get your punishment. Sydney. Your prayers will surely be answered, Auntie. Hilary. [Slowly] It was a cruel thing to do. Sydney. He’ll get over it. Men—they’re not like us. Hilary. [Timidly] You loved him? Sydney. What’s that to anyone but me? Hilary. [Peering at her] You’re crying. Sydney. I’m not. Hilary. You love him? Sydney. I suppose so. Hilary. Then why? Then why? Sydney. We’re in the same boat, Father. Miss Fairfield. Yes, that’s the way they talk now, Hilary. They know too much, the young women. It upsets everything. Hilary sits down on the sofa. Hilary. [Broken] I don’t see ahead. I don’t see what’s to become of me. There’s no-one. Sydney. There’s me. Hilary. [Not looking at her] I should think you hate me. Sydney. I need you just as badly as you need me. Hilary. [Fiercely] It’s your damn-clever doing that she went. D’you think I can’t hate you? Sydney. [Close to him] No, no, Father, you want me too much. We’ll make a good job of it yet. Hilary. [His head in his hands] What job? Sydney. [Petting him, coaxing him, loving him, her hands quieting his twitching hands, her strong will already controlling him] Living. I’ve got such plans already, Father—Father dear. We’ll do things. We’ll have a good time somehow, you and I—you and I. Did you know you’d got a clever Miss Fairfield. [Surveying them] Proud of her! D’you see, Hilary? That’s all she thinks of—self—self—self! Money, ambition—and sends that poor boy away. A parson’s son! Not good enough for her, that’s what it is. She’s like the rest of the young women. Hard as nails! Hard as nails! Sydney. [Crying out] Don’t you listen to her, Father! Father, don’t believe her! I’m not hard. I’m not hard. His arm goes round her with a gesture, awkward, timid, yet fatherly. THE CURTAIN FALLS. May-June, 1920. Woods & Sons, Ltd., Printers, London, N. 1. (W.W.A.) |
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