BERTHA.
[Sadly.] That time is gone.
BRIGID.
[Confidentially.] And good cause I have to remember it—that time when he was paying his addresses to you. [She sits down beside Bertha. In a lower voice.] Do you know that he used to tell me all about you and nothing to his mother, God rest her soul? Your letters and all.
BERTHA.
What? My letters to him?
BRIGID.
[Delighted.] Yes. I can see him sitting on the kitchen table, swinging his legs and spinning out of him yards of talk about you and him and Ireland and all kinds of devilment—to an ignorant old woman like me. But that was always his way. But if he had to meet a grand highup person he’d be twice as grand himself. [Suddenly looks at Bertha.] Is it crying you are now? Ah, sure, don’t cry. There’s good times coming still.
BERTHA.
No, Brigid, that time comes only once in a lifetime. The rest of life is good for nothing except to remember that time.
BRIGID.
[Is silent for a moment: then says kindly.] Would you like a cup of tea, ma’am? That would make you all right.
BERTHA.
Yes, I would. But the milkman has not come yet.
BRIGID.
No. Master Archie told me to wake him before he came. He’s going out for a jaunt in the car. But I’ve a cup left overnight. I’ll have the kettle boiling in a jiffy. Would you like a nice egg with it?
BERTHA.
No, thanks.
BRIGID.
Or a nice bit of toast?
BERTHA.
No, Brigid, thanks. Just a cup of tea.
BRIGID.
[Crossing to the folding doors.] I won’t be a moment. [She stops, turns back and goes towards the door on the left.] But first I must waken Master Archie or there’ll be ructions.
[She goes out by the door on the left. After a few moments Bertha rises and goes over to the study. She opens the door wide and looks in. One can see a small untidy room with many bookshelves and a large writingtable with papers and an extinguished lamp and before it a padded chair. She remains standing for some time in the doorway, then closes the door again without entering the room. She returns to her chair by the window and sits down. Archie, dressed as before, comes in by the door on the right, followed by Brigid.]
ARCHIE.
[Comes to her and, putting up his face to be kissed, says:] Buon giorno, mamma!
BERTHA.
[Kissing him.] Buon giorno, Archie! [To Brigid.] Did you put another vest on him under that one?
BRIGID.
He wouldn’t let me, ma’am.
ARCHIE.
I’m not cold, mamma.
BERTHA.
I said you were to put it on, didn’t I?
ARCHIE.
But where is the cold?
BERTHA.
[Takes a comb from her head and combs his hair back at both sides.] And the sleep is in your eyes still.
BRIGID.
He went to bed immediately after you went out last night, ma’am.
ARCHIE.
You know he’s going to let me drive, mamma.
BERTHA.
[Replacing the comb in her hair, embraces him suddenly.] O, what a big man to drive a horse!
BRIGID.
Well, he’s daft on horses, anyhow.
ARCHIE.
[Releasing himself.] I’ll make him go quick. You will see from the window, mamma. With the whip. [He makes the gesture of cracking a whip and shouts at the top of his voice.] Avanti!
BRIGID.
Beat the poor horse, is it?
BERTHA.
Come here till I clean your mouth. [She takes her handkerchief from the pocket of her gown, wets it with her tongue and cleans his mouth.] You’re all smudges or something, dirty little creature you are.
ARCHIE.
[Repeats, laughing.] Smudges! What is smudges?
[The noise is heard of a milkcan rattled on the railings before the window.]
BRIGID.
[Draws aside the curtains and looks out.] Here he is!
ARCHIE.
[Rapidly.] Wait. I’m ready. Goodbye, mamma! [He kisses her hastily and turns to go.] Is pappie up?
BRIGID.
[Takes him by the arm.] Come on with you now.
BERTHA.
Mind yourself, Archie, and don’t be long or I won’t let you go any more.
ARCHIE.
All right. Look out of the window and you’ll see me. Goodbye.
[Brigid and Archie go out by the door on the left. Bertha stands up and, drawing aside the curtains still more, stands in the embrasure of the window looking out. The hall door is heard opening: then a slight noise of voices and cans is heard. The door is closed. After a moment or two Bertha is seen waving her hand gaily in a salute. Brigid enters and stands behind her, looking over her shoulder.]
BRIGID.
Look at the sit of him! As serious as you like.
BERTHA.
[Suddenly withdrawing from her post.] Stand out of the window. I don’t want to be seen.
BRIGID.
Why, ma’am, what is it?
BERTHA.
[Crossing towards the folding doors.] Say I’m not up, that I’m not well. I can’t see anyone.
BRIGID.
[Follows her.] Who is it, ma’am?
BERTHA.
[Halting.] Wait a moment.
[She listens. A knock is heard at the hall door.]
BERTHA.
[Stands a moment in doubt, then.] No, say I’m in.
BRIGID.
[In doubt.] Here?
BERTHA.
[Hurriedly.] Yes. Say I have just got up.
[Brigid goes out on the left. Bertha goes towards the double doors and fingers the curtains nervously, as if settling them. The hall door is heard to open. Then Beatrice Justice enters and, as Bertha does not turn at once, stands in hesitation near the door on the left. She is dressed as before and has a newspaper in her hand.]
