  The Scene is the same as in the preceding Acts. It is early morning on the following Wednesday. The dead ashes of yesterday’s fire are still in the grate. Not far away is heard the ringing of a church bell to call the faithful to the first service. Mrs. Wharton is standing by a table on which is a large basket of white flowers which she had just brought in from the garden. She picks up a rose, and with a faint smile gives it a little caress. Sylvia comes in from the garden. Sylvia. [With surprise.] Mrs. Wharton! Mrs. Wharton. Oh, Sylvia, is it you? Sylvia. It startled me to see you there. I came in this way because I saw the door was open and your front door bell’s so noisy. I thought if the Colonel was asleep it might wake him. Mrs. Wharton. It’s early, isn’t it? Sylvia. Yes, I’m on my way to the early service. I thought I’d look in just to ask how the Colonel was. But I didn’t expect to see you. I thought Kate or Hannah might be about. Mrs. Wharton. George is dead, Sylvia. Sylvia. [In amazement.] Mrs. Wharton! Mrs. Wharton. He died quite peacefully about an hour ago. I’ve just been to gather some flowers to put in his room. Sylvia. Oh, Mrs. Wharton, I’m so sorry. I’m so dreadfully sorry for you. Mrs. Wharton. [Patting her hand.] Thank you, my dear; you’ve been very kind to us during these days. Sylvia. Where is John? Mrs. Wharton. I think he must have gone out for a walk. I went to his room a little while ago and he wasn’t there. He wanted to sit up with me last night, but I wouldn’t let him. Sylvia. But ... but doesn’t John know his father is dead? Mrs. Wharton. No, not yet. Sylvia. Didn’t you call him? Mrs. Wharton. I had no idea the end was so near. George wanted to be alone with me, Sylvia. We’d been married for thirty-five years, you see. He was conscious almost to the last. He died quite suddenly, like a child going to sleep. Sylvia. It’s such a terrible loss. You poor dear, you must be quite heart-broken. Mrs. Wharton. It’s a very great loss, but I’m not heart-broken. George is happy and at rest. We should be very poor Christians if the death of those we love made us unhappy. George has entered into eternal life. Sylvia. Oh, Mrs. Wharton, what a blessed thing it is to have a faith like yours. Mrs. Wharton. My dear, a very wonderful thing happened last night. I can’t feel grief for dear George’s death because of the recollection of that. I feel so strange. I feel as though I were walking in an enchanted garden. Sylvia. I don’t know what you mean. Mrs. Wharton. Since that day when George refused to talk with the Vicar I never dared mention the subject. He was not himself. It made me so unhappy. And then last night, soon after Dr. Macfarlane went away, he asked of his own accord for Mr. Poole. The Vicar’s a dear, kind man. He’d said to me that if ever George asked for him he’d come at once, at any hour of the day or night. So I sent for him. He gave George the Holy Sacrament. And Sylvia, a miracle happened. Sylvia. A miracle? Mrs. Wharton. No sooner had the bread and the wine touched his lips than he was transfigured. All his—his anxiety Sylvia. I’m so glad. I’m happy too now. Mrs. Wharton. The Vicar read the prayers for the dying and then he left us. We talked of the past and of our reunion in a little while. And then he died. Sylvia. It’s wonderful. Yes, it was a miracle. Mrs. Wharton. All through my life I’ve been conscious of the hand of God shaping the destinies of man. I’ve never seen His loving mercy more plainly manifest. [Kate opens the door and stands on the threshold, but does not come into the room. Kate. The woman’s come, ma’am. Mrs. Wharton. Very well. I’m just coming. [Kate goes out and shuts the door behind her. Mrs. Wharton takes up her basket of flowers. Mrs. Wharton. John will be in immediately, Sylvia. He promised to come and relieve me at half-past eight, so that I might get something to eat. Will you see him? Sylvia. Yes, Mrs. Wharton, if you wish me to. Mrs. Wharton. Will you tell him that his father is dead? I know you’ll do it very gently. Sylvia. Oh, Mrs. Wharton, wouldn’t you prefer to tell him yourself? Mrs. Wharton. No. Sylvia. Very well. Mrs. Wharton. You know he loves you, Sylvia. It would make me so happy if you two could arrive at some