Part 6

H’m—well, since you appear to know something about this, it would be—er—affectation on my part to deny it. His conduct has been shameful, outrageous, and ungentlemanly.

CLARE.

His conduct has been splendid. That detestable creature got hold of him somehow, and he behaved perfectly from start to finish. Of course you side with her because you think her pretty. But——

DEAN.

We won’t discuss the matter any further, my child. You are very young and headstrong and inexperienced, and must learn to repose implicit faith in your father’s judgment. You are not to see this young man again.

CLARE.

I’m sorry, father, but I refuse to obey you.

DEAN.

Clare!

CLARE.

It’s grossly unjust—it’s mean and horrid. I won’t do such a caddish thing even for you. I am going to see him now.

(_JOHN enters and goes to the gateway._)

DEAN.

Clare, remember I have forbidden it.

CLARE.

(_Beside herself._) I don’t care! I’m going to him now! I won’t go to church to be preached at. I’m going to him. You can turn me out of your house, if you like, father. But I won’t obey you. I won’t.

(_She storms into the house._)

DEAN.

Clare, how dare you! (_Directly she has disappeared, he laughs heartily._) Oh! Most satisfactory.

(_He changes plates and commences on CLARE’S untouched omelette. JOHN, who has looked through the grating and recognised BALDWIN outside, goes to the DEAN._)

JOHN.

Mr. Cosway’s gardener has just called again, sir.

DEAN.

Very well. Bring him round.

JOHN.

Yes, sir.

(_He goes to the gateway and opens the wicket. The DEAN continues eating his breakfast. BALDWIN enters in Sunday broadcloth and a broad-brimmed, black, soft felt hat. He carries an abnormally large prayer-book and hymn-book._)

JOHN.

Mr. Baldwin, sir.

(_JOHN goes out._)

DEAN.

Ah.... Good morning, Baldwin.

BALDWIN.

Mornin’, sir.

DEAN.

You have a message for me from her ladyship?

BALDWIN.

Yessir.

(_He places his two books on the ground, plunges into his right-hand breast-pocket and produces a letter._)

I would ’a lef’ this at the door, sir, without troublin’ you, but ’er ladyship when she give it me said most particular as I was to ’and it to you personal, sir.

DEAN.

Quite so. Quite so.

(_Opens the envelope and reads._)

BALDWIN.

(_After fumbling in the left-hand breast-pocket, produces a second letter._) And ’ere’s the other letter, sir.

DEAN.

Eh, what? Another?

BALDWIN.

Yessir. As I was leavin’ ’ome, the master come up and give it me, and said most particular as I was to ’and it to you personal.

DEAN.

Oh.... (_Takes the letter and reads it through._) Er—thank you.... I understand you’ve been to visit the grave of the late Mrs. Baldwin?

BALDWIN.

I ’ave that, sir. She was a good wife to me, sir, though she did give me ondly two.... I’ve ’ad thirteen, sir, an’ two of ’em by ’er.

DEAN.

Thirteen! Excellent! Excellent!

BALDWIN.

Yessir. Thirteen’s an onlucky number, I’ve ’eard tell, but I ain’t suspicious.

DEAN.

(_Laughing gently._) And how many of the thirteen are girls, Baldwin?

BALDWIN.

Nine of ’em, sir—leastways, I think as ’ow nine of ’em is female. (_He tots them off on his fingers._) H’Annie, and H’Effel, ’Enrietta, Louisa, Maggie, Victoria ... H’Alice.... H’Edith.... an’—an’ Milly. Yessir—nine. The rest is boys.

DEAN.

Nine! Dear me! What a terrible responsibility. Their upbringing must have been very trying. Nine!

BALDWIN.

Yessir. They do give a bit more worry than boys. But Mrs. Baldwin’s a rare ’and at tacklin’ ’er own sects.

DEAN.

Oh, really? And what measures did she take when they were fractious and disobedient?

BALDWIN.

She ’anded ’em over to me, sir.

DEAN.

