?5 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013489558 
 
Mptt^AM^ 
 
 INOTICE. — This play is here privately printed and not 
 for circulativn. All its dramatic rights are fully 
 secured, and proceedings zvill be immediately taken 
 against anyone who attempts to infringe them!] 
 
 THE PHYSICIAN 
 
 AN ORIGINAL PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY ARTHUR JONES 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL," "THE CRUSADERS," "THE 
 CASE OF REBELLIOUS SUSAN," "JUDAH," "THE MIDDLE- 
 MAN," "THE TRIUMPH OF THE PHILISTINES,'' 
 "THE DANCING GIRL," "THE TEMPTER," 
 "THE rogue's COMEDY," "THE 
 MASQUERADERS," ETC. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 PRINTED AT THE CHISVVICK PRESS 
 
 1897 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 1934 
 
^' 
 
 ^fq 
 
 THE PHYSICIAN 
 
[Notice. — This play is here privately printed and not 
 for circulation. All its dramatic rights are fully 
 secured, and proceedings will be immediately taken 
 against anyone who attempts to infringe them.'\ 
 
 THE PHYSICIAN 
 
 AN ORIGINAL PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY ARTHUR JONES 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL," "THE CRUSADERS," "l 
 CASE OF REBELLIOUS SUSAN," "JUDAH," "THE MIDDLE- 
 MAN," "the triumph of THE PHILISTINES," 
 "THE DANCING GIRL," "THE TEMPTER,'' 
 "THE rogue's COMEDY," "THE 
 MASQUERADERS,'' ETC. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 PRINTED AT THE CHISWICK PRESS 
 
 1897 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Dr. Lewin Carey. 
 Walter Amphiel. 
 Reverend Peregrine Hinde. 
 Dr. Brooker. 
 Stephen Gurdon. 
 James Hebbings. 
 John Dibley. 
 
 ViCCARS. 
 
 F,dana Hinde. 
 
 Lady Valerie Camville. 
 
 Mrs. Bowden. 
 
 Mrs. Dibi.ey. 
 
 Louisa Pack. 
 
 Marah Gurdon, a child. 
 
 Saunders, Lady Valerie's maid. 
 
 Lizzie, the Vicarage servant. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 Consulting Room at Dr. Lewin Carey's, 39, Cavendish 
 Square. 
 
 Three months pass. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Saint Edana's Well and Church, Fontleas. 
 Six months pass. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 The Abbot's Kitchen, Fontleas. 
 
 Nine months pass^ 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 The Vicarage Drawing-Room, Fontleas. 
 
 Time. — Present Day. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 Scene -.-^Consulting room at Dr. Lewin Carey's 
 Cavendish Square, a substantially furnished room, 
 such as would be used by a London physician in 
 good practice. Door down stage L. Door at back 
 L. Fireplace at back R. Windows R. Book-cases, 
 containing medical works, round the room. One or 
 two good oil paintings. 
 
 Time : late on an April afternoon. 
 
 Enter door at back, VicCARS, Dr. Carey's butler, 
 showing in WALTER Amphiel. Amphiel is a 
 pale, thin, and very delicate looking man about 
 thirty ; striking, earnest features, with a winning, 
 lovable expression; rather weak mouth; restless, 
 furtive eyes with a hunted look in them. His 
 ordinary manner is absent, dreamy, self-absorbed, 
 and there is a strangeness and indecision in his 
 movements and speech, but this at times gives place 
 to fits of feverish energy. 
 
 Viccars. 
 JR. CAREY is attending a consultation, sir, 
 but I expect him back shortly. 
 Amphiel. I'll wait. 
 Viccars. What name shall I say .' 
 Amphiel. My name doesn't matter. I'll wait. 
 
 \Exit Viccars at back. 
 
 I B 
 
 S^ff>: 
 
[AweniEL furtively watches ViCCARS off, and 
 as soon as the door has closed, goes quickly 
 to the book shelves, runs his eye eagerly 
 over them as if searching for something, 
 takes out a particular book, looks at index, 
 opens it at a certain page, sits down, reads 
 eagerly. A short pause. 
 
 Enter VicCARS at back, showing in Dr. Brooker, 
 a middle-aged man, brisk, genial, robust ; sanguine 
 complexion ; a little stout, a little bald. 
 
 [As Brooker enters, Amphiel shows recogni- 
 tion and a little embarrassment, hiding 
 his head behind his book. 
 
 Brooker. [Entering^ Thank you, Viccars. Dr. Carey 
 does expect me, doesn't he .■' 
 
 Viccars. Yes, sir. He left word if you came that 
 he'd be back almost at once. Shall I get you anything 
 after your journey, sir.' 
 
 Brooker. No, thank you. Well, just a cup of tea, if 
 you'll be so good. \jB.xit ViCCARS at back. 
 
 Brooker. {^Sitting down, catches sight of Ampuiel's 
 face as he looks up furtively from his book.] I beg 
 pardon, my name is Brooker — Dr. Brooker of 
 Folkestone. I've had the pleasure of meeting you 
 somewhere? 
 
 Amphiel. [ With slight embarrassment^ I think not 
 — I don't remember you. 
 
 Brooker. \,Still looking at him.] I suppose I was 
 mistaken. Your face seemed familiar to me. 
 
 [^A little pause. 
 
 Amphiel. Very interesting place, a doctor's con- 
 sulting room .' 
 
 Brooker. H'm ! — not very — to the doctor. 
 
 Amphiel. This room, for instance. How many 
 strange stories and confessions these walls must have 
 listened to ! How many men and women must have 
 entered that door with hope in their hearts, and 
 
 2 
 
received their death sentence, sitting perhaps where I 
 am sitting now ! 
 
 Brooker. Oh, don't speak of us as if we were blood- 
 thirsty hanging judges. Say rather how many men 
 have entered that door with despair in their hearts 
 and gone out cheered and comforted ! 
 
 Amp^iel. Dr. Carey is marvellously skilful in certain 
 — certain nervous diseases, isn't he .? 
 
 Brooker. He's marvellously skilful in all kinds of 
 diseases. He has made a great reputation with nerve 
 diseases, simply because this is a nervous age. Every- 
 body is suffering from neurasthenia to-day. Except 
 myself, thank God ! 
 
 [ViCCARS re-enters L. with tea on salver, which 
 
 he brings to Dr. Brooker. Amphiel 
 
 puts book on table, open. 
 
 Brooker. {Looking steadily at Amphiel.J Surely I 
 
 — didn't you consult me one Sunday evening three or 
 
 four years ago .' 
 
 Amphiel. No, no. I've never met you. [Tl? ViCCARS.] 
 Dr. Carey hasn't returned. \Takes out watch!\ I'll call 
 again by-and-by. 
 
 [Exit Amphiel at back rather hurriedly. 
 Viccars. \At door, looking after him, calling off^ The 
 door, Thomas. 
 
 \_Meantime BROOKER has taken up the book 
 
 which Amphiel has put down. He looks 
 
 at the page, raises his eyebrows, puts book 
 
 on table again, leaving it open. 
 
 Brooker. [Taking tea.\ And how have you been all 
 
 this time, Viccars ? 
 
 Viccars. I've kept pretty tolerable, I thank you, sir. 
 Brooker. And Dr. Carey .' . . 
 
 Viccars. About as usual, sir. 
 
 Brooker. He wrote me rather an urgent letter. I 
 thought perhaps something was wrong. [ViCCARS 
 does not reply. There is a short pause.] He has had no 
 trouble, no misfortune, no loss .? 
 
 Viccars. No, sir. At least, none that it's any 
 business of mine to take notice of. 
 
 3 
 
Brooker. You're right, Viccars. Of course, I didn't 
 wish you to speak of Dr. Carey's affairs. He's quite 
 well.? 
 
 Viccars. In body, I believe, quite well, sir. Though, 
 of course, the journey to Egypt and his attendance on 
 the Pasha have fagged him a good deal. 
 
 Brooker. You went with him, Viccars .' 
 
 Viccars. Yes, sir. I had that honour. Dr. Carey 
 waited on the Pasha night and day, and I waited on 
 Dr. Carey. It was wonderful to watch him. 
 
 Brooker. How — wonderful .' 
 
 Viccars. He seemed determined to keep the life in 
 the old fellow. I don't know what it is about Dr. 
 Carey, but he seems to have got that in him — well, I 
 can't describe it — but if once Dr. Carey makes up his 
 mind that a certain patient shall live, it seems more 
 than that patient dare do to die, and it's more than 
 Death dare do to lay hands on him. 
 
 Brooker. And Death did not lay hands on the 
 Pasha .? 
 
 Viccars. No, sir. We pulled the old chap through 
 and left him happy, and comparatively rollicking, so 
 to speak, with his four wives. I think I heard the 
 carriage. [Lookittg out of window.] Yes, here is Dr. 
 Carey. [Crossing;' to door at back. 
 
 Viccars opens door. Dr. Carey enters. 
 
 \Exit Viccars. 
 
 [Dr. Lewin Carey is a man of from forty- 
 five to fifty. He has a strong intelleitual 
 face ; sensitive mobile features, with fre- 
 quently changing play of humour and 
 melancholy ; kind penetrating eyes ; a 
 tender caressing voice ; calm, restrained, 
 professional manner. He comes very 
 affectionately to BROOKER, takes his hand, 
 holds it some m.oments without speaking. 
 Dr. C. My dear fellow, I knew you'd come. 
 4 
 
Brooker. Why, of course. I didn't understand your 
 letter. 
 
 Dr. C. I want to consult you about myself. 
 
 [Brooker looks astonished. DR. Carey 
 motions him to a seat. During the 
 following scene BROOKER is seated. Dr. 
 Carey sometimes sits, sometimes stands, 
 sometimes walks about. 
 
 Brooker. What's the matter .' 
 
 Dr. C. Everything. Nothing. You'll call it neur- 
 asthenia, and you'll give me some placebo, which I 
 shan't believe in, and which I shan't take. 
 
 Brooker. But I'm only a country practitioner. The 
 best man for nerves is Lewin Carey, 39, Cavendish 
 Square. Why don't you go to him >. 
 
 Dr. C. I have, but he only laughs at me and says : 
 " Physician, heal thyself." That's the one thing that 
 rings constantly in my ears day and night, " Physi- 
 cian, heal thyself ! Physician, heal thyself." I can't, 
 Brooker. 
 
 Brooker. Go on. Tell me all. 
 
 Dr. C. My dear old fellow, have patience with me ! 
 The last fifteen years, while you've been comfortably 
 ploughing and whistling on your way amongst rural 
 measles and accouchements, I've stood here an open 
 receptacle for all the nervous diseases of the age to 
 be poured into. And the mischief is, Brooker, I'm so 
 sympathetic, I've caught them all. 
 
 Brooker. You're a little overworked. 
 
 Dr. C. No, it's not that. I'm just at the prime of 
 life, with a splendid constitution. I'm getting to the 
 top of my profession, I'm richer than my needs, I'm 
 honoured, feted, envied — and yet, by God, Brooker, 
 I don't believe there's in any London slum, or jail, or 
 workhouse, a poor wretch with such a horrible despair 
 in his heart as I have to-day. 
 
 Brooker. You know the causes of nervous break- 
 down. What past excess is calling on you for pay- 
 ment? 
 
 5 
 
Dr. C. My youth was pretty much about the 
 average. I don't pretend to justify it. I don't pre- 
 tend to regret it. If any past excess is calling on me 
 for payment now, it's excess of work rather than 
 excess of pleasure. 
 
 Brooker. And since your youth ? \Pause.\ Is there 
 any woman in this business, Carey t 
 
 Dr. C. I've had an attachment for some years past. 
 I won't tell you her name, though you can easily 
 learn it if you care to inquire. Seven years ago I 
 met one of the most beautiful women in London. 
 She had married a blackguard, who neglected her. 
 And certainly she had as much excuse as ever a 
 woman had for forming other ties. Her husband has 
 lived abroad for years, and practically doesn't exist. 
 I go out very little, as you know, but she goes a great 
 deal into society. 
 
 Brooker. And what has society said to this } 
 
 Dr. C. Society, with its perfect good nature, its 
 perfect tact and sympathy with a genuine attachment 
 such as ours, has nodded and smiled, and whispered no 
 doubt, but has never openly said one word against her. 
 
 Brooker. This attachment — does it continue ? 
 
 Dr. C. No. For some time I have felt that she has 
 cared for me less and less. When I came back from 
 Egypt a month ago I found a letter from her, break- 
 ing it off. 
 
 Brooker. And you've not seen her .' 
 
 Dr. C. No, she's travelling abroad. I've written 
 to her several times begging her to return, but she 
 hasn't replied. 
 
 Brooker. And so you're steadily breaking your 
 heart for this woman .■' 
 
 Dr. C. I miss her terribly — hourly. She was such 
 a delightful companion. But though I've loved her 
 deeply, and she has loved me — after a fashion — 
 I've never rested in her love. I've always known 
 
 her to be a coquette — a flaming, intellectual coquette 
 
 whose very attractions make it impossible for her to 
 
 6 
 
be constant. Good God, Brooker! are any of us 
 constant to anybody, or to anything, or to ourselves — 
 even our worst selves ? Don't let me maunder any 
 more about her. She isn't the matter with me — or if 
 she is, she's not all the matter with me. I go deeper 
 than that. 
 
 Brooker. What is the matter with you .■' 
 
 Dr. C. I tell you I've caught the disease of our 
 time, of our society, of our civilization. 
 
 Brooker. What's that .' 
 
 Dr. C. Middle age. Disillusionment. My youth's 
 gone. My beliefs are gone. I enjoy nothing. I 
 believe in nothing. 
 
 Brooker. There's no cure for lost youth, I'm afraid. 
 But for lost belief 
 
 Dr. C. The cure for that is to turn churchwarden 
 and go round with the plate on Sundays, I suppose. 
 
 Brooker. Don't sneer at us poor fools who do still 
 believe in something. 
 
 Dr. C. Sneer at you ! I envy you. Belief ! That's 
 the placebo I want. That would cure me. 
 
 Brooker. Don't you believe in your work .' 
 
 Dr. C. My work means nothing to me. Success 
 means nothing to me. I cure people with a grin and 
 a sneer. I keep on asking myself, " To what end } 
 To what end?" 
 
 Brooker. Come and dress, let's get an early dinner 
 and go to a music hall. 
 
 Dr. C. That's your placebo, is it "i 
 ■ Brooker. Surely, Carey, you must know there's 
 nothing the matter with you. 
 
 Dr. C. Don't I tell you there's nothing the matter 
 with me, and that I can endure it no longer. Brooker, 
 my practice is a very valuable one. I want you to 
 take it up and carry it on. 
 ' Brooker. You're not in earnest 1 
 
 Dr. C. Indeed I am. We'll talk it over at dinner. 
 Don't argue with me, I've made up my mind. 
 
 Brooker. And you — what will you do .' 
 1 
 
Dr. C. I don't know. 
 
 Brooker. Where will you go ? 
 
 Dr. C. I don't know. 
 
 Brooker. Surely you have some plan ? 
 
 Dr. C. None in this world, except to walk out of 
 that door and let it clang for ever on my present self 
 I want a new impulse, a new outlook on life — no, 
 I want a new life itself I may go to India. I'm 
 interested in these cholera experiments. 
 
 Brooker. To what end .' 
 
 Dr. C. Ah, to what end ? To save life. To what 
 end .' I can't tell you. But I've still got the healing 
 instinct strong within me in spite of what I've told 
 you ; if any poor devil suffering from some mortal 
 disease were to come in at that door and ask me to 
 help him, I should fling myself heart and soul into his 
 case and fight like a tiger to pull him through. And 
 all the time my grinning, sneering, second self would 
 be standing beside me and asking me " To what end 'i 
 To what end .' " [ With a gesture of weariness and 
 despair.'\ Let me get out of this, Brooker. Come in 
 as soon as you can and set me free. 
 
 [Enter ViCCARS at back, with lady's visiting card on 
 tray, which he brings to Dr. Carey : Dr. Carey 
 takes card, shows great delight. 
 
 Viccars. Lady is waiting in the next room, sir. 
 
 [Going off at back. 
 
 Dr. C. [In a low tone to Brooker, showing great 
 feeling^ It's she ! She has come back to me ! 
 
 Brooker. I've a letter or two to write. Perhaps 
 Viccars will show me to my room. 
 
 Viccars. [At door at back.] This way, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Dr. C. [ With great feeling^] I was wrong, Brooker. 
 I care for her more than I know. It's her absence 
 that has ailed me. I shall be well now. 
 
[Brooker wrings Carey's hand with great 
 cordiality, and exit at back. Dr. Carey 
 goes to door L., opens it. 
 Dr. C. Val ! 
 
 Enter door at back LADY Valerie Camville, a hand- 
 some woman about thirty-three; bright red hair, 
 large brown eyes with a merry twinkle ; high fore- 
 head ; rather large mouth with great expression ; a 
 face with beauty, intellectuality, and humour, ixiith- 
 out spirituality. Dr. Carey goes to her with the 
 utmost tenderness and respect, kisses her hand softly 
 two or three times, then holds it tenderly, looking 
 at her with great affection. 
 
 Dr. C. You got my letters ? 
 
 Lady V. Yes. [ Withdraws her hand.'\ You begged 
 me at least to see you and say "Good-bye." Your 
 last letter was so piteous, I couldn't help coming. 
 [Holding out hand in the frankest way.] Good-bye. 
 
