  The Scene is the same as in the first and second Acts, the drawing-room at Kenyon-Fulton. Two days have elapsed. It is about twelve o’clock in the morning. Mrs. Insoley is seated with her dog on her lap, and Miss Hall is reading the leading article of the Times to her. Miss Hall. [Reading.] “ ... to whom it would give the suffrage are marked off from all citizens who have ever and anywhere enjoyed the franchise in great civil communities by physical differences which no legislation can affect. Women, they insist, pay rates and taxes as men do, and therefore, they argue, women ought to vote as men do. But rates and taxes may be imposed or abolished by legislation. Men may become ratepayers and taxpayers, or cease to be ratepayers and taxpayers. The one thing that no enthusiasm, no reasoning, no eloquence, demonstrations, or statutes can achieve is to make a woman a man.” Mrs. Insoley. How true that is, Louisa. Miss Hall. I’ve always thought exactly the same myself, Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. And there’s another thing, Louisa. No man can become a mother. Miss Hall. [Reflectively.] No, I suppose not. Mrs. Insoley. Have you any doubts on the subject, Louisa? Miss Hall. Oh, no, Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. [Ironically.] You may take it from me that no man can become a mother. And apparently very few women either nowadays. [Archibald Insoley comes in. Archibald. Good morning, mother. Mrs. Insoley. Good morning, my dear. [He bends down and kisses her. Archibald. Good morning, Miss Hall. Miss Hall. Good morning. Mrs. Insoley. Louisa, you may read the rest of that article to yourself in the garden. Miss Hall. [Getting up.] Very well, Mrs. Insoley. Shall I take the dog? Mrs. Insoley. [Handing it over.] Yes. And be very careful with him. He says he’s not very well to-day. [Miss Hall takes the dog and goes out. Mrs. Insoley. I’m glad to have an opportunity of talking to you, Archibald. I’ve fancied that you’ve been rather avoiding me the last day or two. Archibald. [Cheerfully.] Oh, no, my dear mother. Mrs. Insoley. When I asked Grace to invite Helen Vernon to stay here for a few days, it was in the confident hope that you would make her a proposal of marriage. Archibald. I respect and esteem Miss Vernon, but I confess that no warmer feeling has ever entered my bosom. Mrs. Insoley. It’s not necessary that warm feelings should enter a clergyman’s bosom, Archibald. She’s of very good family indeed, and an heiress. Five thousand acres and a house that’s only just been done up. Archibald. [With a chuckle.] If there only weren’t a wife to be taken along with the property! Mrs. Insoley. [With a twinkle in her eyes.] It shouldn’t be necessary for me to tell a person of your profession that none of the pleasures of this world can be had without some drawback. Archibald. What a pity it is you weren’t a man, mother. You would have made such a bishop. Mrs. Insoley. Are you trying to change the conversation, Archibald? Archibald. I don’t think it would be a bad idea. Mrs. Insoley. Then I will only say one thing more. I am the meekest woman in the world, and a lamb could lead me. But I should like to remind you that the living of Kenyon-Fulton is not worth more than a hundred and seventy a year, and if you can keep a curate and live like a gentleman it’s only owing to my generosity. Archibald. I’m quite prepared to live on a hundred and seventy a year, mother. I dare say it would have just as good an effect on my figure as matrimony. Mrs. Insoley. [Rather crossly.] I don’t know what you’re talking about, Archibald. Archibald. I understood you to recommend marriage as a sort of heroic remedy for corpulence. Mrs. Insoley. You have nothing against Helen, I presume? Archibald. [Smiling.] I could have wished that fewer summers had passed over a fringe which I shrewdly suspect to be artificial. Mrs. Insoley. Of course it’s artificial, but you’re no chicken yourself, Archibald. Archibald. On the contrary, I’m much too old a bird to be caught by chaff. Mrs. Insoley. I’m sure we don’t want another flighty young thing in the family. Archibald. I don’t think Grace has been very flighty the last day or two. Mrs. Insoley. What’s the matter with her? She’s been going about with a face as long as one of your sermons. Archibald. I’m afraid Peggy’s death upset her very much. Mrs. Insoley. [Irritably.] That’s the worst of those sort of people, they have no self-control. If she’s going to give way like this at the death