BEATRICE.
[Answers her look steadily.] Mrs Rowan, that is not a question to ask me. If any change has come into his life since he came back you must know and feel it.
BERTHA.
You could know it just as well. You are very intimate in this house.
BEATRICE.
I am not the only person who is intimate here.
[They both look at each other coldly in silence for some moments. Bertha lays aside the paper and sits down on a chair nearer to Beatrice.]
BERTHA.
[Placing her hand on Beatrice’s knee.] So you also hate me, Miss Justice?
BEATRICE.
[With an effort.] Hate you? I?
BERTHA.
[Insistently but softly.] Yes. You know what it means to hate a person?
BEATRICE.
Why should I hate you? I have never hated anyone.
BERTHA.
Have you ever loved anyone? [She puts her hand on Beatrice’s wrist.] Tell me. You have?
BEATRICE.
[Also softly.] Yes. In the past.
BERTHA.
Not now?
BEATRICE.
No.
BERTHA.
Can you say that to me—truly? Look at me.
BEATRICE.
[Looks at her.] Yes, I can.
[A short pause. Bertha withdraws her hand, and turns away her head in some embarrassment.]
BERTHA.
You said just now that another person is intimate in this house. You meant your cousin… Was it he?
BEATRICE.
Yes.
BERTHA.
Have you not forgotten him?
BEATRICE.
[Quietly.] I have tried to.
BERTHA.
[Clasping her hands.] You hate me. You think I am happy. If you only knew how wrong you are!
BEATRICE.
[Shakes her head.] I do not.
BERTHA.
Happy! When I do not understand anything that he writes, when I cannot help him in any way, when I don’t even understand half of what he says to me sometimes! You could and you can. [Excitedly.] But I am afraid for him, afraid for both of them. [She stands up suddenly and goes towards the davenport.] He must not go away like that. [She takes a writing pad from the drawer and writes a few lines in great haste.] No, it is impossible! Is he mad to do such a thing? [Turning to Beatrice.] Is he still at home?
BEATRICE.
[Watching her in wonder.] Yes. Have you written to him to ask him to come here?
BERTHA.
[Rises.] I have. I will send Brigid across with it. Brigid!
[She goes out by the door on the left rapidly.]
BEATRICE.
[Gazing after her, instinctively:] It is true, then!
[She glances toward the door of Richard’s study and catches her head in her hands. Then, recovering herself, she takes the paper from the little table, opens it, takes a spectacle case from her handbag and, putting on a pair of spectacles, bends down, reading it. Richard Rowan enters from the garden. He is dressed as before but wears a soft hat and carries a thin cane.]
RICHARD.
[Stands in the doorway, observing her for some moments.] There are demons [he points out towards the strand] out there. I heard them jabbering since dawn.
BEATRICE.
[Starts to her feet.] Mr Rowan!
RICHARD.
I assure you. The isle is full of voices. Yours also, Otherwise I could not see you, it said. And her voice. But, I assure you, they are all demons. I made the sign of the cross upside down and that silenced them.
BEATRICE.
[Stammering.] I came here, Mr Rowan, so early because… to show you this… Robert wrote it… about you… last night.
RICHARD.
[Takes off his hat.] My dear Miss Justice, you told me yesterday, I think, why you came here and I never forget anything. [Advancing towards her, holding out his hand.] Good morning.
BEATRICE.
[Suddenly takes off her spectacles and places the paper in his hands.] I came for this. It is an article about you. Robert wrote it last night. Will you read it?
RICHARD.
[Bows.] Read it now? Certainly.
BEATRICE.
[Looks at him in despair.] O, Mr Rowan, it makes me suffer to look at you.
RICHARD.
[Opens and reads the paper.] Death of the Very Reverend Canon Mulhall. Is that it?
[Bertha appears at the door on the left and stands to listen.]
RICHARD.
[Turns over a page.] Yes, here we are! A Distinguished Irishman. [He begins to read in a rather loud hard voice.] Not the least vital of the problems which confront our country is the problem of her attitude towards those of her children who, having left her in her hour of need, have been called back to her now on the eve of her longawaited victory, to her whom in loneliness and exile they have at last learned to love. In exile, we have said, but here we must distinguish. There is an economic and there is a spiritual exile. There are those who left her to seek the bread by which men live and there are others, nay, her most favoured children, who left her to seek in other lands that food of the spirit by which a nation of human beings is sustained in life. Those who recall the intellectual life of Dublin of a decade since will have many memories of Mr Rowan. Something of that fierce indignation which lacerated the heart…
[He raises his eyes from the paper and sees Bertha standing in the doorway. Then he lays aside the paper and looks at her. A long silence.]
