BERTHA.
[Turning towards him, places her left hand on his shoulder.] Yes, Robert. I know that you like me. You need not tell me. [Kindly.] You need not confess any more tonight.
[A gust of wind enters through the porch, with a sound of moving leaves. The lamp flickers quickly.]
BERTHA.
[Pointing over his shoulder.] Look! It is too high.
[Without rising, he bends towards the table, and turns down the wick more. The room is half dark. The light comes in more strongly through the doorway of the bedroom.]
ROBERT.
The wind is rising. I will close that door.
BERTHA.
[Listening.] No, it is raining still. It was only a gust of wind.
ROBERT.
[Touches her shoulder.] Tell me if the air is too cold for you. [Half rising.] I will close it.
BERTHA.
[Detaining him.] No. I am not cold. Besides, I am going now, Robert. I must.
ROBERT.
[Firmly.] No, no. There is no must now. We were left here for this. And you are wrong, Bertha. The past is not past. It is present here now. My feeling for you is the same now as it was then, because then—you slighted it.
BERTHA.
No, Robert. I did not.
ROBERT.
[Continuing.] You did. And I have felt it all these years without knowing it—till now. Even while I lived—the kind of life you know and dislike to think of—the kind of life to which you condemned me.
BERTHA.
I?
ROBERT.
Yes, when you slighted the common simple gift I had to offer you—and took his gift instead.
BERTHA.
[Looking at him.] But you never…
ROBERT.
No. Because you had chosen him. I saw that. I saw it on the first night we met, we three together. Why did you choose him?
BERTHA.
[Bends her head.] Is that not love?
ROBERT.
[Continuing.] And every night when we two—he and I—came to that corner to meet you I saw it and felt it. You remember the corner, Bertha?
BERTHA.
[As before.] Yes.
ROBERT.
And when you and he went away for your walk and I went along the street alone I felt it. And when he spoke to me about you and told me he was going away—then most of all.
BERTHA.
Why then most of all?
ROBERT.
Because it was then that I was guilty of my first treason towards him.
BERTHA.
Robert, what are you saying? Your first treason against Dick?
ROBERT.
[Nods.] And not my last. He spoke of you and himself. Of how your life would be together—free and all that. Free, yes! He would not even ask you to go with him. [Bitterly.] He did not. And you went all the same.
BERTHA.
I wanted to be with him. You know… [Raising her head and looking at him.] You know how we were then—Dick and I.
ROBERT.
[Unheeding.] I advised him to go alone—not to take you with him—to live alone in order to see if what he felt for you was a passing thing which might ruin your happiness and his career.
BERTHA.
Well, Robert. It was unkind of you towards me. But I forgive you because you were thinking of his happiness and mine.
ROBERT.
[Bending closer to her.] No, Bertha. I was not. And that was my treason. I was thinking of myself—that you might turn from him when he had gone and he from you. Then I would have offered you my gift. You know what it was now. The simple common gift that men offer to women. Not the best perhaps. Best or worst—it would have been yours.
BERTHA.
[Turning away from him.] He did not take your advice.
ROBERT.
[As before.] No. And the night you ran away together—O, how happy I was!
BERTHA.
[Pressing his hands.] Keep calm, Robert. I know you liked me always. Why did you not forget me?
ROBERT.
[Smiles bitterly.] How happy I felt as I came back along the quays and saw in the distance the boat lit up going down the black river, taking you away from me! [In a calmer tone.] But why did you choose him? Did you not like me at all?
BERTHA.
Yes. I liked you because you were his friend. We often spoke about you. Often and often. Every time you wrote or sent papers or books to Dick. And I like you still, Robert. [Looking into his eyes.] I never forgot you.
ROBERT.
Nor I you. I knew I would see you again. I knew it the night you went away—that you would come back. And that was why I wrote and worked to see you again—here.
BERTHA.
And here I am. You were right.
ROBERT.
[Slowly.] Nine years. Nine times more beautiful!
BERTHA.
[Smiling.] But am I? What do you see in me?
ROBERT.
[Gazing at her.] A strange and beautiful lady.
BERTHA.
[Almost disgusted.] O, please don’t call me such a thing!
ROBERT.
[Earnestly.] You are more. A young and beautiful queen.
BERTHA.
[With a sudden laugh.] O, Robert!
ROBERT.
[Lowering his voice and bending nearer to her.] But do you not know that you are a beautiful human being? Do you not know that you have a beautiful body? Beautiful and young?
BERTHA.
[Gravely.] Some day I will be old.
ROBERT.
[Shakes his head.] I cannot imagine it. Tonight you are young and beautiful. Tonight you have come back to me. [With passion.] Who knows what will be tomorrow? I may never see you again or never see you as I do now.
