  The drawing-room at the Manor House, Colonel Wharton’s residence. It is a simple room, somewhat heavily furnished in an old-fashioned style; there is nothing in it which is in the least artistic; but the furniture is comfortable, and neither new nor shabby. On the papered walls are the Academy pictures of forty years ago. There are a great many framed photographs of men in uniform, and here and there a bunch of simple flowers in a vase. The only things in the room which are at all exotic are silver ornaments from Indian bazaars and flimsy Indian fabrics, used as cloths on the occasional tables and as drapery on the piano. At the back are French windows leading into the garden; and this, with its lawn and trees, is seen through them. It is summer, and the windows are open. Morning. Mrs. Wharton is sitting in the corner of the sofa, knitting a khaki comforter. She is a slight, tall woman of five-and-fifty; she has deliberate features, with kind eyes and a gentle look; her dark hair is getting very gray; it is simply done; and her dress, too, is simple; it is not at all new and was never fashionable. Kate, a middle-aged maid-servant, in a print dress, a cap and apron, comes in. Kate. If you please, ma’am, the butcher’s called. Mrs. Wharton. Oh! I arranged with Cook that we should have cold roast beef again for luncheon to-day, Kate. Tell the butcher to bring two and a half pounds of the best end of the neck for to-night, and tell him to pick me out a really nice piece, Kate. It’s so long since the Major has had any good English meat. Kate. Very good, ma’am. Mrs. Wharton. And he might send in a couple of kidneys. The Colonel and Major Wharton enjoyed the kidneys that they had for breakfast yesterday so much. Kate. Very good, ma’am. If you please, ma’am, the gardener hasn’t sent in a very big basket of pease. Cook says it won’t look much for three. Mrs. Wharton. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter as long as there are enough for the gentlemen. I’ll just pretend to take some. Kate. Very good, ma’am. As she is going, Colonel Wharton enters from the garden with a basket of cherries. He is a thin old man, much older than his wife, with white hair; but though very frail he still carries himself erectly. His face is bronzed by long exposure to tropical suns, but even so it is the face of a sick man. He wears a light tweed suit which hangs about him loosely, as though he had shrunk since it was made for him. He has a round tweed hat of the same material. Colonel Wharton. Has the paper come yet, Kate? Kate. Yes, sir. I’ll bring it. [Exit Kate Colonel Wharton. I’ve brought you in some cherries, Evelyn. They’re the only ripe ones I could find. Mrs. Wharton. Oh, that is nice. I hope you’re not tired. Colonel Wharton. Great Scott, I’m not such a crock that it can tire me to pick a few cherries. If I’d been able to find a ladder I’d have got you double the number. Mrs. Wharton. Oh, my dear, you’d better let the gardener get them. I don’t approve of your skipping up and down ladders. Colonel Wharton. The gardener’s just as old as I am and not nearly so active. Hasn’t John come in yet? He said he was only going to the post. Mrs. Wharton. Perhaps he went in to see Sylvia on the way back. Colonel Wharton. I shouldn’t have thought she wanted to be bothered with him in the morning. Mrs. Wharton. George! Colonel Wharton. Yes, dear. Mrs. Wharton. It seems so extraordinary to hear you say: “Hasn’t John come in yet? He said he was only going to the post.” It makes me rather want to cry. Colonel Wharton. It’s been a long time, Evelyn. It’s been a bad time for both of us, my dear. But worse for you. Mrs. Wharton. I tried not to be troublesome, George. Colonel Wharton. Dear child, aren’t I there to share your troubles with you? Mrs. Wharton. It seems so natural that he should come in any minute, it seems as though he’d never been away—and yet somehow I can’t quite believe it. It seems incredible that he should really be back. Colonel Wharton. [Patting her hand.] My dear Evelyn! [Kate brings in the paper and gives it to the Colonel. She goes out. Colonel Wharton. Thank you. [While he puts on his spectacles.] It’s a blessing to be able to read the births, deaths, and marriages like a gentleman instead of turning before anything else to the casualties. Mrs. Wharton. I hope before long that we shall be composing a little announcement for that column. Colonel Wharton. Have they settled a day yet, those young people? Mrs. Wharton. I don’t know. John hasn’t said anything, and I didn’t see Sylvia yesterday except for a moment after church. Colonel Wharton. Evelyn dear, the gardener tells me he hasn’t got much in the way of pease ready for to-night, so I’ve told him to send in a few carrots for me; I think they’re probably better for my digestion. Mrs. Wharton. Nonsense, George. You know how much you like pease, and I’m not very fond of them. I was hoping there’d only be enough for two so that I shouldn’t have to eat any. Colonel Wharton. Evelyn, where do you expect to go when you die if you tell such stories? Mrs. Wharton. Now, George, don’t be obstinate. You might give in to me sometimes. They’re the first pease out of the garden and I should like you to eat them. Colonel Wharton. No, my dear, I’d like to see you eat them. I’m an invalid, and I must have my own way. Mrs. Wharton. You tyrant! You haven’t seen Dr. Macfarlane this morning? I’m so anxious. Colonel Wharton. You old fusser! No sooner have you stopped worrying over your boy than you start worrying over me. Mrs. Wharton. Even though you won’t let me call my soul my own, I don’t want to lose