BEATRICE.
[Advances rapidly.] Mrs Rowan, excuse me for coming at such an hour.
BERTHA.
[Turns.] Good morning, Miss Justice. [She comes towards her.] Is anything the matter?
BEATRICE.
[Nervously.] I don’t know. That is what I wanted to ask you.
BERTHA.
[Looks curiously at her.] You are out of breath. Won’t you sit down?
BEATRICE.
[Sitting down.] Thank you.
BERTHA.
[Sits opposite her, pointing to her paper.] Is there something in the paper?
BEATRICE.
[Laughs nervously: opens the paper.] Yes.
BERTHA.
About Dick?
BEATRICE.
Yes. Here it is. A long article, a leading article, by my cousin. All his life is here. Do you wish to see it?
BERTHA.
[Takes the paper, and opens it.] Where is it?
BEATRICE.
In the middle. It is headed: A Distinguished Irishman.
BERTHA.
Is it… for Dick or against him?
BEATRICE.
[Warmly.] O, for him! You can read what he says about Mr Rowan. And I know that Robert stayed in town very late last night to write it.
BERTHA.
[Nervously.] Yes. Are you sure?
BEATRICE.
Yes. Very late. I heard him come home. It was long after two.
BERTHA.
[Watching her.] It alarmed you? I mean to be awakened at that hour of the morning.
BEATRICE.
I am a light sleeper. But I knew he had come from the office and then… I suspected he had written an article about Mr Rowan and that was why he came so late.
BERTHA.
How quick you were to think of that!
BEATRICE.
Well, after what took place here yesterday afternoon—I mean what Robert said, that Mr Rowan had accepted this position. It was only natural I should think…
BERTHA.
Ah, yes. Naturally.
BEATRICE.
[Hastily.] But that is not what alarmed me. But immediately after I heard a noise in my cousin’s room.
BERTHA.
[Crumples together the paper in her hands, breathlessly.] My God! What is it? Tell me.
BEATRICE.
[Observing her.] Why does that upset you so much?
BERTHA.
[Sinking back, with a forced laugh.] Yes, of course, it is very foolish of me. My nerves are all upset. I slept very badly, too. That is why I got up so early. But tell me what was it then?
BEATRICE.
Only the noise of his valise being pulled along the floor. Then I heard him walking about his room, whistling softly. And then locking it and strapping it.
BERTHA.
He is going away!
BEATRICE.
That was what alarmed me. I feared he had had a quarrel with Mr Rowan and that his article was an attack.
BERTHA.
But why should they quarrel? Have you noticed anything between them?
BEATRICE.
I thought I did. A coldness.
BERTHA.
Lately?
BEATRICE.
For some time past.
BERTHA.
[Smoothing the paper out.] Do you know the reason?
BEATRICE.
[Hesitatingly.] No.
BERTHA.
[After a pause.] Well, but if this article is for him, as you say, they have not quarrelled. [She reflects a moment.] And written last night, too.
BEATRICE.
Yes. I bought the paper at once to see. But why, then, is he going away so suddenly? I feel that there is something wrong. I feel that something has happened between them.
BERTHA.
Would you be sorry?
BEATRICE.
I would be very sorry. You see, Mrs Rowan, Robert is my first cousin and it would grieve me very deeply if he were to treat Mr Rowan badly, now that he has come back, or if they had a serious quarrel especially because…
BERTHA.
[Toying with the paper.] Because?
BEATRICE.
Because it was my cousin who urged Mr Rowan always to come back. I have that on my conscience.
BERTHA.
It should be on Mr Hand’s conscience, should it not?
BEATRICE.
[Uncertainly.] On mine, too. Because—I spoke to my cousin about Mr Rowan when he was away and, to a certain extent, it was I…
BERTHA.
[Nods slowly.] I see. And that is on your conscience. Only that?
BEATRICE.
I think so.
BERTHA.
[Almost cheerfully.] It looks as if it was you, Miss Justice, who brought my husband back to Ireland.
BEATRICE.
I, Mrs Rowan?
BERTHA.
Yes, you. By your letters to him and then by speaking to your cousin as you said just now. Do you not think that you are the person who brought him back?
BEATRICE.
[Blushing suddenly.] No. I could not think that.
BERTHA.
[Watches her for a moment; then turning aside.] You know that my husband is writing very much since he came back.
BEATRICE.
Is he?
BERTHA.
Did you not know? [She points towards the study.] He passes the greater part of the night in there writing. Night after night.
BEATRICE.
In his study?
BERTHA.
Study or bedroom. You may call it what you please. He sleeps there, too, on a sofa. He slept there last night. I can show you if you don’t believe me.
[She rises to go towards the study. Beatrice half rises quickly and makes a gesture of refusal.]
BEATRICE.
I believe you, of course, Mrs Rowan, when you tell me.
BERTHA.
[Sitting down again.] Yes. He is writing. And it must be about something which has come into his life lately—since we came back to Ireland.
