Act Third

The scene is a neat, plainly furnished sitting-room in Mrs. Burton’s cottage. The walls are covered with old-fashioned wall paper of a faded green color. Sunlight streams in through two windows at the back. In one there is a small table holding a few pots of geraniums, and in the second, a hanging basket of ivy. A few straggling vines creep about the window-frame. There are doors at the left center, down left and on the right. In the center of the room stands a table with a chair to the right of it, and a few haircloth chairs are here and there. A sofa stands against the left wall below the door, and there is a low rocking-chair on the left.

The room is empty and after a moment the stillness is broken by the wail of an infant. The hushed notes of a,woman’s voice are heard from the open door on the left, soothing the child. A low knock is heard at the door to the right. The door opens slowly and Doctor Larkin enters, Mrs. Burton emerges from the room on the left with a tiny baby wrapped in a soft white shawl in her arms. She is a motherly woman, large and placid, with a benign immobility of countenance. She speaks with a New England drawl.

Mrs. Burton. Good morning, doctor. I didn’t hear ye knock.

Doctor. How is your patient this morning?

Mrs. Burton. Why, ain’t yer seen Dr. Taylor? Didn’t he tell ye?

Doctor. No. She’s—?

Mrs. Burton. (Nodding her head.) Yes.

Doctor. When did it happen?

Mrs. Burton. About an hour ago. She seemed brighter this morning. After her sister went out she slept for a while. ‘When I came in the room she opened her eyes and asked me for a pencil and paper. I brought ’em to her and she writ for quite a spell. Then she lay back on the pillow. I asked her if she wouldn’t take a little nourishment. She smiled and shook her head. Then she gave a long sigh—an’—an’—that was all there was to it.

Doctor. How’s the child?

Mrs. Burton. Poor little critter—(She looks down at it.) I can’t do nothing for it. I’ve tried everything. It ought to have mother’s milk—that’s all there is to it.

Be quiet, you poor little motherless critter. Doctor, It would be better for it if it had gone with her.

Mrs. Burton. Why, doctor, ain’t ye awful?

Doctor. Why, what chance has that child got in this world? I’ll send you something for it. (He turns to go.)

Mrs. Burton. Don’t ye want to see her?

Doctor. No! What good can I be to her now, poor devil?

(Charlie Burton, a sturdy lad of ten breaks boisterously into the room from the door on the right, carrying a baseball and bat.)

Charlie. Ma! Ma! Here’s a woman wants to see Mrs. Bindley.

Mrs. Burton. (Reprimanding him.) Lady!

And take your hat off.

(Dr. Larkin and Mrs. Burton look expectantly toward the door. Margaret enters slowly, her eyes bent upon her glove which she is unfastening. Dr. Larkin is dumbfounded at the sight of her. She takes a few steps toward him and looks up.) Margaret, (Pleasantly surprised at seeing him.) Why, doctor! I didn’t know that you were on this case.

Doctor. (Confused.) Um not. Dr. Taylor— he—called me in consultation. But, what in the name of all that’s wonderful brings you here?

Margaret. Maria! Doctor, What Maria? Not—

Margaret. Yes, our Maria—this sick girl is her sister.. (She removes her hat and places it with her gloves on the table.)

Doctor. (In consternation.) Her sister!

Then you know?

Margaret. I know that there is a poor sick girl here who wants—

Doctor. (Going to her, brusquely.) Mrs.

Fleming, you’d best not remain here— the girl is dead. Go home.

Margaret. (Pityingly.) Dead? Poor thing!

Doctor. Yes. Does your husband know you are here?

Margaret. (Shaking her head.) Oh, no!

Doctor. Come, you must go home! (He almost pushes her out of the room in his urgency.)

Margaret. (Resisting him gently.) Ah, no, doctor. Now that I am here, let me stay.

I can be of some help, I know.

Doctor. No, you can be of no use, Everything has been done.

Margaret. Well, I’ll just say a word to

Maria. Where is she?

Doctor. I don’t know—I don’t know anything about Maria.

Mrs. Burton. She’s in there. (She nods toward the door on the left.)

(The Doctor has crowded Margaret almost through the door in his eagerness to have her out of the house. She is reluctantly yielding to him, when Mrs. Burton’s voice arrests her. She turns quickly and, looking over the Doctor’s shoulder, notices the child in Mrs. Burton’s arms. She impulsively brushes the Doctor aside and goes toward her, her face beaming with tender sympathy.)