you just yet. Colonel Wharton. Don’t be alarmed. I shall live to plague you for another twenty years. [Kate comes in. Kate. If you please, ma’am, Mrs. Poole has called. Mrs. Wharton. Why haven’t you shown her in? Kate. She wouldn’t come in, ma’am. She said she was passing and she just stopped to enquire how you were. Colonel Wharton. Tell her to come in, Kate. What’s she making all this fuss about. Kate. Very well, sir. [Exit. Mrs. Wharton. I expect she wants to hear all about John. Colonel Wharton. If she’ll wait a minute she’ll have the chance of seeing the young fellow himself. [Kate comes in, followed by Mrs. Poole. The visitor is a thin, rather dour person of middle age, brisk in her movements, competent and firm. She is a woman who knows her own mind and has no hesitation in speaking it. She is not unsympathetic. She wears a serviceable black coat and skirt and a black straw hat. Kate. Mrs. Poole. [Exit. Colonel Wharton. What do you mean by trying to get away without showing yourself? Is this how you do your district visiting? Mrs. Poole. [Shaking hands with Mrs. Wharton and with the Colonel.] I wanted to come in, but I thought you mightn’t wish to see me to-day, so I put it like that to make it easier for you to send me about my business. Mrs. Wharton. We always wish to see you, my dear. Mrs. Poole. If I had a son that I hadn’t seen for four years and he’d been dangerously wounded, I think I’d want to keep him to myself for the first few days after he got home. Colonel Wharton. Then you’re not as unselfish a woman as Evelyn. Mrs. Wharton. Or perhaps not nearly so vain. Mrs. Poole. Did you go down to the station to meet him on Saturday? Mrs. Wharton. The Colonel went. He wouldn’t let me go because he said I’d make a fool of myself on the platform. Colonel Wharton. I took Sylvia. I thought that was enough. I knew I could trust her to control herself. Mrs. Poole. And when are they going to be married. Mrs. Wharton. Oh, I hope very soon. It’s been a long and anxious time for her. Mrs. Poole. Can you bear to give him up when he’s only just come back to you? Mrs. Wharton. Oh, but it’s not giving him up when he’s marrying Sylvia. She’s been like a daughter to us. D’you know, they’ve been engaged for seven years. Mrs. Poole. I hope they’ll be very happy. Sylvia certainly deserves to be. Colonel Wharton. She’s done cheerfully the most difficult thing anyone can do. All through the war when she was pining to be off and do her bit she stayed at home with a bed-ridden mother. Mrs. Wharton. Poor Mrs. Bullough. Colonel Wharton. Yes, but poor Sylvia too. It’s easy enough to do your duty when duty is dangerous and exciting, but when you can do nothing—no one knows better than I what it is to sit still and look on when others are doing the things that are worth while. This war came ten years too late for me. Mrs. Poole. That’s what the Vicar has been saying ever since the war began. But after all your son has taken your place, and I think you can be proud of him. Colonel Wharton. [With intense satisfaction.] The rascal with his Military Cross and his D.S.O. Mrs. Poole. I’m so glad that his first day here was a Sunday. Mrs. Wharton. You don’t know what I felt when we knelt down side by side in church. I was very grateful. Mrs. Poole. I know. I could see it in your face and the Colonel’s. Colonel Wharton. God has vouchsafed us a great mercy. Mrs. Poole. The Vicar was dreadfully disappointed that he didn’t stay for Holy Communion. You know that he looks upon that as the essential part of the service. Mrs. Wharton. I think we were a little disappointed, too. We were so surprised when John walked out. Mrs. Poole. Did he say why he had? Mrs. Wharton. No. I talked it over with the Colonel. We didn’t quite know what to do. I don’t know whether to mention it or not. Mrs. Poole. I do hope he’ll stay next Sunday. Mrs. Wharton. He was always a very regular communicant. Colonel Wharton. I don’t see why you shouldn’t say something to him about it, Evelyn. Mrs. Wharton. I will if you like. [There is the sound of a laugh in the garden. Why, here he is. And Sylvia. [Sylvia Bullough and John Wharton come in. She is no longer quite young. She has a pleasant, friendly look rather than beauty, and she suggests the homely virtues of a girl very well brought up in a nice English family; she gives the impression of a practical, competent, and sensible woman. She will make a good wife and an excellent mother. She is very simply dressed in light summery things, and she wears a straw hat. She is carrying a string bag, in which are a number of household purchases. John Wharton is in mufti. He is a man of thirty. Sylvia. Good morning everybody! Mrs. Wharton. My dear, how nice of you to come in. John. She didn’t want to, but I made her. [Sylvia kisses Mrs. Wharton and shakes hands with Mrs. Poole, then she kisses the Colonel. Sylvia. [Gaily.] That’s a deliberate lie, John. Mrs. Wharton. This is my son, Mrs. Poole. John. [Shaking hands with her.] I daresay you suspected it. Mrs. Poole. I had a good look at you in church, you know. John. Is that how vicars’ wives behave themselves? Mrs. Poole. They allow themselves a little licence when young people come home on leave. Colonel Wharton. Did you meet in the village? John. Not exactly. I saw Sylvia darting into Mrs. Gann’s shop, evidently to avoid me.... Sylvia. [Interrupting.] I don’t know how you imagined I could see you out of the back of my head. John. So I ran like a hare, and caught her in the very act of buying two pounds of vermicelli. Sylvia. To say nothing of a tin of sardines and a packet of mustard. John. Now take off