MURRAY (_irritably_). You make me ill when you talk that way, Eileen.
It doesn't sound like you at all. What's come over you lately? Get a
grip on yourself, for God's sake. I was--knocked out--when I read the
note you slipped me after supper. I didn't get a chance to read it
until late, I was so busy packing, and by that time you'd gone to your
cottage. If I could have reached you any way I'd have refused to come
here, I tell you straight. But I couldn't--and I knew you'd be here
waiting--and--still, I feel guilty. Damn it, this isn't the thing for
you! You ought to be in bed asleep. Can't you look out for yourself?
EILEEN (_humbly_). Please, Stephen, don't scold me.
MURRAY. How the devil did you ever get the idea--meeting me here at
this ungodly hour?
EILEEN. You'd told me about your sneaking out that night to go to the
village, and I thought there'd be no harm this one night--the last
night.
MURRAY. But I'm well. I've been well. It's different. You---- Honest,
Eileen, you shouldn't lose sleep and tax your strength.
EILEEN. Don't scold me, please. I'll make up for it. I'll rest all the
time--after you're gone. I just had to see you some way--somewhere
where there weren't eyes and ears on all sides--when you told me after
dinner that Doctor Stanton had examined you and said you could go
to-morrow---- (_A clock in the distant village begins striking._)
Sssh! Listen.
MURRAY. That's twelve now. You see I was early.
(_In a pause of silence they wait motionlessly until the last
mournful note dies in the hushed woods._)
EILEEN (_in a stifled voice_). It isn't to-morrow now, is it? It's
to-day--the day you're going.
MURRAY (_something in her voice making him avert his face and kick at
the heap of stones on which she is sitting--brusquely_). Well, I hope
you took precautions so you wouldn't be caught sneaking out.
EILEEN. I did just what you'd told me you did--stuffed the pillows
under the clothes so the watchman would think I was there.
MURRAY. None of the patients on your porch saw you leave, did they?
EILEEN. No. They were all asleep.
MURRAY. That's all right, then. I wouldn't trust any of that bunch of
women. They'd be only too glad to squeal on you. (_There is an
uncomfortable pause._ Murray _seems waiting for her to speak. He looks
about him at the trees, up into the moonlit sky, breathing in the fresh
air with a healthy delight._ Eileen _remains with downcast head,
staring at the road._) It's beautiful to-night, isn't it? Worth losing
sleep for.
EILEEN (_dully_). Yes. (_Another pause--finally she murmurs faintly._)
Are you leaving early?
MURRAY. The ten-forty. Leave the San at ten, I guess.
EILEEN. You're going home?
MURRAY. Home? You mean to the town? No. But I'm going to see my
sisters--just to say hello. I've got to, I suppose. I won't stay more
than a few days, if I can help it.
EILEEN. I'm sure--I've often felt--you're unjust to your sisters.
(_With conviction._) I'm sure they must both love you.
MURRAY (_frowning_). Maybe, in their own way. But what's love without a
glimmer of understanding--a nuisance! They have never seen the real me
and never have wanted to--that's all.
EILEEN (_as if to herself_). What is--the real you? (Murray _kicks at
the stones impatiently without answering._ Eileen _hastens to change
the subject._) And then you'll go to New York?
MURRAY (_interested, at once_). Yes. You bet.
EILEEN. And write more?
MURRAY. Not in New York, no. I'm going there to take a vacation, and
live, really enjoy myself for a while. I've enough money for that as it
is, and if the other stories you typed sell--I'll be as rich as
Rockefeller. I might even travel---- No, I've got to make good with my
best stuff first. I'll save the travelling as a reward, a prize to
gain. That'll keep me at it. I know what I'll do. When I've had enough
of New York, I'll rent a place in the country--some old farmhouse--and
live alone there and work. (_Lost in his own plans--with pleasure._)
That's the right idea, isn't it?
EILEEN (_trying to appear enthused_). It ought to be fine for your
work. (_After a pause._) They're fine, those stories you wrote here.
They're--so much like you. I'd know it was you wrote them even if--I
didn't know.
MURRAY (_pleased_). Wait till you read the others I'm going to do!
(_After a slight pause--with a good-natured grin._) Here I am talking
about myself again! Why don't you call me down when I start that
drivel? But you don't know how good it is to have your dreams coming
true. It'd make an egotist out of anyone.
EILEEN (_sadly_). No. I don't know. But I love to hear you talk of
yours.
MURRAY (_with an embarrassed laugh_). Thanks. Well, I've certainly told
you all of them. You're the only one---- (_He stops and abruptly
changes the subject._) You said in your note that you had something
important to tell me. (_He sits down beside her, crossing his legs._)
Is it about your interview with Old Mrs. Grundy this afternoon?
EILEEN. No, that didn't amount to anything. She seemed mad because I
told her so little. I think she guessed I only told her what I did so
she'd let me stay up, maybe--your last day,--and to keep her from
thinking what she did--about us.
MURRAY (_quickly, as if he wishes to avoid this subject_). What is it
you wanted to tell me, then?
EILEEN (_sadly_). It doesn't seem so important now, somehow. I suppose
it was silly of me to drag you out here, just for that. It can't mean
anything to you--much.
MURRAY (_encouragingly_). How do you know it can't?
EILEEN (_slowly_). I only thought--you might like to know.