LITMIR.BIZ

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'Tes wonderful how things du spread. 'Tesn't as if us gossiped. Du seem to grow-like in the naight.

      MRS. BRADMERE [To herself] I never lied her. That Riviera excuse, Mrs. Burlacombe—Very convenient things, sick mothers. Mr. Strangway doesn't know?

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. The Lord forbid! 'Twid send un crazy, I think. For all he'm so moony an' gentlelike, I think he'm a terrible passionate man inside. He've a-got a saint in 'im, for zure; but 'tes only 'alf-baked, in a manner of spakin'.

      MRS. BRADMERE. I shall go and see Mrs. Freman. There's been too much of this gossip all the winter.

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes unfortunate-like 'tes the Fremans. Freman he'm a gipsy sort of a feller; and he've never forgiven Mr. Strangway for spakin' to 'im about the way he trates 'is 'orses.

      MRS. BRADMERE. Ah! I'm afraid Mr. Strangway's not too discreet when his feelings are touched.

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'E've a-got an 'eart so big as the full mune. But 'tes no yuse espectin' tu much o' this world. 'Tes a funny place, after that.

      MRS. BRADMERE. Yes, Mrs. Burlacombe; and I shall give some of these good people a rare rap over the knuckles for their want of charity. For all they look as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, they're an un-Christian lot. [Looking very directly at Mrs. BURLACOMBE] It's lucky we've some hold over the village. I'm not going to have scandal. I shall speak to Sir Herbert, and he and the Rector will take steps.

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. [With covert malice] Aw! I du hope 'twon't upset the Rector, an' 'is fute so poptious!

      MRS. BRADMERE. [Grimly] His foot'll be sound enough to come down sharp. By the way, will you send me a duck up to the Rectory?

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Glad to get away] Zurely, m'm; at once. I've some luv'ly fat birds.

      [She goes into the house.]

      MRS. BRADMERE. Old puss-cat!

      [She turns to go, and in the doorway encounters a very little, red-cheeked girl in a peacock-blue cap, and pink frock, who curtsies stolidly.]

      MRS. BRADMERE. Well, Tibby Jarland, what do you want here? Always sucking something, aren't you?

      [Getting no reply from Tibby JARLAND, she passes out. Tibby comes in, looks round, takes a large sweet out of her mouth, contemplates it, and puts it back again. Then, in a perfunctory and very stolid fashion, she looks about the floor, as if she had been told to find something. While she is finding nothing and sucking her sweet, her sister MERCY comes in furtively, still frowning and vindictive.]

      MERCY. What! Haven't you found it, Tibby? Get along with 'ee, then!

      [She accelerates the stolid Tissy's departure with a smack, searches under the seat, finds and picks up the deserted sixpence. Then very quickly she goes to the door: But it is opened before she reaches it, and, finding herself caught, she slips behind the chintz window-curtain. A woman has entered, who is clearly the original of the large photograph. She is not strictly pretty, but there is charm in her pale, resolute face, with its mocking lips, flexible brows, and greenish eyes, whose lids, square above them, have short, dark lashes. She is dressed in blue, and her fair hair is coiled up under a cap and motor-veil. She comes in swiftly, and closes the door behind her; becomes irresolute; then, suddenly deciding, moves towards the door into the house. MERCY slips from behind her curtain to make off, but at that moment the door into the house is opened, and she has at once to slip back again into covert. It is Ivy who has appeared.]

      IVY. [Amazed] Oh! Mrs. Strangway!

      [Evidently disconcerted by this appearance, BEATRICE STRANGWAY pulls herself together and confronts the child with a smile.]

      BEATRICE. Well, Ivy—you've grown! You didn't expect me, did you?

      IVY. No, Mrs. Strangway; but I hoped yu'd be comin' soon.

      BEATRICE. Ah! Yes. Is Mr. Strangway in?

      IVY. [Hypnotized by those faintly smiling lips] Yes—oh, yes! He's writin' his sermon in the little room. He will be glad!

      BEATRICE. [Going a little closer, and never taking her eyes off the child] Yes. Now, Ivy; will you do something for me?

      IVY. [Fluttering] Oh, yes, Mrs. Strangway.

      BEATRICE. Quite sure?

      IVY. Oh, yes!

      BEATRICE. Are you old enough to keep a secret?

      IVY. [Nodding] I'm fourteen now.

      BEATRICE. Well, then—, I don't want anybody but Mr. Strangway to know I've been here; nobody, not even your mother. D'you understand?

      IVY. [Troubled] No. Only, I can keep a secret.

      BEATRICE. Mind, if anybody hears, it will hurt Mr. Strangway.

      IVY. Oh! I wouldn't—hurt—him. Must yu go away again? [Trembling towards her] I wish yu wer goin' to stay. And perhaps some one has seen yu—They–

      BEATRICE. [Hastily] No, no one. I came motoring; like this. [She moves her veil to show how it can conceal her face] And I came straight down the little lane, and through the barn, across the yard.

      IVY. [Timidly] People du see a lot.

      BEATRICE. [Still with that hovering smile] I know, but–Now go and tell him quickly and quietly.

      IVY. [Stopping at the door] Mother's pluckin' a duck. Only, please, Mrs. Strangway, if she comes in even after yu've gone, she'll know, because—because yu always have that particular nice scent.

      BEATRICE. Thank you, my child. I'll see to that.

      [Ivy looks at her as if she would speak again, then turns suddenly, and goes out. BEATRICE'S face darkens; she shivers. Taking out a little cigarette case, she lights a cigarette, and watches the puff's of smoke wreathe shout her and die away. The frightened MERCY peers out, spying for a chance, to escape. Then from the house STRANGWAY comes in. All his dreaminess is gone.]

      STRANGWAY. Thank God! [He stops at the look on her face] I don't understand, though. I thought you were still out there.

      BEATRICE. [Letting her cigarette fall, and putting her foot on it] No.

      STRANGWAY: You're staying? Oh! Beatrice; come! We'll get away from here at once—as far, as far—anywhere you like. Oh! my darling —only come! If you knew–

      BEATRICE. It's no good, Michael; I've tried and tried.

      STRANGWAY. Not! Then, why—? Beatrice! You said, when you were right away—I've waited–

      BEATRICE. I know. It's cruel—it's horrible. But I told you not to hope, Michael. I've done my best. All these months at Mentone, I've been wondering why I ever let you marry me—when that feeling wasn't dead!

      STRANGWAY. You can't have come back just to leave me again?

      BEATRICE. When you let me go out there with mother I thought—I did think I would be able; and I had begun—and then—spring came!

      STRANGWAY. Spring came here too! Never so—aching! Beatrice, can't you?

      BEATRICE. I've something to say.

      STRANGWAY. No! No! No!

      BEATRICE. You see—I've—fallen.

      STRANGWAY. Ah! [In a twice sharpened by pain] Why, in the name of mercy, come here to tell me that? Was he out there, then?

      BEATRICE. I came straight back to him.

      STRANGWAY. To Durford?

      BEATRICE. To the Crossway Hotel, miles out—in my own name. They don't know me there. I told you not to hope, Michael. I've done my best; I swear it.

      STRANGWAY. My God!

      BEATRICE. It was your God that brought us to live near him!

      STRANGWAY. Why have you come to me like this?

      BEATRICE. To know what you're going to do. Are you going to divorce me? We're in your power. Don't divorce me—Doctor and patient—you must know—it ruins him. He'll lose everything. He'd be disqualified, and he hasn't a penny without his work.

      STRANGWAY.

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