your hat, Sylvia. You mustn’t hide the best feature you’ve got. Sylvia. [Taking it off.] I hope you don’t think I shall go on doing exactly what you tell me a minute after the war’s over. John. I haven’t noticed any startling alacrity to do what I tell you as it is. Sylvia. You ungrateful fellow! When have I hesitated to carry out your slightest wish? Mrs. Wharton. He’s only been back forty-eight hours, poor dear. John. Didn’t I go down to you on my bended knees in the middle of the road and ask you to come for a walk with me? Sylvia. Oh, well, I wanted to see your father. I was anxious to hear what the specialist had said. John. [Surprised.] Have you been seeing a specialist, father? Aren’t you well? Colonel Wharton. Perfectly. It was only to satisfy your poor mother. John. But why didn’t you tell me? Is anything the matter with him, mother? Mrs. Wharton. My dear, your father wouldn’t let me tell you anything about it when you came. He didn’t want you to be worried. And I thought myself it might just as well keep till to-day. Colonel Wharton. The fact is I haven’t been quite up to the mark lately, and Dr. Macfarlane thought I’d better see a specialist. So I went into Canterbury on Saturday and saw Dr. Keller. Mrs. Poole. Yes, I heard you’d been to see him. They say he’s very clever. John. What did he say? Colonel Wharton. Well, you know what these doctor fellows are. He wouldn’t say much to me. He said he’d write to Macfarlane. John. Well? Colonel Wharton. I suppose Macfarlane got the letter this morning. He’ll probably be round presently. Mrs. Poole. I saw him going along the Bleane Road in his dog-cart about an hour ago. You might ask him who it was he was going to see. John. Are you feeling ill, father? Colonel Wharton. No. I shouldn’t have dreamed of going to a specialist, only your mother was worrying. Sylvia. Don’t put all the blame on her. I was, too. John. [Going over to him and putting his arm in his.] Poor old father, you mustn’t be ill. Colonel Wharton. Oh, I’m not going to die just yet, you know. John. I should jolly well think not. Wait till you’re a hundred and two, and then we’ll begin talking about it. [The Vicar of Stour, the Rev. Norman Poole, appears at the window. He is a tall, thin man, bald, dressed in a short black coat, with a black straw hat. He is energetic, breezy, and cheerful. He likes to show that, although a clergyman, he is a man; and he affects a rather professional joviality. Mr. and Mrs. Poole have that physical resemblance which you sometimes see in Vicar. Hulloa, hulloa, hulloa! May I come in? Mrs. Wharton. [Smiling.] Of course. How do you do? Colonel Wharton. My dear Vicar! Vicar. [Entering.] I suppose I ought to have gone round to the front door, and rung the bell like a gentleman. My dear Dorothy, when will you teach me how to behave? Mrs. Poole. I’ve long given up the attempt. Vicar. I thought I’d look in and say how-do-you-do to the wounded hero. Mrs. Wharton. My son. The Vicar. Vicar. Welcome! I passed you in the village just now. I had half a mind to come up and wring your hand, but I thought you’d say, who the deuce is this clerical gent? John. How do you do? Vicar. An authentic hero. And he speaks just like you and me. The world’s a strange place, my masters. Well, what d’you think of Blighty? John. I’m very glad to be home again. I thought I never should get back. Vicar. You’ve not been home since the beginning of the war, have you? John. No, you see I was in India when it broke out. What with Gallipoli and one thing and another, I was done out of my leave every time. Vicar. Well, it’s a long lane that has no turning. But I understand that you’ve picked up some bits and pieces here and there. The Military Cross and the D.S.O., isn’t it? Mrs. Poole. You must be a very proud man. Vicar. How did you win them? John. Oh, I don’t know. Playing about generally. Mrs. Wharton. I don’t think you’ll get very much more than that out of John. Vicar. [To John.] You lucky beggar! You’ve had your chance and you were able to take it. That’s where I should have been, where my heart was, with the brave lads at the front. And my confounded chest has kept me chained to this little tin-pot parish. Mrs. Poole. My husband suffers from his lungs. John. I’m sorry to hear that. Vicar. Yes, the Great White Peril. They say its ravages are terrible. That’s why I came here, you know; I was in charge of the parish of St. Jude’s, Stoke Mrs. Wharton. They also serve who only stand and wait. Vicar. I know, I know. It’s this confounded energy of mine. I’m a crock, and I’ve just had to make the best of it. I’m on the shelf. The future is in the hands of you brave lads who’ve been through the fire. I suppose you went to sleep during my sermon yesterday. John. Not at all. I listened to it very attentively. Vicar. I shouldn’t blame you if you had. That’s about all I’ve been able to do during the war, to preach. And, upon my word, I sometimes wonder what good I’ve done. Mrs. Wharton. You’ve been a great help to us all. Vicar. For my part I don’t deplore the war. Our Lord said: “Think not that I come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.” The Christian Church has lived by her sword. Every advance Colonel Wharton. I wish all parsons were as broad-minded. I know what war is. I was in Egypt and in South Africa. I’ve been through half a dozen wars in India. I have no use for slop and sentimentality. My own belief is that war is necessary to a nation. It brings out all a man’s best qualities. Vicar. There I heartily agree with you. It is the great school of character. Amid the clash of arms the great Christian virtues