understanding. It seems such a pity that the happiness of both of you should be ruined. Sylvia. I would do anything in the world for John, but I can’t sacrifice what is and must be dearer to me even than he. Mrs. Wharton. Can’t you teach him to believe? Sylvia. Oh, I wish I could. I pray for him night and day. Mrs. Wharton. I wished afterwards that I’d asked him to be present when his father and I received the Communion. I think at that last solemn moment he might have been moved to receive it with us. Sylvia. D’you think.... Perhaps a miracle would have taken place in him, too. Perhaps he would have believed. Mrs. Wharton. I must go upstairs. [An idea seizes Sylvia, and she gives a strange little gasp. As Mrs. Wharton is about to leave the room she stops her with a sudden question. Sylvia. Mrs. Wharton ... Mrs. Wharton, do you think the end can ever justify the means? Mrs. Wharton. My dear, what an extraordinary question! It can never be right to do evil that good may come. Sylvia. Are you quite sure that that’s so always? After all, no one would hesitate to tell a lie to save another’s life. Mrs. Wharton. Perhaps not. [With a faint smile.] We must thank God that we’re not likely to be put in such a position. Why did you ask me that? Sylvia. I was wondering what one should do if one could only rescue somebody from terrible danger by committing a great sin. Do you think one ought to do it or not? Mrs. Wharton. My dear, you haven’t the right to offend God for the sake of anyone in the world. Sylvia. Not even for the sake of anyone you loved? Mrs. Wharton. Surely not, my dear. And no one who loved you would wish you for a moment to do a wicked thing for his sake. Sylvia. But take your own case, Mrs. Wharton; if you saw the Colonel or John in deadly peril wouldn’t you risk your life to save them? Mrs. Wharton. [With a smile.] Of course I should. I should be happy and thankful to have the opportunity. But that’s not the same. I should only be risking my life, not my soul. Sylvia. [Almost beside herself.] But if their souls were in peril, wouldn’t you risk your soul? Mrs. Wharton. My dear, what do you mean? You seem so excited. Sylvia. [Controlling herself with a great effort.] I? You mustn’t pay any attention to me. I haven’t been sleeping very well the last three or four nights. I daresay I’m a little hysterical. Mrs. Wharton. Wouldn’t you prefer to go home, darling? Sylvia. No, I’d like to stay here if you don’t mind. I’d like to see John. Mrs. Wharton. Very well. I shan’t be very long. [She goes out. The church bell gives a hurried tinkle and then stops. Sylvia walks up and down the room and stands still in front of a photograph of John in his uniform. She takes it up and looks at it. Then putting it down she clasps her hands and raises her eyes. She is seen to be praying. She hears a sound in the garden, inclines her head to listen, and goes to the window. She hesitates a moment and then braces herself to a decision. She calls. Sylvia. John! [He comes, stops for a moment on the threshold, and then walks forward casually. John. Good morning! You’re very early. Sylvia. I looked in to ask how your father was. John. When I left him last night he was fairly comfortable. I’ll go and find out from mother how he is. Sylvia. No, don’t—don’t disturb him. John. I’m going to take mother’s place in a few minutes. I awoke early, so I went for a walk.... You’ve been very good and kind to all of us during these wretched days, Sylvia. I don’t know what we should have done without you. Sylvia. I’ve been so dreadfully sorry. And you all had so much to bear. It wasn’t only the thought that the poor dear couldn’t—can’t recover, but ... it was so much worse than that. John. [With a quick glance at her.] I suppose it was inevitable that you should see it too. Somehow I hoped that only I and mother knew. Sylvia. Oh, John, you can’t mind about me. I’ve loved your father as though he were my own. Nothing he did could make me love him less. John. He’s afraid to die. It’s dreadful to see his terror and to be able to do nothing to help him. Sylvia. Would you do anything to help him if you could? John. Of course. Sylvia. It’s unfortunate that you found it necessary to say what you did about religion. He’s