BEATRICE.
[Calmly.] O, not in the least tragic. I shall become gradually better, they tell me, as I grow older. As I did not die then they tell me I shall probably live. I am given life and health again—when I cannot use them. [Calmly and bitterly.] I am convalescent.
RICHARD.
[Gently.] Does nothing then in life give you peace? Surely it exists for you somewhere.
BEATRICE.
If there were convents in our religion perhaps there. At least, I think so at times.
RICHARD.
[Shakes his head.] No, Miss Justice, not even there. You could not give yourself freely and wholly.
BEATRICE.
[Looking at him.] I would try.
RICHARD.
You would try, yes. You were drawn to him as your mind was drawn towards mine. You held back from him. From me, too, in a different way. You cannot give yourself freely and wholly.
BEATRICE.
[Joins her hands softly.] It is a terribly hard thing to do, Mr Rowan—to give oneself freely and wholly—and be happy.
RICHARD.
But do you feel that happiness is the best, the highest that we can know?
BEATRICE.
[With fervour.] I wish I could feel it.
RICHARD.
[Leans back, his hands locked together behind his head.] O, if you knew how I am suffering at this moment! For your case, too. But suffering most of all for my own. [With bitter force.] And how I pray that I may be granted again my dead mother’s hardness of heart! For some help, within me or without, I must find. And find it I will.
[Beatrice rises, looks at him intently, and walks away toward the garden door. She turns with indecision, looks again at him and, coming back, leans over the easychair.]
BEATRICE.
[Quietly.] Did she send for you before she died, Mr Rowan?
RICHARD.
[Lost in thought.] Who?
BEATRICE.
Your mother.
RICHARD.
[Recovering himself, looks keenly at her for a moment.] So that, too, was said of me here by my friends—that she sent for me before she died and that I did not go?
BEATRICE.
Yes.
RICHARD.
[Coldly.] She did not. She died alone, not having forgiven me, and fortified by the rites of holy church.
BEATRICE.
Mr Rowan, why did you speak to me in such a way?
RICHARD.
[Rises and walks nervously to and fro.] And what I suffer at this moment you will say is my punishment.
BEATRICE.
Did she write to you? I mean before…
RICHARD.
[Halting.] Yes. A letter of warning, bidding me break with the past, and remember her last words to me.
BEATRICE.
[Softly.] And does death not move you, Mr Rowan? It is an end. Everything else is so uncertain.
RICHARD.
While she lived she turned aside from me and from mine. That is certain.
BEATRICE.
From you and from…?
RICHARD.
From Bertha and from me and from our child. And so I waited for the end as you say; and it came.
BEATRICE.
[Covers her face with her hands.] O, no. Surely no.
RICHARD.
[Fiercely.] How can my words hurt her poor body that rots in the grave? Do you think I do not pity her cold blighted love for me? I fought against her spirit while she lived to the bitter end. [He presses his hand to his forehead.] It fights against me still—in here.
BEATRICE.
[As before.] O, do not speak like that.
RICHARD.
She drove me away. On account of her I lived years in exile and poverty too, or near it. I never accepted the doles she sent me through the bank. I waited, too, not for her death but for some understanding of me, her own son, her own flesh and blood; that never came.
BEATRICE.
Not even after Archie…?
RICHARD.
[Rudely.] My son, you think? A child of sin and shame! Are you serious? [She raises her face and looks at him.] There were tongues here ready to tell her all, to embitter her withering mind still more against me and Bertha and our godless nameless child. [Holding out his hands to her.] Can you not hear her mocking me while I speak? You must know the voice, surely, the voice that called you the black protestant, the pervert’s daughter. [With sudden selfcontrol.] In any case a remarkable woman.
BEATRICE.
[Weakly.] At least you are free now.
RICHARD.
[Nods.] Yes, she could not alter the terms of my father’s will nor live for ever.
BEATRICE.
[With joined hands.] They are both gone now, Mr Rowan. They both loved you, believe me. Their last thoughts were of you.
RICHARD.
[Approaching, touches her lightly on the shoulder, and points to the crayon drawing on the wall.] Do you see him there, smiling and handsome? His last thoughts! I remember the night he died. [He pauses for an instant and then goes on calmly.] I was a boy of fourteen. He called me to his bedside. He knew I wanted to go to the theatre to hear Carmen. He told my mother to give me a shilling. I kissed him and went. When I came home he was dead. Those were his last thoughts as far as I know.
BEATRICE.
The hardness of heart you prayed for… [She breaks off.]
RICHARD.
[Unheeding.] That is my last memory of him. Is there not something sweet and noble in it?
BEATRICE.
Mr Rowan, something is on your mind to make you speak like this. Something has changed you since you came back three months ago.
RICHARD.
[Gazing again at the drawing, calmly, almost gaily.] He will help me, perhaps, my smiling handsome father.
[A knock is heard at the hall door on the left.]