shine forth with an immortal lustre. Courage, self-sacrifice, charity, self-reliance. No one knew before the war what a pinnacle of heroism was within the power of our brave lads at the front. Mrs. Poole. What do you think about it, Major Wharton? John. [Smiling.] I? I think it’s a lovely day. I have three weeks leave, and the war is a long way off. Vicar. [With a chuckle.] A very good answer. I’ve been saying the obvious, I know that just as well as you Mrs. Poole. I don’t know what Mrs. Wharton will think of us for inflicting ourselves on her like this. Vicar. We’re all friends here, I hope and trust. If we weren’t welcome, Mrs. Wharton only had to say so. To my mind the afternoon call is a convention more honoured in the breach than the observance. Mrs. Wharton. It’s been very good of you to come. [There is a general shaking of hands. Vicar. [To John.] Well, good-bye, young fellow. I’ve tried to show you that I’m by way of being rather broad-minded as parsons go. It wouldn’t shock me in the least to hear you say “damn” or “blast.” I’m often inclined to use a bit of strong language myself. I asked you just now if you’d gone to sleep during my sermon. I wouldn’t have turned a hair if you had. John. It’s very kind of you to say so. I may avail myself of your suggestion on some future occasion. Vicar. On a future occasion, perhaps—shall we say next Sunday?—I hope you won’t leave the House of God without partaking in the greatest of all the Sacraments of our Church. Don’t forget that the Almighty has in His mercy brought you in safety through great and terrible peril. That’s all I wanted to say to you. Good-bye, God bless you. John. Good-bye. Vicar. [Shaking hands with Mrs. Wharton] Good-bye. These parsons, what a nuisance they make of themselves, don’t they? Mrs. Wharton. I wanted to ask you if you’d seen poor Mrs. Littlewood since her return. Vicar. No, she didn’t come to church yesterday. And of course, Sunday’s my busy day—I’m the only man in the parish who works seven days a week—so I haven’t had a chance to see her yet, poor soul. Sylvia. She came down by the 6.35 on Saturday. She was in the same train as John, but I wasn’t bothering much about anyone else just then, and I didn’t speak to her. Colonel Wharton. I wish we could do something for her. Mrs. Wharton. [Explaining to John.] She was telegraphed for last week to go to Ned at Boulogne. He died on Tuesday. John. [With astonishment.] Ned! But he was only a kid. Mrs. Wharton. Oh, he’d grown up since you were home. He was nearly nineteen. Mrs. Poole. Both her sons are gone now. She’s quite alone. Mrs. Wharton. We must all be very kind to her. It will be terrible for her in that big house all by herself. I wish you’d spoken to her on Saturday, George. Colonel Wharton. I felt rather shy about it. After all, we’ve had rather an anxious time over that young scamp there. If anything had happened to him—well, I should have had Evelyn, but she, poor soul, has nobody. Sylvia. I ought to have gone to see her yesterday. Mrs. Wharton. She must be absolutely prostrated with grief. Vicar. I wonder if she’d like to come and stay at the Vicarage. I can’t bear to think of her all alone. Mrs. Poole. That’s a splendid idea, Norman, and just like you. I’ll ask her at once. I’ll be glad to do what I can for her. Sylvia. Of course one ought to try and find something to occupy her mind. Vicar. Happily she has always been a deeply religious woman. When all’s said and done, in grief like that there’s only one unfailing refuge. [Kate enters, followed by Mrs. Littlewood. She is a little elderly woman. She is not dressed in mourning, but in the clothes she may be expected to have been wearing before her bereavement. Kate. Mrs. Littlewood. [Exit Kate. Mrs. Wharton. [Rising and going to meet her.] My dear friend, how very glad I am to see you. Mrs. Littlewood. How do you do? [She smiles brightly at the assembled company.] Oh, John, have you come back? [To Mrs. Wharton.] I came to ask if you and the Colonel would come and play bridge this afternoon. Mrs. Wharton. Bridge! [They all look at her with surprise, but no one says anything.] Mrs. Littlewood. I was going to ask Dr. Macfarlane to make a fourth, but perhaps John will come. Mrs. Wharton.. [With embarrassment.] It’s very kind of you, but the Colonel hasn’t been very well lately. I don’t think he feels like going out, and I shouldn’t like to leave him. Mrs. Littlewood. Oh, I’m sorry. Mrs. Wharton.. Won’t you sit down? Mrs. Littlewood. Thank you very much. I won’t stay. I’ll go round to the Wilkinsons and see if they’ll play. Vicar. I hope you weren’t very tired by your journey. Mrs. Littlewood. I wasn’t tired at all. Mrs. Poole. We thought you were, because we didn’t see you in church. Mrs. Littlewood. No, I didn’t come. I thought it would bore me. [There is a moment’s silence. Mrs. Wharton. Did you—did you come straight through from France? Mrs. Littlewood. No. I stayed a couple of nights in London. Mrs. Wharton. [With pity in her voice.] All alone? Mrs. Littlewood. No. I picked up a very nice woman in the hotel, and we went out together. We went to the Gaiety one night and the next we went to the Empire. Do you know that I’d never seen George Robey before? Mrs. Poole. Who is George Robey? Vicar. I believe he’s a comedian. Mrs. Littlewood. [Very pleasantly.] How long are you here for, John? John. I have three weeks’ leave. Mrs. Littlewood. We must all make much of you. I’ll give a tennis party for you, shall I? Sylvia. Oh, Mrs. Littlewood, I’m sure you don’t want to give parties just now. Mrs. Littlewood. I’d love to. It’s so seldom one gets an excuse