Scene:The living-room of Bernice’s house in the country. You feel yourself in the house of a woman you would like to know, a woman of sure and beautiful instincts, who lives simply. At the spectator’s right, stairs go up from the living room; back of this—right, rear, a door; to the front of the stairs is a narrowed passage as of a hall leading to the kitchen. On the other side of the room, is a tea-table before the fireplace, and before it is a low rounded chair, as if awaiting the one who will come to serve tea. Toward the rear of this left wall is a door. This door is closed. From the back of the room French windows lead directly out of doors. On each side of this door is a window thus opening almost the entire wall to the October woods. There are comfortable seats under the windows, books about. It is late afternoon and the sun glows through the flaming leaves. As the curtain is drawn theFatheris seen sitting at a long table at the side of the stairway, playing solitaire. At the back of the cards, open books are propped against the wall, and papers on which he has been writing.Abbie, a middle-aged servant, is attending to the open fire.
Father
[Holding up a card he is about to place.] Ten minutes since the train whistled. They’ll be here in five minutes now.
Abbie
Yes, sir.
Father
It will be hard for Craig to come in this house, Abbie.
Abbie
Oh, yes.
Father
Bernice made this house. [Looking around.] Everything is Bernice. [A pause.] Change something, Abbie! [With growing excitement.] Put something in a different place. [He takes a pillow from the seat under the window, holds it irresolutely a moment, puts it on the floor at the side of the fireplace. On the other side he moves a high vase from the window. Then helplessly.] Well, I don’t know. You can’t get Bernice out of this room. The tea-table! Come, Abbie, quick! We will take thisoutof the room. [Together,Abbiereluctant, they move it to the passage-way leading out from the living-room. TheFathercomes back and sees the chair, now without its table. He goes as if to move it, but cannot do this; looks old and broken as he faces the closed door.] I wish they’d left Bernice upstairs, Abbie, in her own room. Nowthere—so near the living-room—right off the living-room. [Hastily goes back to his cards, but in an instant he brushes them together and pulls the open book toward him, and papers; but he only rests his hand on the book.] There’ll be only Craig and his sister on this train, Abbie.
Abbie
That’s all I know of.
Father
But Margaret Pierce will be here soon. As soon as she can get here, Margaret will come. Within an hour, probably.
Abbie
[Apprehensive.] You think so, sir?
Father
I think so. That train from the West got to the Junction at three. I have a feeling Margaret won’t wait for the five o’clock train to get here. She’ll get a car. [Abbiegoes to the door and looks out.] It would save a little time, and—she doesn’t know that Bernice—Yes, Margaret will get here the quickest way. She always came to Bernice when Bernice needed her.
Abbie
She doesn’t need anyone now.
Father
No. But yes—in a way, she does. She needs some one to be here to do what she can’t go on doing. Margaret will see that—when she knows. Margaret sees everything.
Abbie
[Frightened now.] You think so, sir?
Father
Oh, yes, she does. Bernice knew that. “Margaret sees things,” I’ve heard Bernice say. [Abbieturns from him.] Now Mrs. Kirby, Craig’s sister Laura,she’s a sensible woman, she’ll be a help to you, Abbie, in—arranging things. But see things? No. How different people are. They’re all different, Abbie. I don’t think Bernice cared much for Laura—though she didn’t mind her. She’d just laugh about Laura—about her being so sure of everything. It was nice, Abbie, the way Bernice would just laugh about things. She had no malice.
Abbie
[Strangely intense.] No. She didn’t have, did she?
Father
Oh, no, Abbie. Malice wasn’t in her. It was just that a good many things—well, the things that are important to most people weren’t so important to Bernice. It was another set of things were important. People called her detached. But—I don’t know. Maybethey’redetached, Abbie. Maybe it’s Laura Kirby, the sensible woman, who’s detached,—Bernice would have laughed at that—the practical person who’s detached, and Bernice.... You know what I mean, Abbie?
Abbie
I think I do—knowing her.
Father
To you—did she seem detached?
Abbie
[Tenderly thinking it out.] She was loving, and thoughtful, and gay. But always a little of what she is now—[Faces the closed door] off by herself.[With that intensity the present moment does not account for.] You can’t expect to understand a person who is “off by herself.” Now can you?
Father
I understood Bernice. Except, there were things—outside what I understood.
Abbie
[Eagerly.] That’s it. And we should take whatwehad, shouldn’t we, and not try to reach into—to where we didn’t go.