RICHARD.
[Suddenly.] No, no. Not the smiler, Miss Justice. The old mother. It is her spirit I need. I am going.
BEATRICE.
Someone knocked. They have come back.
RICHARD.
No, Bertha has a key. It is he. At least, I am going, whoever it is.
[He goes out quickly on the left and comes back at once with his straw hat in his hand.]
BEATRICE.
He? Who?
RICHARD.
O, probably Robert. I am going out through the garden. I cannot see him now. Say I have gone to the post. Goodbye.
BEATRICE.
[With growing alarm.] It is Robert you do not wish to see?
RICHARD.
[Quietly.] For the moment, yes. This talk has upset me. Ask him to wait.
BEATRICE.
You will come back?
RICHARD.
Please God.
[He goes out quickly through the garden. Beatrice makes as if to follow him and then stops after a few paces. Brigid enters by the folding doors on the right and goes out on the left. The hall door is heard opening. A few seconds after Brigid enters with Robert Hand. Robert Hand is a middlesized, rather stout man between thirty and forty. He is cleanshaven, with mobile features. His hair and eyes are dark and his complexion sallow. His gait and speech are rather slow. He wears a dark blue morning suit and carries in his hand a large bunch of red roses wrapped in tissue paper.]
ROBERT.
[Coming towards her with outstretched hand which she takes.] My dearest coz! Brigid told me you were here. I had no notion. Did you send mother a telegram?
BEATRICE.
[Gazing at the roses.] No.
ROBERT.
[Following her gaze.] You are admiring my roses. I brought them to the mistress of the house. [Critically.] I am afraid they are not nice.
BRIGID.
O, they are lovely, sir. The mistress will be delighted with them.
ROBERT.
[Lays the roses carelessly on a chair out of sight.] Is nobody in?
BRIGID.
Yes, sir. Sit down, sir. They’ll be here now any moment. The master was here.
[She looks about her and with a half curtsey goes out on the right.]
ROBERT.
[After a short silence.] How are you, Beatty? And how are all down in Youghal? As dull as ever?
BEATRICE.
They were well when I left.
ROBERT.
[Politely.] O, but I’m sorry I did not know you were coming. I would have met you at the train. Why did you do it? You have some queer ways about you, Beatty, haven’t you?
BEATRICE.
[In the same tone.] Thank you, Robert. I am quite used to getting about alone.
ROBERT.
Yes, but I mean to say… O, well, you have arrived in your own characteristic way.
[A noise is heard at the window and a boy’s voice is heard calling, ‘Mr Hand!’ Robert turns.]
By Jove, Archie, too, is arriving in a characteristic way!
[Archie scrambles into the room through the open window on the left and then rises to his feet, flushed and panting. Archie is a boy of eight years, dressed in white breeches, jersey and cap. He wears spectacles, has a lively manner and speaks with the slight trace of a foreign accent.]
BEATRICE.
[Going towards him.] Goodness gracious, Archie! What is the matter?
ARCHIE.
[Rising, out of breath.] Eh! I ran all the avenue.
ROBERT.
[Smiles and holds out his hand.] Good evening, Archie. Why did you run?
ARCHIE.
[Shakes hands.] Good evening. We saw you on the top of the tram, and I shouted Mr Hand! But you did not see me. But we saw you, mamma and I. She will be here in a minute. I ran.
BEATRICE.
[Holding out her hand.] And poor me!
ARCHIE.
[Shakes hands somewhat shyly.] Good evening, Miss Justice.
BEATRICE.
Were you disappointed that I did not come last Friday for the lesson?
ARCHIE.
[Glancing at her, smiles.] No.
BEATRICE.
Glad?
ARCHIE.
[Suddenly.] But today it is too late.
BEATRICE.
A very short lesson?
ARCHIE.
[Pleased.] Yes.
BEATRICE.
But now you must study, Archie.
ROBERT.
Were you at the bath?
ARCHIE.
Yes.
ROBERT.
Are you a good swimmer now?
ARCHIE.
[Leans against the davenport.] No. Mamma won’t let me into the deep place. Can you swim well, Mr Hand?
ROBERT.
Splendidly. Like a stone.
ARCHIE.
[Laughs.] Like a stone! [Pointing down.] Down that way?
ROBERT.
[Pointing.] Yes, down; straight down. How do you say that over in Italy?
ARCHIE.
That? Giù. [Pointing down and up.] That is giù and this is sù. Do you want to speak to my pappie?
ROBERT.
Yes. I came to see him.
ARCHIE.
[Going towards the study.] I will tell him. He is in there, writing.
BEATRICE.
[Calmly, looking at Robert.] No; he is out. He is gone to the post with some letters.
ROBERT.
[Lightly.] O, never mind. I will wait if he is only gone to the post.
ARCHIE.
But mamma is coming. [He glances towards the window.] Here she is!
[Archie runs out by the door on