always been a very simple man. He always accepted without question the faith in which he was brought up. Perhaps he’s not quite so sure now. John. Nonsense, Sylvia. Father’s faith is very much too steady for it to be unsettled by any opinions of mine. Sylvia. Ordinarily, I dare say. But he’s ill, he’s in terrible pain, he’s not himself. I think perhaps it’s a pity you didn’t hold your tongue. It’s so easy to create doubts and so hard to allay them. John. [Much disturbed.] That’s an awful thought to have put into my head, Sylvia. I should never forgive myself if.... Sylvia. If you’d believed as we believe, he would have been supported, as it were, by all our faith. It would have made that terrible passage from this life to the life to come a little less terrible. You’ve failed him just when he needed you. John. [Indignantly.] Oh, Sylvia, how can you say anything so heartless? Sylvia. [Coldly.] It’s true. John. Heaven knows, I know that death isn’t easy. You can’t think I’d be so inhuman as to do anything to make it more difficult? Sylvia. Except mortify your pride. John. [Impatiently.] What has pride got to do with it? Sylvia. There was pride in every word you said. Are you sure it’s not pride of intellect that’s responsible for your change of heart? John. [Icily.] Perhaps. How do you suggest I should mortify it? Sylvia. Well, you see, you can confess your error. John. I don’t think it’s an error. Sylvia. At least you can undo some of the harm you’ve done. Do you know what is chiefly tormenting your father? Your refusal to receive the Holy Communion. He keeps talking about it to your mother. He keeps harping on it. He’s dreadfully distressed about it. If you received the Communion, John, it would give your father peace. John. Sylvia, how can I? Sylvia. All your life your father has done everything in the world for you. Nothing’s been too good for you. You owe him all your happiness, everything you are and hope to be. Can’t you do this one little thing for him? John. No, it’s out of the question. I really can’t. I’m awfully sorry. Sylvia. How can you be so hard? It’s the last wish he’ll ever have in the world. It’s your last chance of showing your love for him. Oh, John, show a little mercy to his weakness! John. But, Sylvia, it would be blasphemous. Sylvia. What are you talking about? You don’t believe. To you it’s merely an idle ceremony. What can it matter to you if you go through a meaningless form? John. I’ve been a Christian too long. I have a hundred generations of Christianity behind me. Sylvia. You never hesitated at coming to church when we were going to be married. John. That was different. Sylvia. How? That was a sacrament, too. Are you afraid of a little bread and wine that a priest has said a few words over? John. Sylvia, don’t torment me. I tell you I can’t. Sylvia. [Scornfully.] I never imagined you would be superstitious. You’re frightened. You feel just like people about sitting thirteen at table. Of course it’s all nonsense, but there may be something in it. John. I don’t know what I feel. I only know that I, an unbeliever, can’t take part in a ceremony that was sacred to me when I believed. Sylvia. [Bitterly.] It’s very natural. It only means that you love yourself better than anyone else. Why should one expect you to have pity for your father, or gratitude? John. Oh, Sylvia, where did you learn to say such cruel things? I can’t, I tell you, I can’t. If father were in his normal mind, neither he nor mother would wish me to do such a thing. Sylvia. But your mother does wish it. Oh, John, don’t be stubborn. For God’s sake give yourself the opportunity. Your father’s dying, John; you have no time to lose.... John, the Communion Service has only just begun. If you get on your bicycle you’ll be there in time. The other day the Vicar said if you presented yourself at the Communion table he would not hesitate to administer it. [John looks steadily in front of him for a moment, then makes up his mind; he stands up suddenly and without a word goes out of the room. Sylvia. [In a whisper.] O God, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me! [The Curtain is lowered for one minute to denote the lapse of half an hour. When it rises Sylvia is standing at the