[Kateenters, followed byMrs. Littlewood.She is a little elderly woman. She is not dressed in mourning, but in the clothes she may be expected to have been wearing before her bereavement.
[Kateenters, followed byMrs. Littlewood.She is a little elderly woman. She is not dressed in mourning, but in the clothes she may be expected to have been wearing before her bereavement.
Kate.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[ExitKate.
[ExitKate.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Rising and going to meet her.] My dear friend, how very glad I am to see you.
Mrs. Littlewood.
How do you do? [She smiles brightly at the assembled company.] Oh, John, have you come back? [ToMrs. Wharton.] I came to ask if you and the Colonel would come and play bridge this afternoon.
Mrs. Wharton.
Bridge!
[They all look at her with surprise, but no one says anything.]
[They all look at her with surprise, but no one says anything.]
Mrs. Littlewood.
I was going to ask Dr. Macfarlane to make a fourth, but perhaps John will come.
Mrs. Wharton..
[With embarrassment.] It’s very kind of you, but the Colonel hasn’t been very well lately. I don’t think he feels like going out, and I shouldn’t like to leave him.
Mrs. Littlewood.
Oh, I’m sorry.
Mrs. Wharton..
Won’t you sit down?
Mrs. Littlewood.
Thank you very much. I won’t stay. I’ll go round to the Wilkinsons and see if they’ll play.
Vicar.
I hope you weren’t very tired by your journey.
Mrs. Littlewood.
I wasn’t tired at all.
Mrs. Poole.
We thought you were, because we didn’t see you in church.
Mrs. Littlewood.
No, I didn’t come. I thought it would bore me.
[There is a moment’s silence.
[There is a moment’s silence.
Mrs. Wharton.
Did you—did you come straight through from France?
Mrs. Littlewood.
No. I stayed a couple of nights in London.
Mrs. Wharton.
[With pity in her voice.] All alone?
Mrs. Littlewood.
No. I picked up a very nice woman in the hotel, and we went out together. We went to the Gaiety one night and the next we went to the Empire. Do you know that I’d never seen George Robey before?
Mrs. Poole.
Who is George Robey?
Vicar.
I believe he’s a comedian.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Very pleasantly.] How long are you here for, John?
John.
I have three weeks’ leave.
Mrs. Littlewood.
We must all make much of you. I’ll give a tennis party for you, shall I?
Sylvia.
Oh, Mrs. Littlewood, I’m sure you don’t want to give parties just now.
Mrs. Littlewood.
I’d love to. It’s so seldom one gets an excuse for one in a place like this.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Taking her hand.] My dear, I want you to know how deeply we all sympathise with you in your great loss.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[PattingMrs. Wharton’shand, and then releasing her own.] That’s very kind of you. [ToSylviaandJohn.] Would Wednesday suit you young people? I’ll have both courts marked out.
Sylvia.
[Desperately.] I couldn’t come, Mrs. Littlewood, I couldn’t come.
Mrs. Littlewood.
Why on earth not?
Sylvia.
[Controlling herself to civility.] I’m engaged that day.
Colonel Wharton.
John has so short a time at home. I think he and Sylvia have a feeling that they don’t want to go to parties.
Vicar.
[Deliberately.] I hope you got over to France in time to find your son alive.
[Mrs. Littlewoodgives him a rapid glance, stops a moment as though to collect herself, then answers almost indifferently.
[Mrs. Littlewoodgives him a rapid glance, stops a moment as though to collect herself, then answers almost indifferently.
Mrs. Littlewood.
No, he was dead, poor child. [ToMrs. Wharton.] Good-bye, my dear, I’m sorry you can’t come and play bridge this afternoon. I suppose I shall have to send you a wedding-present, John.
John.
I suppose you will.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[With a smile at the rest of the company.] Good-bye.
[She goes out. They are left in amazement.
[She goes out. They are left in amazement.
Mrs. Poole.
Is she absolutely heartless?
Colonel Wharton.
I always thought she was devoted to her sons.
