Act Fourth

The scene is the same as the Second Act. The doors and window leading into the garden are open. Maria is seated close to the open door, sewing. She occasionally looks into the garden as if guarding something. She is neatly dressed, fresh and orderly looking. Her manner is subdued. A bell rings and a closing door is heard. Then Dr. Larkin enters, Maria goes to meet him and scans his face anxiously.

Maria. Goot morning, doctor.

Doctor. Good morning. Well! Any news? Marts. (Losing interest and shaking her head sadly.) No, doctor. No vord from him yet. It is seven days now—I hoped —mebbe you might have some.

Doctor. No—nothing. How is Mrs. Fleming?

(Maria sits down to the left of the center of the room and the doctor to the right.)

Maria. Yust the same as yesterday, und the day before, und all the udder days. Ach, so bright, und so cheerful, but I tink all the same she is breaking her heart. Ach, ven I look into her sad eyes—vot cannot see me—I am ashamed to hold my head up. (She brushes away the tears.)

Doctor. Does she talk about him at all?

Maria. No, she never speaks his name.

Doctor. How is the child? Maria, (Brightening.) She is fine. Dot little tooth came trough dis morning und she don’t fret no more now.

Doctor. And, the other one?

Maria. (Indifferently.) Oh, he’s all right. I put him beside Lucy in her crib dis morning und she laughs and pulls at him und plays mit him yust like he vas a little kitten. Dis is no place for him, doctor. Ven Mr. Fleming comes home he vill fix tings, und I vill take him away by myself—vere she no more can be troubled mit him.

Doctor. Things will come out all right. You’d best keep quiet. Have nothing whatever to say in this matter.

Maria. Ya. I make enough trouble already mit my tongue. You bet I keep it shut in my head now. Shall I call Mrs. Fleming? She is in the garden.

Doctor. She’s there a great deal now, isn’t she?

Maria. Ya, she is always dere by the blossoms, und the babies. (She goes to the door and says in slow, deferential voice.) Mrs. Fleming, Doctor Larkin is here.

Margaret. (Outside.) Yes, Till. come.

(She slowly emerges from the garden into the doorway, her arms: filled with flowers. She is daintily dressed and there is a subtle dignity and reserve about her. She smiles cheerily.) Good morning, doctor. Maria, there are some daffodils out by the yellow bed. Bring them, please. (She slowly enters the room.)

(The Doctor goes to her and gently leads her to the table on the right where she puts the flowers, after carefully locating a place to lay them.)

Doctor. Well, well, where did you get such a lot of roses? I couldn’t gather so many in a month from my scrubby bushes. The bugs eat ’em all up.

Margaret. Why don’t you spray them?

(Maria brings a large loose bunch of daffodils.) Bring some jars, Maria.

Doctor. I did spray them.

Margaret. When?

Doctor. When I saw the rose bugs.

Margaret. (Smiling.) That’s a fine time to spray bushes. Don’t you know that the time to prevent trouble is to look ahead? From potatoes to roses, spray before anything happens—then nothing will happen.

Doctor. (Laughing.) Yes, of course, I know, but I forgot to do it until I saw two big, yellow bugs in the heart of every rose and all the foliage chewed up.

Margaret. There’s no use in it now. You are just wasting time. Start early next year before the leaves open.

Doctor. (Admiringly.) What a brave, cheery little woman you are.

Margaret. What’s the use in being anything else? I don’t see any good in living in this world, unless you can live right.

Doctor. And this world needs just such women as you.

Margaret. What does the world know or care about me?

(The bell rings and the door opens and shuts.)

Doctor. Very little, but it’s got to feel your influence. (He pats her hand.)

(The Maw enters.)

Maid. Mr. Foster wishes to see you for a moment, Mrs. Fleming.

Margaret. Tell him to come in. (The Maw goes out. In a moment Foster enters, flurried and embarrassed.) Good morning, Mr. Foster. (She holds out her hands to him.) Anything wrong at the mill?

Foster. Good morning, Mrs. Fleming. Oh, no—not at all, not at all. How do you do, doctor? (He shakes hands with the Doctor with unusual warmth.)

Doctor. (Somewhat surprised and looking at him quizzically.) Hello, Foster.

Margaret. Will you sit down, Mr. Foster?

Foster. Thank you—yes, I will. What beautiful flowers. Mother says you have the loveliest garden in Canton.

Margaret. (Pleased.) That’s awfully nice of her. I had a delightful visit with her yesterday.

Foster. (Nervously.) Yes, she told me so.:

Margaret. We sat in the garden. What a sweet, happy soul she is.

Foster. (Fussing with his hat and getting up and moving his chair close to the Doctor’s.) Yes. Mother always sees the bright side of the worst things.

Margaret. She’s very proud of you.

Foster. (Laughing foolishly.) Oh, yes, she is happy over anything I do. (He looks at Margaret furtively, then at the doctor. He evidently has something to say. Suddenly in a tense whisper he speaks to the doctor.) Mr. Fleming has come back,

Doctor. Hush! Where is he? At the mill? -

Foster. No. Here—outside.