window, looking out into the garden. [Mrs. Littlewood enters. Mrs. Littlewood. May I come in? Sylvia. Oh, Mrs. Littlewood, do! Mrs. Littlewood. I met Dr. Macfarlane just outside my house, and he told me the Colonel was dead. I came with him to see if I could be of any use. Sylvia. It’s very kind of you. Is Dr. Macfarlane here? Mrs. Littlewood. Yes. He went upstairs. Where is John? Sylvia. He’ll be here directly. [Mrs. Wharton comes in, followed by Dr. Macfarlane. Mrs. Littlewood goes up to her and the two old ladies kiss one another. For a moment they stand clasped in one another’s arms. Mrs. Littlewood. My dear old friend! Mrs. Wharton. It was dear of you to come, Charlotte. I knew you’d feel for me. Dr. Macfarlane. Now sit down, my dear Mrs. Wharton, sit down and rest yourself. [He puts her into a chair and places a cushion behind her. Mrs. Wharton. Hasn’t John come in yet? Sylvia. I’m sure he won’t be long now. He should be here almost at once. Dr. Macfarlane. Sylvia, my dear child, won’t you go and get Mrs. Wharton a cup of tea? I think it would do her good. Sylvia. Certainly. Mrs. Wharton. Oh, my dear, don’t trouble. Sylvia. But it’s no trouble. You know I love doing things for you. [She goes out. Mrs. Wharton. Everybody’s so very kind in this world. It makes one feel humble.... George and I have been married for five and thirty years. He never said a cross word to me. He was always gentle and considerate. I daresay I was very troublesome now and then, but he was never impatient with me. Mrs. Littlewood. Is it true that John and Sylvia are not going to be married after all? Mrs. Wharton. I’m afraid so. Mrs. Littlewood. Isn’t it strange how people in this world seem to go out of their way to make themselves unhappy! Mrs. Wharton. I’ve talked it over with Sylvia. Religion means so much to her. She wouldn’t have minded if John had come back blind and crippled, she’d have devoted her life to him without a murmur. Dr. Macfarlane. People always think they could put up with the faults we haven’t got. Somehow or other it’s always those we have that stick in their throats. Mrs. Wharton. Oh, Doctor, don’t say sarcastic things. You don’t know how deeply Sylvia is suffering. But it’s a matter of conscience. And I do see that one can’t ask anyone to compromise with his soul. Dr. Macfarlane. I have an idea our souls are like our manners, all the better when we don’t think too much about them. Mrs. Wharton. Sylvia’s giving up a great deal. I don’t know what’s to become of her if she doesn’t marry John. When her mother dies she’ll only have thirty pounds a year. [Sylvia comes back with a cup of tea on a small tray and puts it on a table by Mrs. Wharton’s side. Sylvia. Here is the tea, Mrs. Wharton. Mrs. Wharton. Oh, thank you, my dear, so much. You do spoil me.... I can’t imagine why John is so long. He’s generally so very punctual. Sylvia. [In a low voice.] John came in, Mrs. Wharton. Mrs. Wharton. Oh, then, you saw him? Sylvia. Yes. Mrs. Wharton. Did you speak to him? Sylvia. Yes. Mrs. Wharton. Why did he go out again? Where has he gone? Sylvia. He’ll be back immediately. Dr. Macfarlane. Drink your tea, dear lady, drink your tea. [Sylvia takes her place again at the window and looks into the garden. She takes no notice of the people in the room. Mrs. Wharton. I’m glad to have you two old friends with me now. The only thing that really seems to belong to me any more is the past, and you were both so much part of it. Dr. Macfarlane. You came here immediately after your honeymoon. Is that really thirty-five years ago? Mrs. Littlewood. My mother and I were the first people who called on you. I remember how stylish we thought you in your green velvet, Evelyn. Mrs. Wharton. I remember it well. I had it dyed black its third year. I think the fashions were very much more ladylike in those days. A bustle did set off a woman’s figure, there’s no denying that. Dr. Macfarlane. What waists you had and how tight you used to lace! Mrs. Wharton. I often wonder if the young people ever enjoy themselves as much as we used to. Do you remember the picnics we used to have? Mrs. Littlewood. And now it’s all as if it had never been, all our love and pain and joy and sorrow. We’re just two funny old women, and