And what did you do?

BALDWIN.

I thrashed ’em.

DEAN.

Did you really! That never dawned on me as a practical measure.... I wonder—I wonder whether all girls would derive benefit from—er—occasional chastisement.

BALDWIN.

You take my word for it, sir. All my girls ’ave gorne straight and married respec’able.

DEAN.

Gone straight and married respectably! All nine of them!... And do you put down this happy result to your special treatment?

BALDWIN.

Yessir.

DEAN.

Most interesting! Most interesting! I must think it over—I must indeed....

(_JOHN enters._)

JOHN.

Mrs. O’Farrel has called, sir.

DEAN.

Oh.... Ask her out here, John.

JOHN.

Very good, sir.

(_He goes out._)

(_The DEAN takes up the letters and glances through them. A pause. He looks up and sees BALDWIN standing patiently watching him._)

DEAN.

Ah, Baldwin—yes.... What was I saying?

BALDWIN.

You said as you’d think it over, sir.

DEAN.

Oh, to be sure! Physical chastisement for girls. Quite so.

(_Enter JOHN from the house followed by MRS. O’FARREL._)

JOHN.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(_He goes out._)

DEAN.

(_Rising with outstretched hands._) My dear Eileen! This is a most unexpected pleasure!

MRS. O’FARREL.

Nonsense. You guessed I should turn up.

DEAN.

Well, I may have hoped it.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Good morning, Baldwin.

BALDWIN.

Mornin’, ma’am.

DEAN.

Baldwin has been giving me sage advice on the up-bringing of girls.

MRS. O’FARREL.

You need it.

DEAN.

He’s a great advocate of—er—corporal punishment.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Oh!... That’s all very well when they’re in short frocks, Baldwin. But afterwards, I don’t exactly see how——

DEAN.

Quite so....

BALDWIN.

I thrashed Milly when she was turned twenty, mum.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Upon my word! What on earth had the girl done?

BALDWIN.

Mrs. Baldwin found ’er sittin ’on Constable ’Iggins’ knee—’e was a married man, as you may remember, sir, and ’e——

(_MRS. O’FARREL bursts out laughing._)

DEAN.

(_Hastily._) Yes, yes, yes, Baldwin.... Neither of these notes requires an answer, thank you. Good morning.

BALDWIN.

Mornin’, sir. Mornin’, ma’am.

(_He goes out slowly, inadvertently leaving his books on the ground. MRS. O’FARREL is still amused._)

DEAN.

Well?

MRS. O’FARREL.

Well?...

DEAN.

I said it first.

MRS. O’FARREL.

And I’m a woman.

DEAN.

True. To begin with I’ve just received these two notes. (_Hands her the letters._)

MRS. O’FARREL.

(_Opening a letter._) From Patricia!... Now I really wonder whether this terribly agitated handwriting is put on.

DEAN.

Be generous, Eileen!

MRS. O’FARREL.

What on earth does the woman mean by scrawling “Sunrise” on the top of the page?

DEAN.

Presumably that was when she wrote the letter.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Oh, I see! She wants you to believe she paced her room in wakeful agony all night. (_Reads._) “Sunrise. I have need of confession. I will call at the Deanery before morning service—PATRICIA COSWAY.” Confession! Evidently she means to enjoy herself!... (_Opens the other note and reads._) “DEAR DEAN,—I am calling on you before morning service to-day. I trust, in spite of all that has happened, you will not refuse to receive me—MICHAEL COSWAY.” Very interesting. What do you intend to do?

DEAN.

Honestly, I haven’t made up my mind yet.

MRS. O’FARREL.

I protest against your giving Patricia and yourself the luxury of private confession. She owes _me_ her precious confession, not _you_. Have her out here, and we’ll trounce her together.

DEAN.

Poor woman!

MRS. O’FARREL.

Fiddle-de-dee! She’s having the time of her life. I wonder whether they’ve confessed to each other.

DEAN.

I shouldn’t think so—but I mean that they shall.

