Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

(_Lowering the second lantern._) Whoa!... (_He blows out the candle and folds the lamp up. Then he goes leisurely for the next lantern and lowers it._) Whoa!... (_He blows it out, folds it up and goes for the next lantern and the curtain descends while he is lowering it. When it rises again, he says_:) Whoa!... (_And folds it up._)

(END OF THE SECOND ACT.)

THE THIRD ACT

SCENE:—_The Deanery garden. At the back is a wing of the Deanery, red-bricked, Norman-arched, with mullioned windows and a heavy door opening on to the lawn. On the right, three-quarters across the background, the house ends, and an old machicholated wall begins, with a great brass-studded double gateway in the middle of it, in the left side of which is a wicket with grating. The door opens on the Deanery Close and a view of the Cathedral in the distance. The garden is all lawn, flower-bed, and old trees. From the great door, and running diagonally across the stage and out to the left in front, is a stone-flagged path. Another path from the house-door joins it about the centre of the stage. On the lawn in the foreground stands a table spread for breakfast, with two chairs beside it. It is a brilliant Sunday morning in June._

(_When the curtain rises, JOHN, the DEAN’S butler and
verger of the Cathedral, and ROBERT, the page, are putting
finishing touches to the breakfast-table. After a moment
the DEAN enters and goes to the table._)

DEAN.

What a morning! Fragrant! Exquisite! Ha! (_He sniffs the air appreciatively, fixes his eyeglass and beams around him._) A _happy_ Whitsun, John.

JOHN.

Thank you, sir. Same to you, sir.

DEAN.

Eh?... Oh, certainly!

JOHN.

Yes, sir. It’s mornings like this, sir, that one feels a inclination to sing the tedium.

DEAN.

To sing the—er——?

JOHN.

The tedium, sir.

DEAN.

The _Te Deum_! Ah, yes, to be sure! To sing the _Te Deum_. Most appropriate! (_Looks at his watch._) A quarter to ten.

JOHN.

Yes, sir. It’s highly significant to see so many people at early service this morning, sir. Highly significant.

(_ROBERT goes out._)

DEAN.

Ah, yes!... Is Miss Clare in the garden?

JOHN.

I believe she is, sir.

DEAN.

Well, she’ll be here in a minute. I think, as it’s rather late, I had better begin at once. Is this all you’re giving me to-day, John?

JOHN.

Oh, no, sir. There’s an omelette with asparagus-tops to come.

DEAN.

Good. Very good! In the meantime these delicious fruits.

(_Sits at the table._)

JOHN.

Yes, sir. If you please, sir, Mr. Cosway’s gardener was here this morning before you came back from church. As far as I could gather he had some message from her ladyship which he refused to leave. I gathered he had instructions to give it to you direct, sir.

DEAN.

Oh ... ah ... h’m.... Is he here now?

JOHN.

No, sir; I told him to come back at ten o’clock. He’s gone to the cemetery to visit the grave of his first wife.

DEAN.

Bring him here when he comes.

JOHN.

Very good, sir.

(_JOHN goes into the house. The DEAN daintily skins a
peach, humming gently, “Every morn I bring thee violets.”
After a moment CLARE enters from the left, a bunch of pink
and white may in her hand. She is obviously in a shocking
temper._)

CLARE.

Good morning, father.

DEAN.

Good morning, Clare. May! Is it for me?

CLARE.

You can have it if you like.

(_She lays it beside his plate and sits down._)

DEAN.

Thank you, my dear. Fragrant, delicately-tinted, fresh and dewy as young girls. (_He regards her critically._) But _you_ don’t look quite yourself, my child.

CLARE.

I?

DEAN.

A little tired. Perhaps you slept badly?

CLARE.

I’m as fit as a fiddle, and I slept like a log.

DEAN.

These peaches are delicious. Try one.

CLARE.

Aren’t there any cherries yet?

DEAN.

I’m afraid not. “Fruits in due season,” you know, my dear!

CLARE.

What about your peaches?

DEAN.

That’s different, quite different. An early peach cannot be too early. They live in glass houses——

CLARE.

(_Significantly._) And don’t throw their stones.... I’ll have a cup of tea.

DEAN.

There’s an omelette with asparagus-tops on the way.

CLARE.

I’m not hungry.

DEAN.

Oh, that’s a pity! I suppose it’s this exceptionally early summer.

CLARE.

Yes. I was unbearably hot all night. And so thirsty that I drank nearly all the water in my jug.

DEAN.

Dear me! Wasn’t there any in the carafe?

CLARE.

I drank that as well.

DEAN.

Really? It seems to me that for a log you were somewhat restive last night.

CLARE.

A log?

DEAN.

I thought you slept like a log.

CLARE.

I scarcely slept a wink.

DEAN.

Well, well, my dear, so long as you feel—to use your expression—as fit as a fiddle, it——

CLARE.