 Dr. C. [Cut to the quick.'] You've not come to say 
 that ? [Doesn't take her hand. 
 
 Lady V. Indeed I have. If you remember we made 
 a compact at the beginning of our friendship 
 
 Dr. C. Our friendship ! We were friends, were we not .■' 
 
 Lady L. We were very good friends indeed,' and we 
 very sensibly agreed that the moment we began to 
 feel the least little bit tired of each other, the moment 
 boredom supervened, we would have the courage to 
 own the truth and — part. 
 
 [Again offering hand which Jie doesn't take. 
 
 Dr. C. [Piteotisly.] Are you tired of me, Val ? 
 
 Lady V. Not at the present moment. Altogether, 
 I think you bear the test of constant companionship 
 better than most men would. [Smiling at him.] Still, 
 my dear Lewin, don't let us blink the horrible fact 
 that boredom has supervened. That Sunday at 
 Henley last year ! 
 
 Dr. C. Oh, a wet English Sunday ! 
 
 lyudy V. No amount of British climate or British 
 
 9 C 
 
Sunday can excuse a man for treating a woman as if 
 she had been married to him for a dozen years ! 
 Besides, boredom has supervened on other occasions. 
 
 Dr. C. [Jealously.l Val — you've not — you've not met 
 anyone else ? 
 
 Lady V. Ah ! you shouldn't ask me that ! 
 
 Dr. C. Why not? 
 
 Lady V. Because you know I should tell the biggest 
 of big fibs, rather than give you pain. 
 
 Dr. C. Then you' have ? 
 
 Lady V. No. I've only thought matters over. 
 \_Again offering hand.'] Good-bye. 
 
 Dr. C. I can't say it. What reason is there for us 
 to part ? 
 
 Lady F.. Our friendship must end some day and 
 somehow. Think. How would you wish it to end ? In 
 a yawn? In a squabble? In a scandal? 
 
 Dr. C. I should wish it to end in — death. 
 
 Lady V. Would you ? Now that's the very last way 
 in which I should wish it to end. At least, if it's my 
 death you mean. 
 
 Dr. C. Why not the scandal ? 
 
 Lady V. [Looks at him questioningly.] You'd be 
 obliged to marry me ! 
 
 Dr. C. Obliged .' Dare you face it ? 
 
 Lady V. Gracious, no ! To sink into social ex- 
 tinction in a bog of newspaper mud ! No, trust me, 
 this is our fine artistic moment for bidding each other 
 adieu. We part with the pleasantest memories of the 
 past, with the best wishes for the future, and with just 
 the merest shade of regret \looks at him roguishly, 
 sighs'] ; at least, on my side. 
 
 Dr. C. On your side there will be the merest shade 
 of regret. On my side there will be despair. 
 
 Lady V. And so there should be ! Anything less 
 than despair for some months, or at least weeks, 
 would be uncomplimentary to me. 
 
 Dr. C. \Comingto her passionately .] Val, don't torture 
 me 1 I can't let you go. \_About to clasp her. 
 
 lo 
 
Lady V. {^Shaking her head, warning Mm off with 
 her forefinger.} I leave for Scotland to-night. 
 
 Dr. C. Scotland ! What for? 
 
 Lady V. To escape boredom. I see it still hover- 
 ing, ready to close impenetrably round us the moment 
 we take up our old lives. 
 
 Dr. C. Why should we take up our old lives .■' Val, 
 take up a new life with me from to-day — from this 
 moment. 
 
 Lady V. New life ! How .' Where ? 
 
 Dr. C. Anywhere ! I'm leaving London, giving up 
 my practice 
 
 Lady V. My dear Lewin, what strange freak is this? 
 
 Dr. C. It's no freak. If I stay in London I shall 
 come to some miserable end. I shall either go mad, 
 or commit suicide, or become a fashionable London 
 physician. I don't want to do either. I've got thirty 
 good years of life in front of me. 
 
 Lady V. And how do you propose to spend them ? 
 
 Dr. C. In work. In duty. 
 
 Lady V. Duty? H'm! That's some article for the 
 consumption of the great middle classes, isn't it .' 
 Like the things they get at Whiteley's and the Stores. 
 I'm sure it isn't for the elect — for you and me. What 
 work .■■ What duty .' 
 
 Dr. C. I should like to go to India and thoroughly 
 work out these cholera experiments. 
 
 Lady V. And to boredom add ghastliness. I don't 
 want to go microbe-hunting in India. I like big 
 game. 
 
 Dr. C. Very well. We'll travel, go where you 
 please, do what you please. Only [very piieously'] 
 don't leave me, Val. These last few weeks since 
 you've been away I've had a horrible tinle. I couldn't 
 tell what ailed me. When I knew that you had come 
 back, my heart began to beat again. My hand 
 trembled when I took your card just now, and when 
 you came into the room, didn't you see, I could 
 scarcely speak for joy .' 
 
 U 
 
Lady V. \_A little touched^ My poor Lewin, I didn't 
 know you cared so much for me. 
 
 Dr. C. I didn't know it myself till I had lost you. 
 Val, come back to me. I cling to you ! You are all 
 I have in the world ! Take me; do what you please 
 with me ! Make me at least believe in you ! What 
 is it you want .■" Is it love "i I'll give you all I have 
 to the last drain of my heart. Is it marriage .■• I'll 
 face the disgrace with you, shelter you from it so far 
 as I can. Val, I offer you my heart and my name 
 with all the respect and worship of my nature. \Long 
 pause.'] What do you say .' 
 
 [She has listened with great attention and is a 
 little moved by his passionate pleading, 
 stands as if undecided, then looks at him 
 pityingly, sighs, speaks in a firm matter- 
 of-fact, but not unkind tone. 
 Lady V. I'm very sorry. But it must be adieu — 
 and now. 
 
 Dr. C. Don't leave me, Val. 
 
 Lady V. I must be in Scotland to-morrow morning, 
 and I must catch the train. 
 Dr. C. Don't leave me, Val. 
 
 Lady V. What a heavenly attitude of melancholy 
 you have ! 
 
 Dr. C. Don't leave me, Val. 
 
 Lady V. Alas, poor dear ! I must ! \Blows him a 
 kiss.\ Go9d-bye. {Exit L. 
 
 \She closes the door after her. He stands, 
 looks after her, his hands tightly clasped 
 in front of him ; his features hardening, 
 his eyes fixed, his whole attitude one of 
 great mental anguish changing into des- 
 pair. A long pause. VlCCARS slowly 
 and timidly opens door at back and looks 
 in. 
 Viccars. Are you engaged, sir 1 
 Dr. C. [Relaxing his strained attitude with an effort, 
 speaking in an intensely calm tone.] No. What is it ? 
 
 13 
 
Viccari [Enters, brings in card on salver. \ A young 
 lady says she appointed to meet her father here at 
 half past five. He hasn't come, and she wishes to know 
 if you could see her for a few minutes. 
 
 Dr. C. Show her in. 
 
 [ViCCARS goes, leaves door open. DR. Carey 
 walks listlessly across the room. Re-enter 
 ViCCARS, at back, showing in Edana 
 HjNDE, a bright, eager girl, not quite 
 twenty, prettily dressed, but a little countri- 
 fied. 
 
 Viccars. Miss Hinde. \Exit ViCCARS. 
 
 Edana. I'm so sorry to trouble you. My father 
 arranged to meet me here, but he has gone to some 
 old bookshops, and I daresay he has forgotten all 
 about me. 
 
 Dr. C. Will you be seated ? \She «Vj.] What can I 
 do for you .' 
 
 Edana. I hardly know how to tell you. You won't 
 think it very strange of me — I wanted to ask you 
 about somebody else \_A pause. 
 
 Dr. C. Go on. 
 
 Edana. [A little embarrassed.] His life is so valu- 
 able. You must have heard his name — Mr. Walter 
 Amphiel. 
 
 Dr. C. Amphiel? Amphiel? Oh yes, the man 
 who is making all this stir about the temperance 
 question. 
 
 Edana. He is giving his life to it. 
 
 Dr. C. He is- a friend of yours .'' 
 
 Edana. Yes. {Paused I am to be his wife. 
 
 Dr. C. And you wish ? 
 
 Edana. He gives himself to the work night and day. 
 He is killing himself for others. 
 
 Dr. CThen he is unjust to himself and to you. 
 
 Edana. Oh, it doesn't matter for me. But I want 
 his life to be spared. 
 
 Dr. C. And you wish me to see him and persuade 
 him to give it up ? 
 
 13 
 
Edana. Oh no, he wouldn't give up the work ! And 
 I wouldn't have him ! We have both put our hands 
 to the plough. And \very glowingly] I wish nothing 
 better for either of us than to die for our cause if need 
 were. \He is looking at her with interest and a little 
 astonishment^ I beg pardon, you don't understand me. 
 
 Dr. C. I don't quite understand what you wish me 
 to do. 
 
 Edana. I want you to see him and advise him how to 
 take care of his health. 
 
 Dr. C. Certainly. Send him to me to-morrow 
 morning. 
 
 Edana. He won't come. He has a great dislike to 
 seeing doctors, and when I beg him he only smiles at 
 me, and says he shall live long enough. But I can see 
 such a change in him the last few months. He grows 
 paler and thinner, and more careworn. Couldn't you 
 come to him ? 
 
 Dr. C. Where? 
 
 Edana. We live at Fontleas, near Buxenham. 
 
 Dr. C. Is he there now .' 
 
 Edana. No. He is passing through London to-day 
 onhisway to the Temperance Congressat Southampton 
 to-morrow. Couldn't you come to Fontleas, unknown 
 to him, and stay a day or two and watch him, and find 
 out all about him, and tell me what to do .' 
 
 Dr. C. It would be very unusual. 
 
 Edana. Would it be impossible } 
 
 Dr. C. You are very much concerned for him. 
 
 Edana. Oh, I can't tell you how much ! He is so 
 good, and gentle, and unselfish! He came into a 
 large fortune last year. He is giving it all away to 
 the cause. Is^'t it great of him to give up everything 
 for others.'' 
 
 Dr. C. What made you come to me .'' 
 
 Edana. We've been reading about your journey to 
 Egypt and how you saved the Pasha's life. Your's 
 must be splendid work, too ! I've often thought that if 
 I were a man I should like to be a doctor. \She sees 
 
 14 
 
Dr. Carey is watching her, stops suddenly, confused^ 
 I beg your pardon. Could you come to Fontleas .' 
 
 Dr. C. Certainly I could come. I come to Buxenham 
 occasionally. I send some of my patients there for 
 the waters. By the way, isn't there a well or a spring 
 at Fontleas .' 
 
 Edana. Yes, a holy well. You've heard of it } 
 
 Dr. C. I think I have. Saint — Saint 
 
 Edana. Saint Edana's well. It had great healing 
 properties in the middle ages. Pilgrims used to come 
 there from all parts, and thousands were cured by 
 drinking its waters. 
 
 Dr. C. In the middle ages. And now they have come 
 to me. 
 
 Edana. Oh, we've had some cures in this century. 
 
 Dr. C. Indeed. 
 
 Edana. My father is Vicar of Fontleas, and he's 
 writing a life of Saint Edana. 
 
 Dr. C. Saint Edana ! It's an uncommon name. 
 
 Edana. I was named after her. 
 
 Dr. C. Saint Edana ! It's a pretty name. [A pause. 
 
 Edana. {^Rising.'] I'm taking up your valuable 
 time ' 
 
 Dr. C. When will. Mr. Amphiel be at Fontleas? 
 
 Edana. He lives there. Biut he's often away for 
 weeks together on temperance work. I could let you 
 know. Will you come and see him ? 
 
 Dr. C. My dear child, if there is anything I can 
 do 
 
 Edana. Then you will come ! How kind of you ! 
 But I'm sure when you know him you'll think his life 
 worth all your care. 
 
 Dr. C. If he is dear to you I'm sure it must be. 
 
 Enter ViccARS at back, showing in the Reverend 
 
 Peregrine Hinde, a very quaint old country 
 
 clergyman, rather over sixty, with very bright eyes, 
 
 pleasant features, indicating a mixture of shrewd- 
 
 iS 
 
ness and simplicity. He has a habit of humming 
 little snatches of sacred tunes to himself, and punctu- 
 ates nearly every sentence with a hearty little 
 chuckle at his own small wit. He carries two or 
 three large old volumes under his arm. 
 Viccars. {Announcing?^ Mr. Hinde. \Exit ViCCARS. 
 Rev. P. {Comes up to Dr. Carey, humming a Uttle 
 snatch, leaves off abruptly?}^ Dr. Carey 1 [Dr. Carey 
 bows'\ I've been with the saints all the afternoon. 
 {Tapping the books under hi^ arm.] And in their society 
 I forgot all about you. I hope you'll excuse me. 
 
 Dr. C. Certainly. From the little I know of the 
 saints I'm sure they must be far more agreeable 
 company than I am. 
 
 Rev. P. Not more agreeable, but say more profit- 
 able — for a man of my age. You see, I may have to 
 meet them in a few years and I shouldn't like not to 
 feel quite at home amongst them. {Chuckles and hums.] 
 Now, Edana, what is to be done about Walter ? 
 
 Edana. Dr. Carey has promised to come to Fontleas 
 to see him. 
 
 Rev. P. The poor boy is working himself to death 
 in the cause of temperance. Dear me, how very in- 
 temperate all these good temperance folks are, aren't 
 they ? Still, it's a good cause — a sacred cause. I used 
 to take my glass of wine and I used to enjoy it. 
 Walter has persuaded me to give it up. I miss it 
 {regretfully], still it's a good cause — a sacred cause. 
 And may I ask what your fee will be for coming to 
 Fontleas, Dr. Carey 1 
 
 Dr. C. Oh, don't trouble about that, Mr. Hinde. 
 Rev. P. Oh, but I must. I'm not rich. My stipend 
 for doctoring men's souls is two hundred and forty 
 pounds per annum, or thirteen shillings a day. I hope 
 you don't consider doctoring men's bodies is worth 
 more than {a little hum] say ten times as much as 
 doctoring their souls ? 
 
 Dr. C. That all depends upon the doctor. I'll come 
 to Fontleas and see Mr. Amphiel. But we won't say 
 
 i6 
 
anything about the fee till I've done my work, lb 
 there any place at Fontleas where I can stay ? 
 
 Rev. P. We can offer you the hospitality of the 
 Vicarage. 
 
 Dr. C. You're very kind, but I'm going to take a 
 long rest from my practice, and I might possibly 
 stay some considerable time. Is there a comfortable 
 inn .' 
 
 Rev. P. I'm afraid there isn't. We are all such 
 staunch temperance folks at Fontleas that we feel 
 bound to make people who drink as uncomfortable 
 as we can, don't we, Edana? [^Chuckles. 
 
 Edana. There's Granny Barton's. She has one or 
 two very large comfortable rooms. 
 
 Dr. C. What is her address .'' 
 
 Edana. The Abbot's Kitchen, Fontleas. 
 
 Dr. C. The Abbot's Kitchen t 
 
 Rev. P. It was the Abbot's Kitchen, but there being 
 no further use for abbots, and no further use for good 
 living in Fontleas, it was turned into a farmhouse. 
 And now there being no further use in England for 
 farms and farmhouses, the poor old creature has sold 
 her land and lets her rooms to visitors from Buxenham. 
 
 Edana. She's a dear old soul. 
 
 Rev. P. And she so far sustains the traditions of 
 the spot that she can cook a very good dinner. 
 
 Dr. C. \Making a note?^ The Abbot's Kitchen. 
 Very well. I'll come to Fontleas as soon as I can get 
 away from London. 
 
 \The Rev. Peregrine Hinde takes up his 
 books. Edana picks up the book which 
 Amphiel has left, glances at the title, 
 shows interest, looks at it during the 
 following conversation. 
 
 Dr. C. {Touching the books which the Rev. PERE- 
 GRINE lAmV)^ is taking up!\ Your lore is very different 
 from mine. 
 
 Rev. P- Yes, so much more interesting. 
 
 Dr. C. Why .? 
 
 17 D 
 
Rev. P. Don't you think men's souls are more 
 interesting than their bodies ? 
 
 Dr. C. I never saw a man's soul. 
 
 Rev. P. I never saw a mother's love, but I'm sure 
 it's about the realest thing on this side of the grave. 
 
 Edana. [ Who has been looking at the book."] How very 
 curious ! 
 
 Dr. C. What ? 
 
 Edana. This book on Alcoholic Mania. 
 
 Dr. C. Yes, it's interesting. But the author rides 
 his theory that drunkenness is a disease a little too 
 hard \Edana continues reading.'] Miss Hinde tells me 
 you are writing a life of Saint Edana. 
 
 Rev. P. Yes, it's very puzzling. One history re- 
 counts that she went to Cornwall and died there at 
 the age of twenty, the most glorious visions being 
 vouchsafed to all around her as her spirit passed away. 
 
 Dr. C. Ah ! I've been to Cornwall 
 
 Rev. P. But you saw no visions .-" No, it's a rare 
 faculty, and it seems to be growing rarer. We who 
 have it are highly favoured. [Chuckles and hums.] 
 Another account says that as Saint Edana was cross- 
 ing to Ireland at the age of fifty, the ship was over- 
 taken in a storm. And while the mariners cursed and 
 blasphemed, she prayed that her life alone might be 
 taken and all the others spared to repent. And so it 
 was. 
 