it really wouldn’t have mattered a row of pins if we’d never been born. Dr. Macfarlane. I wonder, I wonder. Mrs. Wharton. You’ve had the privilege of giving two sons to a noble cause. Wasn’t it worth while to be born for that? Mrs. Littlewood. Sometimes I’ve asked myself if this world in which we’re living now isn’t hell. Perhaps all the unhappiness my husband caused me and the death of those two boys of mine is a punishment for sins that I committed in some other life in some other part of the universe. Mrs. Wharton. Charlotte, sometimes you say things that frighten me. I’m haunted by the fear that you may destroy yourself. Mrs. Littlewood. I? No, why should I? I don’t feel that life is important enough for me to give it a deliberate end. I don’t trouble to kill the fly that walks over my ceiling. Dr. Macfarlane. I’ve been curing or killing people for hard on fifty years, and it seems to me that I’ve seen innumerable generations enter upon the shifting scene, act their little part, and pass away. Alas, who Mrs. Wharton. But we know that all that is mere idle seeming. Dr. Macfarlane. Seeming perhaps, but why idle? Seeming is all we know. The other day when you were talking I held my tongue, because I thought you’d say I was a silly old fool if I put my word in, but I’ve puzzled over suffering and pain too. You see, in my trade we see so much of them. It made me unhappy, and for long I doubted the goodness of God, as you doubt it, dear friend. Mrs. Littlewood. [With a smile.] I think you’re preaching at me, Doctor. Dr. Macfarlane. Then it’s the first time in my life. Mrs. Littlewood. Go on. Dr. Macfarlane. I want to tell you how I found peace. My explanation is as old as the hills, and I believe many perfectly virtuous persons have been frizzled alive for accepting it. Our good Vicar would say I was a heretic. I can’t help it. I can’t see any other way of reconciling the goodness of God with the existence of evil. Mrs. Littlewood. Well, what is it? Dr. Macfarlane. I don’t believe that God is all-powerful and all-knowing. But I think He struggles against evil as we do. I don’t believe He means to chasten us by suffering or to purify us by pain. I believe pain and suffering are evil, and that He hates them, and would crush them if He could. And I believe that in this age-long struggle between God and evil we can help, all of us, even the meanest; for in some way, I don’t know how, I believe that all our goodness adds to the strength of God, and perhaps—who can tell?—will give Him such power that at last He will be able utterly to destroy evil—utterly, with its pain and suffering. [With a smile.] When we’re good, we’re buying silver bullets for the King of Heaven, and when we’re bad, well, we’re trading with the enemy. Sylvia. [Without looking round.] John has just ridden back on his bicycle. Dr. Macfarlane. Come, Mrs. Littlewood, they don’t want us here just now. Mrs. Littlewood. [Getting up.] No, I’m sure you will prefer to be alone with John. Mrs. Wharton. It was very good of you to come. Good-bye, my dear, and God bless you. Mrs. Littlewood. Good-bye. [They kiss one another and Mrs. Littlewood goes out.] Dr. Macfarlane. [Shaking hands with Mrs. Wharton.] I may look in later in the day to see how you are. Mrs. Wharton. Oh, my dear doctor, I’m not in the least ill, you know. Dr. Macfarlane. Still, don’t try to do too much. You’re not quite a young woman, you know. Good-bye, Sylvia. [Sylvia does not answer. Dr. Macfarlane goes out. Sylvia advances into the room and then turns and looks again at the door through which John must come. She does all she can to control her great nervousness. Mrs. Wharton. Sylvia, is anything the matter? Sylvia. No. Why? Mrs. Wharton. You seem so strange. Sylvia. [Paying no attention to the remark.] John is just coming. Mrs. Wharton. You know, my dear, it seems to me that in this life most difficulties can be arranged if both parties are willing to give way a little. Sylvia. Sometimes it’s impossible to give way, and then the only hope is—a miracle. [She says the last word with a little smile to conceal the fact that she attaches the greatest importance to it. John comes in. He is pale and looks extremely tired. He stops for a moment in surprise on