Father
I suppose that’s true, Abbie. [Buries his face.] I wish my little girl hadn’t died. What am I going to do, Abbie? How can I stay here? And how can I go away? We should die in our proper order; I should have gone before my daughter. Anything else makes confusion. There’s not going to be anybody to laugh at me now, Abbie. I’ll miss the way Bernice laughed at me, a laugh that took me in and—yes, took me in. She laughed at my spending the whole time of the war studying Sanscrit. Well, why shouldn’t I? What can the old do about war? I had my vision of life. If that had been followed there’d have been no war. But in a world that won’t have visions—why not study Sanscrit while such a world is being made over—into another such world. [Listening.] You hear some one, Abbie?
Abbie
[After listening.] It didn’t turn in.
Father
And you, Abbie. [With wonder.] Why you were with us when Bernice was born.
Abbie
Yes, I was—in the room the night she was born. The night she died I thought of the night she was born.
Father
That was—how long ago, Abbie?
Abbie
Thirty-five years ago.
Father
Was Bernice thirty-five years old? Shewas, Abbie—my little girl? Well, life moves by—and we hardly know it’s moving. Why, Abbie, your whole life has been lived around Bernice. [Abbienods.] It will be now as if things had—fallen apart. And it was the main thing in your life—doing things for her.
Abbie
[With excitement.] Yes, it was themainthing in my life—doing what she wanted. I couldn’t do anything else now, could I?
Father
[A little surprised at her agitation, but not thinking about it.] Why, no. Now some one is coming, Abbie. You hear them coming?
Abbie
I think so. [She goes to the door.] Yes.
[Abbieopens the door andLauraandCraigcome in.Craigholds back as if to enter this house is something he can scarcely make himself do; he does not look around the room.
Laura
[To theFather, taking his hand.] This is so hard for you, Mr. Allen. I cannot tell you—[Turning toAbbie] Abbie.
Father
[Going toCraig, who is still at the door.] Well, Craig. [TheFatherholds out his hand,Craigtakes it.] Well, I don’t know what we’re going to do without her.
Laura
[Coming to the rescue with the practical.] And where are you going to put us, Abbie?
Abbie
I have the rooms ready upstairs.
Craig
[As if he cannot do this.] Upstairs?
Abbie
[In a low voice.] She is down here, sir.
[She indicates the closed door. Then takesLaura’sbag and they start upstairs.Craigdoes not move.
Laura
[On the stairway.] Aren’t you coming up, Craig, to get clean and rest a little?
Craig
In a minute or two. [He sits down—on the edge of a chair near the door. TheFatherand husband sit there silent.] Bernice—hadn’t been sick long, had she?
Father
No, it was very sudden. You know she had had trouble occasionally in the past year; Dr. Willis had said she might have to go to the hospital. At first this seemed like that—so Abbie and I weren’t really alarmed. Of course we sent for Willis, but he was in Boston. Young Stuart had the grip. So there was no doctor here—till afterwards.
Craig
And—how long was Bernice sick?
[He speaks with difficulty.
Father
She spoke of feeling badly on Tuesday. She was lying down most of that day. Wednesday—she didn’t get up at all Wednesday. And she died late Wednesday night. [Emotion breaking through.] Abbie and I were here all alone!
Craig
Did she say—Did she leave—Well, we can talk of that later.
Father
[Changing to something not so hard to speak of.] You landed last week?
Craig
Yes, I was held in New York by things to do. [A glance at theFather.] Of course, if I had had any idea—
Father
Of course.
Craig
But Bernice wrote me she was fine.
Father
She seemed so. She was well and—seemed very happy here this fall. You know how she loves to tramp the woods in the fall. She was counting on your coming home. She had done over your room upstairs. And hers too. They both look so nice and fresh. And she was just starting to do some things to Margaret’s room. Margaret was coming next month for a rest. She’s been working very hard.
Craig
Are you expecting Margaret now?
Father
Yes. Wednesday evening Bernice seemed to want Margaret to come. She thought maybe Margaret could get away now, and that it would do her good too. She had been worrying about her—thinking she was working too hard. Margaret’s been in Chicago, you know, working on some labor things—I never knowjust what it is she is doing. Bernice seemed to want to see her. I wonder if Bernice herself felt it was more than we knew. Anyway, she wanted us to send for Margaret.
Craig
But you didn’t send for me until—until it was over.
Father
No. You see we didn’t know—Abbie and I didn’t have any idea—I spoke of sending for you when we sent the telegram for Margaret, but Bernice said you’d be here soon anyway, and she didn’t want to hurry you away from New York. [As if not understanding it himself, and trying to find an explanation.] I suppose you were doing something that she knew about, and didn’t want to interrupt.