MRS. O’FARREL.

So do I.... Well, Dean, I’ve had it out with my son.

DEAN.

Ah....

MRS. O’FARREL.

Driving home last night I talked about the likelihood of a thunderstorm, Crême de Menthe and lawn-tennis, and made him thoroughly uncomfortable.

DEAN.

Then you said nothing about——

MRS. O’FARREL.

Not a word. And we both went to bed. He came down to breakfast in a shocking temper. I cheerfully exhausted two tedious subjects: the House of Lords and domestic servants. Suddenly he lost his manners—cut me short—and plunged into the sad story of Patricia and himself.... Now, I’d had time to think the matter over! I treated the whole thing as a youthful peccadillo and mildly suggested he had better put an end to it. The poor dear boy was completely floored. I’m sure he’d prepared himself against a regular tornado. He simply sat there and stared at me.... Then abruptly I turned the conversation on to your daughter.

DEAN.

Eh?

MRS. O’FARREL.

I described her conduct as scandalous, herself as a hussy, and wound up with a burst of gratitude that he’d been Patricia’s victim instead of hers.

DEAN.

Most remarkable! And what did the young man say?

MRS. O’FARREL.

He dazzled me with an amazing flare-up. Exhausted his vocabulary on my injustice and Clare’s perfections, and stormed out of the room, leaving me with tingling ears.

DEAN.

And now?

MRS. O’FARREL.

Presumably he’s gone in search of this maligned young woman. My blessings attend on him!... Well, Dean, I’m a brilliant and original tactician, what?

DEAN.

Brilliant, certainly—original, no!

MRS. O’FARREL.

No?

DEAN.

Not ten minutes ago I adopted precisely the same tactics with Clare and achieved precisely the same result. She’s searching for your worthless son at present.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Upon my word, I should never have credited you with so much sense!

DEAN.

My dear Eileen, I put down the tragedy of so many women’s lives——

(_Enter JOHN._)

JOHN.

(_Announcing._) Lady Patricia Cosway.

(_Enter LADY PATRICIA. She is dressed in black from head to foot. JOHN goes out._)

DEAN.

(_Rising._) Lady Patricia, this is indeed an——

MRS. O’FARREL.

No, Dean; it’s neither unexpected nor a pleasure.

DEAN.

I must really beg of you, Eileen! (_To PATRICIA._) Won’t you sit down?

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Who has been standing at the back in an attitude of majestic humility. She speaks with pleading dignity._) Do you refuse me your hand?...

DEAN.

(_At her side, and taking her black-gloved hand in both of his._) My dear lady!

LADY PATRICIA.

Ah.... You were always large-minded and gentle and tolerant.... Aunt Eileen....

MRS. O’FARREL.

Well?

LADY PATRICIA.

They told me you were here, so I came out. I am determined to speak before you both. It was not what I had meant to do. I had hoped to lay bare my secret soul in secret to the Dean. Deliberately I have chosen the fiercer ordeal. For I expect and deserve no sympathy from you, no mercy, no forgiveness, no understanding....

MRS. O’FARREL.

I think I understand you well enough, Patricia.

LADY PATRICIA.

But do you? Oh, do you? Can any one so sane and practical understand this living paradox? Can prose ever understand poetry? I am the refined essence of spirit and sense. I am a thing of fire and dew. I have in me the making of a great saint and a great courtesan....

DEAN.

(_Hurriedly._) Yes, yes; we quite understand....

MRS. O’FARREL.

Go ahead, Patricia.

LADY PATRICIA.

If you really understand, my task will be so much the easier! For understanding is the beginning of sympathy. And sympathy ends in forgiveness.... Dean, Aunt Eileen—will you be patient and listen to me for a moment?

DEAN.

Of course we will. But won’t you sit down?

LADY PATRICIA.

I should prefer to stand.

MRS. O’FARREL.

It’s more effective, Dean.

LADY PATRICIA.