seeing his mother. He goes over and kisses her. John. Oh, mother, I thought you were upstairs. I’m afraid I’m very late. Mrs. Wharton. It doesn’t matter, my dear. How dreadfully white you look. John. I went for a walk this morning. I’ve had nothing to eat. I’m rather tired. Mrs. Wharton. My dear, you frighten me, your face is all drawn and pinched. John. Oh, mother, don’t worry about me. I shall be all right after breakfast. After all, it’s quite enough to have one invalid on your hands. [Mrs. Wharton looks at him in surprise. Sylvia gives a nervous start, but immediately controls herself. Sylvia. Have you been—where you said you were going? John. Yes. [Sylvia opens her mouth to speak, but stops; she gives John a long, searching look; she realises that what she had hoped for has not taken place, and with a little gasp of misery turns away her head and sinks, dejected and exhausted, into a chair. John has held her look with his and now turns to his mother. John. Is father asleep? Mrs. Wharton. [With a little shiver.] John! John. What’s the matter? Mrs. Wharton. I thought you knew. My dearest, your father’s dead. John. Mother! Mrs. Wharton. I asked Sylvia to break it to you. I thought.... Sylvia. [In a dull voice.] I didn’t tell him when you asked me to, Mrs. Wharton. John. I don’t understand. It seems impossible. He was well enough last night. When did he die? Mrs. Wharton. At about seven this morning. John. But, mother dear, why didn’t you call me? Mrs. Wharton. I didn’t expect it. We’d been talking and he said he was tired and he thought he could sleep a little. He dozed off quietly, and in a little while I saw he was dead. John. Oh, my poor mother, how will you bear your grief? Mrs. Wharton. You know, it’s so strange, I’m not in the least unhappy. I don’t feel that he’s left me. I feel him just as near to me as before. I don’t know how to explain it to you. I think he’s never been so much alive as now. Oh, John, I know that the soul is immortal. John. Darling, I’m so glad you’re not unhappy. Your dear eyes are positively radiant. Mrs. Wharton. If you only knew what I seem to see with them! John. Won’t you take me up and let me see him? Mrs. Wharton. I think the women are not done yet, John. I’ll go up and see. I’ll call you as soon as everything is ready. John. I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much pain since I came back, mother. I wish I could have avoided it. Mrs. Wharton. [She puts her arms round his neck, and he kisses her.] My dear son! [She goes out. John goes towards the window and looks out into the garden. For a moment Sylvia does not dare to speak to him. At last she makes an effort. Sylvia. [Desperately.] John, whatever you have to say to me, say it. John. [With frigid politeness.] I don’t think I have anything in particular to say to you. Sylvia. I suppose you think I’m just a wicked liar. John. I ask you no questions. I make you no reproaches. What is the matter? Sylvia. Oh, John, after all we’ve been to one another it’s brutal to talk to me like that. If you think I did wrong, say so. John. Why? Sylvia. You’re cruel and hard. [She goes up to him.] John, you must listen to me. John. Well? Sylvia. Your mother asked me to tell you of your father’s death. I concealed it from you. I told you a whole tissue of lies. I traded deliberately on your tenderness for your father. I was horrified at myself. It was my only chance of getting you to take the Communion. John. If you’d had any affection for me, you couldn’t have done such an abominable thing. If you’d had any respect for me you couldn’t have done it. Sylvia. Let me speak, John. John. Be quiet! You’ve insisted on talking about it, and now, by God, you’re going to listen to me. Do you know what I felt? Shame. When I took the bread and the wine, I thought they’d choke me. Because once I believed so devoutly it seemed to me that I was doing an awful thing. Deliberately, with full knowledge of what I was doing, I told a dirty lie. And I feel dirty to the depths of my soul. Sylvia. I thought perhaps it wouldn’t be a lie. I had to do it, John. It was my only chance. John. Why did you do it? Sylvia. Don’t look at me so sternly. I can’t bear it. You frighten me. I can’t collect my thoughts. John. Why