Exiles

good is it to talk now? Richard With a repressed energy. But what is this that seems to hang over you? It cannot be so tragic. Beatrice Calmly. O, not in the least tragic. I shall become gradually better, they tell me, as I grow older. As I did not die then they tell me I shall probably live. I am given life and health again⁠—when I cannot use them. Calmly and bitterly. I am convalescent. Richard Gently. Does nothing then in life give you peace? Surely it exists for you somewhere. Beatrice If there were convents in our religion perhaps there. At least, I think so at times. Richard Shakes his head. No, Miss Justice, not even there. You could not give yourself freely and wholly. Beatrice Looking at him. I would try. Richard You would try, yes. You were drawn to him as your mind was drawn towards mine. You held back from him. From me, too, in a different way. You cannot give yourself freely and wholly. Beatrice Joins her hands softly. It is a terribly hard thing to do, Mr. Rowan⁠—to give oneself freely and wholly⁠—and be happy. Richard But do you feel that happiness is the best, the highest that we can know? Beatrice With fervour. I wish I could feel it. Richard Leans back, his hands locked together behind his head. O, if you knew how I am suffering at this moment! For your case, too. But suffering most of all for my own. With bitter force. And how I pray that I may be granted again my dead mother’s hardness of heart! For some help, within me or without, I must find. And find it I will. Beatrice rises, looks at him intently, and walks away toward the garden door. She turns with indecision, looks again at him and, coming back, leans over the easychair. Beatrice Quietly. Did she send for you before she died, Mr. Rowan? Richard Lost in thought. Who? Beatrice Your mother. Richard Recovering himself, looks keenly at her for a moment. So that, too, was said of me here by my friends⁠—that she sent for me before she died and that I did not go? Beatrice Yes. Richard Coldly. She did not. She died alone, not having forgiven me, and fortified by the rites of holy church. Beatrice Mr. Rowan, why did you speak to me in such a way? Richard Rises and walks nervously to and fro. And what I suffer at this moment you will say is my punishment. Beatrice Did she write to you? I mean before⁠ ⁠… Richard Halting. Yes. A letter of warning, bidding me break with the past, and remember her last words to me. Beatrice Softly. And does death not move you, Mr. Rowan? It is an end. Everything else is so uncertain. Richard While she lived she turned aside from me and from mine. That is certain. Beatrice From you and from⁠ ⁠… ? Richard From Bertha and from me and from our child. And so I waited for the end as you say; and it came. Beatrice Covers her face with her hands. O, no. Surely no. Richard Fiercely. How can my words hurt her poor body that rots in the grave? Do you think I do not pity her cold blighted love for me? I fought against her spirit while she lived to the bitter end. He presses his hand to his forehead. It fights against me still⁠—in here. Beatrice As before. O, do not speak like that. Richard She drove me away. On account of her I lived years in exile and poverty too, or near it. I never accepted the doles she sent me through the bank. I waited, too, not for her death but for some understanding of me, her own son, her own flesh and blood; that never came. Beatrice Not even after Archie⁠ ⁠… ? Richard Rudely. My son, you think? A child of sin and shame! Are you serious? She raises her face and looks at him. There were tongues here ready to tell her all, to embitter her withering mind still more against me and Bertha and our godless nameless child. Holding out his hands to her. Can you not hear her mocking me while I speak? You must know the voice, surely, the voice that called you the black protestant, the pervert’s daughter. With sudden selfcontrol. In any case a remarkable woman. Beatrice Weakly. At least you are free now. Richard Nods. Yes, she could not alter the terms of my father’s will nor live forever. Beatrice With joined hands. They are both gone now, Mr. Rowan. They both loved you, believe me. Their last thoughts were of you. Richard Approaching, touches her lightly on the shoulder, and points to the crayon drawing on the wall. Do you see him there, smiling and handsome? His last thoughts! I remember the night he died. He pauses for an instant and then goes on calmly. I was a boy of fourteen. He called me to his bedside. He knew I wanted to go to the theatre to hear Carmen. He told my mother to give me a shilling. I kissed him and went. When I came home he was dead. Those were his last thoughts as far as I know. Beatrice The hardness of heart you prayed for⁠ ⁠… She breaks off. Richard Unheeding. That is my last memory of him. Is there not something sweet and noble in it? Beatrice Mr. Rowan, something is on your mind to make you speak like this. Something has changed you since you came back three months ago. Richard Gazing again at the drawing, calmly, almost gaily. He will help me, perhaps, my smiling handsome father. A knock is heard at the hall door on the left. Richard Suddenly. No, no. Not the smiler, Miss Justice. The old mother. It is her spirit I need. I am going. Beatrice Someone knocked. They have come back. Richard No, Bertha has a key. It is he. At least, I am