BERTHA.
Would you suffer?
ROBERT.
[Looks round the room, without answering.] This room and this hour were made for your coming. When you have gone—all is gone.
BERTHA.
[Anxiously.] But you will see me again, Robert… as before.
ROBERT.
[Looks full at her.] To make him—Richard—suffer.
BERTHA.
He does not suffer.
ROBERT.
[Bowing his head.] Yes, yes. He does.
BERTHA.
He knows we like each other. Is there any harm, then?
ROBERT.
[Raising his head.] No there is no harm. Why should we not? He does not know yet what I feel. He has left us alone here at night, at this hour, because he longs to know it—he longs to be delivered.
BERTHA.
From what?
ROBERT.
[Moves closer to her and presses her arm as he speaks.] From every law, Bertha, from every bond. All his life he has sought to deliver himself. Every chain but one he has broken and that one we are to break. Bertha—you and I.
BERTHA.
[Almost inaudibly.] Are you sure?
ROBERT.
[Still more warmly.] I am sure that no law made by man is sacred before the impulse of passion. [Almost fiercely.] Who made us for one only? It is a crime against our own being if we are so. There is no law before impulse. Laws are for slaves. Bertha, say my name! Let me hear your voice say it. Softly!
BERTHA.
[Softly.] Robert!
ROBERT.
[Puts his arm about her shoulder.] Only the impulse towards youth and beauty does not die. [He points towards the porch.] Listen!
BERTHA.
[In alarm.] What?
ROBERT.
The rain falling. Summer rain on the earth. Night rain. The darkness and warmth and flood of passion. Tonight the earth is loved—loved and possessed. Her lover’s arms around her; and she is silent. Speak, dearest!
BERTHA.
[Suddenly leans forward and listens intently.] Hush!
ROBERT.
[Listening, smiles.] Nothing. Nobody. We are alone.
[A gust of wind blows in through the porch, with a sound of shaken leaves. The flame of the lamp leaps.]
BERTHA.
[Pointing to the lamp.] Look!
ROBERT.
Only the wind. We have light enough from the other room.
[He stretches his hand across the table and puts out the lamp. The light from the doorway of the bedroom crosses the place where they sit. The room is quite dark.]
ROBERT.
Are you happy? Tell me.
BERTHA.
I am going now, Robert. It is very late. Be satisfied.
ROBERT.
[Caressing her hair.] Not yet, not yet. Tell me, do you love me a little?
BERTHA.
I like you, Robert. I think you are good. [Half rising.] Are you satisfied?
ROBERT.
[Detaining her, kisses her hair.] Do not go, Bertha! There is time still. Do you love me too? I have waited a long time. Do you love us both—him and also me? Do you, Bertha? The truth! Tell me. Tell me with your eyes. Or speak!
[She does not answer. In the silence the rain is heard falling.]
Third Act
The drawingroom of Richard Rowan’s house at Merrion. The folding doors at the right are closed and also the double doors leading to the garden. The green plush curtains are drawn across the window on the left. The room is half dark. It is early in the morning of the next day. Bertha sits beside the window looking out between the curtains. She wears a loose saffron dressing gown. Her hair is combed loosely over the ears and knotted at the neck. Her hands are folded in her lap. Her face is pale and drawn.
[Brigid comes in through the folding doors on the right with a featherbroom and duster. She is about to cross but, seeing Bertha, she halts suddenly and blesses herself instinctively.]
BRIGID.
Merciful hour, ma’am. You put the heart across me. Why did you get up so early?
BERTHA.
What time is it?
BRIGID.
After seven, ma’am. Are you long up?
BERTHA.
Some time.
BRIGID.
[Approaching her.] Had you a bad dream that woke you?
BERTHA.
I didn’t sleep all night. So I got up to see the sun rise.
BRIGID.
[Opens the double doors.] It’s a lovely morning now after all the rain we had. [Turns round.] But you must be dead tired, ma’am. What will the master say at your doing a thing like that? [She goes to the door of the study and knocks.] Master Richard!
BERTHA.
[Looks round.] He is not there. He went out an hour ago.
BRIGID.
Out there, on the strand, is it?
BERTHA.
Yes.
BRIGID.
[Comes towards her and leans over the back of a chair.] Are you fretting yourself, ma’am, about anything?
BERTHA.
No, Brigid.
BRIGID.
Don’t be. He was always like that, meandering off by himself somewhere. He is a curious bird, Master Richard, and always was. Sure there isn’t a turn in him I don’t know. Are you fretting now maybe because he does be in there [pointing to the study] half the night at his books? Leave him alone. He’ll come back to you again. Sure he thinks the sun shines out of