What you overheard yesterday gave you only a crude outline of my tragedy and sin. All the colour, all the light and shadow were missing; and without these you are bound to misjudge me.... Ah! don’t believe for a moment I am seeking to justify myself! No! No! There _can_ be no real justification for my sin.... But I _do_ want your understanding—I _do_ want your pity—I _do_ want your pardon. And from you, Dean, I have come for punishment—for penance——

MRS. O’FARREL.

Hand her over to Baldwin.

LADY PATRICIA.

Baldwin?

DEAN.

Eileen! I beg of you!

LADY PATRICIA.

On the surface my marriage has been perfect. Michael is the husband of old romance, steel-true, chivalrous, and devoted—oh! as no man was ever devoted to a woman before! (_MRS. O’FARREL and the DEAN exchange significant glances._) But he just lacked what the depths of my complex nature cried out for—passion, simplicity, primeval energy. These he hadn’t in him to give, and I wanted them, not knowing at first what I wanted.... But when Bill came into my life—I knew—I knew ... and we rushed together, drawn by the mystic gravitation of alien soul for soul.

MRS. O’FARREL.

A moment, Patricia. I understand that my son has “primeval energy.” I’ve never noticed it myself. What are its manifestations?

DEAN.

Don’t you think we can leave that to—er—the imagination?

MRS. O’FARREL.

Oh ... by all means! Then what do you mean by “rushing together”?

LADY PATRICIA.

I use the expression metaphorically ... spiritually. (_With sudden drama._) Dean—Aunt Eileen—I swear to you by all that is beautiful and sacred that our love has been pure. You believe me? Ah, say you believe me!

DEAN.

Why, of course we do!

MRS. O’FARREL.

If you swore to the contrary, I should call you a liar! You’ve neither the strength nor the courage to do more than play with sin.

LADY PATRICIA.

I? I! Oh, how little you know me! Had you looked into my heart when first this temptation stole upon me you would have never said anything so foolish.... Shall I ever forget those long nights of battle when my skin was dry and fevered—my pillow wet with tears? I lived with clenched hands and bitten lip, and fixed my thoughts steadfastly on high and holy things. Yes, I fought the good fight well—and if I was half defeated ... I am but human.... At last it came—the day came when I lost the battle.... Spring was in the air, sweet perfumes of budding and burgeoning things ... above my head a blackbird fluted ... I had an early snowdrop in my hand. He looked at me; I felt his eyes devouring my face. Slowly I lifted mine—our eyes met—and no force on earth could have torn them apart; and the world reeled and sang about us—— _Oh, and that bluer blue, that greener green!..._

MRS. O’FARREL.

That bluer blue—that——?

LADY PATRICIA.

Stephen Phillips.... Ah, that moment! I was mad—I was drunk with love and spring!

DEAN Well? AND (_Excitedly interested._) MRS. O’FARREL. Yes?

LADY PATRICIA.

Fate intervened and saved us.

MRS. O’FARREL AND DEAN.

(_Unfeignedly disappointed._) Fate?

LADY PATRICIA.

Baldwin returned with the water.

DEAN AND MRS. O’FARREL.

The water?

LADY PATRICIA.

For the snowdrop.

(_The DEAN coughs. MRS. O’FARREL solemnly scrutinises PATRICIA through her lorgnette._)

MRS. O’FARREL.

Doesn’t it occur to you that was rather funny?

LADY PATRICIA.

Funny? No, oh no! I see a certain ironical humour in such banal intervention. But it’s far too mysterious to be called funny. After that I struggled no more against the stream. I drifted; I was carried down the great ocean of love. But I never once faltered in my high resolve to keep that ocean pure, and——

MRS. O’FARREL.

Ocean? What ocean?

LADY PATRICIA.

The ocean of love.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Sorry; my fault.

LADY PATRICIA.

To keep that ocean pure, and come what might, to shield Michael from the least suspicion that his wonderful love was not returned. Deceit? Oh, yes! But surely, surely deceit is justified when the alternative means—death!

DEAN.

Death! Dear me!