of a kitchen-maid, what on earth is she going to do at the death of a duchess? Archibald. Is it a riddle, mother? [Grace comes in. She looks tired and worn. She is in a very nervous state. She gives the impression that any folly, any wildness may be expected from her. Grace. Good morning, Archibald. Archibald. Good morning. Grace. I thought you’d be at the inquest. Archibald. No. There was no need for me to go. And Claude seemed to think he’d rather I didn’t. Mrs. Insoley. What is this? Archibald. The inquest on Peggy Gann. Grace. Have you seen Claude? Archibald. He looked in at the Rectory for five minutes. I’m afraid he’s awfully worried. Mrs. Insoley. I have no patience with Claude. He should have more self-respect than to let such a thing worry him. Archibald. He’s afraid he may be asked some very unpleasant questions. Mrs. Insoley. You seem entirely to forget the relative positions of the parties concerned. If Claude doesn’t want to answer an impertinent question, it’s the easiest thing in the world for him to fly into a passion and refuse. Who is the coroner? Grace. His name is Davies. He’s the local doctor. Mrs. Insoley. You’re not going to suggest that the local doctor would dream of asking a question unless he was quite sure Claude was prepared to answer it? Archibald. Davies is an advanced Radical. I’m afraid he may take the opportunity to have a fling at Claude. Mrs. Insoley. I’m all at sea. In my day we wouldn’t have stood a doctor for five minutes who was a Radical. We’d have made life unbearable for him until he became a Conservative or left the district. Archibald. [With a shrug of the shoulders.] You’re looking rather dicky, Grace. Grace. Oh, I’m quite well, thank you. Mrs. Insoley. Am I mistaken in thinking you have rouge on your cheeks? Grace. I’ve not been sleeping very well, and I didn’t want to look ill. Mrs. Insoley. In my young days ladies did not paint their faces. Grace. [With suppressed rage.] We don’t live in your young days, and I’m not a lady. Mrs. Insoley. [With a chuckle at the opportunity Grace has given her.] As you are my hostess, it would be insolent of me to contradict you, my dear Grace. [Delighted with her repartee, she gets up and walks out of the room. Grace goes up to the looking-glass over the chimney-piece and rubs her cheeks with a handkerchief. Archibald. I wonder if you’d be very angry if I said something to you? Grace. [Icily.] Do you object to the way I do my hair, or Archibald. I was going to say something to you about Claude. [Grace gives a slight, an almost imperceptible start, but does not answer or look round. Archibald. You know how funny he is. He doesn’t say much when anything’s on his mind. But if one knows him well it’s not hard to tell when something’s bothering him.... He’s awfully worried about you. Grace. [Still looking in the glass.] I don’t know why I should worry him now more than I usually do. Archibald. He’s afraid you blame him for Peggy’s death. Grace. Why should I? Archibald. He feels it was his fault. Grace. I suppose it was in a way. Archibald. He’s so fond of you he can’t bear to think that—that it’s made a difference to you. Grace. Has he said anything to you about it? Archibald. No. Grace. Perhaps it’s only your fancy. [Turning round.] Why are you telling me now? Archibald. I’m afraid he’ll have rather a rough time at the inquest. I thought you might say something to buck him up a little. A word or two from you would mean so much. [There is a short pause. Grace. I think it’s so strange that you should say all this to me now. It’s not as if we’d ever been great friends, is it? Archibald. Our best friends are always those who put us in a good conceit of ourselves. I always think it’s a dreadful thing when a man loses his nerve.... You can do so much for Claude if you choose. Grace. I think you exaggerate the influence I have over him. After all, he’s always taken care to keep me and his life strictly apart. Archibald. I think you should remember that if he made a Grace. You speak as if I were perfection itself. Archibald. And then, if he was so determined not to break that particular rule of the estate, it was partly for your sake, wasn’t it? Because he thought it his duty to keep you from any possibility of contact with evil. Grace. Did he tell you that? Archibald. No. It was not very difficult to guess. Grace. I suppose not—for anyone who had eyes to see. Archibald. You will do your best, Grace? Grace. What do you suggest I should do? Archibald. It’s very