[Craighalf looks at him.
Craig
And Margaret answered that she was coming?
Father
Yes, we heard from her Thursday morning that she had started. She could get here today. We didn’t know where to reach her telling her it was too late now for—for the visit with Bernice. [Breaking.] I just can’t believe it! Think of what you and I are talking about! Bernice,outof life. She was so—ofit. Didn’t you feel that, Craig—about Bernice?
Craig
Yes. She seemed so—secured. It never seemed anything could—destroy Bernice.
Father
When I think she won’t come down those stairs again!
Craig
I can’t—think of things that way now.
Father
No. No, of course not. [He does not know what to say, so gathers together his cards, then books.] I’ll just—I was just going in my room. [Pause.] I’ve been getting on fine with my Sanscrit, Craig.
Craig
That’s good.
Father
And now the war is over, and some of the people who fussed around about it influenced it as little as I, and I—have my Sanscrit. You know, Bernice used to laugh at me, Craig. She—the way she used to laugh at us—lovingly. Seems to me I’ll miss that most of all.
[He goes into his room—through the door to the rear of the stairway.
[Alone in the room,Craigtries to look around. He cannot. He has taken a step toward the closed door when he hearsAbbie’sstep on the stairs.
Craig
[Impetuously going to her, his hands out.] Abbie,youwere good to her. [Takes her hands, holds them tight. Then changing.] Why didn’t you telegraph me when she was taken sick? [Violently.] Do youthink there was anything in New York I wouldn’t have left? Berniceknewthat if she needed me—She never seemed to need me. I never felt she—couldn’t get along without me. [Taking a few stumbling steps toward the room where Bernice is.] Oh, IwishI could have a talk with her.
Abbie
Mr. Norris! [Her tone halts him.] There’s something I must tell you.
Craig
A—message she left?
Abbie
Message? No. Yes—perhaps. Before you go in there I must tell you—
[They are arrested by the sound of a stopping car; neither moves; in a momentMargaret Piercehurries in.
Margaret
[After looking at them.] She’s worse? [Growing more and more alarmed by them.] Where is she?
[Starts towards the stairs.
Abbie
No—there.
[Pointing.
Craig
[Stepping betweenMargaretand the closed door.] She’s dead, Margaret.
Margaret
Dead? Oh—no. Not Bernice. [Waits imploringly.] But that couldn’tbe.
Craig
I know. I know what you mean, Margaret.
[It seemsMargaretis about to fall;Craigbrings a chair; without taking a step she sinks to it, facing the closed door.Abbieturns and goes out, toward the kitchen.
Margaret
[A slight quick turn of her head to him.] I don’t believe it!
Craig
It’s true, Margaret.
Margaret
[Like blood from her heart.] But Bernice—shewaslife.
Craig
I know—what you mean.
Margaret
[After much has gone on in her.] And I wasn’t here!
Craig
No. Nor I.
Margaret
[A moment later, just having taken this in.] Why weren’t you here?
Craig
I didn’t know she was sick.
Margaret
Your boat got in a week ago.
Craig
Yes. I was detained in New York.
Margaret
Detained by May Fredericks?
Craig
Margaret! Bernice wouldn’t want you to talk that way to me—now.
Margaret
No.
Craig
Why, she knew it. Bernice knew I was staying out on Long Island with them while I was attending to some things about my work. I had a beautiful letter from Bernice. She was perfectly all right—about everything. And I was anxious now to get home to her. I was getting ready to start the very day I got the telegram that—that it was like this. You mean—you think I didn’t make Bernice happy, Margaret?
Margaret
Oh, I don’t think you had the power to make her very unhappy.
Craig
That’s a cruel thing to say, Margaret. Bernice wouldn’t say that to me.
Margaret
[Who is all the while looking straight ahead at the closed door.] No.
Craig
She understood me.
Margaret
And was indulgent.
Craig
[After a pause.] Margaret, did you ever feel you didn’t really gettoBernice?
Margaret
Get to her? So far as I had power.Shenever held me back. Life broke through her—a life deeper than anything that could happen to her.
Craig
Yes, that’s it. Something you couldn’t destroy. A life in her deeper than anything that could be done to her. That—that makes a difference, Margaret. I neverhadBernice.
Margaret
Oh, wasn’t it wonderful to you that beneath what you “had” was a life too full, too rich to behad? I should think that would flow over your life and give it beauty.