MRS. O’FARREL.

Do you really think poor Michael would succumb if he learned the dreadful truth?

LADY PATRICIA.

I know it. Have you ever seen such devotion as his?

MRS. O’FARREL.

It’s certainly remarkable....

DEAN.

(_Briskly._) Now, Lady Patricia, are you prepared to put yourself unreservedly in my hands?

LADY PATRICIA.

I am.

DEAN.

Then I shall require two things of you. Firstly, that you break off these relations with young O’Farrel.

LADY PATRICIA.

I have determined on that already. I won’t speak of the suffering it will cause _me_. I have merited suffering and will bear it in silence. But when I think of him——! My poor, poor boy! What is to become of him without me?... Oh, you are his mother—can you devise no means of softening this blow for him?

MRS. O’FARREL.

(_Reverently._) I think we may safely leave that in the hands of Providence.

DEAN.

I quite share your opinion. Secondly, Lady Patricia, I wish you to tell your husband everything.

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Genuinely startled._) Michael!

DEAN.

Everything.

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Very much in earnest._) No—no. It’s impossible. I could never think of doing that.

DEAN.

You said just now you would place yourself unreservedly in my hands.

LADY PATRICIA.

But I never dreamt you intended to punish the innocent for my sin. Why should Michael’s life and happiness be blighted because I’ve strayed from righteousness?

MRS. O’FARREL.

I think it’s just possible Michael may survive the shock.

LADY PATRICIA.

And I know that it will kill him. It’s impossible!

DEAN.

(_Sternly._) I insist.

LADY PATRICIA.

And I refuse.

MRS. O’FARREL.

That brings _me_ into the fray! The Dean, as your confessor, no doubt considers himself bound to keep your story secret. I don’t. So look here, Patricia; unless you make a clean breast of this to Michael, I shall go to him with it myself.

LADY PATRICIA.

You!

MRS. O’FARREL.

I.

LADY PATRICIA.

No! No! I don’t believe you’re capable of such infamy.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Oh, yes I am.

LADY PATRICIA.

I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it! It would be too cruel and wicked! Aunt Eileen, for pity’s sake——

MRS. O’FARREL.

You won’t get any pity out of me, my dear—not an ounce! Either you or I tell Michael the story from start to finish—and if _I_ tell him, there won’t be much left of your character when I’ve finished.

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Wildly._) What am I to do? What am I to do? Dean—Dean—will you allow my aunt to wreak her horrible vengeance on me by murdering my husband?

DEAN.

Oh, but really, I don’t think it will be quite so bad as that.

LADY PATRICIA.

But I know it—I know it!

DEAN.

Besides, how am I to prevent her—even if I wished to?

LADY PATRICIA.

As the mouthpiece of spiritual authority....

MRS. O’FARREL.

I don’t care a rap for his spiritual authority.

DEAN.

You see.

(_A pause. LADY PATRICIA stands rigid, with clenched hands. Finally she speaks in a low, dull voice._)

LADY PATRICIA.

Then—you—really—mean—to—do—this?

MRS. O’FARREL.

Certainly.

LADY PATRICIA.

I—am—ruined.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Nonsense! I’ve a strong idea this may be the saving of you both.

LADY PATRICIA.

Ruined.... I should like to sit down.

DEAN.

My dear lady——

(_Brings her a chair._)

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Sits, and points blindly to the breakfast table._) Is that ... milk?

DEAN.

Yes. Would you——

LADY PATRICIA.

I should like a little milk. (_The DEAN gives it to her._) Thank you.... I—I will tell Michael all.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Bravo! We shall make a woman of you yet!

LADY PATRICIA.

You are very hard and cruel and vindictive.... But I forgive you.

(_JOHN enters._)

JOHN.

Mr. Cosway has called, sir.

LADY PATRICIA.

(_In a whisper._) Michael!

DEAN.

Where is he?

JOHN.

In the study, sir.

DEAN.

Lady Patricia——

LADY PATRICIA.

No—no—no.