Margaret. Oh, is this the baby?

Mrs. Burton. Yes’m.,

Margaret. (Going close to her on tip-toes and gazing with maternal solicitude down upon the child.) Poor little baby! What a dear mite of a thing it is.

Mrs. Burton. Yes’m.,

Margaret. (Impulsively.) Doctor, we must take care of this baby.

Doctor. (Impatiently.) You’ve got a baby of your own, Mrs. Fleming.

Margaret. Yes, and that’s why I pity this one. I suppose, I always did love babies, anyhow. They are such wonderful, mysterious little things, aren’t they?

Mrs. Burton. Yes’m.

Doctor. (Spurred by a growing sense of catastrophe.) Mrs. Fleming, there is danger to your child in your remaining here.

Margaret. (Alarmed.) Oh, doctor!

Doctor. I hated to tell you this before— but—there is contagion in this atmosphere.

Margaret. (Hastily taking her hat from the table.) Doctor, why didn’t you—(She is hurrying away when she is checked by a poignant moan. She turns a frightened face and sees Maria coming from the room on the left with a letter in her hand.

Maria’s face is distorted by grief.)

Maria. Ah, Mrs. Burton, I have found out who dot man is. He is—(She sees Margaret and smiles bitterly upon her.) So, —you have come, Mrs. Fleming?

Margaret. (Making a movement of sympathy.) Maria!

Maria. Vell, you may go back again. You can do nutting for her now. She is dead.

(Perversely.) But, ven you do go, you vill take dot baby back mit you. He shall now have two babies instead of one.

Margaret. (Smiling.) What do you mean, Maria? Who shall have two babies?

Maria. (Fiercely.) Philip Fleming—dot’s who.

(Margaret stares at her, only comprehending half what Maria means.

Dr. Larkin goes quickly to her.)

Doctor. Come away, Mrs. Fleming—the woman is crazy. (He tries to draw her away.)

Maria. (Contemptuously.) No, I ain’t crazy! (She shakes the letter at Margaret.) You read dot letter and see if I vas crazy!

(Margaret, in a dazed way, reaches for the letter, and tries to read it, turning it different ways.)

Margaret. I cannot make it out. (She hands it to the doctor, and says helplessly.) Read it—to me—doctor—please.

Doctor. (Beside himself and snatching the letter.) No, nor shall you. (He makes a motion to tear the letter.)

Maria. (Threateningly.) Don’t you tear dot letter, doctor.

Margaret. (Putting her hand out gently.) You must not destroy that letter, doctor. Give it back to me. (Dr. Larkin returns the letter reluctantly. Margaret attempts to read it, fails, becomes impatient, and hands it to Maria, helplessly.) You read it to me, Maria.

(Maria, whose passion has subsided, takes the letter in an awed manner and begins to read it. The Doctor is in a daze. Margaret sinks into the chair to the right of the table. She has recovered her calm poise, but does not seem to be at all the same

Maria. (Reading in a simple, unaffected manner.) Canton, June 10, Dear Mr. Fleming:

You was good to come to see me, and I thank you. I will not trouble you no more. I am sorry for what has happened. I know you never loved me and I never asked you to, but I loved you. It was all my fault. I will never trouble you no more. You can do what you like with the baby. I do not care. Do not be afraid, I shall never tell. They tried to get me to but I never shall. Nobody will ever know. No more at present, from your obedient servant, Lena Schmidt.

Margaret. (Turning to the Doctor, who is standing close to her chair.) Did you know—anything of this—doctor?

Doctor. (Evasively.) Well—I knew—something of it—but, this girl may be lying.

Such as she is—will say anything sometimes.

Maria. (Fiercely.) Don’t you say dot, doctor. She would not tell nutting to hurt him, not to save her soul.

Doctor. (With finality.) Well, now that you know the worst, come away from here—come home.

Maria. (Bitterly.) Oh! Ya! She can go home. She have alvays got a home und a husband und fine clothes, because she is his vife, but my poor sister don’t have any of dese tings, because she is only de poor mistress. But, by Gott, she shall not go home unless she takes dot baby back— mit her.

Doctor. She shall do nothing of the sort.

Maria. Vell, den, I vill take it, und fling it in his face.:

Margaret. (Calmly, and rising from the chair.) You shall not go near him. You shall not say—one word to him!