Craig
I suppose a man’s feeling is different. He has to feel that he moves—completely moves—yes, could destroy—not that he would, but has the power to reshape the—
Margaret
Craig! “Reshape” Bernice! [In anguish.] Oh, I came to seeher. Not to sit here talking to you.
Craig
I loved her, Margaret. I valued her—even though her life wasn’t made by my life. And she loved me. You think she didn’t?
Margaret
No, Craig, I don’t think she didn’t. I know she did. I was thinking of those things in her—even greater than loving. Those things in her even loving never—caught.
Craig
Yes. I know, Margaret.
Margaret
I want to see Bernice!
[Crying she goes blindly toward the closed door, and to Bernice.
[A second time left alone in the room,Craignow looks at those various things with which he and Bernice have lived. When he can no longer do this he goes to the passage way at the front of the staircase.
Craig
Abbie! [After a moment’s waitAbbiecomes slowly in.] When Miss Margaret came, you were about to tell me something. My wife—left a message for me?
Abbie
Yes. No—I don’t know. [Wildly.] She killed herself!
Craig
[Falling back.]What—are—you—saying?
Abbie
She—did it herself. Took her life. Now I’ve told you! You know now!
Craig
[Roughly taking hold of her.] What’s this you’re saying? What’s this lie you’re trying to—[Letting go of her—in horror, imploringly.] Abbie!Tell me it isn’t true.
Abbie
It’s true. I’m telling you. It’s true. She—didn’t want to live any longer—so she took something—ended her life. That’s all. That’s all I can tell you. Nobody knows. Not her father—nobody. I thought I ought to tell you. Now I’ve told you! Let me go. I’ve told you—I—
[She breaks from him and rushes out.Craigdoes not move.Margaretcomes from Bernice, without looking atCraig, opens the door to go outside.
Craig
[Scarcely able to call to her.] Margaret.
Margaret
[Not turning.] I’ll be back soon.
Craig
[Wildly.] You can’t go away leaving me alone with this! I tell you I can’tstandit. You’re going to the woods to think of Bernice! Well I’ll tell you one thing. You neverknewBernice. You thought she didn’t love me. You think I didn’t matter. But Bernicekilledherself because she loved me so!
Margaret
What—are—you—saying?
Craig
Abbie just told me. No one knows. Not her father—only Abbie.
Margaret
It isnottrue.
Craig
Yes. Abbie was with her. Oh, Margaret, she loved me likethat.
Margaret
And you killed her!
Craig
No—Oh, don’t say that! I didn’tknow.
Margaret
[After trying to take it in.] I knew Bernice. She was life. She came from the whole of life. You are asking me to believe that because of—some little thing in her own life—
Craig
But it wasn’t a little thing.That’swhat we didn’t know. I waseverythingto Bernice. More than all that life we felt—[Some one is heard above.] I think Laura’s coming down. Laura mustn’t know. I had to have you know. Nobody else. Not Laura.
Laura
[On the stairs.] Oh, Margaret, you have come?
Margaret
I was just going out. [AsLauracomes nearer.] I’m going to take a walk!
[She goes out.
Laura
[Looking after her.] Take awalk. She always does some strange thing. [Craighas sunk to a chair, his back toLaura.] Why should she rush away like this, as if it were so much harder for her to stay in this house than for anyone else? [Craig, bowed, covers his face with his hands.] Has she been trying to make you feel badly, Craig? [She goes up to him and puts a hand on his bent shoulder.] Don’t let her do that. It isn’t true. It isn’t as if Bernice were—like most women. There was something—aloof in Bernice. You saw it in her eyes; even in hersmile. Oh, I thought she was wonderful, too. Only, it isn’t as if Bernice—
Craig
If you think she didn’t love me, you’re wrong!
Laura
Oh—Craig! Love you, of course. Only—things that might have hurt another woman—
Craig
How do we know who’s hurt? Who isn’t? Who loves—who doesn’t love? Don’ttalk, Laura.
[She stands there beside him; theFather, coming in, at first sees onlyLaura.
Father
I must have dropped the ten of diamonds. [SeeingCraig.] Of course. Of course. I try not to think of it. My little girl. She loved life so. Always. From the time she was a baby she did rejoice so in the world.
[He stands looking at the closed door.Abbiecomes in; looks atCraig, hesitates, then slowly crosses the room and takes the traveling-bag he brought in when he came; another look at his bowed head, then, herself bowed, starts up the stairs.
(Curtain)