 Dr. C. And another history recounts .' 
 
 Rev. P. That she died full of good works at the age 
 of ninety on the spot where my vicarage now stands. 
 
 Dr. C. And which history do you believe ? 
 
 Rev. P. All three. [Hums and chuckles.] You see, so 
 many people now-a-days believe in nothing at all, it 
 does no harm to have a few old-fashioned folks like 
 myself, who believe a great deal too much, believe 
 everything that's told them — so long as it's beautiful 
 and helpful ! Good-bye, Dr. Carey. Come, Edana ! 
 [Exit at back, humming and chuckling, his 
 books under his arm. 
 i8 
 
Edana. [Puis down book.'] Then we shall see you at 
 Fontleas ? 
 Dr. C. In about a week. {Shaking hands. 
 
 Edana. Thank you ! Thank you ! Oh, if you can 
 
 give him health and strength 
 
 [Her eyes fill with tears. Exit at back 
 hurriedly. Dr. Carey stands looking 
 after her for some moments as if deeply 
 interested ; comes down stage. 
 
 BrooKER enters at the open door. 
 
 Dr. C. Brooker, make haste and come into my 
 practice. I want to get away. 
 
 Brooker. Where t 
 
 Dr. C. Did you see that girl who went out ? Her 
 lover is ill — dying, she says. She wants me to come 
 and see him. 
 
 Brooker. And you're going .' 
 
 Dr. C. Why not .' Why not there as well as any- 
 where .' Why not that a,s well as anything else } 
 
 Brooker. You mean to give up this splendid practice, 
 your position, your career 
 
 Dr. C. I tell you I can't stay here, especially after 
 to-day. Besides, this man Amphiel has a great mission, 
 
 Brooker. Mission .■' 
 
 Dr. C. He's this Walter Amphiel, the man who is 
 organising the temperance movement. 
 
 Brooker. And do you agree with that kind of fanatic- 
 ism .'' 
 
 Dr. C. Is it fanaticism .' The girl's face glowed like 
 a live coal when she spoke of her cause and her lover. 
 How she loves the fellow ! Brooker, it's better to be a 
 fanatic than a cynic. 
 
 Brooker. It's better still to be neither. It's better to 
 a good commonsense citizen and pay your rates 
 and taxes. 
 
 Dr. C. No, it isn't. Good commonsense citizens 
 IHiea they die — well, they think they go to heaven or 
 
hell, but they only go to limbo — and I should like to 
 go to heaven or hell ; the latter for preference, I think, 
 because it's only when we suffer, as I'm suffering now, 
 that we can make sure that we're alive. By the way, 
 did you take down that book of Fuller's on Alcoholic 
 Mania ? \Pointing to book on table. 
 
 Brooker. No, I found a young fellow here reading 
 it. I thought I remembered his face — in fact, I'm sure 
 I did. He came to me some three or four years ago. 
 He puzzled me. I fancied at the time, from a hint 
 that he dropped, that he'd been drinking heavily. 
 
 Re-enter VicCARS at back. 
 
 Viccars. A gentleman to consult you, sir. He won't 
 give his name. 
 
 Dr. C. Show him in. {Exit ViCCARS at back. 
 
 Brooker. {Taking out watch.'] It's almost time to 
 dress for dinner. You said nothing more about 
 
 Dr. C. She only came to say " good-bye." She 
 has said it. {A very bitter laugh.] Brooker, I'll come 
 with you to a music hall to-night. 
 
 Re-enter ViccARS, L., showing in Walter Amphiel, 
 who meets Brooker as he is going out. Amphiei, 
 again shows slight recognition, and avoids looking 
 at Brooker. Brooker bows slightly. 
 
 {Exit Brooker and Viccars at back. 
 
 Amphiel. Dr. Carey, I've come on a curious errand. 
 [Dr. Carey points to a chair, looks rather 
 fixedly at Amphiel, who remains stand- 
 ing with a somewhat embarrassed, shifty 
 maimer. Dr. Carey again points to 
 chair. Amphiel sits. Dr. Carey sits. 
 Dr. C. What can I do for you .■" 
 Amphiel. Nothing for myself. I'm in excellent 
 health, as you can see. [ With a smile. 
 
 20 
 
Dr. C. Go on. 
 
 Amphiel. I've come to ask your advice about a very 
 dear friend of mine — almost my brother. I've been 
 staying with him lately, and to my horror I discovered 
 that he gives way to periodical fits of drunkenness. I 
 tried to persuade him to come to you, but he was 
 ashamed. I want you to advise me about him. 
 
 Dr. C. I couldn't advise you without seeing him. I 
 don't know his constitution or how far it is impaired. 
 
 Amphiel. Oh, I don't think there is any serious 
 damage done. And I want you to give me some 
 general rules for his guidance. Drunkenness is really 
 a disease, isn't it .' 
 
 Dr. C. All vice is disease. All evil habits are the 
 exact expression of some physical derangement. An 
 evil thought signifies that the brain is to that extent 
 disordered, the same as an attack of indigestion signi- 
 fies that the stomach is to that extent disordered. 
 
 Amphiel. But we can't help our thoughts! My 
 friepd can't help these fits of drunkenness. I'm sure 
 he can't ! Surely you can advise me what he ought 
 to do } 
 
 Dr. C. How often do these outbreaks occur? 
 
 Amphiel. Sometimes every month or two — some- 
 times he manages to control himself for three or four 
 months. Then suddenly he tells me he has this 
 irresistible craving for drink — it's so overwhelming 
 that he'd lie, or steal, or murder almost to get it. 
 Then he goes away, he tells me, hides from his 
 friends, and gives way to drink and — other dissipa- 
 tion — at least, so I gathered. When the fit is over 
 he spends a few awful days in anguish and remorse, 
 and then, when he is sufficiently recovered, he goes 
 back to his home. 
 
 Dr. C. And nobody suspects him } 
 
 Amphiel. Nobody. Except myself. And I only 
 found it out by the merest accident. 
 
 Dr. C. What is his age .' 
 
 Amphiel. {Slight hesitation.] Thirty-one. 
 31 
 
Dr. C. How long has he been subject to these out- 
 breaks ? 
 
 Amphiel. About five or six years. 
 
 Dr. C. Did they come on gradually from constant 
 and little drinking? Or did they begin after some 
 one definite cause, such as an illness, a shock, a 
 bereavement, or an accident ? How did they origi- 
 nate ? 
 
 Amphiel. \After a longish pause.'] He told me all. 
 He ruined a girl near to his home. She brought his 
 child to her father and then left her home again, went 
 from worse to worse, and drifted away nobody knows 
 where. Her mother died from the shame and grief 
 and my friend drank to drown his remorse. Ever 
 since then, at intervals, he has had these outbreaks. 
 
 Dr. C. What is his occupation .' 
 
 Amphiel. [Hesitates.] He — he^ — 
 
 Dr. C. {Rising^ You had better send your friend 
 to some good physician. 
 
 Amphiel. [Rising] But can't you tell me what to 
 do with him ? Would a voyage to India benefit 
 him.? 
 
 Dr. C. I couldn't say. Send him to some good 
 physician. What is he afraid of? A physician knows 
 nothing of shame. Any one part of this wonderful 
 machine that gets out of order is just the same as 
 another to him. His only care is to heal. Come, 
 now [with 'great kindness and inviting Amphiel's 
 confidence], if it were yourself, I'm sure you wouldn't 
 hesitate to trust me .' 
 
 [Amphiel responds with a movement towards 
 Dr. Carey as if about to give'DK.CK&.'E.Y 
 all his confidence, then suddenly checks 
 himself and shows some embarrassment. 
 
 Amphiel. My friend is in a position of great re- 
 sponsibility. I mustn't betray him without first con- 
 sulting him. [Takes out purse^ The fee.' 
 
 Dr. C. There is no fee. 
 
 Amphiel. But I — - 
 
 22 
 
Dr. C. There is no fee till I have advised your 
 friend. Good-day Mr. — I didn't catch your name 
 
 Amphiel. Mr. — a — Williams. 
 
 Dr. C. Mr.— a— Williams. [Rings bell. 
 
 Amphiel. [Going, turns.'] It is a disease, isn't it.' I 
 may tell him that .' He can't help these outbreaks ? 
 
 Dr. C. [Dryly, coldly, a little grimly^ Certainly it is 
 a disease. But don't let your friend lay the flattering 
 unction to his soul that he can't help it, for that means 
 his ruin. It is a disease, and the worse he has it the 
 more he must help it. Has he a wife } 
 
 .Amphiel. No. But he's engaged to the dearest, 
 most innocent girl — that's the madness of it for him. 
 
 Dr. C. It may one day be the madness of it for 
 her. Won't the thought of her save him .' 
 
 Amphiel. It has kept him from the worst — at times. 
 
 Dr. C. [Very significantly.] Let it keep him from 
 the worst — always. [VicCARS appears at door at back.] 
 The door, Viccars. 
 
 [Exit Viccars. Amphiel goes out slowly, 
 irresolutely, troubled ; looks back at Dr. 
 Carey as he goes off. Doctor stands 
 looking after him,. 
 
 Rather slow Curtain. 
 
 Three months pass between Acts I. and II. 
 
 23 
 
GROUND PLAN OF ACT II. 
 
 Landscape back cloth 
 
 I Gate 
 
 iWeepin^, ,' ( 
 
 ^--f. 
 
 Door/ 
 
 Steps \ ^ 
 
 ^"-'y wall a^V-' / 
 
 
 Leper's 
 window 
 
 R. 
 
ACT II. 
 
 Scene : — Si. EdancCs Well and Church at 
 Fontleas. The churchyard wall, an irregular 
 crumbling mass of weather-beaten stone and brick, 
 runs across the stage diagonally, from down stage 
 R. to up stage L. A large carved slab of stone in 
 the wall forms the back of the well, which is in the 
 centre of the stage, the water running from the 
 slab form.s a pool which is surrounded by a low 
 thick wall of crumbling masonry about two feet 
 high and very thick. A weeping willow springs 
 from the pool and hangs over the well. On the 
 slab is carved the inscription in letters which 
 are worn and scarcely decipherable "Whosoever 
 drinketh of this water shall thirst again, but 
 whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give 
 him shall never thirst!' There is a wicket gate in 
 the wall at back just to R. of well, and anothet 
 wicket gate at extreme corner h., both of these giving 
 glimpses of landscape in evening light. A few steps 
 lead up to the wicket gate R. Down stage R. the 
 trunk of an old elm tree with a seat running round 
 it. On the L. of the stage going up to the corner 
 wicket gate is the Church of St. Edana, a veiy 
 simple early English building with a low roof and 
 covered with ivy. In the church a small door, and 
 a small window, formerly the lepers' v^indow, such 
 as is seen in many old churches. 
 Time : a summer Sunday evening. 
 
 25 E 
 
Discover Doctor Carey and Edana seated on the 
 well. Edana is in a dress of soft white 
 
 ^ Dr. Carey. 
 jND it was at this well that Saint Edana 
 worked her most wonderful cures. What 
 diseases did she treat ? 
 
 Edana. All kinds of diseases. 
 
 Dr. C. Like a patent medicine. 
 
 Edana. Yes — and like Nature. 
 
 Dr. C. Nature's a sad bungler. 
 
 Edana. No ! No ! 
 
 Dr. C. Yes ! Yes ! She's terribly careless and 
 terribly cruel. 
 
 Edana. No ! No ! I won't have you slander your 
 mother. 
 
 Dr. C. Tell me some more about Saint Edana. 
 
 Edana. She is said to have cured many lepers. 
 You see that little round window .■' That was the 
 lepers' window in the old time. They weren't allowed 
 to mix with the congregation, and so they used to 
 come there and join in the services from outside. 
 
 Dr. C. The lepers' window ! That was my window. 
 
 Edana. Yes, I saw you looking through it this 
 morning. Are you coming to church this evening .'' 
 
 Dr. C. No. I feel my right place is outside — with 
 the lepers. 
 
 Edana. You seem to believe in nothing. 
 
 Dr. C. That's my disease. 
 
 Edana. But surely — surely you believe in your 
 work. [He sJiakes his head and smiles.^ Then why 
 have you taken so much trouble with all my poor 
 people ">. 
 
 Dr. C. Mere force of habit. I've got into the way 
 of curing people just as some folks get into the way 
 of giving coppers to beggars. It relieves our feelings, 
 but it's a very bad habit. 
 
 Edana. A bad habit to give life t A bad habit to 
 26 
 
relieve pain ? Oh, I won't have you speak like this. 
 I'm sure life is good. It's good to have it ! It's good 
 to give it ! It is ! It is ! I don't understand you. 
 
 Dr. C. How is that } 
 
 Edana. You're so kind and gentle to everybody, 
 and so sad and bitter against everything. I've often 
 thought I'd ask you to tell me your history. You've 
 had some great sorrow .' \She looks at him very 
 sympathetically — he assents.'] Ah ! [^She makes a 
 sympathetic gesture towards him, looks at him, with 
 real sympathy^ But you'll get over it — you'll conquer 
 it. 
 
 Dr. C. I have conquered it. But it has left me 
 hopeless. My youth lies all behind me. I'm alone 
 in the world. I'm like a traveller who turns in to rest 
 at an inn for an hour or two — when I leave you and 
 go out to take up my journey again, I see thirty years 
 of life in front of me. The shadow lies upon all of 
 them. 
 
 Edana. Oh, I'm so sorry for you ! No, I'm not ! 
 You're young yet ! It's a shame— it's a shame to 
 despair ! with all your gifts ! and just in the prime of 
 life! 
 
 Dr. C. Go on ! Go on ! 
 
 Edana. Oh, if I could show you your future as I 
 see it ! Can't you see how splendid it might be .' You 
 have the knowledge and the skill ! You are loved and 
 believed in ! You've only to put your hand to it and 
 to do it. 
 
 Dr. C. Go on ! Go on ! 
 
 Edana. Oh, I wish I had your power! I wish I 
 could make people well and glad ! I wish I could give 
 back a dying wife to her husband, or a dying child to 
 its mother. Oh, I must make you do it. Do you 
 hear .' I must make you do it ! You must go back to 
 London and take up your work ! You mustn't waste 
 your time here ! You must go ! 
 
 Dr. C. Don't send me away — at least, not yet. Let 
 me stay in my half-way house for a little while longer 
 
 2^ 
 
and then perhaps by-and-by I may feel stronger to 
 go on my journey. Besides, you forget, I came to 
 Fontleas for a purpose. 
 
 Edana. To cure Mr. Amphiel — I can't think why he 
 stays away so long. 
 
 Dr. C. You've not heard from him lately ? 
 
 Edana. Not for the last fortnight. 
 
 Dr. C. And then he was at Genoa ? 
 
 Edana. Yes, and said he should most likely take 
 the first boat back. I wish he had stayed at Fontleas 
 to see you. 
 
 Dr. C. He left the very day before I came, didn't 
 he .? 
 
 Edana. Yes. My father happened to say you were 
 coming and that started him away. I told you he 
 dislikes to see doctors. 
 
 Dr. C. But he says the long voyage has restored 
 him? 
 
 Edana. [^Shakes her head.'\ He says so. He will 
 never own to being ill. But I fear — oh, my instinct 
 tells me he is not better — that he never will be better. 
 
 Dr. C. Why do you fear that .' 
 
 Edana. I don't know. For the last two years he 
 has been growing gradually worse — I'm sure of it — I 
 can't shut my eyes to it. If he should die ! 
 
 Dr. C You love him very much ? 
 
 \^Ske looks at him. He turns away and shows pain, 
 
 Edana. You will stay at Fontleas, won't you, till 
 you've cured him ? I have such faith in you. 
 
 Dr. C. Have you 1 
 
 Edana. I've watched you with my poor people. I 
 don't know what it is — you are so different^from most 
 doctors. Tell me — there is something strange about 
 you — something almost miraculous .-' 
 
 Dr. C. [Shakes his head, smiles.] No. Nothing 
 more miraculous than the everyday perpetual miracle 
 of the power of the mind, will, soul, spirit — call it 
 what you like — over the body. We none of us under- 
 stand it It's the very mystery of life itself. And 
 
 28 
 
when a case interests me I can't leave it. I feel ready 
 to give part of my own life to my patient. 
 
 Edana. Suppose Mr. Amphiel's case interested 
 you } 
 
 Dr. C. Then I would give up myself entirely to 
 him if 
 
 Edana. If what.' 
 
 Dr. C. If in return you would heal me. 
 
 Edana. What do you mean ? 
 
 Dr. C. I've gone astray. I've lost my clue. When 
 I came here three months ago I had no faith, no hope, 
 no wish to live. The night before I left town I had 
 almost decided to end it. 
 
 Edana. Ah, no. 
 
 Dr. C. Yes. It was the thought of you that kept 
 me from it, the thought that I might be of some little 
 use and help to you. Since I've been here with you 
 I have gradually found my faith returning to me. I 
 begin to believe again. Ah ! it's true, this power 
 that one soul has over another. Don't turn away from 
 me ! Heal me ! 
 
 Edana. Heal you ! I heal you, the great London 
 physician ! What can I heal you of \ 
 
 Dr. C. My blindness ! my darkness ! You have the 
 wisdom of life for me. You can give me back ray 
 youth, my faith. You can make me believe in myself, 
 in my work — you can put together for me all the 
 broken pieces of this puzzle of a world. Oh! it's 
 wise to believe ! It's wise to love ! Heal me ! 
 