for one in a place like this. Mrs. Wharton. [Taking her hand.] My dear, I want you to know how deeply we all sympathise with you in your great loss. Mrs. Littlewood. [Patting Mrs. Wharton’s hand, and then releasing her own.] That’s very kind of you. [To Sylvia and John.] Would Wednesday suit you young people? I’ll have both courts marked out. Sylvia. [Desperately.] I couldn’t come, Mrs. Littlewood, I couldn’t come. Mrs. Littlewood. Why on earth not? Sylvia. [Controlling herself to civility.] I’m engaged that day. Colonel Wharton. John has so short a time at home. I think he and Sylvia have a feeling that they don’t want to go to parties. Vicar. [Deliberately.] I hope you got over to France in time to find your son alive. [Mrs. Littlewood gives him a rapid glance, stops a moment as though to collect herself, then answers almost indifferently. Mrs. Littlewood. No, he was dead, poor child. [To Mrs. Wharton.] Good-bye, my dear, I’m sorry you can’t come and play bridge this afternoon. I suppose I shall have to send you a wedding-present, John. John. I suppose you will. Mrs. Littlewood. [With a smile at the rest of the company.] Good-bye. [She goes out. They are left in amazement. Mrs. Poole. Is she absolutely heartless? Colonel Wharton. I always thought she was devoted to her sons. Sylvia. And Ned was her favourite. Mrs. Poole. She wasn’t wearing mourning. Sylvia. Isn’t she going to, do you suppose? Mrs. Wharton. I can’t understand it. She adored those boys. Mrs. Poole. I didn’t ask her to come and stay at the Vicarage, Norman. Vicar. I don’t think we’d better till the situation’s a little clearer. She gives one the impression of not caring two straws for Ned’s death. She must be as hard as nails. Mrs. Wharton. No, she isn’t that. I’ve known her for thirty-five years. D’you think she’s mad? Colonel Wharton. We’d better say a word to Macfarlane when he comes, Evelyn. Vicar. I was never so taken aback in my life as when she said she didn’t come to church because she thought she’d be bored. Mrs. Poole. Norman, I must go. I’ve got a lot of things to do at home. Vicar. Come along then. We’ll just walk out through the garden. [There are farewells, rather distracted by the queer incident that has just occurred, and the Vicar and Mrs. Poole go out. The Colonel accompanies them to the door. Sylvia. You’re very silent, John. John. I was thinking about Mrs. Littlewood. She doesn’t give me the impression of being either callous or mad. Sylvia. What does she mean, then? John. [Reflectively.] I don’t know. [With a shrug of the shoulders, throwing off his mood.] And at the moment I don’t very much care. Come and sit down and be a comfort to a wounded hero. Sylvia. Idiot! Mrs. Wharton. Will you stay to luncheon, Sylvia dear? Sylvia. No, I think I ought to get back to mother. John. Before you go let’s tell them what we’ve been talking about. Colonel Wharton. I don’t think it’s very hard to guess. John. I want Sylvia to marry me as soon as ever it’s possible. Mrs. Wharton. Of course. John. If we look nippy we can get a special licence and be married on Thursday. We don’t want to go far for our honeymoon, because I have such a short time. And my suggestion is London. Sylvia. What do you think, Mrs. Wharton? Mrs. Wharton. Well, my dear, I think that whatever you and John decide will be quite right. Sylvia. He’s only just come back to you. I can’t bear to take him away immediately. Wouldn’t you prefer us to wait a little longer? Mrs. Wharton. My dear, we’ve always decided that you should be married the moment he came back. We’ve been quite prepared to lose him. And perhaps after a few days, if the Colonel’s well enough, you wouldn’t mind if we came up to London, too. We’d try not to be in your way. Sylvia. [Going down on her knees beside Mrs. Wharton and kissing her.] Oh, my dear, you’re so kind to me. I don’t know how I can ever thank you for all your kindness. Mrs. Wharton. It’s been a weary, anxious time for all of us. I know how unhappy you’ve been sometimes. I want you to have him now. He’s a good boy, and I think he’ll make you happy. Sylvia. [Getting up and giving John her hand.] I’m sure he will. I’ll try to make you a good wife, John. John. I expect you’ll be quite good enough for the likes of me. Then it’s to be Thursday next. Sylvia. [With a smile.] It is. [He draws her to him and kisses her. She very nearly breaks down. Sylvia. I’ve wanted you for so long, John, so dreadfully long. John. For goodness’ sake don’t cry. Sylvia. [Breaking away from him, with a chuckle.] You brute, John! I hate you. Mrs. Wharton. Did you like the Vicar, John? John. He seemed all right. Colonel Wharton. He’s a first-rate fellow. He had a very good living in London at one time, and he resigned and took one in the East End instead. John. Really? Colonel Wharton. He said he wasn’t ordained to drink China tea with elderly women of means. [With a chuckle.] He says very good things sometimes. Mrs. Wharton. They were perfectly wonderful in the East End. They wanted to live in exactly the same way as their parishioners, so they did without a servant, and did all their housework, even their washing, themselves. John. It sounds hateful, but of course it really was heroic. Mrs. Wharton. D’you remember what he said to you about Holy Communion? Your father and I were a little disappointed that you didn’t stay for it yesterday. John. I’m sorry for that, mother dear. Mrs. Wharton. It would have been such a great pleasure to both of us if we could all three have received it together. John. Dear mother.... If you’re really going home to luncheon, Sylvia, I’ll walk back with you. Mrs. Wharton. The