Sylvia.
And Ned was her favourite.
Mrs. Poole.
She wasn’t wearing mourning.
Sylvia.
Isn’t she going to, do you suppose?
Mrs. Wharton.
I can’t understand it. She adored those boys.
Mrs. Poole.
I didn’t ask her to come and stay at the Vicarage, Norman.
Vicar.
I don’t think we’d better till the situation’s a little clearer. She gives one the impression of not caring two straws for Ned’s death. She must be as hard as nails.
Mrs. Wharton.
No, she isn’t that. I’ve known her for thirty-five years. D’you think she’s mad?
Colonel Wharton.
We’d better say a word to Macfarlane when he comes, Evelyn.
Vicar.
I was never so taken aback in my life as when she said she didn’t come to church because she thought she’d be bored.
Mrs. Poole.
Norman, I must go. I’ve got a lot of things to do at home.
Vicar.
Come along then. We’ll just walk out through the garden.
[There are farewells, rather distracted by the queer incident that has just occurred, and theVicarandMrs. Poolego out. TheColonelaccompanies them to the door.
[There are farewells, rather distracted by the queer incident that has just occurred, and theVicarandMrs. Poolego out. TheColonelaccompanies them to the door.
Sylvia.
You’re very silent, John.
John.
I was thinking about Mrs. Littlewood. She doesn’t give me the impression of being either callous or mad.
Sylvia.
What does she mean, then?
John.
[Reflectively.] I don’t know. [With a shrug of the shoulders, throwing off his mood.] And at the moment I don’t very much care. Come and sit down and be a comfort to a wounded hero.
Sylvia.
Idiot!
Mrs. Wharton.
Will you stay to luncheon, Sylvia dear?
Sylvia.
No, I think I ought to get back to mother.
John.
Before you go let’s tell them what we’ve been talking about.
Colonel Wharton.
I don’t think it’s very hard to guess.
John.
I want Sylvia to marry me as soon as ever it’s possible.
Mrs. Wharton.
Of course.
John.
If we look nippy we can get a special licence and be married on Thursday. We don’t want to go far for our honeymoon, because I have such a short time. And my suggestion is London.
Sylvia.
What do you think, Mrs. Wharton?
Mrs. Wharton.
Well, my dear, I think that whatever you and John decide will be quite right.
Sylvia.
He’s only just come back to you. I can’t bear to take him away immediately. Wouldn’t you prefer us to wait a little longer?
Mrs. Wharton.
My dear, we’ve always decided that you should be married the moment he came back. We’ve been quite prepared to lose him. And perhaps after a few days, if the Colonel’s well enough, you wouldn’t mind if we came up to London, too. We’d try not to be in your way.
Sylvia.
[Going down on her knees besideMrs. Whartonand kissing her.] Oh, my dear, you’re so kind to me. I don’t know how I can ever thank you for all your kindness.
Mrs. Wharton.
It’s been a weary, anxious time for all of us. I know how unhappy you’ve been sometimes. I want you to have him now. He’s a good boy, and I think he’ll make you happy.
Sylvia.
[Getting up and givingJohnher hand.] I’m sure he will. I’ll try to make you a good wife, John.
John.
I expect you’ll be quite good enough for the likes of me. Then it’s to be Thursday next.
Sylvia.
[With a smile.] It is.
[He draws her to him and kisses her. She very nearly breaks down.
[He draws her to him and kisses her. She very nearly breaks down.
Sylvia.
I’ve wanted you for so long, John, so dreadfully long.
John.
For goodness’ sake don’t cry.
Sylvia.
[Breaking away from him, with a chuckle.] You brute, John! I hate you.
Mrs. Wharton.
Did you like the Vicar, John?
John.
He seemed all right.
Colonel Wharton.
He’s a first-rate fellow. He had a very good living in London at one time, and he resigned and took one in the East End instead.
John.
Really?
Colonel Wharton.
He said he wasn’t ordained to drink China tea with elderly women of means. [With a chuckle.] He says very good things sometimes.