 \SJte goes and sits on the well. 
 
 Edana. The country people say that if you look 
 long enough into the well you can see Saint Edana's 
 image in the waters. 
 
 Dr. C. [Goes and looks down.] I can see her ! She 
 is in white ! I believe in her powers. [Edana draws 
 back.l Give me one cup of water from her well. 
 
 [Edana looks at him, then goes and fills the 
 stone cup and gives it to him. Dr. Carey 
 takes the cup and drinks. 
 29 
 
As he is drinking very reverently Lady Valerie, very 
 handsomely dressed, pnters at the wicket gate, R. 
 and comes down. 
 
 Lady V. How d'ye do ? 
 
 Dr. C. How d'ye do ? {Bowing. 
 
 Lady V. I've interrupted a t^te-a-t^te. I'm so 
 sorry. {Glancing at Edana.] Perhaps your friend will 
 forgive me. 
 
 Dr. C. {/ntrodticing.] Miss Hinde— Lady Valerie 
 Camville. 
 
 Lady V. {Shaking hands with Edana.] How do 
 you do ? We've been terribly concerned in town about 
 Dr. Carey. We lost him suddenly, and the wildest 
 rumours have been afloat. So, as I was staying at 
 Buxenham, I thought I'd drive over and learn the 
 truth. {To Dr. Carey, glancing at Edana.] I've 
 brought you a message from a friend of yours. 
 . Edana. It's a little chilly, I'll step over to the 
 vicarage and get my shawl. {Exit Edana, r. 
 
 Lady V. {Looking after her.'] Lewin, I think she's 
 charming. 
 
 Dr. C. I scarcely expected to see you in Fontleas. 
 Lady V. Evidently not. Or I'm sure you wouldn't 
 have been so ungallant as to choose the very moment 
 of my arrival for making love to another woman. 
 
 Dr. C. You are mistaken. I was not making love 
 to Miss Hinde. 
 
 Lady V. Oh, my dear Lewin, I heard you as I 
 came along; no woman who has been really loved 
 ever mistakes that accent. You forget that you have 
 piped that same tune to me. 
 Dr. C. No, not that tune. 
 
 Lady V. Yes, that same tune. It's always the same, 
 like a bullfinch's ditty. There are only three notes in 
 it — but oh, what music ! 
 
 Dr. C. Miss Hinde is engaged to Mr. Walter Amphiel, 
 and is devotedly attached to him. 
 
 30 
 
Lady V. Is she? Then why pipe to her if she won't 
 I dance ? Why waste your music on her when I should 
 be rather glad to hear a note or two of the old tune ? 
 
 Dr. C. What has brought you to Fontleas ? 
 
 Lady V. I've been bored. I've had a horrible whiff of 
 middle-age the last few weeks. 
 ' Dr. C. You! Impossible! 
 
 Lady V. I smell autumn — I scent it from afar. I 
 ask myself how many years shall I have a man for my 
 willing, devoted slave ? How many more years shall I 
 be able by putting on my winningest airs and graces to 
 extract some sort of homage from him ? How many 
 more years shall I have to mope, and wither, and 
 remember, and attend church regularly >. Oh, my 
 God ! Lewin, it never can be worth while for a woman 
 to live one moment after she has ceased to be loved. 
 \He laughs a little, bitter, amused, laugh ; she breaks out 
 rather fiercely. \ And you men have the laugh of us ! 
 Age doesn't witheryou or staleyour insolent, victorious, 
 self-satisfied, smirking, commonplace durability ! Oh, 
 you brutes, I hate you all, because you're warranted 
 to wash and wear for fifty years ! \He laughs again.'\ 
 Don't laugh at me ! I'm nearly mad ! Lewin, I've got 
 another good ten years before me to be loved in, haven't 
 I ? At least five. Tell me the truth — no, don't — give 
 me what love you have to give while I'm attractive 
 and worth it, and then — the moment I'm off colour — 
 wht — a flash of lightning or an opium pill and have 
 done with me ! 
 
 Dr. C. And only three months ago you refused the 
 best love I had to offer. Why did you do it .■• You 
 had met somebody else .' 
 
 Lady V. Don't ask me ! I was soon undeceived. 
 My dear Lewin, you don't know what a charming man 
 you are. But I do, now. 
 
 Dr. C. Now! 
 
 Lady V. And you're in love with that yard and 
 three-quarters of white muslin. It won't last, you know. 
 
 Dr. C. I'm not in love with her. [LADY Valerie 
 31 
 
shakes her headi\ At least, I may not be. I came here 
 jaded, disappointed, heartsick, heart-broken. I met 
 her — a pure, bright girl, fresh from God's hands 
 
 Lady V. Fresh from where ? 
 
 Dr. C. Oh, some of you do come from there, you 
 know! 
 
 Lady V. Hum ! I, shouldn't have thought it ! But 
 you're a London physician and you ought to know- 
 My dear Lewin, you don't really believe that stale old 
 legend. 
 
 Dr. C. What stale old legend .-• 
 
 Lady V. The legend of Saint Edana : that a woman 
 can reform a man, change his character, spiritualize 
 him, etherealize him, pure-white-muslinize him. 
 
 Dr. C. I've known an instance of it. 
 
 Lady V. Your own. But the process isn't complete. 
 You've only known her three months, and she has 
 always worn white muslin. You've known me six 
 years and I have never worn white muslin, or its 
 accompanying inward and spiritual graces. 
 
 Dr. C. They wouldn't suit you. 
 
 Lady V. Not now perhaps. But I had a white 
 muslin period, when I came bright and pure and fresh 
 from \with an upward nod^ you know where — at least 
 the boy who loved me thought I did. That was when 
 I was seventeen. 
 
 Dr. C. I can't see you in the character. 
 
 Lady V. Yet I have played it. Really, Lewin, in 
 your profession you ought to have some knowledge of 
 us and our trade secrets. Don't you know what women 
 are .-' 
 
 Dr. C. No. I've become a very simple greenhorn 
 down here. Tell me, are you all alike t 
 
 Lady V. At heart, yes. We all go through the seven 
 ages of woman and play our trumpery little parts — all 
 of them as artificial and tiresome as the French stage 
 ingdnue. In a few years Miss Hinde will be playing 
 this rdle. 
 
 Dr. C. She'll never be like you. 
 32 
 
Lady V. No, but she'll be playing this part, and 
 playing it — oh, not nearly so well as I do. 
 
 Dr. C. She'll never be like you. You women don't 
 even know your own sex. 
 
 Lady V. No ? Perhaps not. But we get an 
 occasional glimmer, whereas you men are quite in the 
 dark. Oh, why won't you be content to know us and 
 take us for what we are ? 
 
 Dr. C. What are you .'' 
 
 Lady V. Terrestrial-celestial amphibians. Come ! 
 You're to come back to Buxenham and dine with me. 
 
 Dr. C. I'm sorry. I'm going to supper at the 
 Vicarage. 
 
 Lady V. To-morrow, then } 
 
 Dr. C. I fear not. I'm living in the quietest way 
 
 Lady V. I know. I've been down the lane to see 
 that queer old place where you live — the Abbot's 
 Kitchen, don't you call it } Aren't you horribly dull .? 
 
 Dr. C. I've been in worse company than my own. 
 
 Lady V. Lewin, I'm sorry, terribly sorry that I 
 threw you over. I want to hear a note or two of the 
 old tune. 
 
 Dr. C. It's too late. \Looking off. 
 
 Lady V. I can't bear to lose you. Sir Francis 
 Dumby's house is to let in Harley Street. Come 
 back to London and let all be as it was, except that 
 I shall have learned to value you. 
 
 Dr. C. It's too late. [Looking off. 
 
 Lady V. You can see some white musHn amongst 
 the trees. 
 
 Dr. C. Hush ! Her father. 
 
 Enter Rev. Peregrine, r. 
 
 Rev. P. Ah, doctor ! 
 
 Dr.C. [Presenting.'] Mr. Hinde — Lady Valerie Cam- 
 ville. 
 
 Lady V. [Bows.] I must be getting back to Buxen- 
 
 33 F 
 
ham to dinner. Good-bye, Mr. Hinde. I shoald like 
 to come and see over your church some day. 
 
 Rev. P. Delighted, Lady Valerie. We prefer people 
 who come to worship and to pray, or even to contri- 
 bute to the offertory. Still, we dont mind showing it 
 to satisfy a reasonable curiosity. I'll show you over 
 myself Come any day. 
 
 Lady V. I will. I'm making a long stay in 
 Buxenham. 
 
 Dr. C. A long stay ? 
 
 Ladjf V. Yes. My hearing is growing a little de- 
 fective. I mean to stay at Buxenham to recover one 
 or two lost notes, and you shall treat me. My carriage 
 is at the inn — come and see me to it. Do you hear 1 
 Come and see me to my carriage ! 
 
 {^Thejf go off at wicket gate, R., Rev. PERE- 
 GRINE follows them up, humming, and 
 looks after them. 
 
 Enter R. James Hebbings and Louisa Pack, a pair 
 of country sweethearts. JAMES has his arm. very 
 tightly clasped round Louisa's waist with a defiant 
 air of proprietorship. 
 
 fames. Evenin', pa'son. 
 
 Rev. P. Good evening, James. You seem very happy. 
 
 fames. [Beaming, giggling. Tightly clasping her 
 round the waist. LouiSA ctirtseysi\ ' Me and Louisa 
 have made up our minds to bring it off. That is as 
 soon as we can save up a fi' pound note to give us a 
 bit of a start. 
 
 Rev. P I'm glad to hear it, James. 
 
 Louisa. Jim has been off and on for the last eighteen 
 months, and I thought it was time for him to toe the 
 mark. 
 
 fames. Well, Loo, I have toed the mark, like a man. 
 Only in myjudgmjgnt nobody ought to get married 
 under a fi' pound note. In case of accidents, eh, 
 pa'son ? 
 
 34 
 
Rev. P. I commend your prudence, James. And, 
 James, don't you think it would look prettier if you 
 were to give your arm to Louisa ? 
 
 James. [Blankly.] What for ? I be going to be 
 married to her, and if I baint to put my arm round 
 her waist, what be I to do ? 
 
 Rev. P. I wouldn't, James — in public. 
 James. [Takes his arm away very reluctantly.] I 
 don't see as there's anything unreasonable about it. 
 And it's allays been the way of courting in this parish. 
 Rev. P. It is the way of courting in a great many 
 parishes, still it is not a choice way of courting in any 
 parish. Now, allow me. [Disengaging LOUISA from 
 James.] Observe James, — this is how you were court- 
 ing. 
 
 [Putting his arm round LOUISA as JAMES 
 had done. 
 Louisa. [Giggling^ Don't 'ee,' pa'son. 
 Rev. P. It is not an elegant attitude, James. 
 Louisa. Don't 'ee, pa'son. [Giggling. 
 
 Rev. P. It is only an object lesson, Louisa. Now, 
 James, when I go courting again — I'm sixty-seven 
 [sighs\ — this is the way I shall walk with my lady-love. 
 Take my arm, Louisa. 
 Louisa. Oh, pa'son. 
 
 [Rev. Peregrine Hinde walks her up and 
 
 down a few paces, then hands her over to 
 
 James, who has stood a little nonplussed 
 
 and embarrassed. 
 
 Rev. P. There, James ! Take her. Cherish her. 
 
 Let her be as the loving hind and, the pleasant roe, 
 
 but don't fondle her indiscriminately in public. 
 
 James. [Giving Louisa his arm.] All same, pa'son, 
 this way of courting 'ull never drive out the other way. 
 
 [Taking LOUISA off at gate L. 
 Rev. P. It needn't, James— in private. 
 
 [Exeunt James and Louisa at gate L. 
 
 35 
 
Enter R. John Dibley and MARTHA Dibley, a very 
 aged, infirm old couple, supporting each other. 
 
 Rev. P. Well, John, and how are you to-night, John ? 
 
 Dibley. Oh, I be 'nation wellnigh blind, thank God ; 
 and I ain't very clever in my insides, thank God ; and 
 I 'spect I be about doubled up and done for, thank 
 God ; but otherways there ain't much the matter with 
 me, thank God ! 
 
 Rev. P. [To Mrs. Dibley.] I'm glad to see you at 
 church again, Martha. 
 
 Martha. Yes, pa'son. I feel somehow as I can't 
 keep away from the old place. 
 
 Rev. P That's right, Martha. It does you good .? 
 
 Martha. Oh no, pa'son ! We don't come to church 
 for the good as we can get out of it. 
 
 Rev. p. Then why do you come to church, Martha .■• 
 
 Martha. You see, pa'son, when we've sot ourselves 
 down comfortable for the sermon and you begin a- 
 holding forth, I feel my old man's hand a-creeping 
 towards mine, and mine a-creeping towards hisen, and 
 I know he's a-thinking of our two boys as lay just out- 
 side the church a few foot off, eh, John } 
 
 John. Aye, aye ! 
 
 Martha. And we sit there and we fancy as they're 
 back again with us, and we're all one family again. 
 
 Rev. P. It's no fancy, Martha. We shall all be 
 members of that family before long. And a very large 
 family it will be. 
 
 John. Aye, aforelong, thank God ! Come along, 
 old woman ! [As they creep off towards the wicket gate 
 L.] Come along. 
 
 {Exeunt JOHN and MARTHA DiBLEY at 
 wicket gate L. 
 
 36 
 
Enter Edana r. with Marah, a child about five. 
 
 Marah. But where's my m,ammy ? And where's my 
 father ? 
 
 Edana. You have one Father — in Heaven 
 
 Marah. I've never seen him ! Why doesn't He come 
 down here sometimes ? I mean a real Hve father Hke 
 other little girls have. There's your father. [^Pointing 
 to Rev, Peregrine Hinde.] Where's mine? 
 
 [Dr. Carey enters wicket gate R. 
 
 Edana. I'll lend you my father sometimes. He's 
 a very nice father, indeed. You couldn't have a better. 
 
 Marah. But where's my mammy ? I think I should 
 like you for a mammy 
 
 Edana. Hush, dear. [Kisses her, hides her face, looks 
 ;«/.] What are you thinking of, Doctor Carey .' 
 
 Dr. C. The old mystery. The how and the why of 
 love. The how and the why of life. [She kisses the 
 child again and hides her head behind her.l It's very 
 wonderful. And the more the microscope tells us 
 about the how, the less we know about the why. 
 What's your name, my pretty one? \To Edana.J Who 
 is she ? 
 
 Edana. Her name is Marah. 
 
 Enter R. STEPHEN GuRDON, a man about sixty, a 
 stern broken man, with strong features, and a 
 settled hopeless look upon them. 
 
 Edana. Here is her grandfather ! 
 
 [Stephen Gurdon sits on seat R., nodding 
 to the Rev. Peregrine Hinde. 
 Rev. P. Well, Stephen.? 
 Stephen. [Curtly.] Pa'son. 
 
 [Sits, looks steadily in front of him. 
 Dr. C. [In a low tone to Rev. Peregrine.] What's 
 the story .? 
 
 37 
 
Rev. P. He had an only daughter — she was betrayed, 
 poor child — ran away from home and came back with 
 that little one. We tried to keep her here, and bring 
 her back to the fold, but she ran away again and went 
 utterly astray — sank and disappeared. God have 
 mercy on her and save her yet ! ■ The mother broke 
 her heart and died. He broke his heart, but he Hves 
 on, poor man ! 
 
 Stephen. [Seeing they are wkispering.l Telling over 
 my old tale again, pa'son } You ain't got no call to 
 do that. 
 
 Rev. P. But we can't help feeling sympathy with 
 you. 
 
 Stephen. Can't you .'' Well, try and help it, pa'son. 
 I don't want your sympathy. 
 
 Rev. P. Very well, Stephen ; we'll keep it till you 
 do. Won't you soften your heart and come with us 
 to-night, Stephen .? 
 
 Stephen. No, I don't believe the stuff, and I won't 
 say that I do. I'd as lief be left alone, pa'son. 
 
 Rev. P- Very well, Stephen. But remember we 
 keep open house here. \^Exit into church. 
 
 Edana. {Following Rev. PEREGRINE HiNDE.] br. 
 Carey, aren't you coming to church } r\. 
 
 Dr. C. I promised to go and dress that poor fellow's ' 
 leg. And I forgot all about him listening to you. ' 
 
 Edana. You'll come back ? 
 
 Dr. C. Yes. And if I don't come inside, look for 
 me at the lepers' window. 
 
 {Pointing to the leper's window. 
 
 Edana. No, you are healed now. 
 
 Dr. C. Am I ? You are my physician. 
 
 {Exit wicket gate, R. 
 [Edana goes into church. 
 
 Stephen. Come here, Marah. Keep beside me. 
 
 Marah. {Goes to him^ Grandpa, what makes you 
 so angry always .' Can't you laugh ? 
 
 38 
 
Stephen. Oh yes, my chick. [ With a bitter, con- 
 temptuous laugh.'\ I can laugh. [Laughs again.] I 
 can laugh ! 
 
 {The child looks at him frightened. Amphiel 
 appearsat ihezvicket gate,'R. ; enterswittwut 
 seeing them, then catching sight of them 
 is about to retreat, but Marah sees him. 
 
 Marah. Look, grandpa ! Mr. Amphiel. 
 
 [Amphiel comes up to them. He looks some- 
 what dissipated and haggard. His manner 
 is furtive and constrained. 
 