difficult for me to tell you. I think the chief thing is that you should tell Claude—if you Grace. [Hoarsely.] That oughtn’t to be very hard. I love him with all my heart and soul. Archibald. [Smiling.] If you could only say that to him—just in that way, as if you really felt it—you would make him so happy. [There is a pause. Grace puts her hands in front of her eyes, and she keeps them there for a moment so that she should not see Archibald while she is speaking. Grace. Archibald, I want to speak to you for a minute—as a clergyman. Archibald. My dear Grace, you frighten me. Grace. I’m sorry if I’ve been often bitter and unkind to you. I’m ashamed when I think of all the silly, cruel things I must have said to you during the ten years I’ve lived here. Archibald. [Cheerfully.] Oh, what nonsense! You’ve got a clever tongue, and like most people who have, you can’t resist saying a sharp thing when it strikes you. Grace. I’ve often set out to wound you. I’ve been fiendish sometimes. I’d like you to know that I’m grateful to you for being so patient with me. It wouldn’t be surprising if you loathed me. Archibald. Oh, I think I’ve always had a very great affection for you, Grace. I know you’ve often found life down here rather dull. If any allowances have been necessary, I’ve been perfectly ready to make them. Grace. I expect I was often unjust to you. I sometimes felt you weren’t quite sincere.... I thought you’d only become a clergyman on account of the living and the house. Archibald. Yes, I felt that. But I couldn’t bear you any ill-will on that account. It was true. [Grace turns and looks at him with startled eyes. Archibald. I’m afraid I’m not much in the way of parsons. My class means so much more to me than my calling. I know it’s a mistake, and yet I can’t help it. I’m bound down by conventions that I haven’t the will to escape from. The day’s past of the family living, the perquisite of a younger son, and I’m out of place here. I can’t feel that the position is mine by right as my Uncle Robert felt before me, and I haven’t the enthusiasm which might make me feel I’d earned it by my own efforts. Grace. I’m so ashamed of myself. Because people didn’t carry their hearts on their sleeves I thought they had no hearts at all. Archibald. For three years after I was ordained I was a curate at Wakefield. I was worked so hard that I never had a moment to myself. I think those were my happy days. And that’s what I ought to do now. I ought to exchange all this for some living in a city, and do some real work before it’s too late. But I haven’t the courage. And then I should do no good, for I haven’t conviction. That’s why I have no influence in the parish. They come to me for beef-tea and for coal-tickets, but when it’s real help they want they go elsewhere. All I’m fit for is to hold a family living and dine with the neighbouring gentry. You summed me up with the utmost precision. Grace. I don’t think so any more. I have an idea that perhaps one sees people most truly when one sees them charitably. Archibald. [With a smile.] You said you wanted to speak to me, and I’ve been talking only about myself. Grace. I think you’ve made it a little easier for me, Archibald. It’s kind of you. [She pauses and there is a silence. She walks up and down the room in agitation. Grace. [With a series of little gasps.] Archibald, I’m dreadfully unhappy. I’ve done something which I bitterly regret. I don’t know how to tell you. But I must tell you.... I’ve been unfaithful to Claude. Archibald. Grace, you must be mad. You can’t mean what you say. It’s—it’s impossible. Grace. It’s torturing me. It’s torturing me. Archibald. But I don’t understand. You don’t mean that.... Grace. [Desperately.] Oh, yes, I mean exactly what I say. Please understand me. Archibald. You said you were in love with Claude. Grace. Yes. That’s why I can’t bear the agony of it. I’m so unhappy. I’m so dreadfully unhappy. I want you to help me. I want you to tell me what to do. [There is a moment’s pause. Archibald is so bewildered that he can find not a word to say. Grace. You can hardly believe it, can you? It sounds incredible. Sometimes I can’t help saying to myself that it is not possible it should be true. Archibald. [Trying to collect himself.] It’s come as a most dreadful blow. Grace. Don’t reproach me. I’ve said all the obvious things to myself already.... Oh, I hate myself. Archibald. I’m so bewildered. Why d’you tell me? I feel I ought to ask you all sorts of questions, and