Mrs. Wharton.
They were perfectly wonderful in the East End. They wanted to live in exactly the same way as their parishioners, so they did without a servant, and did all their housework, even their washing, themselves.
John.
It sounds hateful, but of course it really was heroic.
Mrs. Wharton.
D’you remember what he said to you about Holy Communion? Your father and I were a little disappointed that you didn’t stay for it yesterday.
John.
I’m sorry for that, mother dear.
Mrs. Wharton.
It would have been such a great pleasure to both of us if we could all three have received it together.
John.
Dear mother.... If you’re really going home to luncheon, Sylvia, I’ll walk back with you.
Mrs. Wharton.
The Vicar has a Communion service on Wednesday morning. Would you come then? It’ll be the last opportunity before your marriage.
John.
Oh, my dear, you’re not going to ask me to get up in the middle of the night? After all, one of the pleasures of coming home is to lie in bed in the morning. I don’t know how I ever tear myself out of those lavender-scented sheets.
Mrs. Wharton.
Dear John, won’t you come to please us?
John.
[Still trying to pass it off lightly.] Oh, my dear mother, d’you think it’s really necessary?
Mrs. Wharton.
I should like it so much, my dear. You know, it means a great deal to us.
John.
[More gravely.] Don’t you think one should go to a ceremony like that in a certain frame of mind?
Colonel Wharton.
[Good-humouredly.] Come, my boy, you’re not going to refuse the first request your mother has made you since you came back?
John.
I’m awfully sorry, mother. I beg you not to insist.
Mrs. Wharton.
I don’t quite know what you mean. It’s not like you to be obstinate.... Won’t you come, John?
John.
No, mother.
Colonel Wharton.
Why not?
John.
I’ve been away a long time. There are some things one can’t help, you know. I’ve been through very terrible experiences.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Aghast.] Do you mean to say you’ve lost your—faith?
John.
I’m awfully sorry to give you pain, dear.
Sylvia.
[Her eyes fixed on him.] You’ve not answered your mother’s question, John.
John.
If you want a direct answer, I’m afraid it must be—yes.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Overcome.] Oh, John!
Sylvia.
But you came to church yesterday.
John.
That was just a formal ceremony. I assisted passively, as a Jew might assist at the wedding of one of his Christian friends.
Sylvia.
You stood when we stood, and knelt down, and seemed to pray.
John.
I would do that if I were in a Roman Catholic church. That seemed to me only good manners. [With a smile.] Do you think it was very deceitful?
Sylvia.
I don’t quite see why you should strain at a gnat.
John.
I don’t. It’s the camel I can’t swallow. I knew it would distress you if I refused to come to church. I didn’t want to seem a prig. But the other seems to me different. When I’m asked to take an active part in a ceremony that means nothing to me it’s quite another matter. I’d rather not tell a deliberate lie. And surely from your point of view it would be blasphemous.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Occupied with her own thoughts.] How dreadful!
John.
[Going up to her and putting his arm round her.] Don’t be unhappy, mother. I can’t help feeling as I do. After all, these are matters that only concern oneself.
Sylvia.
[Reflecting.] Are they?
John.
Surely. [To his mother.] I would rather not have told you. I knew how much you’d take it to heart. But I was obliged to. And perhaps it’s better as it is. I hated the thought of deceiving you and father. Now let’s put it out of our minds.
Colonel Wharton.
John, have you forgotten, that in three weeks you’ll be going back to the Front? Sooner or later you’ll find yourself once more in the fighting line. Have you asked yourself what it will be like to face death without the help of Almighty God?
John.
It’s always difficult to face death.
Colonel Wharton.
You wouldn’t be the first who found it easy to stand alone when all was going well and found it a very different thing in danger or illness.
John.
[With a smile.] When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be.
Sylvia.
