Exiles

gone⁠—all is gone. Bertha Anxiously. But you will see me again, Robert⁠ ⁠… as before. Robert Looks full at her. To make him⁠—Richard⁠—suffer. Bertha He does not suffer. Robert Bowing his head. Yes, yes. He does. Bertha He knows we like each other. Is there any harm, then? Robert Raising his head. No there is no harm. Why should we not? He does not know yet what I feel. He has left us alone here at night, at this hour, because he longs to know it⁠—he longs to be delivered. Bertha From what? Robert Moves closer to her and presses her arm as he speaks. From every law, Bertha, from every bond. All his life he has sought to deliver himself. Every chain but one he has broken and that one we are to break, Bertha⁠—you and I. Bertha Almost inaudibly. Are you sure? Robert Still more warmly. I am sure that no law made by man is sacred before the impulse of passion. Almost fiercely. Who made us for one only? It is a crime against our own being if we are so. There is no law before impulse. Laws are for slaves. Bertha, say my name! Let me hear your voice say it. Softly! Bertha Softly. Robert! Robert Puts his arm about her shoulder. Only the impulse towards youth and beauty does not die. He points towards the porch. Listen! Bertha In alarm. What? Robert The rain falling. Summer rain on the earth. Night rain. The darkness and warmth and flood of passion. Tonight the earth is loved⁠—loved and possessed. Her lover’s arms around her; and she is silent. Speak, dearest! Bertha Suddenly leans forward and listens intently. Hush! Robert Listening, smiles. Nothing. Nobody. We are alone. A gust of wind blows in through the porch, with a sound of shaken leaves. The flame of the lamp leaps. Bertha Pointing to the lamp. Look! Robert Only the wind. We have light enough from the other room. He stretches his hand across the table and puts out the lamp. The light from the doorway of the bedroom crosses the place where they sit. The room is quite dark. Robert Are you happy? Tell me. Bertha I am going now, Robert. It is very late. Be satisfied. Robert Caressing her hair. Not yet, not yet. Tell me, do you love me a little? Bertha I like you, Robert. I think you are good. Half rising. Are you satisfied? Robert Detaining her, kisses her hair. Do not go, Bertha! There is time still. Do you love me too? I have waited a long time. Do you love us both⁠—him and also me? Do you, Bertha? The truth! Tell me. Tell me with your eyes. Or speak! She does not answer. In the silence the rain is heard falling.

Third Act

The drawingroom of Richard Rowan’s house at Merrion. The folding doors at the right are closed and also the double doors leading to the garden. The green plush curtains are drawn across the window on the left. The room is half dark. It is early in the morning of the next day. Bertha sits beside the window looking out between the curtains. She wears a loose saffron dressing gown. Her hair is combed loosely over the ears and knotted at the neck. Her hands are folded in her lap. Her face is pale and drawn.

	Brigid comes in through the folding doors on the right with a featherbroom and duster. She is about to cross but, seeing Bertha, she halts suddenly and blesses herself instinctively.
Brigid	Merciful hour, ma’am. You put the heart across me. Why did you get up so early?
Bertha	What time is it?
Brigid	After seven, ma’am. Are you long up?
Bertha	Some time.
Brigid	Approaching her. Had you a bad dream that woke you?
Bertha	I didn’t sleep all night. So I got up to see the sun rise.
Brigid	Opens the double doors. It’s a lovely morning now after all the rain we had. Turns round. But you must be dead tired, ma’am. What will the master say at your doing a thing like that? She goes to the door of the study and knocks. Master Richard!
Bertha	Looks round. He is not there. He went out an hour ago.
Brigid	Out there, on the strand, is it?
Bertha	Yes.
Brigid	Comes towards her and leans over the back of a chair. Are you fretting yourself, ma’am, about anything?
Bertha	No, Brigid.
Brigid	Don’t be. He was always like that, meandering off by himself somewhere. He is a curious bird, Master Richard, and always was. Sure there isn’t a turn in him I don’t know. Are you fretting now maybe because he does be in there pointing to the study half the night at his books? Leave him alone. He’ll come back to you again. Sure he thinks the sun shines out of your face, ma’am.
Bertha	Sadly. That time is gone.
Brigid	Confidentially. And good cause I have to remember it⁠—that time when he was paying his addresses to you. She sits down beside Bertha. In a lower voice. Do you know that he used to tell me all about you and nothing to his mother, God rest her soul? Your letters and all.
Bertha	What? My letters to him?
Brigid	Delighted. Yes. I can see him sitting on the kitchen table, swinging his legs and spinning out of him yards of talk about you and him and Ireland and all kinds of devilment⁠—to an ignorant old woman like me. But that was always his way. But if he had to meet a grand highup person he’d be twice as grand himself. Suddenly looks at Bertha. Is it crying you are now? Ah, sure, don’t cry. There’s good times coming still.
Bertha	No, Brigid, that time comes only once in a lifetime. The rest of life is good for nothing except to remember that time.
Brigid	Is silent for a moment: then says kindly. Would you like