Vicar has a Communion service on Wednesday morning. Would you come then? It’ll be the last opportunity before your marriage. John. Oh, my dear, you’re not going to ask me to get up in the middle of the night? After all, one of the pleasures of coming home is to lie in bed in the morning. I don’t know how I ever tear myself out of those lavender-scented sheets. Mrs. Wharton. Dear John, won’t you come to please us? John. [Still trying to pass it off lightly.] Oh, my dear mother, d’you think it’s really necessary? Mrs. Wharton. I should like it so much, my dear. You know, it means a great deal to us. John. [More gravely.] Don’t you think one should go to a ceremony like that in a certain frame of mind? Colonel Wharton. [Good-humouredly.] Come, my boy, you’re not going to refuse the first request your mother has made you since you came back? John. I’m awfully sorry, mother. I beg you not to insist. Mrs. Wharton. I don’t quite know what you mean. It’s not like you to be obstinate.... Won’t you come, John? John. No, mother. Colonel Wharton. Why not? John. I’ve been away a long time. There are some things one can’t help, you know. I’ve been through very terrible experiences. Mrs. Wharton. [Aghast.] Do you mean to say you’ve lost your—faith? John. I’m awfully sorry to give you pain, dear. Sylvia. [Her eyes fixed on him.] You’ve not answered your mother’s question, John. John. If you want a direct answer, I’m afraid it must be—yes. Mrs. Wharton. [Overcome.] Oh, John! Sylvia. But you came to church yesterday. John. That was just a formal ceremony. I assisted passively, as a Jew might assist at the wedding of one of his Christian friends. Sylvia. You stood when we stood, and knelt down, and seemed to pray. John. I would do that if I were in a Roman Catholic church. That seemed to me only good manners. [With a smile.] Do you think it was very deceitful? Sylvia. I don’t quite see why you should strain at a gnat. John. I don’t. It’s the camel I can’t swallow. I knew it would distress you if I refused to come to church. I didn’t want to seem a prig. But the other seems to me different. When I’m asked to take an active part in a ceremony that means nothing to me it’s quite another matter. I’d rather not tell a deliberate lie. And surely from your point of view it would be blasphemous. Mrs. Wharton. [Occupied with her own thoughts.] How dreadful! John. [Going up to her and putting his arm round her.] Don’t be unhappy, mother. I can’t help feeling as I do. After all, these are matters that only concern oneself. Sylvia. [Reflecting.] Are they? John. Surely. [To his mother.] I would rather not have told you. I knew how much you’d take it to heart. But I was obliged to. And perhaps it’s better as it is. I hated the thought of deceiving you and father. Now let’s put it out of our minds. Colonel Wharton. John, have you forgotten, that in three weeks you’ll be going back to the Front? Sooner or later you’ll find yourself once more in the fighting line. Have you asked yourself what it will be like to face death without the help of Almighty God? John. It’s always difficult to face death. Colonel Wharton. You wouldn’t be the first who found it easy to stand alone when all was going well and found it a very different thing in danger or illness. John. [With a smile.] When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be. Sylvia. Archie, Mrs. Littlewood’s elder boy, was badly wounded on the Somme. His battalion had to retreat and somehow or other he wasn’t picked up. He lay in the corner of a wood for three days and kept himself alive on a beet that he pulled out of the field. Heaven knows, I don’t want anything like that to happen to you, but are you sure your courage wouldn’t fail you then? Are you sure you wouldn’t call on God instinctively to help you? John. And if I did, what of it? That wouldn’t be me, that mangled, bleeding, starved, delirious thing. It’s me now that speaks, now that I’m well and conscious and strong. It’s the real me now. I disclaim and disown anything I may feel or say when I’m tortured with pain and sickness. It would give my real self just as little as a prisoner on the rack gives the truth. Sylvia. [Looking at him fixedly.] You’re afraid of something like that happening, aren’t you? John. Yes, I shouldn’t like my body to play me a dirty trick when I hadn’t the presence of mind to look after it. Colonel Wharton. Have you ever been in real danger since you—since you began to think like this? John. Yes. Once I was in a trench the Germans had enfiladed. They’d got the line exactly. The shells fell one after another, first at the end of the trench, and then they came slowly down. One could calculate almost mathematically when the shell must come that would blow one to smithereens. Mrs. Wharton. [With a little gasp of terror.] Oh, John, don’t! John. [Smiling.] Well, something went wrong, or else I certainly shouldn’t be here now. Colonel Wharton. Do you mean to say you weren’t frightened? John. Frightened isn’t the word for it. Talk of getting the wind up: it was a perfect hurricane. I felt as though I were shrinking up so that my clothes suddenly hung about me like sacks. And against my will a prayer came to my lips. From long habit, I suppose, they tried to form themselves into an Mrs. Wharton. And you resisted? It was the voice of God speaking to you. The prayer was said in your heart, and He in His mercy heard it. Doesn’t that prove to you that you’re wrong? At that moment you believed, even though you struggled not to. Your whole soul cried out its belief in God. John. No, not my soul: my fear of death. Colonel Wharton. I’ve