I can’t bear to ask you anything. Grace. I don’t think anything matters but that I’ve behaved odiously. Claude was always very good to me, and I’ve deceived him. And every kindness, every word of love he says to me is a reproach. And I love him with all my soul, and there’s always the horror of what I’ve done between us. And I can’t bear it any longer. Archibald. I’m so helpless. Grace. Are you going to tell Claude? Archibald. I? You must be mad. Grace. I thought perhaps you might feel it was your duty. You’re his brother. Archibald. It would never occur to me to betray the confidence you’ve put in me. Grace. Then what shall I do? Archibald. I can’t advise you. I haven’t got the experience. I know so little of the world. Grace. You must advise me. I’m at the end of my strength. I can’t go on like this any more. Archibald. Is it all over between you and ... you know what I mean? Grace. Yes, it’s all over. Archibald. I don’t know what to say to you. I’m awfully sorry. Grace. [Desperately.] Is there no one who can do anything for me? Archibald. I suppose nobody else knows? Grace. Helen Vernon. She found out. But I can’t go to her for advice. I can’t. I can’t humiliate myself. And the remorse is just killing me. Archibald. It’s so difficult for me to say things that won’t seem sanctimonious. I don’t want to say a word that you can think is a reproach. Grace. I don’t mind what you say so long as you help me. [There is a moment’s pause. Archibald. [Hesitatingly.] We’re taught that there’s one course clear to the sinner that repenteth. [Grace starts to her feet and looks at him wildly. Grace. You want me to tell Claude? Archibald. [In a low voice.] I don’t see how there can be forgiveness till one has confessed one’s sin. Grace. [With a deep, deep sigh.] Oh, if you knew what a relief it would be! For days I’ve been fighting with the temptation to make a clean breast of it. I’ve been trying to keep it from me, trying not to think of it. But it meets me at every turn. It haunts Archibald. For goodness’ sake, calm yourself. Grace. If I’d told him before, when I was trying to persuade him to let Gann stay, that girl wouldn’t have died. I hadn’t the courage. I wouldn’t sacrifice myself. It was too much to ask me. And since then I’ve been tortured by remorse. They say she had the suicidal instinct, and would have killed herself for almost anything. But I seem to see her lying there reproaching me. Reproaching me. Archibald. Why don’t you go to Claude at once and get it over? Grace. I’m frightened. I’m just sick with fear. A dozen times I’ve been on the point of it—just to have done with it, to get rid of the agony that burnt my heart—and at the last moment I couldn’t. But it’s like being on a high place and looking down and holding on to something so that you shouldn’t throw yourself over. Sooner or later I shall have to do it. It’s the only way to get back my self-respect. It’s the only chance I have of living at all. Archibald. I wish I could do more for you. Grace. No one can do anything for me. Oh, it is cruel. And to come just now when I love Claude! I didn’t love him at first. It came quite suddenly—as if scales had been torn away from my eyes. And it wasn’t till then that I saw the sin and the wickedness of it. Oh, it was so much more than sin and wickedness. The filthiness. The only thing’s to tell him and have done with it. You know he’ll divorce me, don’t you? Archibald. He loves you so much. Grace. Even if it breaks his heart, he’ll force himself to divorce me. You know what Claude is. He’ll think it’s his duty. He’ll do what he thinks he ought to do even if it kills him. Oh, but if he’d only forgive me, I would try to make amends. It’s so hard that I’ve only learnt how to be a good wife now that I’m unfit to be his wife at all. Archibald. [Deeply moved.] Be brave, Grace. [She looks at him for a moment, then suddenly makes up her mind. She takes a letter from her dress and sits down at the desk. She puts it into an envelope on which she writes Claude’s name. Grace. Will you ring the bell? Archibald. [Touching it.] What are you going to do? Grace. It’s a letter that I had from—the other. It’s proof of everything. I felt I couldn’t tell Claude. It was hopeless. And I thought I’d just press it into his hand.... [As she is speaking Moore comes in. She hands him the letter. Grace. Have that given to Mr. Insoley the moment he comes in. Moore. Very good, madam. [Exit. Archibald. [Startled.] D’you mean to say you’re going to tell him like