Archie, Mrs. Littlewood’s elder boy, was badly wounded on the Somme. His battalion had to retreat and somehow or other he wasn’t picked up. He lay in the corner of a wood for three days and kept himself alive on a beet that he pulled out of the field. Heaven knows, I don’t want anything like that to happen to you, but are you sure your courage wouldn’t fail you then? Are you sure you wouldn’t call on God instinctively to help you?
John.
And if I did, what of it? That wouldn’t be me, that mangled, bleeding, starved, delirious thing. It’s me now that speaks, now that I’m well and conscious and strong. It’s the real me now. I disclaim and disown anything I may feel or say when I’m tortured with pain and sickness. It would give my real self just as little as a prisoner on the rack gives the truth.
Sylvia.
[Looking at him fixedly.] You’re afraid of something like that happening, aren’t you?
John.
Yes, I shouldn’t like my body to play me a dirty trick when I hadn’t the presence of mind to look after it.
Colonel Wharton.
Have you ever been in real danger since you—since you began to think like this?
John.
Yes. Once I was in a trench the Germans had enfiladed. They’d got the line exactly. The shells fell one after another, first at the end of the trench, and then they came slowly down. One could calculate almost mathematically when the shell must come that would blow one to smithereens.
Mrs. Wharton.
[With a little gasp of terror.] Oh, John, don’t!
John.
[Smiling.] Well, something went wrong, or else I certainly shouldn’t be here now.
Colonel Wharton.
Do you mean to say you weren’t frightened?
John.
Frightened isn’t the word for it. Talk of getting the wind up: it was a perfect hurricane. I felt as though I were shrinking up so that my clothes suddenly hung about me like sacks. And against my will a prayer came to my lips. From long habit, I suppose, they tried to form themselves into anappeal to God to turn the shell away. I had to fight with myself. I had to keep saying to myself: “Don’t be a fool. Don’t be a damned fool.”
Mrs. Wharton.
And you resisted? It was the voice of God speaking to you. The prayer was said in your heart, and He in His mercy heard it. Doesn’t that prove to you that you’re wrong? At that moment you believed, even though you struggled not to. Your whole soul cried out its belief in God.
John.
No, not my soul: my fear of death.
Colonel Wharton.
I’ve been in battle, too. In South Africa and in the Soudan we were in some pretty tight places now and then. When I went into action I commended my soul to God, and now that I’m an old man I can say that I never knew fear.
John.
I don’t think I’m particularly brave. Before an attack I’ve often had to light a cigarette to hide the trembling of my lips.
Colonel Wharton.
The Christian doesn’t fear death. His whole life is but a preparation for that awful moment. To him it is the shining gateway to life everlasting.
John.
I should be sorry to think that life was nothing but a preparation for death. To my mind death is very unimportant. I think a man does best to put it out of his thoughts. He should live as though life were endless. Life is the thing that matters.
Sylvia.
Doesn’t that suggest a very base materialism?
John.
No, because you can’t make the most of life unless you’re willing to risk it, and it’s the risk that makes the difference. It’s the most precious thing a man has, but it’s valueless unless he’s prepared to stake it.
Sylvia.
What do you think it can be worth while to risk life for?
John.
Almost anything. Honour or love. A song, a thought. [After a moment’s reflection, with a smile.] A five-barred gate.
Sylvia.
Isn’t that rather illogical?
John.
Perhaps. I don’t put it very well. I think what I mean is that life in itself has no value. It’s what you put in it that gives it worth.
Colonel Wharton.
Why do you think you’ve come safely through the perils and dangers of the war? John, do you know that every day your mother and Sylvia and I prayed that God might see fit to spare you?
John.
[With sudden energy.] Were you the only ones? Why didn’t He see fit to spare the others?
Sylvia.
Who are we to question the inscrutable designs of the Omnipotent?
Colonel Wharton.
[Answering his son.] I don’t know what you mean by that. In war somebody’s got to be killed. When a commander gives battle he knows pretty accurately what his losses are going to be before he starts.
[Johngives a slight shrug of the shoulders. He recovers his equanimity.
[Johngives a slight shrug of the shoulders. He recovers his equanimity.
