LITMIR.BIZ

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Michael; I came to beg. It's hard.

      STRANGWAY. No; don't beg! I can't stand it.

      [She shakes her head.]

      BEATRICE. [Recovering her pride] What are you going to do, then? Keep us apart by the threat of a divorce? Starve us and prison us? Cage me up here with you? I'm not brute enough to ruin him.

      STRANGWAY. Heaven!

      BEATRICE. I never really stopped loving him. I never—loved you, Michael.

      STRANGWAY. [Stunned] Is that true? [BEATRICE bends her head] Never loved me? Not—that night—on the river—not–?

      BEATRICE. [Under her breath] No.

      STRANGWAY. Were you lying to me, then? Kissing me, and—hating me?

      BEATRICE. One doesn't hate men like you; but it wasn't love.

      STRANGWAY. Why did you tell me it was?

      BEATRICE. Yes. That was the worst thing I've ever done.

      STRANGWAY. Do you think I would have married you? I would have burned first! I never dreamed you didn't. I swear it!

      BEATRICE. [Very low] Forget it!

      STRANGWAY. Did he try to get you away from me? [BEATRICE gives him a swift look] Tell me the truth!

      BEATRICE. No. It was—I—alone. But—he loves me.

      STRANGWAY. One does not easily know love, it seems.

      [But her smile, faint, mysterious, pitying, is enough, and he turns away from her.]

      BEATRICE. It was cruel to come, I know. For me, too. But I couldn't write. I had to know.

      STRANGWAY. Never loved me? Never loved me? That night at Tregaron? [At the look on her face] You might have told me before you went away! Why keep me all these–

      BEATRICE. I meant to forget him again. I did mean to. I thought I could get back to what I was, when I married you; but, you see, what a girl can do, a woman that's been married—can't.

      STRANGWAY. Then it was I—my kisses that–! [He laughs] How did you stand them? [His eyes dart at her face] Imagination helped you, perhaps!

      BEATRICE. Michael, don't, don't! And—oh! don't make a public thing of it! You needn't be afraid I shall have too good a time!

      [He stays quite still and silent, and that which is writhing in him makes his face so strange that BEATRICE stands aghast. At last she goes stumbling on in speech]

      If ever you want to marry some one else—then, of course—that's only fair, ruin or not. But till then—till then–He's leaving Durford, going to Brighton. No one need know. And you—this isn't the only parish in the world.

      STRANGWAY. [Quietly] You ask me to help you live in secret with another man?

      BEATRICE. I ask for mercy.

      STRANGWAY. [As to himself] What am I to do?

      BEATRICE. What you feel in the bottom of your heart.

      STRANGWAY. You ask me to help you live in sin?

      BEATRICE. To let me go out of your life. You've only to do— nothing. [He goes, slowly, close to her.]

      STRANGWAY. I want you. Come back to me! Beatrice, come back!

      BEATRICE. It would be torture, now.

      STRANGWAY. [Writhing] Oh!

      BEATRICE. Whatever's in your heart—do!

      STRANGWAY. You'd come back to me sooner than ruin him? Would you?

      BEATRICE. I can't bring him harm.

      STRANGWAY. [Turning away] God!—if there be one help me! [He stands leaning his forehead against the window. Suddenly his glance falls on the little bird cage, still lying on the window-seat] Never cage any wild thing! [He gives a laugh that is half a sob; then, turning to the door, says in a low voice] Go! Go please, quickly! Do what you will. I won't hurt you—can't–But—go! [He opens the door.]

      BEATRICE. [Greatly moved] Thank you!

      [She passes him with her head down, and goes out quickly. STRANGWAY stands unconsciously tearing at the little bird-cage. And while he tears at it he utters a moaning sound. The terrified MERCY, peering from behind the curtain, and watching her chance, slips to the still open door; but in her haste and fright she knocks against it, and STRANGWAY sees her. Before he can stop her she has fled out on to the green and away.]

      [While he stands there, paralysed, the door from the house is opened, and MRS. BURLACOMBE approaches him in a queer, hushed way.]

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Her eyes mechanically fixed on the twisted bird-cage in his hands] 'Tis poor Sue Cremer, zurr, I didn't 'ardly think she'd last thru the mornin'. An' zure enough she'm passed away! [Seeing that he has not taken in her words] Mr. Strangway— yu'm feelin' giddy?

      STRANGWAY. No, no! What was it? You said–

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes Jack Cremer. His wife's gone. 'E'm in a terrible way. 'Tes only yu, 'e ses, can du 'im any gude. He'm in the kitchen.

      STRANGWAY. Cremer? Yes! Of course. Let him–

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Still staring at the twisted cage] Yu ain't wantin' that—'tes all twizzled. [She takes it from him] Sure yu'm not feelin' yer 'ead?

      STRANGWAY. [With a resolute effort] No!

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Doubtfully] I'll send 'im in, then. [She goes. When she is gone, Strangway passes his handkerchief across his forehead, and his lips move fast. He is standing motionless when CREMER, a big man in labourer's clothes, with a thick, broad face, and tragic, faithful eyes, comes in, and stands a little in from the closed door, quite dumb.]

      STRANGWAY. [After a moment's silence—going up to him and laying a hand on his shoulder] Jack! Don't give way. If we give way—we're done.

      CREMER. Yes, zurr. [A quiver passes over his face.]

      STRANGWAY. She didn't. Your wife was a brave woman. A dear woman.

      CREMER. I never thought to luse 'er. She never told me 'ow bad she was, afore she tuk to 'er bed. 'Tis a dreadful thing to luse a wife, zurr.

      STRANGWAY. [Tightening his lips, that tremble] Yes. But don't give way! Bear up, Jack!

      CREMER. Seems funny 'er goin' blue-bell time, an' the sun shinin' so warm. I picked up an 'orse-shu yesterday. I can't never 'ave 'er back, zurr.

      [His face quivers again.]

      STRANGWAY. Some day you'll join her. Think! Some lose their wives for ever.

      CREMER. I don't believe as there's a future life, zurr. I think we goo to sleep like the beasts.

      STRANGWAY. We're told otherwise. But come here! [Drawing him to the window] Look! Listen! To sleep in that! Even if we do, it won't be so bad, Jack, will it?

      CREMER. She wer' a gude wife to me—no man didn't 'ave no better wife.

      STRANGWAY. [Putting his hand out] Take hold—hard—harder! I want yours as much as you want mine. Pray for me, Jack, and I'll pray for you. And we won't give way, will we?

      CREMER. [To whom the strangeness of these words has given some relief] No, zurr; thank 'ee, zurr. 'Tes no gude, I expect. Only, I'll miss 'er. Thank 'ee, zurr; kindly.

      [He lifts his hand to his head, turns, and uncertainly goes out to the kitchen. And STRANGWAY stays where he is, not knowing what to do. They blindly he takes up his flute, and hatless, hurries out into the air.]

      ACT II

      SCENE I

      About seven o'clock in the taproom of the village inn. The bar, with the appurtenances thereof, stretches across one end, and opposite is the porch door on to the green. The wall between is nearly all window, with leaded panes, one wide-open casement whereof lets in the last of the sunlight. A narrow bench runs under this broad window. And this is all the furniture, save three spittoons:

      GODLEIGH,

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