I feel rotten.

(_JOHN enters with the omelette, ROBERT with plates._)

DEAN.

I’m sorry. I didn’t go to bed until very late myself. Those little additions to my sermon took me longer than I had anticipated. (_JOHN and ROBERT go out, having placed the dish before the DEAN._) This looks most inviting. And as there doesn’t seem to be much of it, I’m not, on the whole, sorry that you’ve lost your appetite this morning! It’s an ill wind that——

CLARE.

May I have some, please?

DEAN.

Changeable young person!

CLARE.

Well, of course, if you grudge me a little piece of your omelette——

DEAN.

Not at all, my dear! Not at all!

(_He offers her a liberal helping._)

CLARE.

You needn’t give me three-quarters of it.

DEAN.

Very well. You had better take the other piece, then.

CLARE.

Oh, it doesn’t matter!

(_Impatiently she takes the larger helping._)

DEAN.

(_Genially._) I don’t mind confessing that I’m very hungry, so unless you really want it, my dear——

CLARE.

Oh, for goodness’ sake, father, take the whole lot! I’m sure I don’t want to deprive you of your food!

DEAN.

What a peppery young lady it is! I was only joking.

CLARE.

I may be sadly lacking in humour, but jokes about omelettes and the condition of one’s stomach never much appealed to me.

DEAN.

Really, my dear child, I should much prefer your not using that word.

CLARE.

Stomach?

DEAN.

Yes.

CLARE.

Oh! I do hope you’re not going to suggest I should say “Little Mary”!

DEAN.

(_Puzzled._) Little Mary? I—er—don’t quite see the connection.... Is there any reason for alluding to that—er—portion of the anatomy?

CLARE.

I was under the impression that _you_ made the first allusion to it.

DEAN.

My dear, I merely mentioned the fact that I was hungry.

CLARE.

Well, you’re not hungry with your foot, are you?

DEAN.

Don’t you think this bickering rather silly and childish?

CLARE.

Very.

DEAN.

(_After a pause, and with a change of voice but unabated cheerfulness._) Unclouded sunshine and a sense of deep peace and repose! My ideal of an English Sunday! John told me just now that he feels inclined to sing the _Te Deum_ on mornings like this.

CLARE.

Why don’t you come to the point, father?

DEAN.

The point?...

CLARE.

Yes.

DEAN.

I don’t quite understand.

CLARE.

I think you owe me some explanation of your extraordinary action last night.

DEAN.

_My_ extraordinary action!...

CLARE.

Yes—in deliberately hiding yourself in the summer-house to overhear a private conversation.

DEAN.

You amaze me, Clare! Instead of being grateful for my silence on the events of yesterday, you turn on me as though you had a grievance! My action was amply justified by the circumstances.

CLARE.

I don’t see how eavesdropping can ever be justified. And now you’re bent on giving us “beans” from the pulpit. I’m awfully sorry to have to say it, father, but really it’s rotten bad form....

DEAN.

We won’t discuss the matter any further. Believe me, I am the best judge of my actions.

CLARE.

And I of mine.

DEAN.

You refer to the unhappy discoveries Mrs. O’Farrel and I made last night?

CLARE.

I do.

DEAN.

Certainly, if you’re heartily ashamed of yourself, you’re a competent judge of your actions.

CLARE.

I’m not in the least ashamed of myself.

DEAN.

Then, my dear child——

CLARE.

And why should I be? I’ve done nothing wrong.

DEAN.

You have done very wrong indeed. But I don’t wish to exaggerate. Of course, I know this has been nothing more than a foolish flirtation. Reprehensible—most reprehensible. A grave error, but scarcely a sin. We will say no more about it.... One thing, however, I am bound to insist upon after what came to my knowledge last night. You must have nothing more to do with that young man.

CLARE.

What young man? Michael’s forty, if he’s a day.

DEAN.

I was not speaking of Mr. Cosway. Honestly, your future relations with him don’t cause me acute anxiety. I was alluding to young O’Farrel.

CLARE.

(_Sitting up._) Bill!

DEAN.

I think, my dear, we will leave the use of his Christian name to the unhappy lady—or ladies—with whom he is intimate. Certain facts have come to my knowledge. He is not a fit companion for a young girl. Your acquaintance with him must cease from to-day.

CLARE.

Oh!... And may I ask what he has done?

DEAN.

It is quite superfluous to go into—er—unsavoury details.

CLARE.

You seriously expect me to cut him because he doesn’t quite meet with your approval?

DEAN.

I expect you to obey me implicitly.

CLARE.

(_Rising._) I had better tell you at once, father, that I shall do nothing of the kind.

(_The gateway bell rings._)

DEAN.

Clare! (_The DEAN looks at the gateway and lowers his voice._) You forget yourself!

CLARE.

His crime hasn’t by chance anything to do with Patricia?

DEAN.

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.