Maria. Von’t I? Who is going to stop me? I vould yust like to know dot?

Margaret. (Quite calmly.) I am! Mania. (Mockingly.) You—you vill take his part, because you are his vife! (Fiercely.)

Vell! (She draws a pistol from her dress. pocket.) Do you see dot gun? Vell, I buy dot gun, und I swore dot ven I find out dot man I vill have his life. Und, if you. try to stop me, I vill lay you stiff und cold beside her.

Margaret. (Calmly, pityingly, holding out her hand as though to quiet her.) Maria!

Stop! How dare you talk like that to me?

Give me that pistol. (Maria, awed by Margaret’s spirit, meekly hands her the weapon.) You think—I—am happy—because I am his wife? Why, you poor fool, that girl (She points to the door on the left) never in all her life suffered one thousandth part what I have suffered in these past five minutes. Do you dare to compare her to me? I have not uttered one word of reproach, even against her, and yet she has done me a wrong, that not all the death-bed letters that were ever written can undo. I wonder what I have ever done to deserve this! (She loses control of herself and sinks sobbing, into the chair, her arms upon the table, and her head dropping upon them.) Doctor, (Overcome by the situation, throws his arms about her and tries to draw her to her feet.) For God’s sake, Mrs. Fleming, let me take you out of this hell.

Margaret. (Gently resisting him.) Ah, doctor, you cannot take this hell out of my breast. (Suddenly her manner changes. She says with quick decision.) Maria, get me a sheet of writing paper. Doctor, give me a pencil.

(Dr. Larkin puts his hand into his vest pocket. Maria, who seems dazed, looks helplessly about as though the paper might be within reach. Then suddenly thinking of the letter in her hand, she tears off the blank half of it and quickly lays it on the table before Margaret.)

Doctor. (Giving her the pencil.) What are you going to do?

Margaret. Send—for him!

Doctor. No—not here!

Margaret. Yes—here—(She writes nervously, mumbling what she writes.) “Philip: I am waiting for you, here. That girl is dead.” (She folds the letter.) Where’s that boy?

(Maria and Mrs. Burton both make a movement in search of Charlie.)

Maria. Charley! (She goes to the door at the back and calls again in a hushed voice.) Charley! (Charlie enters. She whispers to him that the lady wants him.) You, go quick! (Charlie goes to Margaret.)

Margaret. (In tense nervousness.) Charley, do you know Mr. Fleming?

Charlie. Yes’m.

Margaret. Do you know where he lives?

Charlie. Yes’m—on Canton Street.

Margaret. Yes—go there—don’t ring the bell—go through the garden—you will find him there, playing with the baby. Give him this.

Charlie. Any answer? -

Margaret. (At nervous tension.) No! Go quick! Quick! (She springs to her feet.) Now, doctor—I want you to leave me!

Doctor. Mrs. Fleming, for God’s sake don’t see him here.

Margaret. Yes, here—and—alone! Please go. (The Doctor does not respond.) I don’t want you or any other living being to hear what passes between him and me, and, (She points to the room) that dead girl. Please go!

Doctor. Mrs. Fleming, as your physician, I order you to leave this place at once.

Margaret. No, doctor—I must see him, here.

Doctor. (With gentle persuasion.) Mrs. Fleming, you have no right to do this. Think of your child.

Margaret. (Remembering.) My baby! My poor, little innocent baby! Oh, I wish to God that she were dead. (She is beside herself and not realizing what she says. She crosses to the left.)

Doctor. (Following her.) Mrs. Fleming, in God’s name, calm yourself! I have tried to keep it from you, but, I am forced to tell you—(He is so deeply moved that he is almost incoherent.) If you continue in this way, dear lady, you are exposing yourself to a terrible affliction—this—trouble—with your eyes. You are threatened with—if you keep up this strain—a sudden blindness may fall upon you.

Margaret. (Appalled.) Blind! Blind! (She speaks in a low terrified voice.) Oh, no doctor, not that—not now—not until after I’ve seen him.

Doctor. Not only that, but if you keep up this strain much longer, it may cost you your life.

Margaret. I don’t care—what happens to me, only, let me see him, and then, the sooner it all comes the better. (She crosses to the left with the Doctor following her.)

Doctor. (Growing desperate, and throwing his arms about her.) Mrs. Fleming, you must leave this place! Come home.