DEAN.

Just a minute, John.

JOHN.

Yes, sir.

(_Retires to the back._)

LADY PATRICIA.

What does it mean? Why is he here?

DEAN.

He said he might call this morning on the way to church. Lady Patricia, go to him now. Tell him everything now.

LADY PATRICIA.

I can’t—I can’t——

MRS. O’FARREL.

Get it over, Patricia.

DEAN.

Come, dear lady——

(_He offers her his arm. LADY PATRICIA rises unsteadily, stares for a moment wildly before her, then sits down again._)

LADY PATRICIA.

I haven’t the strength—I haven’t the strength to go to him.... My knees tremble. Bring him here and leave us together....

DEAN.

(_Calling._) John.

(_JOHN re-enters._)

JOHN.

Yes sir?

DEAN.

Ask Mr. Cosway to come here.

JOHN.

Yes sir.

(_JOHN goes out._)

MRS. O’FARREL.

Cheer up, Patricia!

LADY PATRICIA.

_A little since and I was glad, but now_ _I never shall be glad or sad again...._

DEAN.

I—er—beg your pardon?

LADY PATRICIA.

Swinburne.... For the last time—for the last time, Aunt Eileen, I ask you to spare me.

DEAN.

Perhaps, after all, we had better——

MRS. O’FARREL.

No! Don’t be a fool, Dean! No, Patricia, you’ve got to go through with this. Believe me, the result will astonish you.

LADY PATRICIA.

What do you mean?

(_MICHAEL enters from the house._)

DEAN.

Ah, good morning, Cosway.

MICHAEL.

(_Standing still at the back and looking at LADY PATRICIA with startled eyes; whispers._) Patricia!... Have you told her?

DEAN.

Hsh!

(_Without greeting MRS. O’FARREL he goes to PATRICIA, who stares straight before her._)

MICHAEL.

Patricia, dearest.... I—I didn’t expect to find you here.

LADY PATRICIA.

Nor—I—you....

DEAN.

Lady Patricia wants to speak to you privately. We—er—will leave you together.

MICHAEL.

(_In a whisper._) Privately?

MRS. O’FARREL.

Good morning, Michael.

MICHAEL.

Er—good morning.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Delightful weather!

MICHAEL.

Yes—er—ver—very nice.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Come along, Dean. (_Takes his arm and leads him to the house._)

DEAN.

(_As they go in._) Poor woman!

MRS. O’FARREL.

Fiddlesticks!

(_They go into the house._)

MICHAEL.

You—you look so white and strange, dearest. Are you ill ... Patricia?

LADY PATRICIA.

I am thirsty.... My throat is parched.... Please give me some milk....

MICHAEL.

Milk?... Yes, dear. (_Moves towards the house._) I’ll be back in a moment.

LADY PATRICIA.

No—no. It is on the table.

MICHAEL.

The milk?... Oh, yes. I see.

(_Pours her out inadvertently some of the hot milk for the coffee, and kneeling at her side, offers it to her._)

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Taking milk._) Don’t kneel to me—don’t kneel to me! (_She takes a sip of milk and hands it back to him with a wry face._) It is boiled.... (_He places it back on the table._)

MICHAEL.

(_Returning to her._) Patricia!

LADY PATRICIA.

No—no—no—no! Don’t look at me—don’t touch me—stand up—stand away from me....

MICHAEL.

Patricia!

LADY PATRICIA.

Do as I say.

MICHAEL.

(_Getting to his feet with a terrified face._) They—they have told you—they——

LADY PATRICIA.

Hush!... don’t speak. Give me time.... I—I am a broken woman.

MICHAEL.

No, no, no! I will cherish you—I will worship you—I will serve you on my knees——

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Genuinely puzzled._) Michael!

MICHAEL.

All the rest of my life—every hour—every moment—will be given to making up for my sin.

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Amazed._) _Your_ sin?

MICHAEL.

My crime then.

LADY PATRICIA.

_Your_——!

MICHAEL.