 Amphiel. Stephen 
 
 Stephen. [Looks up and curtly nods.] Mr. Amphiel, 
 you're back home 
 
 Amphiel. Yes, rather unexpectedly. 
 
 Stephen. You haven't happened to meet with Jessie 
 in any of your travels, I suppose ? 
 
 Amphiel. No. I promised you I'd keep a good 
 look out for her in all the towns where I go, and so I 
 will. But I've not been in England lately — I've 
 been to India. 
 
 Stephen. Ah ! 
 
 Amphiel. But I shall be visiting a few of the large 
 towns on temperance work shortly, and I will have 
 some inquiries made. You may be sure I will do 
 everything I can to find her for you. 
 
 Stephen. You remember Jessie as a girl, don't you .•' 
 
 Amphiel. Oh, very well — very well indeed. 
 
 Stephen. She was a handsome, strapping girl, wasn't 
 she .'' [Turning to Marah.] Do you see the likeness .' 
 
 Amphiel. Hush! hush! [Ti? Marah.] Marah, run 
 away for a moment. I want to talk to your grand- 
 father. [The child goes over, "S..] I wish I could find 
 your daughter. But I fear it's not likely. 
 
 Stephen. No, and if you did, what would she be like 
 now ">. After six years of that ! What's she doing to- 
 night .' Look ! [pointing to the sunset] it's a beautiful 
 evening, ain't it .■' And this is a hell of a world, ain't 
 it? 
 
 39 
 
Amphiel. Oh, don't speak like that. Mr. Gurdon, 
 tell me, is there anything I can do to help you, to 
 comfort you .'' 
 
 Stephen. Yes, bring me word that she's dead, so 
 
 that I may know my own flesh and blood ain't 
 
 hawking itself about from gin-shop to gin-shop 
 
 this beautiful evening. [Going off wicket gate,'L.'] Come 
 
 along, Marah. I wonder what she's like to-night ! I 
 
 wonder what she's like to-night! [Exit wicket gate, L. 
 
 [Marah is crossing to follow him; Amphiel, 
 
 who has stood horrified, intercepts her as 
 
 she passes him. 
 
 Amphiel. Marah, kiss me, my dear. [Kisses her 
 
 hungrily.] Marah, when you grow up — you won't — 
 
 you won't — kiss me, dear ; promise me you'll grow up 
 
 to be a good girl 1 
 
 Stephen. [ Voice heard off.] Come, Marah ! 
 Marah. Hark ! Grandpa ! 
 
 Amphiel. But promise me 
 
 Marah. Yes, of course. I shall always be good. I 
 promise you ; there ! [Kisses him. 
 
 Amphiel. My dear, my dear ! 
 
 [Stroking her hair affectionately. She breaks 
 away from him, runs off after STEPHEN. 
 K'iA'S'iilY.'L follows her a few steps. From 
 this time stage gradually grows darker. 
 Singing in the church. Amphiel goes 
 to the lepers' window, looks in, shows 
 great emotion, stretches out his hands 
 with a vain, longing gesture. As the 
 music swells he tumbles against the church 
 wall, sobbing violently. 
 
 [After a pause Edana re-enters from the 
 church behind him. She stands a moment 
 or two watching him, then com^s up to 
 him, touches his shoulder. 
 
 Edana. Walter ! [He turns round.] Walter ! I saw 
 you through the window. You've come back ? [He 
 
 40 
 
turns round startled,, rises, looks dazed, bewildered?^ 
 Walter ! What is it, dear ? What ails you ? 
 
 Amphiel. I don't know — the thought of the crowd 
 in church — I'm always moved by the sight of a crowd. 
 Don't take any notice of me. I'm better., 
 
 Edana. I'm so glad, so glad you've come back ! 
 I've been so anxious about you. Where have you 
 been .' When did you land ">. 
 
 Amphiel. I've been in England some days. I didn't 
 tell you because I wanted so much to start the new 
 refuge at Plymouth. I felt it was my duty. I only 
 finished very late last night — too late to telegraph 
 you. So I came on at once. 
 
 Edana. I might have known you had been at some 
 good work. But I've been so anxious ! You should 
 have written to me ! Never mind ! You're here ! 
 You're here ! I can't tell you how glad I am ! {Cry- 
 ing a little with j'oj/.] Now it's I who am foolish ! 
 I'm so pleased to see you ! Let me look at you ! 
 [He turns away from her!\ No, let me look > at you. 
 I Want to see if you are better. 
 
 Amphiel. I'm well enough. The voyage has done 
 me a world of good. {Avoiding her scrutiny. 
 
 Edana. [ Very anxiously ?\ Are you sure .■' Are you 
 sure ? Oh, my dearest, you look ill — you look very ill. 
 
 Amphiel. No, no. Only a little tired. That's all. 
 
 Edana. Dr. Carey shall see you in the morning. 
 
 Amphiel. Dr. Carey? Is he still here.' Why 
 hasn't he gone back .' 
 
 Edana. He has given up his practice and is living 
 here. I've talked to him so much about you. He 
 has promised to take you thoroughly in hand and 
 look after you till you're quite well. 
 
 Amphiel. I tell you there's nothing the matter with 
 me. I'm quite well ! I won't see him ! 
 
 Edana. Yes, yes, dearest — to please me. Say it's 
 only my whim, but do, do see him. Oh, my dearest, 
 you don't know how I care for you. My heart is like 
 stone when I think of you. 
 
 41 
 
Aniphiel. I'm not worth it. Don't trouble about 
 me. I tell you I'm not worth it. 
 
 Edana. Oh yes, indeed you are, and I must have 
 you well. Oh, I've so much to tell you. But tell me 
 about yourself first. 
 
 Amphiel. Edana, since I've been in India I've 
 formed a great plan. 
 
 Edana. Yes, dear, tell me. 
 
 Amphiel. It depends on you whether I carry it out 
 or not. 
 
 Edana. If it depends on me you know it is done — 
 if it is anything within my power. 
 
 Amphiel. Dare you give up everything for the 
 cause, and for me .^ 
 
 Edana. Try me and see. 
 
 Amphiel. You know, dear, that at times I have a 
 dreadful nausea of life and feel obliged to hide 
 away from my fellow creatures for a while, and 
 then nothing brings me round but a plunge into my 
 work. 
 
 Edana. Ah, dear, you work too hard. 
 
 Amphiel. No, no, it's my work that keeps me alive. 
 Edana, I feel that if I were to leave England alto- 
 gether 
 
 Edana. For life ? 
 
 Amphiel. For some years. There's a tremendous 
 field for temperance work in India. There, the fiend 
 is opium. Here, it's alcohol. But the craving, the 
 disease, is the same. 
 
 Edana. And you would go to India to live 1 
 
 Amphiel. Dare I ask it of you .■' 
 
 Edana. My father ! 
 
 Amphiel. Ah! I knew it was too much to ask. 
 
 Edana. No, no ! I'll do it if it is the best for you. 
 I gave myself to you and I won't draw back. Yes, 
 Walter, when you ask me I shall be ready. 
 
 Amphiel. Oh, I'm not worthy of you ! 
 
 Edana. Not worthy of me .-' Oh, you are far better 
 and braver than I am. I love you for your devotion 
 
 42 
 
to your work ! There's not another man in' the world 
 like you. 
 
 [Dr. Carey has entered wicket gate R, andhai 
 come upon them to overhear the last words 
 and to see her looking up to Amphiel with 
 the greatest devotion. He sees Amphiel— 
 a momentary glance of recognition be- 
 tween the two men. Amphiel shows 
 fright and mutely appeals to DR. CAREY. 
 Dr. Carey shows great momentary 
 surprise with horror, which he quickly 
 conceals. 
 
 Dr. C. I beg pardon \Is going. 
 
 Edana. No, Dr. Carey, don't go. I want to in- 
 troduce you. Mr. Amphiel — Dr. Carey. 
 
 [Amphiel again makes mute appeal to Dr. 
 Carey. 
 Amphiel. How d'ye do. Dr. Carey .' 
 
 {^Offers hand which Carey takes after slight 
 reluctance. 
 Dr. C. How d'ye do .'' 
 
 Edana. [71? Dr. Carey.] There is your patient. He 
 has come at last. \To AMPHIEL.] You are to put 
 yourself entirely in his hands and do exactly as he 
 tells you, and \yery excitedly] you will, you will for my 
 sake .' 
 
 [Amphiel looks at Dr. Carey with mingled 
 apprehension and appeal. 
 Dr. C. [Significantly looking at AiAvniEL.] I'm sure 
 Mr. Amphiel will trust himself to me, and I shall give 
 him every care and attention. 
 
 Edana. [Ti? Amphiel.] There! Now I'm satisfied ! 
 I feel you are well already. 
 
 [Marah runs in at wicket gate L., and comes 
 up to Edana. 
 Edana. I feel so happy! I haven't got over the 
 thought that you are here ! Ah, Marah ! 
 
 [Seizes the child, kisses her. Amphiel makes 
 a movement to stop her, which Edana 
 
 43 
 
does not notice ; it is, however, seen by 
 Dr. Carey, who for the moment does 
 not understand it ; turns round to notice 
 Stephen, who enters wicket gate L. 
 Dr. Carey's face shows a sudden illumi- 
 nation of horror ; he turns to AmphieL 
 who appeals to him. Dr. Carey stands 
 horror-stricken. 
 Edana. {Hugging Marah.] Oh, I'm so happy, 
 Marah, so happy ! You must come with me and I 
 must give you something to make you happy. [7i? 
 Amphiel.] You're to tell him everything and then 
 come on to the Vicarage to me. I've so much to talk 
 about! Come, Marah. {To STEPHEN.] I'm going to 
 take her with me, Mr. Gurdon. Come and fetch her 
 by-and-by. [To Amphiel.J Don't be long! I'm 
 waiting for you ! Don't be long ! 
 
 {Exit R., fondling Marah. STEPHEN 
 follows. Dr. Carey, as soon as Edana 
 and Marah have gone off, allows 
 himself the full expression of his horror to 
 AuviiiEL,points to Stephen's retreating 
 figure. Amphiel stands abject, appealing. 
 Exit Stephen r. 
 Amphiel. {In a whisper.] You won't betray me } 
 Dr. C. My God ! My God ! You ! You to be her 
 husband } 
 
 Amphiel. You won't betray me? {Agonized^^ You 
 won't betray me ? 
 
 Dr. C. Betray you ? No ! But you'll break off this 
 engagement. 
 
 Amphiel. I can't! .1 can't! I love her so much. 
 And she loves me. It would break her heart. I can't 
 give her up ! I'll make myself worthy of her. It's not 
 too late! I can do anything for her sake. I can 
 conquer myself and I will! Help me! You're a 
 physician. She said you could cure me. Will you ? 
 Will you ? I throw myself on your mercy ! Save me ! 
 Dr. C. {Hesitates for a few moments. He looks very 
 44 
 
searchingly at Amphiel, seizes Amphiel's hands, 
 makes Amphiel look at him. Hymn in church^ Will 
 you put yourself in my hands from this moment ? 
 Will you give yourself over to me, do as I bid you, be 
 guided by me in everything, till I have done my best 
 to heal you, made a new man of you, so far as that is 
 possible ? Will you do it ? 
 
 Amphiel. Yes, yes — anything. And you'll save me 
 from myself? 
 
 Dr. C. Trust to me ! Whatever human skill and 
 patience can do, I'll do for you, and I'll never leave 
 you while Nature holds out one little rushlight of hope 
 that I can drag you out of this mire and set you 
 upright before all men, and before her !, 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 Six months tass between Acts II. and III. 
 
GROUND PLAN OF ACT III. 
 
 Bay 
 window 
 
 Book / Chair 
 shelves 
 
 Table with 
 
 microscopes, 
 
 etc. 
 
 Inner 
 -door 
 
 Armchair 
 
 Chair 
 
 ire- 
 ace 
 
 Table 
 
 Curjblii 
 
 3chair 
 
 ■ Chair (^ 
 
 Table 
 
ACT III. 
 
 Scene: — The Abbot's Kitchen at Fontleas. A very 
 quaint, irregular Gothic building adapted to a 
 modern living room with evidences of frequent 
 restoration and alteration. On the R. down stage 
 a large old-fashioned fireplace with ornaments and 
 photographs, one of them a photograph ^ Amphiel 
 and Edan A taken together. A bove the fireplace a 
 large old-fashioned armchair, very deep, a small 
 table, on castors is laid with the remains of dinner 
 for two. Chairs above and to L. of table. The 
 whole of this R. side of the room is curtained in and 
 forms a cosy nook — the curtains of heavy dark 
 material run from an angle in .the wall up stage 
 to within about two yards of the footlights, 
 and are hung on a brass rod suspended, from the 
 ceiling, which is rather low. - Above and in line 
 ivith the curtains is a door, called throughout the 
 act the inner door. All thel.. side of tite stage at 
 back is taken up with a deep recess and bay window. 
 In this recess is a large table with microscopes, glass 
 bottles, tubes, scientific instruments and apparatus, 
 books, papers, MSS., scientific periodicals, etc. At 
 the sides of the recess and under the bay windows 
 are shelves filled with scientific books, and there are 
 heaps of books on the floor in the recess. Tfie 
 window looks out upon a wintry night landscape 
 with moon. The window and recess are also 
 curtained off by curtains. These curtains run 
 47 
 
across R. and L. The space to the L. makes akind 
 of hall and is carpeted, but sparely furnished one 
 or two chairs and a small table somewhat to the 
 L. In the L. wall a window up stage, and a very 
 large thick old oak door with heavy handle and lock 
 and key down stage. Between the window and door 
 on the L. are several pegs with hats, overcoats, and 
 an umbrella stand with umbrella and sticks. 
 
 Time: about half-past seven on a December 
 evening. 
 
 Discover Dr. Carey and Brooker at the little 
 table R., curtained in by the curtain running down 
 stage from the inner door. Dr. Carey is on the 
 cliair above the table, BROOKER on a chair at the 
 side of the table. The curtains running across the 
 stage are also drawn, shutting off tite table and 
 scientific apparatus. They have just finished dinner, 
 and a bright fire is burning. 
 
 Dr. Carey. 
 JELL, I told you I was equal to a pl^ 
 dinner. *■ 
 
 Brooker. Excellent. A cutlet, a cold 
 chicken, and a bottle of seventy-five claret, 
 what can a man want more ? 
 
 Dr. C. And you really took me by surprise. 
 Brooker. I had the afternoon to spare. I looked up 
 Bradshaw, found I could just catch a train, have an 
 hour with you, and get back by the late express. 
 What a confounded queer place to live in, Carey ! 
 
 [Looking round the place. 
 Dr. C. Yes, it was the kitchen belonging to the old 
 abbey. It tumbled into decay and got turned into a 
 farmhouse. It tumbled into decay again, the farmer 
 himself tumbled into decay, and died ; his widow sold 
 off the land, patched the old place up, and made it 
 just fit for me to live in. 
 
 Brooker. And you can really live here all alone .' 
 48 
 
Dr. C. Not all alone. I have two human companions, 
 and some millions of microbes. 
 
 Brook^r. And where are they, the human com- 
 panions? 
 
 Dr. C. My housekeeper, old Granny Barton, is 
 racked with rheumatism, so I've sent her over to 
 Buxenham for a course of treatment, and her neighbour 
 Mrs. Bowden comes in and does for me. Then I've one 
 patient, Mr, Walter Amphiel — fill your glass. 
 
 Brooker. [Filling glass.] Amphiel, the Temperance 
 organizer — does he let you drink seventy-five claret .' 
 
 Dr. C. No. I've not tasted wine for the last six 
 months, all the time he has been with me. But he's 
 away just now. 
 
 Brooker. Oh — where is he .? 
 
 [Mrs. Bowden, a stout, pleasant-looking 
 country woman in bonnet and shawl, 
 enters at inner door, dratvs aside the 
 curtains. 
 
 Dr. C. Well, Mrs. Bowden, going for the night .' 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, doctor, unless there's anything I can 
 do for you. 
 
 Dr. C. Nothing, thank you. 
 
 Mrs. B. I suppose Mr. Amphiel won't be coming 
 back to-night .-• 
 
 Dr. C. \After a slight pause^ No, I think not. 
 
 Mrs. B. I've left his room ready for him in case he 
 does. And perhaps you'll excuse my going. I've got 
 my man to look after, and he does rave and storm the 
 house down if his supper ain't ready to the minute. 
 
 Dr. C. Ah! husbands are tiresome animals, Mrs. 
 Bowden. 
 
 Mrs. B. {Cordially i\ Oh they are, sir ! You know 
 'em, being a doctor. Whatever possesses a gal to get 
 married' when she's well off, I cannot think. But the 
 chaps will come teasing and plaguing round us, and 
 we fools like it— and then, there it is — work and 
 worry and babies, work and worry and babies, nothing 
 else from the time you're twenty till you're wore out. 
 
 49 H 
 
Oh dear, oh dear! I do hope there's some good 
 purpose running through it all. 
 
 Dr. C. I hope so, Mrs. Bowden. But the ways of 
 Providence are dark. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh, they are, sir. You may well say that. 
 Breakfast as usual, sir.? 
 
 Dr. C. Breakfast as usual, Mrs. Bowden. 
 Mrs.B. Then I'll say good-night, sir. [Z^Brooker.J 
 And good-night to you, sir. 
 
 Dr. C. Good-night, Mrs. Bowden h \Togeither. 
 