John.
If you don’t mind my saying so, I think we’d much better not start arguing. Arguments never bring one much forrader, do they?
Mrs. Wharton.
[Gently.] But we want to understand, John. You were always such a pious boy.
John.
[Smiling.] Oh, mother, that’s rather a terrible thing to say to anybody.
Mrs. Wharton.
[With an answering smile.] Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. On the contrary, you were rather troublesome. Sometimes you were very headstrong and obstinate.
John.
That’s better.
Mrs. Wharton.
We tried to bring you up to fear God. It used to make me happy sometimes to see how simple and touching your faith was. You used to pray to God for all sorts of absurd things, to make a lot of runs in a cricket match or to pass an exam, that you hadn’t worked for.
John.
Yes, I remember.
Mrs. Wharton.
If you’ve lost your faith, we know it can’t be as so many lose it, on purpose, because they’vegiven themselves over to sensuality, and dare not believe in a God whom every action of their lives insults. If you’ll only tell us everything, perhaps we can help you.
John.
My dear, you’d much better let the matter rest. I should only have to say things that would hurt you all.
Mrs. Wharton.
We’re willing to take the risk of that. We know you wouldn’t hurt us intentionally. Perhaps they’re only difficulties that we might be able to explain. And if we’re not clever enough perhaps the Vicar can.
[Johnshakes his head without speaking.
[Johnshakes his head without speaking.
Sylvia.
Don’t you want to believe in God, John?
John.
No.
[There is a moment’s pause.Katecomes in to announceDr. Macfarlane.This is a rather eccentric old man, with long white hair, small, with rosy cheeks. He is an old-fashioned country doctor, and wears rather shabby black clothes and carries a rusty silk hat in his hand. There is in him something of the gentleman farmer and something of the apothecary of a former day.
[There is a moment’s pause.Katecomes in to announceDr. Macfarlane.This is a rather eccentric old man, with long white hair, small, with rosy cheeks. He is an old-fashioned country doctor, and wears rather shabby black clothes and carries a rusty silk hat in his hand. There is in him something of the gentleman farmer and something of the apothecary of a former day.
Kate.
Dr. Macfarlane.
[Exit.
[Exit.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh! I’d forgotten for the moment. [With a smile of welcome.] We’ve been expecting you.
Dr. Macfarlane.
[Shaking hands with the two ladies.] I’ve been busy this morning. [ToJohn.] And how are you, John?
John.
Sitting up and taking nourishment, thank you.
Dr. Macfarlane.
You look none the worse for all your adventures. A little older, perhaps.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, of course, you’ve not seen John before.
Dr. Macfarlane.
No. My wife saw him yesterday in church, but unfortunately I couldn’t go. I had to see a patient.
John.
The same patient?
Dr. Macfarlane.
I beg your pardon.
John.
You’ve had to see a patient at about eleven every Sunday morning for the last twenty-five years. I was wondering if it was the same one.
Dr. Macfarlane.
If it is, I certainly deserve praise for keeping the undertakers at bay so long. [Going up to theColonel] And how are you feeling to-day, Colonel?
Colonel Wharton.
Oh, I’m feeling pretty well, thank you. Have you had a letter from that fellow in Canterbury?
Dr. Macfarlane.
Yes.
Colonel Wharton.
Well, what does he say?
Dr. Macfarlane.
You military gentlemen, you want to go so fast.
Mrs. Wharton.
Have you brought the letter with you?
Dr. Macfarlane.
It’s very technical. Saving your presence, I don’t think any of you would make head or tail of it. Now, Mrs. Wharton, my dear, shall you and I go for a little stroll in your beautiful garden, and we’ll have a talk about this old tyrant.
Colonel Wharton.
What’s the object of that? Evelyn will only tell me everything you’ve said the moment you’re gone. She’s never been able to keep anything from me in her life.
Dr. Macfarlane.
You must have patience with me. I’m an old man, and I like to do things in my own way.
Colonel Wharton.