that? Grace. It’s the only way I can do it. Archibald. [Overcome.] Good God, what have I done? Grace. He’ll read the letter, and then the worst will be over. I couldn’t have told him—I couldn’t. Archibald. I hope you’ve done right. Grace. Anyhow, it’s the end of everything—just when I might have started a new life.... I wonder when I shall have to go away from here? Archibald. Don’t put it like that. Grace. [Looking out of the window.] I thought I hated the place. It’s bored me to the verge of tears. And now I shall never again see the night fall on the park slowly. And I feel ... and I feel that with me, too, those great trees, and the meadows, and the cawing rooks have come to be part of my blood and my bones. [The door is opened, and Grace gives a start and a little frightened cry. Helen Vernon comes in. Grace. Oh, I thought it was Claude. [She puts her hand to her heart and steadies herself against a chair. Miss Vernon. What on earth’s the matter? Grace. [With a gesture of the head towards Archibald.] I’ve told him about me and.... Miss Vernon. [In short exclamation, which does not interrupt Grace.] Oh! Grace. I’m going to tell Claude. It’s the only thing to do. Miss Vernon. [To Archibald, sharply.] Is that your advice? You fool, Archibald! Grace. I can’t bear the torture any more. Miss Vernon. I suspected you were thinking of something like this. But you wouldn’t let me speak to you. Grace. I’ve been struggling against it, and now I’ve made up my mind. Miss Vernon. My dear, there are three good rules in life. The first is—never sin; and that’s the most sensible. The second is—if you sin, never repent; and that’s the bravest. But the third is—if you repent, never never confess; and that’s the hardest of them all. Archibald. I don’t think this is the time for flippancy, Helen. Miss Vernon. Good heavens, I’m being as serious as I possibly can. Archibald. D’you mean to say you think Grace oughtn’t to say anything? Miss Vernon. I think it would be monstrous of her to say anything. Archibald. If the sinner wants forgiveness, first of all he must confess his sin. Miss Vernon. You still look upon your God as a God of vengeance, who wants sacrifices to appease Him. Archibald. “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.” Miss Vernon. That was said to a stiff-necked generation that wanted humbling. But no one can want to humble us, surely. We’re so timid already. We’re so unsure of ourselves. We’ve all got a morbid desire to unbosom ourselves. The commonest ailment of the day Archibald. Don’t let her move you, Grace. I beseech you, for your soul’s sake. Be brave. Grace. I know that it’s my only chance of happiness. Miss Vernon. But who cares about your happiness? Archibald. Helen, how can you be so unkind? Miss Vernon. No one knows why we’ve been brought into the world, but it evidently wasn’t for our happiness. Or if it was, the Being who put us here has made a most outrageous mess of it. Put your happiness out of the question. Archibald. [Very earnestly to Grace.] If the sinner repents, let him confess his sin. That’s the only proof he can give of a contrite spirit. Miss Vernon. Nonsense. He can give a much more sensible proof by acting differently in future. Grace. That would be so easy now. Miss Vernon. But actions aren’t good because they’re difficult. Grace. Part of my punishment is the feeling that except for this horrible mistake we should both be so much happier than we were before. Miss Vernon. You love Claude now, don’t you? Grace. With all my heart. Miss Vernon. I have an idea that it’s only your sin that has made your love worth having. Archibald. [Rather shocked.] Helen. Miss Vernon. You were rather hard and selfish before because you had nothing in particular to reproach yourself with. Perhaps it was necessary that you should step from the narrow path of virtue in order to become a virtuous woman. Archibald. Helen, you can’t mean that. Miss Vernon. It’s very often only repentance that makes men and women human. Archibald. Repentance is useless without sacrifice. Grace. Yes, I feel that. And the only sacrifice I can make is to lay bare my soul before Claude and accept my punishment. Archibald. And then, I think Claude should be given the chance of deciding for himself. It’s not fair to leave him in ignorance. Miss Vernon. [To Grace.] Don’t you know that Claude loves you, and trusts you, and believes in you? Grace. That is all my torment. I’m so unworthy. If I didn’t love him—if I didn’t want him to love me so