 Brooker. Good-night ! J 
 
 \Exit Mrs. Bowden at inner door. As she 
 
 goes off, Dr. Carey rises, pushes chair 
 
 back from table, further draws back the 
 
 curtain. BrooKER moves his chair. 
 
 QkS.Wi pushes table alittle out into centre of 
 
 room and up towards the inner door — it 
 
 remains there just on the right side of the 
 
 curtain line during the remainder of act. 
 
 Dr. C. [ Taking out watch.'] You've half an hour yet, 
 
 old fellow. Light your cigar and let's make the most 
 
 of it. ' 
 
 Brooker. How can you bury yourself in this hole, 
 Carey ? 
 
 Dr. C. Hole } Bury myself .'' I've been living, 
 Brooker, the last few months, really living for the 
 first time in my life. 
 
 Brooker. But you're wasting yourself down here. 
 Dr. C. Wasting myself! I work from morning to 
 night. \Goes up to curtains, draws them aside, discovers 
 the back of the room and table with scientific apparatus, 
 etc.] Look! [Takes up a tube, holds it to BROOKER.] 
 Don't whisper it, Brooker, I fancy I'm on the track of 
 the cancer microbe ! I'm not sure I haven't got my 
 gentleman here. And I shall have a little to say 
 and a great deal to do when the next cholera outbreak 
 comes. You know I was always more of a student 
 than a practitioner. I never had quite a good bedside 
 manner, Brooker. 
 
 50 
 
Brooker. And you've quite made up your mind not 
 to come back to London ? 
 
 Dr. C. Quite, so settle yourself in Caveridish Square, 
 physic away, and say no more about it. 
 
 \Goes rather restlessly to outer door, opens it, 
 looks out, shuts it. 
 
 Brooker. Are you expecting anybody ? 
 
 Dr. C. No. Only the evening post. 
 
 Brooker. Carey, I shan't like leaving you to-night. 
 
 Dr. C. Why not .? 
 
 Brooker. There's something wrong with you. I've 
 been watching you. You're feverish, restless, un- 
 settled. 
 
 Dr. C. Am I .? 
 
 Brooker. What ails you .' Can an old friend be of 
 any help or comfort .' 
 
 Dr. C. I'll tell you, Brooker. I don't think I could 
 speak of this to anybody but you. It's too sacred. 
 > Brooker. Go on ! 
 
 Dr. C. I suppose most of us have been attracted 
 and have lightly loved many women. Those loves 
 are not love. And I suppose most of us have had, once 
 in our lives, an overpowering passion. 
 
 Brooker. Yes. Thank God I got mine over early, 
 when I was twenty-five. 
 
 Dr. C. And since then 'i 
 
 Brooker. Since then I've been too busy scraping 
 together bread and cheese for Mrs. Brooker and my 
 family to get into much mischief of that sort. And 
 now I hope I'm comfortably past the danger of making 
 myself a fool for a woman. 
 
 Dr. C. [Looking at him.\ You're not to be envied 
 Brooker. 
 Brooker. Perhaps not. But Mrs. Brooker is. Go on. 
 
 Dr. C. You remember my coming down here last 
 spring } I was quite hopeless, except for the one 
 thought that perhaps I might make Miss Hinde happy 
 by restoring her lover to health. 
 
 Brooker. Well .■' 
 
 51 
 
Dr. C. He went on a voyage to India. Meantime 
 I saw a great deal of her, helped her in her parish 
 work, and doctored her invalids. Brooker, bef(xe 
 Amphiel came back, I couldn't disguise from mys^ 
 that my whole future, my whole being, my whole life, 
 were bound up in that girl. 
 
 Brooker. Nonsense, Carey! Nonsense! Nonsense! 
 
 Dr. C. No, Brooker, Wisdom ! Wisdom ! From 
 the moment I saw her, I became young and hopeful 
 again. She has sweetened and blessed and renewed 
 the whole earth for me. I tell you, Brooker, of all the 
 millions around us she and I are the only living 
 creatures on this earth. 
 
 Brooker. Nonsense ! Nonsense ! Nonsense ! 
 
 Dr. C. No, Wisdom! Wisdom I Wisdom! If I 
 had to part from her, I feel that moment I should 
 drop back again into madness and despair. With 
 her — with her — O my God ! Brooker — with her what 
 a splendid life I could live in this dull world for the 
 next thirty years. 
 
 Brooker. But you say she is engaged to Amphiel ? 
 
 Dr. C. Yes. 
 
 Brooker. And she's attached to him > 
 
 Dr. C. Devotedly attached. 
 
 Brooker. And she doesn't suspect your feelings for 
 her .? 
 
 Dr. C. She must know that I have a great regard for 
 her, perhaps guesses that I love her. But so far as I 
 have been able, I have been perfectly loyal to her, and 
 to him. 
 
 Brooker. Carey, this is madness, you know. It 
 can't continue. Why don't you get away from this 
 place and leave her to marry the fellow } 
 
 Dr. C. I told you he is my patient. 
 
 Brooker. Oh yes; of course. You said he'd been 
 living with you here for some months. {Gets tip to 
 light. his cigar, goes to fireplace^ Curious arrangement. 
 What's the matter with him t [At that moment his eyes 
 fall upon the photograph <?/■ Amphiel aw^Edana which 
 
 52 
 
zs on the shelf of the fireplace ; he shows some astonish- 
 ment and takes up the photograph?^ Carey, whose 
 portraits are these ? 
 
 Dr. C. That is Amphiel — and Miss Hinde, taken 
 together. 
 
 Brooker. [Startled] This man Amphiel — this— 
 Amphiel ? 
 
 Dr. C. Yes — why? 
 
 Brooker. The young fellow who consulted you 
 
 Dr. C. Of 'course. You saw him that evening. I 
 had forgotten. 
 
 Brooker. You forgot, too, that he had consulted me 
 about four years before. Carey, I wasn't mistaken — 
 that man is a drunkard. 
 
 Dr. C. Yes. 
 
 Brooket. A hopeless drunkard ? 
 
 Dr. C. No — not quite hopeless, since he has been 
 here with me. 
 
 Brooker. And she doesn't know .' 
 
 Dr. C. She hasn't the least thought of it. She 
 could see he was ill, and asked me to take him under 
 my care. I've had him hanging round my neck like 
 a millstone for the last six months. 
 
 Brooker. Where is he now .' 
 
 Dr. C. I don't know. But I shall know in a few 
 minutes — as soon as the post comes in. 
 
 {Looking anxiously at the outer door. 
 
 Brooker. I don't understand — you seem 
 
 Dr. C. I seem — what .' 
 
 Brooker. You seem to be waiting for some bad news 
 of him. 
 
 Dr. C. I am ! I hate him, Brooker ! I may as well 
 show you all my heart now I've begun. I hate him ! 
 Damn him ! I hate him ! for he stands between her 
 and me. I brought him here to live with me ; I've 
 been alone with him all this while. I've scarcely let 
 him go out of my sight. The strain has been awful. 
 At times it has almost driven me mad. To sit here 
 and talk to him, soothe him, amuse him, knowing all 
 
 S3 
 
the while that the devil inside him was urging him to 
 get away and ruin himself. I've been doctor, nurse, 
 father, brother, friend to him. I never had such a task. 
 But I've done it, because she loves him. And partly 
 because the man interests me, fascinates me. Here's 
 the strange thing — I hate him, but I want to save him. 
 I began to feel proud of the case. I saw him growing 
 brighter, happier, stronger every day. And it made 
 her so happy. She was so grateful to me. Well, all 
 went well with him till three weeks ago 
 
 Brooker. What then .■' 
 
 Dr. C. He went out for a walk with her and per- 
 suaded her that his temperance work called him away. 
 She believed him and came back alone. We got no 
 news of him. She grew more and more anxious, and 
 a week ago I went up to London and put the matter 
 in the hands of Nicholson the private detective. I got 
 
 this telegram from him this morning 
 
 [ Taking telegram from pocket and giving it 
 to Brooker. 
 
 Brooker. {Reading the telegram.^ " Have discovered 
 the person. Am writing you fully by this post. 
 Nicholson." {^Giving back telegram to Dr. Carey.] 
 And you fear 
 
 Dr. C. Fear.? No, Brooker — that's it— I don't 
 fear — I almost hope. \A postman's knock at outer door.] 
 The post! [Goes to door, opens it. 
 
 Postman. [ Without, handing in letter.] Bitter cold 
 again to-night, sir. 
 
 Dr. C. [Taking letter.] Very cold. 
 
 Postman. Good-night, sir. 
 
 Dr. C. Good-night, Carter. 
 
 , {Closes door, looking intently at letter. 
 
 Brooker. From Nicholson } 
 
 Dr. C. Yes. [Opetis letter watched by BROOKER. 
 As he reads his face shows an intense stealthy interest, 
 growing more and more eager, almost malignant. Very 
 quiet hoarse tone denoting the utmost suppressed excite- 
 ment^ He has broken out, Brooker. They've found 
 
 54 
 
him in one of the lowest dens in Bristol. He has 
 been there for some days. Last night he got away 
 from there — they don't know where. Read. [Brooker 
 takes letter.} Oh, what a wretch I am to rejoice that a 
 man is ruined ! 
 
 Brooker. \Reads^ " He was, however, in a much 
 calmer state last night, and had almost recovered. 
 He seems to have had some suspicion that he was 
 being watched, for during the evening he managed 
 to get away. We are making urgent, inquiries for 
 him in every direction, and will let you know 
 as soon as we have traced him. We have carefully 
 observed your instructions concerning secresy, and 
 have not allowed his name to transpire." Got 
 away ? What do you suppose has become of him .' 
 
 Dr. C. How should I know } Am I his keeper ? 
 Haven't I done my best .'' For the last six months 
 I've held that man from slipping over the precipice. 
 If I had let go my hold for one moment he would 
 have dropped. Now he has tumbled in spite of me ! 
 Well, I can't help it. I've done with him ! I give 
 him up! Am I not justified.' Eh.' Eh? Am I 
 not justified ? 
 , Brooker. Carey! Carey! 
 
 Dr. C. You know I'm justified ! I am ! I am ! I 
 gave him every chance, more than every chance. I've 
 fought for him against himself! I've kept suspicion 
 , away from her! I've watched him making love to 
 her day after day, and I've watched her lifting her 
 face to his with a look of that I'd whistle my soul 
 away to get from her. Now that's all past! It's 
 going to be my turn ! I'm free of him and she 
 shall be free of him. Yes, I understand her 
 nature, she won't love him when she knows the 
 . truth. 
 
 Brooker. And you'll let her know .^ 
 
 Dr. C. How can I help it > Why should I try to 
 hinder it .' 
 
 [^A knock at the outer door. During the above 
 
 55 
 
speeches Brooker has unobtrusively laid 
 the letter on the table R. 
 Dr. C. Is it Amphiel ? \Goes to door, opens it. 
 
 Enter Edana in out-door winter dress. 
 
 Dr. C. Miss Hinde. 
 
 Edana. You have a visitor. 
 
 Dr. C. {Presenting.'] Doctor Brooker — Miss Hinde. 
 
 [Edana bows. 
 
 Brooker. [Bowing.] How d'ye do? [Takes out 
 watch.] Carey, I must be going. [Goes to L. side 
 of the room where his hat and overcoat are hanging, 
 takes them down.] I'm sorry to be leaving you, but 
 I've only just time to catch my train. 
 
 [Dr. Carey goes and helps him on with over- 
 coat. 'EJih'HK goes towards fire. 
 
 Brooker. How long will it take me to get to the 
 station .' 
 
 Dr. C. About ten minutes. 
 
 Brooker. You'll let me know how this turns out ? 
 
 Dr. C. Yes. 
 
 Brooker. Good-night, Miss Hinde. 
 
 Edana. Good-night, Doctor Brooker. 
 
 Brooker. [ To Dr. Carey.] Good-bye. 
 
 Dr. C. Good-bye. You're sure you know your 
 way? 
 
 Brooker. Oh yes. Carey, old fellow [glancing at 
 Edana], are you sure you know yours ? 
 
 [A significant look. 
 
 Dr. C. I'll try and find it. 
 
 [Exit Brooker at outer door. 
 
 Dr. C. [Closes door after Brooker and comes tc 
 Edana, very tenderly.] Miss Hinde. 
 
 Edana. Have you heard anything of Walter ? 
 
 Dr. C. [Hesitates.] I hope I shall have some news 
 for you in a day or two. 
 
 Edana. In a day or two ! But I can't wait. I feel 
 56 
 
sure he's in some danger or trouble. And I can't get 
 to him ! 
 
 Dr. C. [ Very searckingly, but without showing it to 
 her.} Suppose you had to hear some bad news of him 
 — you would be brave and bear it ? 
 
 Edana. What do you mean ? 
 
 Dr. C. If — if — You still wish to share in this great 
 enterprise of his — you are still as much attached to 
 his cause — and to him ? 
 
 Edana. Is there any need to ask me that ? You 
 know I am ! Why do you ask me ? You've heard 
 ;something ! He's dead ! 
 
 Dr. C. No. You needn't fear that. 
 
 Edana. He's ill. You've had news. \At this mo- 
 ment Dr. Carey's eyes fall on tlie letter Brooker 
 has laid on the table L. She follows his glance. Dr. 
 Carey takes up the letter.] That letter! It's about 
 him ! Why don't you speak .-' Oh, why do you 
 torture me ? 
 
 Dr. C. [^Holding letter.] Miss Hinde, tell me, you 
 'know I wouldn't willingly torture you 
 
 Edana. I'm sure you wouldn't. But if that letter 
 :has news of Mr. Amphiel, let me see it — or at least 
 tell me what it contains. \Holding out her hand. 
 
 Dr. C. [His face shows a momentary struggle^ Tell 
 me, you know that I would always do what I thought 
 to be best for you and him — at least, best for you. 
 
 Edana. I'm sure you would, but — -I must know 
 where he is. Why won't you tell me } 
 
 Dr. C. I don't know, and this letter doesn't say. 
 To read it would only add to your anxiety. Trust 
 me. You've trusted me for many months past. Say 
 that you'll trust me a little longer ">. 
 
 Edana. [Looks at him.] Yes, I will trust you. 
 
 Dr. C. [Puts letter in pocket^ And rest assured we 
 shall have some news of him before long. 
 
 Edana. Ah, but when .' Oh, I can't wait ! I've not 
 :slept for three nights. 
 
 s; I 
 
Dr. C. Not slept for three nights ! 
 
 \A knock at outer door. Dr. Carey goes to 
 it, opens it. 
 Dr. C. Lady Valerie ! 
 
 Lady Valerie, in very handsome widow's mourning, 
 enters, followed by SAUNDERS, her maid, also in 
 mourning. 
 
 Lady V. It's an unconscionable hour to call. But 
 I see you do receive visitors as late as this. \Glancing 
 at Edana. Bows to her. Edana bows^ Are you 
 at home ? 
 
 Dr. C. Yes, certainly. As soon as I've seen Miss 
 Hinde safely to the Vicarage. 
 
 Edana. Oh, please no. 
 
 Lady V. My maid shall go with you. 
 
 Edana. It's only a few steps across the fields, and 
 there is a moon. I won't have anyone come with me. 
 Good-night, Lady Valerie. 
 
 Lady V. Good-night. 
 
 Edana. Good-night, Dr. Carey. 
 
 Dr. C Good-night. Sleep well to-night. You can 
 and you will. 
 
 Edana. Oh, I can't. 
 
 Dr. C. Try. Try. And to-morrow we may have 
 news ! 
 
 Edana. Oh, I can't endure the suspense ! 
 
 \Exit Edana at outer door. Dr. CareY 
 looks after her. 
 
 Lady V. Saunders, you've had nothing since lunch. 
 Go to the inn and get something to eat. And wait 
 for me there. 
 
 Saunders. Yes, my lady. 
 
 [Dr. Carey holds the door open for SAUNDERS 
 and closes it after her. 
 
 Dr. C. This is an unexpected pleasure 
 
 S8 
 
Lady V. Pleasure? 
 
 Dr. C. What brings you back here ? 
 
 Lady V. Boredom ! Boredom ! Boredom ! Bore- 
 dom devours me everywhere. Even burying one's 
 husband has a smack of it. And widowhood, which 
 in the distance seems a rosy paradise, is nothing but 
 a Sahara when you get there. You don't seem very 
 pleased to see me. Am I welcome .■* 
 
 Dr. C. I'll try to make you so. 
 
 Lady V. You'll try ? You're terribly frank. 
 
 Dr. C. Won't it be better for us to be quite honest 
 with each other .' 
 
 Lady V. You talk as if we had tried the other 
 policy and it hadn't quite succeeded. 
 
 Dr. C. I've always been quite honest with you — at 
 least, in all the great things of life. 
 
 Lady V. There are no great things in life, my poor 
 Lewin. It's all very small beer, and very scanty 
 skittles. [Looking at the table.l White muslin has been 
 dining with you t^te-i-tSte ? 
 
 Dr. C. No, my old friend Brooker. He has just 
 left for London. 
 
 Lady V. But white muslin was here. I'm horribly 
 jealous — but I'm horribly hungry too. 
 
 Dr. C. And I've only cold chicken to offer you. 
 But you are heartily welcome. 
 
 Lady V. I am heartily welcome to your cold 
 chicken. Thank you. I'll try your cold chicken. 
 
 [Sitting down to table. 
 