Well,I’mno chicken, and I’m not going to stand any of your nonsense. Tell us straight out what the doctor says and be damned to you. I beg your pardon, my dear, but I have to talk to the old fool in the only way he understands.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Very rough, isn’t he?
John.
The gentlest pirate who ever cut a throat.
Colonel Wharton.
You know, you’re a transparent old fraud, Doctor. The moment you came in I saw you had some bad news for me. You were expecting to find Evelyn alone.
Dr. Macfarlane.
This is the hour at which all self-respecting retired colonels are reading theTimesin their study.
Mrs. Wharton.
What does Dr. Keller say?
Colonel Wharton.
I suppose he wants an operation. It’s a nuisance but, with God’s help, I can go through with it.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Well, I suppose you’d have to know sooner or later. Let these young people clear out and we’ll talk it all over quietly.
Colonel Wharton.
Nonsense. John is my son and Sylvia is almost my daughter. What concerns me concerns them, I fancy. Why, you couldn’t make more fuss if I’d only got a month to live.
Dr. Macfarlane.
[Hesitating.] Do you want me to tell you the whole thing now—just like this?
Colonel Wharton.
Yes. You don’t think I’m afraid to hear the worst. Whatever it is, I hope I have the pluck to bear it like a Christian and a gentleman.
[There is a pause.
[There is a pause.
Dr. Macfarlane.
You’re quite right. I have bad news for you. Dr. Keller confirms my diagnosis. I was pretty sure of it, but I didn’t want to believe it. I thought I might be mistaken.... I’m afraid you’re very ill indeed. You must be extremely careful.
Mrs. Wharton.
George!
Colonel Wharton.
Come, come, my dear, don’t get in a state. And does he recommend an operation?
Dr. Macfarlane.
No.
Colonel Wharton.
[Startled.] Do you mean to say that.... But I don’t feel so bad as all that. Now and then I have attacks of pain, but then ... you don’t mean to say you think I’m going to die? For God’s sake tell me the truth.
Dr. Macfarlane.
My dear old friend!
Colonel Wharton.
You mean I’ve got a fatal disease. Can—can nothing be done?
Dr. Macfarlane.
I don’t know about that. There’s always something that can be done.
Colonel Wharton.
But a cure, I mean. Can’t I be cured?
Dr. Macfarlane.
If you want the truth really, then I’m afraid I can hold out no hope of that.
Colonel Wharton.
How long d’you give me? [Trying to laugh.] I suppose you’re not going to grudge me a year or two?
Dr. Macfarlane.
[Pretending to take it lightly.] Oh, you can be quite sure we’ll keep you alive as long as we can.
John.
You’ve got a wonderful physique, father. My own impression is that you’ll make fools of the doctors and live for another twenty years.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Medicine isn’t an exact science like surgery. It’s a doctor’s duty to tell a patient the truth when he asks for it, but if I were a patient I would always take it with a grain of salt.
[TheColonellooks at him suspiciously.
[TheColonellooks at him suspiciously.
Colonel Wharton.
You’re keeping something from me. If it was only that, why did you want to see Evelyn alone?
Dr. Macfarlane.
Well, some people are very nervous about themselves. I wasn’t quite sure if you’d better know or not. I thought I’d talk it over with her.
Colonel Wharton.
Am I in immediate danger of death? For God’s sake, tell me. It would be cruel to leave me in ignorance.
Mrs. Wharton.
Please answer quite frankly, doctor.
Dr. Macfarlane.
[After a pause.] I think if you have any arrangements to make, it would be wise if you made them soon.
Colonel Wharton.
Then it’s not a question of a year or two even? Is it months or weeks?
Dr. Macfarlane.
I don’t know. No one can tell.
Colonel Wharton.
You’re treating me like a child. [With sudden rage.] Confound you, sir, I order you to tell me.
Dr. Macfarlane.
It may be at any time.
Colonel Wharton.
[With a sudden cry of terror.] Evelyn! Evelyn!
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, my dear! My dear husband!