Doctor. How does he look?

Foster. He’s a wreck. He wants to see her.

Doctor. Well, tell her—I’ll go—(He rises.)

Foster. No! (He grabs him by the coat.)

For God’s sake don’t go. You tell her— you’re her doctor.

(Margaret who has been busy with the flowers, becomes suddenly interested.)

Margaret. What are you two whispering about? Foster, (Laughing nervously.) Oh, just a little advice, that’s all. (He goes to Margaret.) I’ll say good morning, Mrs.

Fleming. Glad to see you—er—looking —ah—so well. (He shakes hands and rushes out.)

(Margaret stands a little mystified. The Doctor approaches her gently.)

Doctor. (Very tenderly.) Mrs. Fleming —I have something to say to you.

Margaret. (Standing tense and with ominous conviction.) Philip is dead!

Doctor. No. He is not dead.

Margaret. Where is he?

Doctor. Outside. Margaret, Why doesn’t he come in?

Doctor. He’s ashamed—afraid.

Margaret. This is his home. Why should he be afraid to enter it? I will go to him.

(She starts toward the door, and then staggers. The Doctor puts an arm around her.)

Doctor. There now. Keep up your courage. Don’t forget, everything depends upon you.

Margaret. (Brokenly.) I’m brave, doctor. I—perhaps it’s best for you to tell him to come here.

Doctor. (Patting her on the shoulder.)

Remember, you are very precious to us all. We cannot afford to lose you.

(Margaret stands by the table, calm and tense. Philip comes in from the right, carrying his cap in his hands. He looks weary and broken. He crosses behind Margaret to the center of the stage and standing humbly before her, murmurs her name softly.)

Philip. Margaret!

Margaret. Well, Philip. (After a slight pause.) You have come back.

Philip. (Humbly.) Yes.

Margaret. (Gently.) Why did you go away?

Philip. (Overwhelmed with shame.) I couldn’t face you. I wanted to get away somewhere, and hide forever. (He looks sharply at her.) Can’t you see me, Margaret?

Margaret. (Shaking her head.) No!

Philip. (Awed.) You are blind! Oh!

(Margaret sits down in a chair by the table. Philip remains standing.) Margaret, Don’t mind. I shall be cured.

Doctor Norton sees me every day. He will operate as soon as he finds me normal.

Philip. You have been suffering?

Margaret. Oh, no. (After a pause.)

Philip, do you think that was right? To run away and hide?

Philip. I did not consider whether it was right or wrong. (He speaks bitterly.)

I did not know the meaning of those words. I never have.

Margaret. Oh, you are a man—people will soon forget.

Philip. (Fiercely.) I do not care about others. It is you, Margaret—will you ever forget? Will you ever forgive?

Margaret. (Shaking her head and smiling sadly.) ‘There is nothing to forgive.

And, I want to forget. Philip, (Bewildered by her magnanimity, but full of hope.) Then you will let me come back to you? You will help me to be a better—a wiser man?

Margaret. (Smiling gently.) Yes, Philip.

(A quick joy takes hold of Put.

He makes a warm movement to go to her, then checks himself, and approaches her slowly while speaking, overcome by the wonder and beauty of her kindness.)

Philip. All my life, Margaret, I will make amends for what I have done. I will atone for my ignorance—Oh, my wife— my dear, dear wife. (He hangs over her tenderly, not daring to touch her.)

(At the word “wife” Margaret rises, shrinking from him as though some dead thing was near her. A look of agony flits across her face.)

Margaret. No! Philip, not that! No!

(She puts out her hands to ward him off.)

Philip. (Beseechingly.) Margaret!

Margaret. (Her face poignant with suppressed emotion, she confesses, brokenly.) The wife-heart has gone out of me. ‘Philip, Don’t—don’t say that, Margaret.

Margaret. I must. Ah, Philip, how I worshipped you. You were my idol. Is it my fault that you lie broken at my feet?

Philip. (With urgency.) You say you want to forget—that you forgive! Will you—?

Margaret. Can’t you understand? It is not a question of forgetting, or of forgiving—(For an instant she is at a loss how to convince him.) Can’t you understand? Philip! (Then suddenly.) Suppose—I—had been unfaithful to you?

Philip. (With a cry of repugnance.) Oh, Margaret!

Margaret. (Brokenly.) There! You see! You are a man, and you have your ideals of—the—sanctity—-of—the thing you love. Well, I am a woman—and perhaps—I, too, have the same ideals. I don’t know. But, I, too, ery “pollution.” (She is deeply moved.)

Philip. (Abashed.) I did not know. I never realized before, the iniquity—of my—behavior. Oh, if I only had my life to live over again. Men, as a rule, do not consider others when urged on by their desires. How you must hate me.

Margaret. No, I don’t—I love you—I pity you.