 Dr. C. My servant has gone for the night, so I'm 
 all alone. 
 
 [A knock at outer door. Dr. Carey goes to 
 it, opens it, telegraphy boy hands in a 
 telegram. Dr. Carey closes door. 
 
 Dr. C. Allow me. 
 
 [Opens telegram, reads it, shows great interest. 
 
 Lady V. You're all alone. Where is your patient, 
 Mr. Amphiel .' 
 
 Dr. C. He has been away. Curiously enough, this 
 
 59 
 
telegram is from him. He is coming back to-night. 
 [A pause. DR. Carey stands much absorbed 
 looking at the telegram. 
 
 Lady V. What's the matter 1 Has anything hap- 
 pened to him ? 
 
 Dr. C. [Recalling himself !\ No. Nothing. 
 
 [Puts telegram in pocket. 
 
 Lady V. Then light your cigar and talk to me. 
 But don't look at me while I'm eating. 
 
 Dr. C. Not look at you .'' 
 
 Lady. V. I'm sure your later theory is right. 
 Women are entirely spiritual. I constantly feel little 
 shootings and sproutings about my shoulder-blades 
 where my wings will be, and then isn't it disgusting .' 
 two or three times every day my hatefully healthy 
 appetite drives me to toy with such gross realities as 
 this. [Holding up a chicken bone.] Oh, don't laugh at 
 me ! If you knew how sad my heart is — [deep sigh] you 
 never sent me a word, Lewin. 
 
 Dr. C. What could I say .? 
 
 Lady V. Any cut and dried message of condolence 
 would have done. It would have cost you nothing 
 and it would have meant so much to me. I wonder 
 if any man ever guesses the exquisite agony a woman 
 feels who waits and waits and waits for one word of 
 love from the man to whom she has been all the world 
 — and waits in vain. 
 
 Dr. C. I wonder if any woman ever guesses the 
 exquisite agony a man feels who is thrown over by 
 the woman who is all the world to him — thrown over 
 for, perhaps, the first chance acquaintance. 
 
 Lady V. No. No. There you're wrong. It wasn't 
 the first chance acquaintance. Let it pass. You're 
 mean to remind me of that, — as mean as a woman. 
 
 Dr. C. As mean as a woman ! 
 
 Lady V. Yes, that's the perpetual paradox of 
 womanhood. We are angels — I feel sure of it — and 
 yet we do such mean things. How do you account 
 for it .? 
 
Dr. C. I can't. I trust, meantime, you're making a 
 ^comfortable dinner. 
 
 Lady V. I feel as if I were picnicing on my 
 mother's grave in the damp. 
 
 Dr. C. Why > 
 
 Lady V. Cold chicken is as cold as cold shoulder. 
 But cold chicken and love make a divine hot 
 collation. 
 
 Dr. C. I fear I have only cold chicken to offer 
 you. 
 
 Lady V. \Shrugs her shoulders — goes on eating. 
 After a little pause^ You haven't asked me about the 
 last two months. 
 
 Dr. C. Tell me. 
 
 Lady V. You know I got a telegram saying that it 
 was only a question of a few weeks. So I went out 
 to him at once. I didn't wish to outrage the decent 
 hypocrisies whereby men live 
 
 Dr. C. Men don't live by hypocrisies. 
 
 Lady V. Well, society does. And I've always 
 
 loyally respected them and lived up to them. Well, 
 
 I went out to him and was perfectly kind and attentive 
 
 to him to the last. And so ended the tragic farce of 
 
 my married life. It's over. I spent one month in 
 
 unselfishly nursing him — I spent the next month in 
 
 unselfishly devising a scheme of widow's mourning 
 
 that should spare my bereaved sisters the additional 
 
 pang of feeling themselves perfect frights during the 
 
 period of their greatest sorrow. \^Gets up and comes 
 
 away from table!\ How do you think I have succeeded.' 
 
 \_She lias a long handsome cloak with black 
 
 fur. She stands with arms extended and 
 
 with a little entreating gesture towards 
 
 Dr. C. [Coldly.] Admirably, I should say. But I'm 
 no judge. 
 
 Lady V. Do you know what I was thinking all the 
 time I was planning this mourning.' I was think- 
 ing — will it give me one of my old moments of 
 
 6i 
 
charm in his eyes ? Or, if not, will it give me some 
 new little grace or attraction ? 
 
 [He does not reply. She stands for a moment 
 with a little appealing gesture, then 
 suddenly bursts into a tempest of tears. 
 Dr. C. Lady Valerie ! \She is sobbing?^ Lady 
 Valerie, will you listen to me ? 
 
 Lady V. No ! No ! No ! Oh, I hate myself, and I 
 hate you ! I hate you ! Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! Let me go ! 
 
 [He is between her and the door. 
 Dr. C. No. Hear me. I cannot give you the love 
 I once offered you, and I have too tender a regard for 
 the past and for you to offer you the ghost of it. 
 Would you have me do it 1 Would you have me offer 
 you a fiction, a lie .' Would you have me pretend to 
 love you, knowing that my whole heart, my every 
 thought and hope and desire belong to another 
 woman ? 
 
 Lady V. But you can never marry her ! \A curious 
 look of hope on Dr. Carey's face which she sees and 
 interprets.'] She has broken off her engagement to Mr. 
 Amphiel ? Something has happened to him } 
 Dr. C. No. He is now on his way here. 
 Lady V. Then what makes you so hopeful .■' You 
 can never marry her. 
 Dr. C. No, perhaps not. 
 
 Lady V. And you might come back to me. — It's 
 not too late ? it's not too late .' you might change .' 
 
 [ Very imploringly. 
 Dr. C. I shall never change. [ Very firmly. 1 I shall 
 never change. 
 
 [She stands very hopeless for some seconds, then 
 makes a shrug of resignation. Her 
 manner changes, and is careless and off- 
 hand till the end of the scene. 
 Lady V. Very well. Put on your hat. and coat and 
 see me across to the inn. Put on your hat and coat. 
 [He takes his hat. and coat.] I want your advice. 
 Dr. C. Advice .' About what ? 
 62 , 
 
Lady V. Marriage. I can have Bertie Fewins or 
 Sir George Doudney. Which shall it be ? 
 
 Dr. C. Neither. 
 
 Lady V. Oh it must be one or the other. And it 
 must be settled at once ; so I shall get back by the 
 mail to-night. \Going towards outer door.'] Come. 
 
 Dr. C. This will be our nearest way to the George. 
 It will save us the lane. Take my arm through the 
 passage. {Indicating inner door. 
 
 Lady V. {Taking his arm.] Which shall it be.' 
 Bertie or Sir George ? 
 
 Dr. C. Neither ! Neither ! Why should it be either ? 
 
 Lady V. My dear Lewin, what shall I be in five 
 years time if I don't marry somebody .' What shall I 
 do } I'm neither a saint nor a fool, so I can't stand 
 perpetual church-going. No ! It must be marriage. 
 Bertie or Sir George } 
 
 Dr. C. That won't be marriage, that will be desecra- 
 tion of a woman's soul ! 
 
 Lady V. {Shakes her head, makes a face as if taking 
 physic^ It's a devil of a world for women, Lewin. 
 For God's sake don't moralize about it. 
 
 {Exeunt at inner door. A very long pause. 
 A knock at outer door. The knock is 
 repeated. The Rev. Peregrine Hinde 
 puts in his head at outer door and looks 
 round. 
 
 Rev. P. {Calling out!] Doctor Carey ! Mrs. Bowden ! 
 Dr. Carey ! {Coming in.] 1 came to Taffy's house. 
 Taffy wasn't at home. {Speaking off,] There's nobody 
 here. 
 
 Re-enter Edana at outer door. 
 
 Edana. Won't Dr. Carey think it strange of me 
 coming again } 
 
 Rev. P. No, no. I've got a waggon-load of excuses. 
 63 
 
He can't have gone far. We'll wait till he comes back. 
 [ They go towards fire^ There ! Sit down ! 
 
 \She sits in armchair. 
 
 Edana. I'm sure he has had some news, and I'm 
 sure it's bad news. Oh, I must know — do you think 
 he'll tell us the truth .? 
 
 Rev. P. If he doesn't tell us, I must gently wheedle 
 it out of him. Have you ever studied the composition 
 of my character, Edana .' 
 
 Edana. No. 
 
 Rev. P- No? Then you've never observed how 
 exquisitely Providence has blended in me the beautiful 
 transparent innocence of the dove with the subtle and 
 useful wisdom of the serpent. We'll begin by asking 
 him for some little sleeping draught 
 
 Edana. Oh, I cannot endure another night ! 
 
 Rev. P- Indeed you can. The human spirit can 
 endure unendurable things. There is nothing the 
 human spirit cannot endure. Come, come ! [Chafing 
 her hands."] How cold these poor little paws are ! Put 
 your head on the cushion! There! [Arranging her 
 comfortably in armchair!] Rest a little till Dr. Carey 
 comes. Now what shall I do to wile away the 
 time } Shall I preach you a little sermon ">. Or 
 shall I tell you a little tale 1 Or shall I sing you a 
 little song .' Or shall I do all three } 
 
 Edana. All three. You don't think Walter is ill — 
 or dead .' Oh, what shall I do .-' 
 
 Rev. p. Hush 1 Hush ! Hush ! [Soothes her down.] 
 The times are not in our hands. [From this time she 
 shows signs of drowsiness, until the middle of the song, 
 when she is fast asleep!] Now, first the little sermon. 
 You should never put all your eggs in one basket, 
 unless that basket is made of celestial wicker-work 
 and is safely stored away in heaven. That's the 
 sermon. Its metaphors are a little mixed, but its 
 brevity is undeniable. Now for the little tale. There 
 was once a wilful, headstrong, reckless, loose-living 
 
 young man whose name was — whose name was ? 
 
 64 
 
Edana. [A little drowsily^ Peregrine Hinde. 
 Rev. P. Peregrine Hinde. And he loved with all 
 his heart a beautiful heartless woman, whose name 
 
 was — whose name was ? 
 
 Edana. Venetia Lee, and she jilted him. 
 Rev. P. She did. And he went about in black 
 despair for months. He thought his heart was broken 
 all to piece.s. But it wasn't. He conquered his trouble, 
 and he met another girl who made him a dear, true 
 helpmeet all the years of his manhood. And now 
 when he remembers that old trouble, it's only to think 
 of the use and the beauty of sorrow. 
 Edana. What use ? What beauty ? 
 Rev. P. The use ofbeautifying our faces. Happiness 
 rounds a face into earthly beauty, but sorrow bravely 
 borne carves it into heavenly loveliness. That's one 
 use. And there's no use in this world so useful as 
 beauty. And another use is to beautify our characters 
 and fortify our spirits. Dear me, dear me, dear me ! 
 I'm preaching another sermon. And another use that 
 old troubles have is the use of making a tale to tell to 
 our children over the fire on a winter evening. There ! 
 Now for the little song ! 
 
 [By this time her eyes are closed. He croons 
 out an old country song — stops in the 
 middle of it and looks at her — sees she 
 is fast asleep. A knock at the outer door. 
 Rev. Peregrine Hinde ^o^'j to open it, 
 opens it. 
 
 Stephen Gurdon enters. 
 
 Rev. P. Stephen ! 
 Stephen. Is the doctor here ? 
 
 Rev. P. No, I'm waiting for him. What's the 
 matter ? 
 
 Stephen. Jessie's come home. 
 Rev. P- Jessie ! 
 
 Stephen. She wants to see a doctor, so I thought 
 6s K 
 
I'd come here as Dr. Carey is nearest. And she said 
 she should like to see you too, pa'son. 
 
 Rev. P. Very well, Stephen. I'll come to her. Is 
 she ill ? 
 
 Stephen. She ain't in any immediate danger, but she 
 doesn't look as if she'd got many months to live. 
 Rev. P- Poor child ! Is she changed ? 
 Stephen. She's what you might expect her to be. 
 What would any, girl be after five years of that life ? 
 
 What would 
 
 [Glancing very significantly at Edana, who 
 
 is sleeping in the armchair. . 
 
 Rev. P. [Hastily.] Hush ! Hush ! She hasn't slept 
 
 for three nights ! [Draws the curtains down.} I can 
 
 leave her for a few minutes. Now, Stephen, I'll go 
 
 with you ! 
 
 [Exeunt Stephen and Rev. Peregrine 
 HiNDE at outer door. A long pause. 
 Edana. [Asleep, moans.'] Walter! Walter! Come 
 away from them ! Come ! I'll take care of you ! Ah ! 
 [A little shriek?^ Don't hurt him! You don't know 
 how brave and good he is ! Make haste, dear ! Make 
 haste! [Laughs!] That's right! Come along! Dearest! 
 Dearest ! Dearest ! [ Very caressing, with movement of 
 stroking his hair with her hand.] Where have you been 
 all this while ? Why did you leave me so long > And 
 not a word ! Oh, it's cruel ! Don't leave me again ! 
 You won't ? You won't .' 
 
 [A long moan, then silence. After a long 
 pause, Dr. Carey enters at inner door, 
 goes up to the table in the bay window, 
 throws off his hat and overcoat, and puts 
 tJum carelessly on the chair r. of table 
 in window, takes up a glass slide, puts it 
 under microscope, is busy bending over it 
 for some seconds. AuvmwL's face appears 
 to the right of the window at back, he 
 looks in and creeps stealthily all round the 
 window. As soon as he has disappeared 
 66 
 
to the left, Dr. Carey shows sudden 
 attention as if he were arrested by a sound 
 outside. He hastily leaves table and goes 
 to the little window L., looks off. A 
 gleam of interest, almost triumph crosses 
 his face. The handle of the outer door is 
 fumbled at and half turned. Dr. Carey 
 watches it. The handle is again turned, 
 and the door opens (on to the stage) 
 Amphiel'S yizfg being seen by the audience 
 before it is seen by Dr. Carey. Amphiel 
 looks very haggard and dissipated. His 
 first expression seen by the audience is 
 watchful, sly, and anxious, but as he enters, 
 and is seen by Dr. Carey, he assumes a 
 frank, cordial manner, goes up to Dr. 
 Carey with outstretched hand. 
 Amphiel. [ Very cordially. \ Ah, Doctor, you got my 
 telegram 
 
 Dr. C. [Refusing his hand.} Yes. 
 
 Amphiel. I thought I'd let you know I was coming. 
 I've been working in the good cause. I knew you 
 wouldn't let me go, so I slipped away. Won't you 
 shake hands with me and welcome me back ? 
 
 Dr. C. \R.ather sternly i\ Where' have you been } 
 
 Amphiel. [ With the utmost frankness^ In the West 
 of England looking after the refuges I started last 
 year. We've done such good work in Bristol. [Edana 
 stirs a little and moves her hand.} Why do you look at 
 me like that .' 
 
 Dr. C. [More sternly.] Where have you been ? 
 
 Amphiel. What makes you so angry with me? 
 Surely you don't suspect — you don't suspect that I've 
 broken my word ? 
 
 Dr. C. [ Very sternly.] Where have you been .' 
 
 Amphiel. Don't I tell you ? I've been engaged in 
 my work. 
 
 Dr. C. All the time? 
 
 Amphiel. Yes, every day, every hour, almost every 
 minute since I left you. I've done nothing else. 
 
 67 
 
Dr. C. You liar ! 
 
 [Edana opens her eyes and looks round, scarcely 
 aivake, listens as if in continuance of her 
 dream, gradually growing more and more 
 interested. 
 
 Amphiel. You don't believe me ? I can give you 
 an account of how I have spent every moment of my 
 absence. 
 
 Dr. C. Shall I give you an account instead ? Shall 
 I tell you where and how you have spent the last few 
 days ? You've been at the Harpi in Temple Mead, 
 Bristol, one of the lowest and filthiest dens in the 
 place. Shall I tell you in what condition and in whose 
 company you've been ? You've been lying there in 
 a drunken debauch since last Thursday,in the company 
 of sots and harlots, fouling, maddening, destroying 
 yourself. 
 
 Amphiel. It's true ! It's true ! I'm a beast ! I'm a 
 beast! I'm not fit to live — I'll go and end it this 
 moment. [Rushing off towards outer door. 
 
 Dr. C. Stop, you fool ! There's somebody else to 
 think of. Do you know what this means to her .■• Do 
 you know that she has been night and day on a rack of 
 suspense .' She was here just now begging — begging 
 me to give her some news of you. 
 
 Amphiel. You didn't tell her.? 
 
 Dr. C. No. I left that for you to do. Go and 
 report yourself to her. 
 
 Amphiel. What do you mean ? 
 
 Dr. C. She must know sooner or later. Do you 
 think I will let you wreck her life as well as your own t 
 Do you think I will stand by and let her marry you ; 
 bear you children that will perhaps inherit your taint 
 in every bone and nerve, let her watch you sinking 
 inch by inch into imbecility and corruption, while she 
 gradually loses all her beauty and trust and love. — 
 Oh, my God ! what a gift for a man ! — and becomes 
 a hopeless, wretched drudge to you and your vice — 
 do you think I'll stand by and see that >. Eh, do you 
 think I will .' No ! put an end to it. Do you hear .-• 
 
 68 
 
Put an end to it ! She's over at the vicarage waiting 
 for news of you. Go and tell her what you are. 
 
 [Edana, who has been listening, amazed and 
 horrified, comes to curtains still dazed and 
 overwhelmed. 
 