BEATRICE.
[With an effort.] You see, Mr Rowan, your day has dawned at last. Even here. And you see that you have a warm friend in Robert, a friend who understands you.
RICHARD.
Did you notice the little phrase at the beginning: those who left her in her hour of need?
[He looks searchingly at Bertha, turns and walks into his study, closing the door behind him.]
BERTHA.
[Speaking half to herself.] I gave up everything for him, religion, family, my own peace.
[She sits down heavily in an armchair. Beatrice comes towards her.]
BEATRICE.
[Weakly.] But do you not feel also that Mr Rowan’s ideas…
BERTHA.
[Bitterly.] Ideas and ideas! But the people in this world have other ideas or pretend to. They have to put up with him in spite of his ideas because he is able to do something. Me, no. I am nothing.
BEATRICE.
You stand by his side.
BERTHA.
[With increasing bitterness.] Ah, nonsense, Miss Justice! I am only a thing he got entangled with and my son is—the nice name they give those children. Do you think I am a stone? Do you think I don’t see it in their eyes and in their manner when they have to meet me?
BEATRICE.
Do not let them humble you, Mrs Rowan.
BERTHA.
[Haughtily.] Humble me! I am very proud of myself, if you want to know. What have they ever done for him? I made him a man. What are they all in his life? No more than the dirt under his boots! [She stands up and walks excitedly to and fro.] He can despise me, too, like the rest of them—now. And you can despise me. But you will never humble me, any of you.
BEATRICE.
Why do you accuse me?
BERTHA.
[Going to her impulsively.] I am in such suffering. Excuse me if I was rude. I want us to be friends. [She holds out her hands.] Will you?
BEATRICE.
[Taking her hands.] Gladly.
BERTHA.
[Looking at her.] What lovely long eyelashes you have! And your eyes have such a sad expression!
BEATRICE.
[Smiling.] I see very little with them. They are very weak.
BERTHA.
[Warmly.] But beautiful.
[She embraces her quietly and kisses her. Then withdraws from her a little shyly. Brigid comes in from the left.]
BRIGID.
I gave it to himself, ma’am.
BERTHA.
Did he send a message?
BRIGID.
He was just going out, ma’am. He told me to say he’d be here after me.
BERTHA.
Thanks.
BRIGID.
[Going.] Would you like the tea and the toast now, ma’am?
BERTHA.
Not now, Brigid. After perhaps. When Mr Hand comes show him in at once.
BRIGID.
Yes, ma’am.
[She goes out on the left.]
BEATRICE.
I will go now, Mrs Rowan, before he comes.
BERTHA.
[Somewhat timidly.] Then we are friends?
BEATRICE.
[In the same tone.] We will try to be. [Turning.] Do you allow me to go out through the garden? I don’t want to meet my cousin now.
BERTHA.
Of course. [She takes her hand.] It is so strange that we spoke like this now. But I always wanted to. Did you?
BEATRICE.
I think I did, too.
BERTHA.
[Smiling.] Even in Rome. When I went out for a walk with Archie I used to think about you, what you were like, because I knew about you from Dick. I used to look at different persons, coming out of churches or going by in carriages, and think that perhaps they were like you. Because Dick told me you were dark.
BEATRICE.
[Again nervously.] Really?
BERTHA.
[Pressing her hand.] Goodbye then—for the present.
BEATRICE.
[Disengaging her hand.] Good morning.
BERTHA.
I will see you to the gate.
[She accompanies her out through the double doors. They go down through the garden. Richard Rowan comes in from the study. He halts near the doors, looking down the garden. Then he turns away, comes to the little table, takes up the paper and reads. Bertha, after some moments, appears in the doorway and stands watching him till he has finished. He lays down the paper again and turns to go back to his study.]
BERTHA.
Dick!
RICHARD.
[Stopping.] Well?
BERTHA.
You have not spoken to me.
RICHARD.
I have nothing to say. Have you?
BERTHA.
Do you not wish to know—about what happened last night?
RICHARD.
That I will never know.
BERTHA.
I will tell you if you ask me.
RICHARD.
You will tell me. But I will never know. Never in this world.
BERTHA.
[Moving towards him.] I will tell you the truth, Dick, as I always told you. I never lied to you.
RICHARD.
[Clenching his hands in the air, passionately.] Yes, yes. The truth! But I will never know, I tell you.
BERTHA.
Why, then, did you leave me last night?
RICHARD.
[Bitterly.] In your hour of need.
BERTHA.
[Threateningly.] You urged me to it. Not because you love me. If you loved me or if you knew what love was you would not have left me. For your own sake you urged me to it.
RICHARD.
I did not make myself. I am what I