been in battle, too. In South Africa and in the Soudan we were in some pretty tight places now and then. When I went into action I commended my soul to God, and now that I’m an old man I can say that I never knew fear. John. I don’t think I’m particularly brave. Before an attack I’ve often had to light a cigarette to hide the trembling of my lips. Colonel Wharton. The Christian doesn’t fear death. His whole life is but a preparation for that awful moment. To him it is the shining gateway to life everlasting. John. I should be sorry to think that life was nothing but a preparation for death. To my mind death is very unimportant. I think a man does best to put it out of his thoughts. He should live as though life were endless. Life is the thing that matters. Sylvia. Doesn’t that suggest a very base materialism? John. No, because you can’t make the most of life unless you’re willing to risk it, and it’s the risk that makes the difference. It’s the most precious thing a man has, but it’s valueless unless he’s prepared to stake it. Sylvia. What do you think it can be worth while to risk life for? John. Almost anything. Honour or love. A song, a thought. [After a moment’s reflection, with a smile.] A five-barred gate. Sylvia. Isn’t that rather illogical? John. Perhaps. I don’t put it very well. I think what I mean is that life in itself has no value. It’s what you put in it that gives it worth. Colonel Wharton. Why do you think you’ve come safely through the perils and dangers of the war? John, do you know that every day your mother and Sylvia and I prayed that God might see fit to spare you? John. [With sudden energy.] Were you the only ones? Why didn’t He see fit to spare the others? Sylvia. Who are we to question the inscrutable designs of the Omnipotent? Colonel Wharton. [Answering his son.] I don’t know what you mean by that. In war somebody’s got to be killed. When a commander gives battle he knows pretty accurately what his losses are going to be before he starts. [John gives a slight shrug of the shoulders. He recovers his equanimity. John. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think we’d much better not start arguing. Arguments never bring one much forrader, do they? Mrs. Wharton. [Gently.] But we want to understand, John. You were always such a pious boy. John. [Smiling.] Oh, mother, that’s rather a terrible thing to say to anybody. Mrs. Wharton. [With an answering smile.] Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. On the contrary, you were rather troublesome. Sometimes you were very headstrong and obstinate. John. That’s better. Mrs. Wharton. We tried to bring you up to fear God. It used to make me happy sometimes to see how simple and touching your faith was. You used to pray to God for all sorts of absurd things, to make a lot of runs in a cricket match or to pass an exam, that you hadn’t worked for. John. Yes, I remember. Mrs. Wharton. If you’ve lost your faith, we know it can’t be as so many lose it, on purpose, because they’ve John. My dear, you’d much better let the matter rest. I should only have to say things that would hurt you all. Mrs. Wharton. We’re willing to take the risk of that. We know you wouldn’t hurt us intentionally. Perhaps they’re only difficulties that we might be able to explain. And if we’re not clever enough perhaps the Vicar can. [John shakes his head without speaking. Sylvia. Don’t you want to believe in God, John? John. No. [There is a moment’s pause. Kate comes in to announce Dr. Macfarlane. This is a rather eccentric old man, with long white hair, small, with rosy cheeks. He is an old-fashioned country doctor, and wears rather shabby black clothes and carries a rusty silk hat in his hand. There is in him something of the gentleman farmer and something of the apothecary of a former day. Kate. Dr. Macfarlane. [Exit. Mrs. Wharton. Oh! I’d forgotten for the moment. [With a smile of welcome.] We’ve been expecting you. Dr. Macfarlane. [Shaking hands with the two ladies.] I’ve been busy this morning. [To John.] And how are you, John? John. Sitting up and taking nourishment, thank you. Dr. Macfarlane. You look none the worse for all your adventures. A little older, perhaps. Mrs. Wharton. Oh, of course, you’ve not seen John before. Dr. Macfarlane. No. My wife saw him yesterday in church, but unfortunately I couldn’t go. I had to see a patient. John. The same patient? Dr. Macfarlane. I beg your pardon. John. You’ve had to see a patient at about eleven every Sunday morning for the last twenty-five years. I was wondering if it was the same one. Dr. Macfarlane. If it is, I certainly deserve praise for keeping the undertakers at bay so long. [Going up to the Colonel] And how are you feeling to-day, Colonel? Colonel Wharton. Oh, I’m feeling pretty well, thank you. Have you had a letter from that fellow in Canterbury? Dr. Macfarlane. Yes. Colonel Wharton. Well, what does he say? Dr. Macfarlane. You military gentlemen, you want to go so fast. Mrs. Wharton. Have you brought the letter with you? Dr. Macfarlane. It’s very technical. Saving your presence, I don’t think any of you would make head or tail of it. Now, Mrs. Wharton, my dear, shall you and I go for a little stroll in your beautiful garden, and we’ll have a talk about this old tyrant. Colonel Wharton. What’s the object of that? Evelyn will only tell me everything you’ve said the moment you’re gone. She’s never been able to keep anything from me in her life. Dr. Macfarlane. You must have patience with me. I’m an old man, and I like to do things in my own way. Colonel Wharton. Well, I’m no chicken, and I’m not going to stand any of