TREBELL. But, you see, it would give Horsham and Blackborough such a shock
if I shot myself ... it would make them think about things.
FRANCES. [_With one catch of wretched laughter._] Oh, my dear, if shooting's
wanted ... shoot them. Or I'll do it for you.
_He sits in his chair just from weariness. She stands by him, her hand
still grasping his._
TREBELL. You see, Fanny, as I said to Gilbert last night ... our lives are
our own and yet not our own. We understand living for others and dying for
others. The first is easy ... it's a way out of boredom. To make the second
popular we had to invent a belief in personal resurrection. Do you think we
shall ever understand dying in the sure and certain hope that it really
doesn't matter ... that God is infinitely economical and wastes perhaps less
of the power in us after our death than men do while we live?
FRANCES. I want your promise, Henry.
TREBELL. You know I never make promises ... it's taking oneself too
seriously. Unless indeed one has the comic courage to break them too. I've
upset you very much with my troubles. Don't you think you'd better go and
finish dressing? [_She doesn't move._] My dear ... you don't propose to hold
my right hand so safely for years to come. Even so, I still could jump out
of a window.
FRANCES. I'll trust you, Henry.
_She looks into his eyes and he does not flinch. Then, with a final
grip she leaves him. When she is at the door he speaks more gently
than ever._
TREBELL. Your own life is sufficient unto itself, isn't it?
FRANCES. Oh yes. I can be pleasant to talk to and give good advice through
the years that remain. [_Instinctively she rectifies some little untidiness
in the room._] What fools they are to think they can run that government
without you!
TREBELL. Horsham will do his best. [_Then, as for the second time she
reaches the door._] Don't take away my razors, will you? I only use them for
shaving.
FRANCES. [_Almost blushing._] I half meant to ... I'm sorry. After all,
Henry, just because they are forgetting in personal feelings what's best for
the country ... it's your duty not to. You'll stand by and do what you can,
won't you?
TREBELL. [_His queer smile returning, in contrast to her seriousness._]
Disestablishment. It's a very interesting problem. I must think it out.
FRANCES. [_Really puzzled._] What do you mean?
_He gets up with a quick movement of strange strength, and faces her.
His smile changes into a graver gladness._
TREBELL. Something has happened ... in spite of me. My heart's clean again.
I'm ready for fresh adventures.
FRANCES. [_With a nod and answering gladness._] That's right.
_So she leaves him, her mind at rest. For a minute he does not move.
When his gaze narrows it falls on the heaps of letters. He carries
them carefully into_ WALTER KENT'S _room and arranges them as
carefully on his table. On his way out he stops for a moment; then
with a sudden movement bangs the door._
* * * * *
_Two hours later the room has been put in order. It is even more full
of light and the shadows are harder than usual. The doors are open,
showing you_ KENT'S _door still closed. At the big writing table in_
TREBELL'S _chair sits_ WEDGECROFT, _pale and grave, intent on
finishing a letter._ FRANCES _comes to find him. For a moment she
leans on the table silently, her eyes half closed. You would say a
broken woman. When she speaks it is swiftly, but tonelessly._
FRANCES. Lord Horsham is in the drawing room ... and I can't see him, I
really can't. He has come to say he is sorry ... and I should tell him that
it is his fault, partly. I know I should ... and I don't want to. Won't you
go in? What are you writing?
WEDGECROFT, _with his physicianly pre-occupation, can attend,
understand, sympathise, without looking up at her._
WEDGECROFT. Never mind. A necessary note ... to the Coroner's office. Yes,
I'll see Horsham.
FRANCES. I've managed to get the pistol out of his hand. Was that wrong ...
oughtn't I to have touched it?
WEDGECROFT. Of course you oughtn't. You must stay away from the room. I'd
better have locked the door.
FRANCES. [_Pitifully._] I'm sorry ... but I couldn't bear to see the pistol
in his hand. I won't go back. After all he's not there in the room, is he?
But how long do you think the spirit stays near the body ... how long? When
people die gently of age or weakness.... But when the spirit and body are
so strong and knit together and all alive as his....
WEDGECROFT. [_His hand on hers._] Hush ... hush.
FRANCES. His face is very eager ... as if it still could speak. I know that.
MRS. FARRANT _comes through the open doorway._ FRANCES _hears her
steps and turning falls into her outstretched arms to cry there._
FRANCES. Oh, Julia!
MRS. FARRANT. Oh my dear Fanny! I came with Cyril Horsham ... I don't think
Simpson even saw me.
FRANCES. I can't go in and talk to him.
MRS. FARRANT. He'll understand. But I heard you come in here....
WEDGECROFT. I'll tell Horsham.
_He has finished and addressed his letter, so he goes out with it._
FRANCES _lifts her head. These two are in accord and can speak their
feelings without disguise or preparation._
FRANCES. Julia, Julia ... isn't it unbelievable?
MRS. FARRANT. I'd give ... oh, what wouldn't I give to have it undone!
FRANCES. I knew he meant to ... and yet I thought I had his promise. If he
really meant to ... I couldn't have stopped it, could I?
MRS. FARRANT. Walter sent to tell me and I sent round to....
FRANCES. Walter came soon after, I think. Julia, I was in my room ... it was
nearly breakfast time ... when I heard the shot. Oh ... don't you think it
was cruel of him?
MRS. FARRANT. He had a right to. We must remember that.
FRANCES. You say that easily of my brother ... you wouldn't say it of your
husband.
_They are apart by this_, JULIA FARRANT _goes to her gently._
MRS. FARRANT. Fanny ... will it leave you so very lonely?
FRANCES. Yes ... lonelier than you can ever be. You have children. I'm just
beginning to realise....
MRS. FARRANT. [_Leading her from the mere selfishness of sorrow._] There's
loneliness of the spirit, too.
FRANCES. Ah, but once you've tasted the common joys of life ... once you've
proved all your rights as a man or a woman....
MRS. FARRANT. Then there are subtler things to miss. As well be alone like
you, or dead like him, without them ... I sometimes think.
FRANCES. [_Responsive, lifted from egoism, reading her friend's mind._] You
demand much.
MRS. FARRANT. I wish that he had demanded much of any woman.
FRANCES. You know how this misery began? That poor little wretch ... she's
lying dead too. They're both dead together now. Do you think they've met...?
JULIA _grips both her hands and speaks very steadily to help her
friend back to self control._
MRS. FARRANT. George told me as soon as he was told. I tried to make him
understand my opinion, but he thought I was only shocked.
FRANCES. I was sorry for her. Now I can't forgive her either.
MRS. FARRANT. [_Angry, remorseful, rebellious._] When will men learn to know
one woman from another?
FRANCES. [_With answering bitterness._] When will all women care to be one
thing rather than the other?
_They are stopped by the sound of the opening of_ KENT'S _door._
WALTER _comes from his room, some papers from his table held
listlessly in one hand. He is crying, undisguisedly, with a child's
grief._
KENT. Oh ... am I in your way...?
FRANCES. I didn't know you were still here, Walter.
KENT. I've been going through the letters as usual. I don't know why, I'm
sure. They won't have to be answered now ... will they?