did you do it? Shall I tell you? Because at the back of all your Christian humility there’s the desire to dominate. It isn’t so much that I didn’t believe as that I didn’t believe what you wanted me to believe. You wanted to grind my face in the dust. Sylvia. [Passionately.] John, if you only knew! I only thought of you. I only thought of you all the time. John. Don’t be such a hypocrite. Sylvia. [Brokenly.] I expected a miracle. John. At this time of day? Sylvia. For God’s sake have mercy on me! It was your mother who put the idea in my head. Your father received the Communion last night. John. You have no charity for human weakness. You were all so terrified that he shouldn’t make an edifying end. As if it mattered if the poor dear’s nerve failed him at the last. Sylvia. [Eagerly.] But it didn’t. That’s just it. You noticed your mother’s face yourself. Notwithstanding all her grief she’s happy. Do you know why? John. Why? Sylvia. [As though suddenly inspired.] Because when he’d received the Blessed Sacrament the fear of death left him. He was once more a brave and gallant gentleman. He had no dread any longer of the perilous journey before him. He was happy to die. John. [More gently.] Is that true? Dear father, I’m very glad. Sylvia. It was a miracle. It was a miracle. John. I still don’t follow. Sylvia. I thought that when you knelt at the chancel steps, and received the Communion as you used to receive it when you were a boy, all the feelings of your boyhood would rush back on you. I had to make you take it. John. In my frame of mind? Surely I had no right to. Sylvia. I know. That’s what makes my sin the greater. Perhaps I was mad. To God all things are possible. I felt certain you’d believe. John. [Very gravely.] Perhaps you have worked a miracle, but not the one you expected. Sylvia. What do you mean? John. When you said you wouldn’t marry me I was—I was knocked endways—I felt like a man who’s been shipwrecked. All my plans for the future had been bound up with you. I couldn’t imagine it without you. I felt utterly forlorn. Sylvia. But don’t you know what it cost me? John. At first I couldn’t think you meant it. When you said you didn’t love me, I couldn’t believe it. It seemed too preposterous. I was awfully miserable, Sylvia. Sylvia. John, I didn’t want you to be unhappy. John. And then, when I received the Communion something quite strange took place in me. I can’t tell you what I felt. I felt as though mother had heard me saying something obscene. I forced myself to go through with it, because I really did think it might give poor father some peace of mind. But it was you who made me do it. The thought of you filled me with horror. Sylvia. [With dismay.] John! John. You’ve cured me, Sylvia. I ought to be grateful to you for that. My love for you has fallen from me as a cloak might fall from one’s shoulders. I see the truth now. You were quite right. In these long years we’ve become different people and we have nothing to say to one another any more. Sylvia. [Passionately.] But I love you, John! How can you be so blind? Don’t you see that I only did it because I loved you? Oh, John, you can’t leave me now! I’ve waited for you all these years. I’ve longed for you to come back. Forgive me if I did wrong. I can’t lose you now. I love you, John, you won’t leave me? John. [After a moment’s pause.] Of course I won’t leave you. I thought you didn’t want to marry me. Sylvia. [Hardly knowing what she is saying.] I’m not young any more. I’ve lost my freshness. I’ve got nobody but you now. Oh, John, don’t forsake me! I couldn’t bear it. John. [As though he were talking to a child.] My dear, don’t distress yourself. I’m not thinking of forsaking you. We’ll be married as soon as ever we can. Sylvia. Yes, we’ll be married, won’t we? I love you so much, John, I’ll make you love me. I couldn’t lose you now. I’ve waited too long. John. Come, darling, you mustn’t be unhappy. It’s all settled now. Dry your eyes. You don’t want to look a fright, do you? Sylvia. [Clinging to him.] I’m so miserable. John. Nonsense, give me a nice kiss, and we’ll forget all about our troubles. I’ll try to make you a good husband, Sylvia. I’ll do all I can to make you happy. Give me a kiss. [When he seeks