GRACE.
No, whatever happens no one can help me but myself.
COBBETT.
I shouldn’t have played the fool if I’d thought you were going to take
things so much to heart.
GRACE.
[_Ironically._] That’s the nuisance of women, isn’t it? They _will_ make
an affair of what’s really only an episode.
COBBETT.
You have a way of saying things that makes one feel an awful bounder.
After all, one can’t help falling in love, and one’s not a blackguard
because one falls out of it.
GRACE.
D’you remember asking me yesterday if I was beginning to care for Claude
differently?
COBBETT.
Yes.
GRACE.
I love him as I never thought it was possible to love. I don’t know why
I love him. It’s come to me suddenly. I--oh, I can’t tell you what it
is. It’s like hunger in my soul. And I’m frightened.
COBBETT.
I should have thought that made everything all right.
GRACE.
It’s come too late. I’m--soiled. Afterwards--you know what I mean, when
you and I--the first thing I felt was surprise because I found myself no
different. I thought when a woman had done that everything would seem
altered. But I felt just the same as before. It’s only now. It’s like
the stain of blood--don’t you remember--not all the perfumes of
Arabia....
COBBETT.
[_Worried and moved._] You know, it’s absurd to take it like that.
GRACE.
[_With increasing agitation._] Oh, what have I done! If I’d only had the
strength to resist! It’s now that I see it all, the utter degradation of
it, the hateful ugliness. Oh, I loathe myself. How can I take my heart
to Claude when there’s you standing between us?
COBBETT.
I’m awfully sorry, Grace.
GRACE.
I’d give anything in the world if I hadn’t done what I have done. I
might be so happy now. I haven’t a chance. The fates are against me.
What’s the good of loving Claude now--I’m not fit to be his wife.
[_She is beside herself._ COBBETT, _not knowing what to do, stands
looking at her. The sound is heard of a motor-horn blowing._
COBBETT.
[_With a slight start._] What’s that?
GRACE.
It’s Rooney. He’s afraid you’ll miss the train. You’d better hurry up.
COBBETT.
I can’t leave you like this.
GRACE.
[_Ironically._] I shouldn’t like you to miss your train.
COBBETT.
I suppose you hate and loathe me.
GRACE.
I’d wish you were dead, only it wouldn’t do me much good, would it?
COBBETT.
[_Reflectively._] The fact is, only the wicked should sin.... When the
virtuous do things they shouldn’t they do make such an awful hash of it.
[MOORE _comes in followed by the_ FOOTMAN.
GRACE.
What is it?
MOORE.
I was going to clear away, madam.
GRACE.
Oh, yes, I forgot. [_Holding out her hand to_ COBBETT.] You’ll have to
look sharp.
END OF THE THIRD ACT
THE FOURTH ACT
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 is it the cut of
my skirt that doesn’t quite meet with your approval?
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 mistake it was an honest
one. He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t put his foot in it sometimes.
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 can--that you’re fond of him, and that,
whatever happens, you always will be fond of him.
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 me. It’s like an obsession,
and it’s stronger than I am. It’s driving me--driving me to confess. I
know I shall have to do it; I can’t help myself. I shall go mad if I
don’t tell him.
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 is a vulgar feminine passion for
making scenes. Confession’s like a drug we fly to because we’ve lost the
last shadow of our self-reliance.
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.