much—it wouldn’t be so dreadful.... I can’t bear that there should be this secret between us. I know that he’s not loving me, but some fancy of his own heart. And I’m jealous. I’m jealous of the woman he loves who isn’t me. And I want him to love me as I am, as I love him. Miss Vernon. Grace, don’t forget that I’ve loved him, too, hopelessly, without any thought of a return. It gives me some claim, doesn’t it? [Archibald looks at her quickly, with surprise, but does not speak. Miss Vernon. The only thing I care for is his happiness. And I beseech you to have mercy on him. Grace. What do you mean? Miss Vernon. If you destroy his belief in you he’ll have nothing left. He thinks he’s strong, but he isn’t. He depends on a few simple principles, and some of them are already giving way under his feet. He wants you now more than ever. You can give him back his self-reliance. And you’re going to humiliate him. Besides everything else, the misery and the grief, don’t you see what a blow it’ll be to his vanity? I beseech you to have mercy. Grace. You’re asking me to go on living the hateful lie. But I can’t breathe. The air about me seems heavy with deceit. If Claude doesn’t love me for what I am, what can his love be to me? Miss Vernon. My dear, it’s not for ourselves that our friends love us, but for the grace and the beauty that they’ve given us out of their own hearts. And the only way we can show them our gratitude is by doing all we can to preserve those precious illusions they have about us. Grace. I don’t want a love that’s based on illusion. At the back of my mind there was the hope that if I told Claude, some day in the future he might forgive me. And we could start fresh with mutual knowledge and mutual confidence. But if I don’t tell him, we can never come together. Even though we’re not separated for an hour, there’ll always be this barrier between us. Miss Vernon. Then let that be your punishment. Grace. [Startled.] That! [With a little laugh of scorn.] You don’t know what you’re asking me to do. It’s because I love Claude so much that I can’t let him go on thinking I’m good and pure and chaste. Archibald. And how can good come out of a lie, Helen? Miss Vernon. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a lie always. Don’t you Grace. [With a sort of gasp.] You mean—you think I might become really what Claude thinks me? Miss Vernon. You might try. Grace. D’you know that I should never have a moment’s peace? Miss Vernon. If you love Claude really, that mightn’t be too great a price to pay for his happiness. Grace. [Vehemently.] Oh, it’s all very well for you to talk, but you don’t know what this sense of shame is. It’s killing me. And the degradation of being loved for what you’re not. And you want me never to escape from it. Oh, you’re right. It would be a fiendish punishment. Miss Vernon. It’s the only return you can make for all the love that Claude has given you. Grace. [Taking up the thought.] For his wonderful kindness, [For a moment Grace stares in front of her as the words sink in. Miss Vernon. Grace, it’s I who ask you now to be brave. Grace. [With a great sigh.] I seem to see the chance of a greater sacrifice than anything I’d ever dreamt of. I wonder.... I believe there’s a chance.... [With a sudden start.] Oh! listen. [She has heard Claude come in. There is a sound of voices in the hall. Grace. That’s settled it. It’s too late now to do anything. Miss Vernon. What is it? Grace. Claude’s just come in. I heard him speaking to Moore. He’s been given the letter. Miss Vernon. D’you mean to say.... [Some part of the facts dawns upon her and she bursts out violently.] Oh, it’s not that the human race are wicked that I mind, or that they’re weak—you can give them backbone; Grace. Will you leave me, both of you? Claude had better find me alone. Miss Vernon. [To Archibald, after a glance at Grace.] Come. [They go out. Grace is horribly frightened. She stands quite still, pulling her handkerchief about. Claude comes in. He has a letter in his hand. He flings it on a table. Grace sees with a start that it is unopened. Grace. [Forcing herself to seem natural.] Is the inquest over? Claude. [Sinking dejectedly into a chair.] They brought in a verdict of suicide while of unsound mind. Grace. That was what you expected, wasn’t it? Claude. Yes. Grace. You must be thankful it’s finished and done with. Claude. [With an effort.] The jury passed a vote of censure on me. Grace. Claude! Claude. Oh, if you’d only heard the questions they asked me! There were reporters there, so it’ll be in the papers and you can read for yourself. They made me appear a perfect brute. Grace. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you fancy. Claude. You see, I hadn’t a chance of defending myself. I wasn’t going to make excuses to a parcel of Dissenting shopkeepers. It made me look as if I hadn’t a leg to stand on. Grace. After all, what can it matter what a dozen yokels think of you? Claude. And afterwards when I came out—they had the inquest in that big room upstairs at the Insoley Arms—there was a crowd outside, people I’d known all my life, I suppose they’d been taking the opportunity to have a good soak, and they hissed me as I passed. Grace. Didn’t you say that you were going to abolish the rule? Claude. Of course I’m going to abolish the rule. Hang it all, it’s caused wretchedness enough. Grace. I wish you’d had an opportunity of telling them. Claude. [Rather shamefacedly.] The coroner asked me what I was going to do about it. I couldn’t knuckle under then with all those people round me. I simply couldn’t, Grace. I was obliged to say that I meant to be master in my own house, and I didn’t propose to let anyone dictate to me. Grace. [Putting her hand on his shoulder.] I’m afraid you’ve been awfully worried, old man. Claude. It’s given me a bit of a knock to find out that they—they just hate me. I was rather fond of the people on the estate, and I thought they were fond of me. When they’ve been in trouble I’ve done every damned thing I could to help them. When times have been bad I’ve not bothered much about the rents, and we’ve never been rich. Hang it all, I’ve given them all my time and my thoughts for years, and the only result is that they can’t stick me. They haven’t got any mercy if I’ve made a mistake. They give me no credit for good intentions. Grace. I’m sure you exaggerate, Claude. You fancy they feel more bitter than they really do. Claude. Oh, if you’d only seen them! The pleasure they took in having a dig at me! I could see the hatred on their faces. Oh, I expect Archibald is right. Our time down here is over. The only fellow they want in the country now is the Jew stockbroker with his pockets full of money. Grace. Darling, I know that you’ve always acted for the best. I know how much you’ve done for the people on the estate. After all, it wasn’t for their gratitude that you did it, was it? It was because it was your duty. Claude. [Rising.] Oh, Grace, I don’t know what I should do without you. You’ve been so awfully good to me through the whole thing. I’m so grateful to you. Grace. What nonsense! Claude. I was so afraid it would make a difference to you, but it hasn’t, has it? Grace. [Shaking her head.] No. Claude. If I lost you, Grace, I couldn’t live. Without you—I can’t imagine life without you. Grace. How absurd you are, Claude. Claude. I’m talking rot, aren’t I? [He notices the letter, which he had put on the table, and picks it up. Grace catches her breath. Claude. Hulloa! I forgot to open this. Moore gave it me as I came in. [With surprise.] It’s your hand-writing. Grace. [Quite naturally, holding out her hand.] It’s nothing. I was afraid I should have gone out by the time you came in, and I wanted to remind you about the herbaceous border. It’s only a note. Claude. [Giving her the letter.] Are you going out? Grace. I was going to motor to Wells with Helen Vernon. [As she speaks she tears the letter into little bits. Claude. Don’t leave me to-day, Grace. I want you so awfully badly. Grace. [Sinking with exhaustion into a chair.] No, I won’t leave you ... if you want me. [Claude kneels down by her side. Claude. I always want you, Grace. You’re so much to me.... After all, nothing can really matter to me so long as I have you. It’s such a comfort to think that I can trust you. And you’ll never round on me. I’m awfully grateful for you, Grace. [He buries his face in her lap, kissing her hands. Grace. [In a trembling voice.] I can never be such a wife to you as you deserve, Claude. But I can try. If you can believe in me always, Claude, perhaps in time I can become what you believe me. [He makes a movement.] No, don’t look at me. I want you to know that I love you with all my heart, I love you with my body, and I love you with my soul. I want to forget myself and think only of you. What does my happiness matter so long as I can make you happy? [She bends down and kisses his hair. THE END |
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