to raise her face in order to kiss her, she tears herself violently from him. Sylvia. No, don’t! Don’t touch me! God give me strength! I’m so pitifully weak. John. Sylvia! Sylvia. Don’t come near me! For God’s sake! [She puts her hands before her face, trying to control and to collect herself, and there is a moment’s pause.] It never occurred to me that you didn’t care for me any more, and when you told me, for a moment I lost my head. Forgive me for that, dear, and forget it. I’m not going to marry you. John. Now, Sylvia, don’t be idiotic. It would be so unseemly if I had to drag you to the altar by the hair of your head. Sylvia. You’re very kind, John. I suppose it wouldn’t be very good form to back out of it now. I’m poor, and I’ve wasted my best years waiting for you. You needn’t worry about what is going to happen to me. I can earn my living as well as other women. John. Oh, Sylvia, you’re torturing yourself and me. Can’t you forget what I said in a moment of exasperation? You must know how deep my affection is for you. Sylvia. I don’t want to forget. It is the will of God. I lied. I did an abominable and evil thing. I don’t think you can imagine how terrible my sin has been. I risked my soul to save you, John, and God has inflicted on me a punishment infinitely less than I deserved. He has taken out of your heart the love you bore me. John. But you love me, Sylvia. Sylvia. Better than anyone in the world. I’ve loved you ever since I was a child of ten. That’s only the weakness of my flesh. My soul exults in the great mercy that God has shown me. John. Oh, my dear, you’re going to be so unhappy. Sylvia. No, don’t be sorry for me. You’ve given me a great opportunity. John. I? Sylvia. I’ve been mortified because I was able to do so little in the war. I knew it was my duty to stay John. That was very natural. Sylvia. Now at last I have the chance to do something. No sacrifice is worthless in the eyes of God. A broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise. I sacrifice now all that was precious to me in the world, my love and my hope of happiness in this life, and I sacrifice it with a cheerful heart, and I pray that God may accept it. So shall I do my part to atone for the sins which have brought on this horrible war. John. It would have been better if I’d never come back. I’ve caused misery and suffering to all of you. Sylvia. John, you took away the ring you gave me when we became engaged. You threw it in the fire. John. I’m afraid that was very silly of me. I did it in a moment of bitterness. Sylvia. You went into Canterbury to buy a wedding ring. What have you done with it? John. I have it here. Why? Sylvia. Can I have it? John. Of course. [He takes it out of his waistcoat pocket, and, wondering, gives it to her. Sylvia. [Slipping the ring on her finger.] I will put the love of man out of my life. I will turn from what is poor and transitory to what is everlasting. I will be the bride of One whose love is never denied to them that seek it. The love of God is steadfast and enduring. I can put all my trust in that and I shall never find it wanting.... Good-bye, John, God bless you now and always. John. Good-bye, dear child. [She goes out quickly. In a minute Kate comes in. She is carrying a square wooden box in which are papers, firewood, a hearth-brush, and a large soiled glove. Kate. Please, sir, Mrs. Wharton says, will you go upstairs now? John. Yes. [He goes out. Kate goes to the fire-place, kneels down, puts on the glove, and begins to rake out the ashes. The Cook enters. She is a stout homely body of forty-five. Cook. The butcher’s come, Kate. I don’t exactly like to go up to Mrs. Wharton just now. I’ve got the cold beef for lunch, but they’ll be wanting something for dinner. Kate. Oh, well, they always like best end. You can’t go far wrong if you have that. Cook. I’ve got a fine lot of pease. Kate. Well, they’ll do nicely. Cook. I was thinking I’d make a fruit tart. I think p’raps I’d better order two and a half pounds of best end. [She goes out. Kate continues to lay the fire. THE END. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY R. CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, |
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