your nonsense. Tell us straight out what the doctor says and be damned to you. I beg your pardon, my dear, but I have to talk to the old fool in the only way he understands. Dr. Macfarlane. Very rough, isn’t he? John. The gentlest pirate who ever cut a throat. Colonel Wharton. You know, you’re a transparent old fraud, Doctor. The moment you came in I saw you had some bad news for me. You were expecting to find Evelyn alone. Dr. Macfarlane. This is the hour at which all self-respecting retired colonels are reading the Times in their study. Mrs. Wharton. What does Dr. Keller say? Colonel Wharton. I suppose he wants an operation. It’s a nuisance but, with God’s help, I can go through with it. Dr. Macfarlane. Well, I suppose you’d have to know sooner or later. Let these young people clear out and we’ll talk it all over quietly. Colonel Wharton. Nonsense. John is my son and Sylvia is almost my daughter. What concerns me concerns them, I fancy. Why, you couldn’t make more fuss if I’d only got a month to live. Dr. Macfarlane. [Hesitating.] Do you want me to tell you the whole thing now—just like this? Colonel Wharton. Yes. You don’t think I’m afraid to hear the worst. Whatever it is, I hope I have the pluck to bear it like a Christian and a gentleman. [There is a pause. Dr. Macfarlane. You’re quite right. I have bad news for you. Dr. Keller confirms my diagnosis. I was pretty sure of it, but I didn’t want to believe it. I thought I might be mistaken.... I’m afraid you’re very ill indeed. You must be extremely careful. Mrs. Wharton. George! Colonel Wharton. Come, come, my dear, don’t get in a state. And does he recommend an operation? Dr. Macfarlane. No. Colonel Wharton. [Startled.] Do you mean to say that.... But I don’t feel so bad as all that. Now and then I have attacks of pain, but then ... you don’t mean to say you think I’m going to die? For God’s sake tell me the truth. Dr. Macfarlane. My dear old friend! Colonel Wharton. You mean I’ve got a fatal disease. Can—can nothing be done? Dr. Macfarlane. I don’t know about that. There’s always something that can be done. Colonel Wharton. But a cure, I mean. Can’t I be cured? Dr. Macfarlane. If you want the truth really, then I’m afraid I can hold out no hope of that. Colonel Wharton. How long d’you give me? [Trying to laugh.] I suppose you’re not going to grudge me a year or two? Dr. Macfarlane. [Pretending to take it lightly.] Oh, you can be quite sure we’ll keep you alive as long as we can. John. You’ve got a wonderful physique, father. My own impression is that you’ll make fools of the doctors and live for another twenty years. Dr. Macfarlane. Medicine isn’t an exact science like surgery. It’s a doctor’s duty to tell a patient the truth when he asks for it, but if I were a patient I would always take it with a grain of salt. [The Colonel looks at him suspiciously. Colonel Wharton. You’re keeping something from me. If it was only that, why did you want to see Evelyn alone? Dr. Macfarlane. Well, some people are very nervous about themselves. I wasn’t quite sure if you’d better know or not. I thought I’d talk it over with her. Colonel Wharton. Am I in immediate danger of death? For God’s sake, tell me. It would be cruel to leave me in ignorance. Mrs. Wharton. Please answer quite frankly, doctor. Dr. Macfarlane. [After a pause.] I think if you have any arrangements to make, it would be wise if you made them soon. Colonel Wharton. Then it’s not a question of a year or two even? Is it months or weeks? Dr. Macfarlane. I don’t know. No one can tell. Colonel Wharton. You’re treating me like a child. [With sudden rage.] Confound you, sir, I order you to tell me. Dr. Macfarlane. It may be at any time. Colonel Wharton. [With a sudden cry of terror.] Evelyn! Evelyn! Mrs. Wharton. Oh, my dear! My dear husband! [She takes him in her arms as though to protect him. Dr. Macfarlane. Why did you force me to tell you? Colonel Wharton. [In a terrified whisper.] Oh, Evelyn! Evelyn! Mrs. Wharton. [To the others.] Please go. John. [To Sylvia.] Come. They want to be alone. Dr. Macfarlane, will you come into the garden for a few minutes? Dr. Macfarlane. Of course I will. Of course. [They go out. Colonel and Mrs. Wharton are left alone. For a moment they are silent. Mrs. Wharton. Perhaps it isn’t true, my dear. Colonel Wharton. It’s true. I know it’s true now. Mrs. Wharton. Oh, it’s so hard. I wish it were I instead. I’d be so glad to take your place, darling. Colonel Wharton. We’ve been so happy together, Evelyn. Mrs. Wharton. We have very much to be grateful for. Colonel Wharton. Oh, Evelyn, what shall I do? Mrs. Wharton. Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry for you. I’m so dreadfully sorry.... I think you’re very brave. If I’d been told like that I—I should have broken down. Colonel Wharton. It was so unexpected. Mrs. Wharton. [Trying to comfort him.] I’m thankful that your faith has always been so bright and clear. What a comfort that is now, darling, what an immense consolation! [She draws him more closely to her.] You’re throwing aside these poor rags of mortality to put on a heavenly raiment. It is what we’ve always kept in our minds, isn’t it? that this brief life is only a place of passage to the mansions of our dear Father. [She feels the dismay in his heart and she strives to give him courage.] You’ve never hesitated at the call of an earthly leader. You’re a good soldier; it’s a Heavenly Leader that’s calling you now. Christ is holding out His loving arms to you. Colonel Wharton. Evelyn—I don’t want to die. THE END OF THE FIRST ACT. |
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