Philip. Dear, not now—but in the future —some time—away in the future—perhaps, the old Margaret—

Margaret. Ah, Philip, the old Margaret is dead. The truth killed her.

Philip. Then—there is no hope for me?

(There is a dignity and a growing manliness in his demeanor as the scene progresses.)

Margaret. (Warmly.) Yes. Every hope.

Philip. Well, what do you want me to do?

Shall I go away?

Margaret. No. Your place is here. You cannot shirk your responsibilities now.

Philip. I do not want to shirk my responsibilities, Margaret. I want to do whatever you think is best.

Margaret. Very well. It is best for us both to remain here, and take up the old life together. It will be a little hard for you, but you are a man—you will soon live it down.

Philip. Yes—I will live it down.

Margaret. Go to the mill tomorrow morning and take up your work again, as though this thing had never happened.

Philip. Yes. All right. I’ll do that.

Margaret. Mr. Foster, you know, you have an unusually capable man there?

Philip. Yes, I appreciate Foster. He’s a nice chap, too.

Margaret. He has carried through a very critical week at the mill.

Philip. Don’t worry, Margaret, everything will be all right there now. I will put my whole heart and soul into the work.;

Margaret. Then, you must do something for your child.

Philip. Yes, our dear child.

Margaret. No, not our child—not, Lucy. Your son.

Philip. My son?

Margaret. Yes.

Philip. Where is he?

Margaret. Here.

Philip. (Resentfully.) Who brought him here?:

Margaret. I did.

Philip. (Amazed.) You brought that child here?

Margaret. Yes, where else should he go?

Philip. You have done that?

Margaret. What other thing was there for me to do? Surely if he was good enough to bring into the world, he is good enough to find a shelter under your roof.

Philip. (Moved by her magnanimity.) I never dreamed that you would do that, Margaret.

Margaret. Well, he is here. Now, what are you going to do with him?

Philip. (Helplessly.) What can I do?

Margaret. Give him a name, educate him.

Try to make atonement for the wrong you did his mother. You must teach him never to be ashamed of her, to love her memory—motherhood is a divine thing —remember that, Philip, no matter when, or how. You can do fine things for this unfortunate child.

Philip. (Contemptuously.) Fine things for him! I am not fit to guide a young life. A fine thing I have made of my own.

Margaret. There is no use now lamenting what was done yesterday. That’s finished. Tomorrow? What are you going to do with that?

Philip. There does not seem any “tomorrow” worth while for me. The past—

Margaret. The past is dead. We must face the living future. Now, Philip, there are big things ahead for you, if you will only look for them. They certainly will not come to you. I will help you— we will fight this together.

Philip. Forgive me, please. I’ll not talk like that any more.

Margaret. Of course, there will be a lot of talk—mean talk—but they will get tired of that in the end. Where have you been all this time?

Philip. In Boston.

Margaret. What have you been doing?

Philip. Nothing—I’ve been—in the hospital.

Margaret. (Stretching out her arms to him with an infinite tenderness.) Ah, Philip, you have been ill?

Philip. No!

Margaret. What was it. (He is silent.)

Please tell me.

Philip. (Rather reluctantly reciting his story.) I was walking across the bridge over the Charles river one night—I was sick of myself—the whole world—I believed I should never see your face again.

The water looked so quiet, it fascinated me. I just dropped into it and went down. It seemed like going to sleep.

Then I woke up and I was in a narrow bed in a big room.

Margaret. (Breathless.). The. hospital?

Philip. Yes.

Margaret. Oh, that was a cruel thing to do. Were they kind to you there?

Philip. Yes. There was an old nurse there—she was sharp. She told me not to be a fool, but to go back to my wife. She said—“If she’s any good, she will forgive you.” (He smiles whimsically.) Margaret, some day I am going to earn your respect, and then—I know, I shall be able to win you back to me all over again.:

Margaret. (Smiling sadly.) I don’t know. That would be a wonderful thing.

(She weeps silently.) A very wonder— ful thing. (Then suddenly she springs to her feet.) Ah, dreams! Philip! Dreams! And we must get to work.

(Philip is inspired by her manner, and there is a quickening of his spirit, a response to her in the new vibration in his voice.)

Philip. Work! Yes—I’ll not wait until tomorrow. I’ll go to the mill now.

Margaret. That’s fine. Do it.

Philip. Yes, I’ll take a bath and get into some fresh clothing first.

Margaret. Do.. You must look pretty shabby knocking about for a week without a home.

Philip. Oh, I’ll be all right. I’d like to see Lucy. (He looks about.) Where is she?

(Margaret is at the table occupied with the flowers.)

Margaret. They are both out there. (She indicates with a turn of her head.) In the garden.

(Philip goes quickly to the door opening upon the garden and gazes out eagerly. Margaret, at the table, pauses in her work, gives a long sigh of relief and contentment. Her eyes look into the darkness and a serene joy illuminates her face. The picture slowly fades out as Philip steps buoyantly into the garden.)