 Amphiel. Very well. You can make me tell her ; 
 but, mark me, if you do I'll end it. The moment she 
 knows me for what I am I'll kill myself. 
 
 [Edana, who is about to draw aside the 
 curtains and declare herself, draws back, 
 stands still, horror-stricken, tillend of scene. 
 
 Amphiel. {Suddenly turns to Dr. Carey, with an 
 outburst of agonized entreaty^ Give me one more 
 chance ! Don't let her know ! Give me one more 
 chance ! I'll keep my word this time ! 
 
 Dr. C. Your word ! 
 
 Amphiel. I will! I will! Don't despise me! I'm 
 not so bad as you think me. Oh, do hear me ! Don't 
 let her know ! 
 
 Dr. C. But to continue to deceive her — the 
 hypocrisy 
 
 Amphiel. I'm not a hypocrite! I've given all my 
 time and money to save others from this curse ! I'm 
 not a hypocrite ; don't think that of me ! Oh, you 
 don't know what awful struggles I've had — how I've 
 tried and tried and tried to conquer myself. And I 
 will ! I won't give way again ! Give me one more 
 chance ! You're my only friend ! don't turn away from 
 me ! Give me one more chance, only one, only one. 
 One more chance, for mercy's sake — one more 
 chance ! 
 
 Dr. C. And if I did, how could I trust you now ? 
 
 Amphiel. I'll give you my oath. Listen. I mean 
 it. There's no going back from this. Remember 
 what I say and bring it up against me. If ever 
 from this time forth orle cursed drop shall pass 
 my lips, may I lose her, may I lose my soul and 
 everything that I hold dear in this world and the next. 
 There ! I've said it. You believe me "i You'll give 
 me one last chance for her sake } One last chance ! 
 
 69 
 
Dr. C. For her sake, because I put her happiness 
 beyond everything in this world, I will give you one 
 last chance. I'll forget these last few weeks — do 
 you forget them too — and I'll help you again to the 
 very utmost of my power. 
 
 Amphiel. \Bursts into tears ^ God bless you ! I'll — 
 I'll — I'll — {Breaking down, sobbing and exhausted^ 
 God bless you ! You are good to me ! and I'll deserve 
 
 it. I will— I'll— I'll 
 
 Dr. C. Come ! come ! You're too excited. You 
 had better go to rest. Let me get you something 
 after your journey. 
 
 Amphiel. No. I can't eat. I — I — -I — [Clinging to 
 Dr. Ckkey fiieously and crying feebly. "] Oh, I feel so 
 
 weak and wretched. I'll get to rest — I'll ■ 
 
 Dr. C. Ah, my poor lad, this is a hard taskmaster 
 
 you've got. You've escaped him this time. Don't 
 
 fall into his hands again, for he'll have no mercy on you. 
 
 Amphiel. I won't ! I won't ! [Crying.] Oh, you are 
 
 good to me. You won't leave me. 
 
 Dr. C. [ Very tenderly^ No, no, I won't leave you. 
 Trust to me. Don't despair. We'll make a fresh 
 start to-morrow. [Soothing him and helping him to 
 inner door.] Come, come ! Cheer up ! There, there ! 
 A fresh start ! A new life to-morrow. 
 
 [Helping him off at inner door. Closes it. 
 Comes down stage slowly, reflectively, with 
 anxious face. 
 [EdaNA, who Jtas stood horror-stricken and 
 quite still behind the curtains draws them 
 slowly aside. His eye catches the movement 
 of the curtains, and he watches them, sees 
 her standing there. 
 Dr. C. You heard ? [She signs " Yes." 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 Nine months pass between Acts HI. and IV. 
 
 70 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 Scene : — TJu Vicarage drawing-room at Fontleas. A 
 pleasant cosy room with pretty chintz furniture. A 
 large window at back looking over a garden in late 
 summer. A door R. A door L. Discover Rev. 
 Peregrine up at window, which is open. 
 
 Rev. P- [^Calling off towards L.] 
 
 O round, Mrs. Bowden. Go round and 
 come in ! 
 
 [Crosses to left and opens the door. 
 
 Enter MRS. BoWDEN in her Sunday best. 
 
 Mrs. B. [Curtseying.] Good afternoon, pa'son. I felt 
 I must come and ask after Miss Edana — and whether 
 she has heard the good news ? 
 
 Rev. p. Good news ? 
 
 Mrs. B. We've just had a telegram from Dr. Carey. 
 He's coming back to-day. Haven't you heard ? 
 
 Rev. P. Oh yes. We've had a telegram too. 
 
 Mrs. B. And of course Mr. Amphiel is coming alone 
 with him .■' 
 
 Rev. P. [Rather troubled?^ Oh yes — Mr. Amphiel 
 is coming with him. 
 
 Mr. B. I was so pleased, because I thought " There ! 
 It's quite a providence Mr. Amphiel coming back just 
 as Miss Edana has got well again. How is she > " 
 - Rev. P. Much better. Quite well ! Quite her old 
 self except for a little weakness. 
 
 71 
 
Edana enters door R. ; her features are sharper, and 
 she shows signs of illness and suffering. 
 
 Rev. P. Here she is ! 
 
 Mrs. B. {Going cordially to Edana.] My dear, I be 
 so glad to see your pretty face again ! I must give 
 you a kiss for the sake of old times ! {Kissing her.] 
 Ah, there's somebody else coming to kiss you this 
 blessed day. 
 
 {A shade of trouble and horror crosses 
 Edana's face and she turns away. 
 
 Mrs. B. And how are you, my dear 1 
 
 Edana. I'm better, thank you. 
 
 {Sits down apart, with a quiet and reserved 
 manner. Wedding bells ring out. 
 
 Rev. P. Dear me ! I was forgetting — I've got to 
 marry James Hebbings and Louisa Pack. — I suppose 
 you're coming to the wedding, Mrs. Bowden .' 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, to be sure — and aren't you coming, 
 my dear — to see Janies and Louisa married ? 
 
 Edana. No — I'd rather stay at home. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ah, to be sure I I don't wonder. You're 
 expecting Mr. Amphiel every minute. Let me see — 
 how long is it since he and Dr. Carey went away — ^it 
 was last December, wasn't it 1 — How time does slip 
 away! 
 
 Rev. P. {Trying to get her away from Edana.] Yes, 
 it does ! We ought to be at the church. — Come along, 
 Mrs. Bowden. 
 
 Mrs. B. {To Edana.] Well, good-bye, my dear. I 
 hear poor Jessie Gurdon is very near the end, pa'son. 
 
 Rev. P. Yes, poor girl ! I was with her last night, 
 and I scarcely thought she'd last till this morning. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh dear, oh dear ! what a world of sin and 
 misery it is, to be sure ! It's a good job as there's a 
 better one by-and-by. 
 
 Rev. P. It's a bad job, Mrs. Bowden, that folks 
 don't make a good job of this one, here and now. 
 
 72 
 
Enter L. LiZZlE, the Vicarage servant. 
 
 Lizzie. James Hebbings and Louisa Pack would 
 like to see you for a minute before the wedding, sir. 
 Rev. P. Show them in. 
 
 Lizzie beckons off and JAMES and LOUISA enter L. in 
 their wedding clothes. They are arm-in-arm, and 
 James is very much embarrassed. 
 
 James. We've come, pa'son 
 
 [Breaks down and has a little fit of foolish giggling. 
 
 Louisa. [Nudging James.] Do behave yourself, 
 
 James. [To Rev. Peregrine.] We thought as Miss 
 
 Edana wasn't coming to the church, we shouldn't like 
 
 her to miss seeing us in our wedding clothes. 
 
 [Spreading herself and JAMES for Edana's 
 
 inspection. 
 
 Edana. Thank you, Louisa — thank you, James. 
 
 [ With effort to take an ijtterest. 
 
 Mrs. B. Very sweet, oh, very sweet. Quite taking ! 
 
 [Admiring them. 
 James. And also we thought we might akse you, 
 pa'son, whether everything is in good order for the 
 wedding — that is, so fur as your part of these pro- 
 ceedings is concerned [Adds thoughtfully'\ Thereby. 
 
 Rev. P. My part of the proceedings shall be duly 
 and punctually performed, James. 
 James. And ours also. 
 
 [Suddenly makes a grab at his waistcoat 
 pocket, shows alarm, feels in his pockets, 
 disengages himself from "LOVISA., fumbles. 
 Louisa. What's the matter .' 
 James. I've lost the ring. 
 
 Louisa. No — no 
 
 James. Yes — ^no, here it is. That's all right ! I'll 
 make sure of it this time. 
 
 ?3 L 
 
[Placing- it carefully in pocket, keeps one hand 
 
 carefully on the pocket all the remainder 
 
 of the scene. 
 
 Louisa. Do behave yourself, James. [jAMES gives 
 
 her his arm very ceremoniously ^^ And we wish you our 
 
 best respects, Miss. And we thank you for your 
 
 beautiful present. And we're so sorry you aren't 
 
 coming to the wedding 
 
 Mrs. B. Why don't you perk up a bit, my dear, 
 and come } 
 
 Edana. [Quickly.] No, no, indeed I can't. But I 
 hope you will be very happy. 
 
 fames. [ With a giggle glancing at LOUISA.] No 
 fear ! And also no fear for you and Mr. Amphiel, 
 
 Miss 
 
 Louisa. And we hope you'll very soon be married 
 yourself, Miss. 
 
 [Edana turns away to window and hides her 
 head, 
 fames. What's the matter .'' 
 
 Mrs. B. Don't you see, you silly chap .-' It's her 
 joy that her sweetheart's coming back. He's been 
 nearly all over the world, and she hasn't seen him for 
 nine months. 
 
 Rev. P. [ Who has shown sympathy with EDANA.] 
 
 Come, I think it's nearly time that we were all over 
 
 at the church. Now, James. Now, Louisa. 
 
 fames. [ To Louisa.] Have we said anything wrong ? 
 
 [Exeunt jAMES and LouiSA arm-in-arm, 
 
 door L. 
 
 Rev. P. Now, Mrs. Bowden 
 
 [Edana is sobbing a little in window. 
 Mrs. B. Good-bye, my dear! It's joy at the 
 thought of seeing him ! 
 
 [Making a movement to go to Edana. 
 Rev. P. [Intercepting her.] If it is joy, let it be 
 sacred. Leave her to me ! 
 
 Mrs. B. [Snivelling a little.] I know what it is. 
 God bless you, my dear. 
 
 74 
 
[Exz'i Mrs. Bowden door L., leaving the doof 
 open. 
 
 Rev. P [To Edana.] My dear! this has been too 
 much for you. , 
 
 [Lizzie shows in Stephen by the open door. 
 Exit 'L.YLZi^. 
 
 Rev. P. Stephen — it's all over 1 
 
 Stephen. Yes. I want a word with you, pa'son. 
 [Edana is going."] And with you too, Miss. 
 
 Edana. Poor Jessie is gone ? 
 
 Stephen. Yes. She asked me to thank you, and you 
 too, pa'son, for all your kindness. \A little pause^ And 
 I think I ought to tell you 
 
 Rev. P. What.? 
 
 Stephen. Last night, in the middle of the night, she 
 was quite clear and bright, and she looked for a 
 minute or two like her old self. She told me the 
 name of the man who ruined her and took her away 
 from home. 
 
 Rev. P. Yes ? Who was it, Stephen ? 
 
 Stephen. It's the man that's coming back to 
 Fontleas to-day. 
 
 Rev. P. Are you sure, Stephen, it was he I 
 
 Stephen. She was dying, and she didn't tell me a lie. 
 You know the man I mean. Miss } 
 
 Edana. Yes. 
 
 Stephen. Then I needn't say any more. That's the 
 man that ruined Jessie and led her into that life of 
 shame. If you marry him now you marry him with 
 your eyes open. [Edana turns awaj/.] I've done right 
 to warn her, pa'son .' 
 
 Rev. P. Yes, Stephen, you've done right. 
 
 Stephen. He's expected to-day, ain't he } 
 
 Rev. P. Yes, every minute. 
 
 Stephen. I shall have a word to say to him. 
 
 Rev. P. No, Stephen, no. You'll forgive him. Go 
 now ; I'll come over to you by-and-by. 
 
 Stephen. I shall have a word to say to him. 
 
 \Exit Stephen l. 
 
 75 
 
Rev. P. My poor girl ! 
 
 Edana. Father, I cannot marry him ! I cannot ! 
 I cannot ! We were wrong not to tell him before he 
 left England. 
 
 Rev. P. We did it for the best. Dr. Carey said 
 that if he knew you had found him out it would most 
 likely prey upon his mind and drive him to drink and 
 death. And when Dr. Carey offered to give him one 
 more chance and take him away 
 
 Edana. I think Dr. Carey is the truest and best man 
 that ever lived. I can never thank him enough. But 
 I was wrong to let him go, I ought to have told Walter 
 and broken it off at the time 
 
 Rev. P. Suppose you had, and had sent him to 
 despair 
 
 Edana. He will have to know now. I wonder he 
 hasn't guessed it from my letters. I wonder he didn't 
 guess it when I wished him " Good-bye," for I shuddered 
 and felt — oh, I cannot tell you how I felt — almost as 
 if I hated him. And all these months he has been 
 away, I have felt my dislike for him growing day by 
 day. And he is coming back, as he thinks, to marry 
 me — you remember what he said in his last letter. 
 And Dr. Carey writes that he has really kept his 
 word this time. Oh, tell me what can I do .' what can 
 I do ? I don't want to be cruel to him — I don't want 
 to drive him to that ; but whatever happens, I cannot 
 marry him, I cannot ! I cannot ! I cannot ! 
 
 Re-enter Lizzie r. 
 
 Lizzie. They've sent over from the church, sir. The 
 folks are all there, and they're waiting for you to go 
 on with the wedding. 
 
 Rev. P. Very well, Lizzie, I'll come at once. \Exit 
 Lizzie l.] I must go. Don't give way, dear. I'll 
 come back as soon as the wedding is over. 
 
 1^ 
 
Edana. And you'll think of some way of breaking 
 
 it to him without 
 
 Rev. P. Without breaking your heart and without 
 breaking his ? Yes, I must think of some way. I 
 must think of some way. 
 
 {Exit L., puzzling and anxious. Edana, 
 left alone, goes to table, sits, and buries 
 her face in hands. Dr. Carey appears 
 at the window R., and watches her 
 with great interest for some moments 
 without her seeing him; at length, in 
 turning, she catches sight of him ; stops. 
 
 Edana, Dr. Carey [A little alarmed. 
 
 Dr. C. \Through the window. He is bronzed as if 
 with a long sea voyage^ May I come in ? 
 Edana. Is anyone with you ? 
 Dr. C. No, I am alone. 
 Edana. Will you go round ? 
 
 \He disappears at back. Enters, L. looks at 
 her with great interest, anxiety, longing, 
 and affection. 
 Dr. C. Are you better ? 
 Edana. Yes. 
 
 Dr. C. No one in the house } 
 Edana. No, they are gone to the wedding. Are 
 you alone ? 
 
 Dr. C. Yes — quite — for the time. {Taking her 
 hands."] Let me look at you. You've been very ill ? 
 
 Edana. Yes. It was that dreadful night. I didn't 
 feel it at the time, but after you and he had gone, I 
 felt — I — [Shudders, then suddenly breads down and 
 sobs out.] Oh, I'm so glad you've come back ! 
 
 [Sobbing. 
 Dr. C. Come, come, I must have you brave ! 
 Edana. [A little recovering^ Where is he .' 
 Dr. C. I've not brought him to Fontleas. 
 Edana. Is he better — well ? 
 Dr. C. Quite well. 
 
 71 
 
Edana. Where is he ? 
 
 Dr. C. I had to hurry to Europe, because I wanted 
 to get to India at once and deal with this fresh out- 
 break of the plague. So I had to leave him. 
 
 Edana. Leave him ? Where ? 
 
 Dr. C. He hasn't come by this vessel. He won't 
 be back for some weeks — perhaps months. 
 
 [ Watching her very closely. 
 
 Edana. Oh, I'm so glad ! 
 
 Dr. C. [ With a sudden light of hope in his face^ 
 Glad } [Looks at her again with anxious interrogation^ 
 Glad .' [She nods.\ Miss Hinde, what do you mean .'' 
 
 Edana. I cannot marry him. [Dr. Carey'S face 
 brightens with the utmost excitem.ent of hope.\ I must 
 write and tell him. Dr. Carey, if he knows that our 
 engagement i? b^ken off and that I can never see 
 him again, will it harm him .? Will it drive him to 
 despair and — ^worse ? 
 
 Dr. C. No. 
 
 Edana. You're sure ? 
 
 Dr. C. Quite sure. Miss Hinde, three days before 
 we sailed, he left me. I feared what had happened. 
 I saw no more of him till an hour before the ship was 
 due to leave. He came on board a perfect wreck ; he 
 had been sleeping in the rain, and was very ill 
 
 Edana. Go on. 
 
 Dr. C. He had a few days of awful agony and 
 remorse, and then pneumonia set in. He passed 
 away very peacefully, [Wedding hymn in church^ 
 and asked me to beg you to forgive him. 
 
 Edana. I forgive him. And you — what will you 
 do? 
 
 Dr. C. I go to India, unless — unless 
 
 [He holds out his arms to her with a gesture 
 of longing entreaty. She goes to him, very 
 simply, pe utters a great cry of satisfied 
 love as she falls into his arms. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 78 
 
CMISWICK PRESS : — CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. 
 

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