Margaret. No. Doctor, please leave me alone. (She draws herself from him.) I tell you I’ve got to see him here. (Then with a sweet intimacy, she goes to him.) A woman has a strange feeling for the physician who brings her child into the world—I love you—I have always obeyed your orders, haven’t I? (She speaks brokenly.)

Doctor. (Quietly.) Always.

Margaret. Then, let me be the doctor now, and I order you to leave this house at once.

Doctor. (Hopelessly.) You are determined to do this thing?

Margaret. (With finality.) Yes.

Doctor. Very well then—good-bye. (He holds out his hand, which she takes mechanically. He holds her hand warmly for a moment. She clings to him as though afraid to let him go, then slowly draws away.)

Margaret. Good-bye!

(The Doctor leaves the room quickly.

Margaret takes a step after him until she touches the left side of the table in the center. She stands there gazing into space, the calmness of death upon her face. The sunlight streaming through the window falls upon her. Mrs. Burton is sitting in a rocking-chair in the corner of the room, Maria is sitting on the sofa at the left, weeping silently, with clasped hands, her arms lying in her lap, her body bent. She makes a plaintive moan before she speaks.) Maria, Ah—Mrs. Fleming, you must not do dis ting. Vat vas I—vot was she, I’d like to know—dot ve should make dis trouble for you? You come here, like an angel to help us, und I have stung you like a snake in dot grass. (She goes to Margaret and falls upon her knees beside her.) Oh, Mrs. Fleming, on my knees I ask you to forgive me.

(Margaret stands immobile at the table, her right hand resting upon its edge—her left hand partly against her cheek. She is lost in spiritual contemplation of the torment she is suffering. She shows impatience at the sound of Maria’s voice as though loath to be disturbed. She replies wearily.)

Margaret. I have nothing to forgive. Get up, Maria, You have done nothing to me —go away!

Maria. (In a paroxysm of contrition.) Oh, I beg, Mrs. Fleming, dot you vill take dot gun and blow my brains out.

Margaret. Don’t go on like that, Maria!

(Maria’s weeping irritates her.) Get up! Please go away. Go away! I say.

(Maria slinks away quietly into the back room. Margaret takes a long, sobbing breath, which ends in a sigh.

She stares into space and a blank look comes into her face as though she were gazing at things beyond her comprehension. Presently the silence is broken by a low wail from the infant. It half arouses her.)

Margaret. What is the matter with that child? (Her voice seems remote. Her expression remains fixed.) Why don’t you keep it quiet?

Mrs. Burton. (In a hushed voice.) It’s hungry.

Margaret. (In the same mood, but her voice is a little querulous.) Well, then, why don’t you feed it?

Mrs. Burton. I can’t get nothing fit for it. I’ve tried everything I could think of, but it’s no use. (She gets up and places the child upon the sofa to the left.) There, be still, you poor little critter, an’ I’ll see what I ken get fer ye. (As she goes to the door at the back, Margaret speaks wearily.)

Margaret. Bring a lamp—it’s getting dark here. (She is still in the same attitude by the table. There is a silence, then the child’s wail arouses her. She half turns her head in its direction—and tries to quiet it.) Hush—child—hush—(Then she reaches out her hand as if to pat it.) There—there—poor little thing. Don’t fret—it’s no use to fret, child—be quiet now—there—there, now. (She turns and slowly gropes her way to the sofa, sits on the edge of it, and feels for the child and gently pats it. She murmurs softly.) Hush—baby—go to sleep.

(There is a silence while a soft flood of sunshine plays about her. A pitying half smile fits across her face. She utters a faint sigh and again drifts away into that inner consciousness where she evidently finds peace.

Again the child is restless—it arouses her and, hopeless of comforting it, she takes it in her arms, After a moment, she rises to her feet and stumbles toward the table. She knocks against the low chair. At the same moment, Philip Fleming dashes breathlessly into the room through the door on the right. He pauses in horror as Margaret raises her head, her eyes wide open, staring into his —her face calm and remote. She hushes the child softly, and sits in the low chair, Philip stands in dumb amazement watching her. The child begins to fret her again. She seems hopeless of comforting it. Then scarcely conscious of what she is doing, suddenly with an impatient, swift movement she unbuttons her dress to give nourishment to the child, when the picture fades away into darkness.)