AMOS. My dear Gertrude, you see what our position is here. If Mrs.

Ebbsmith asks for our help it is our duty to give it.

GERTRUDE. It is especially my duty, Amos.

AMOS. And I should have thought it especially mine. However, Mrs.

Ebbsmith appears to firmly decline our help. And at this point, I confess, I would rather you left it--you, at least.

GERTRUDE. You would rather I left it--I, the virtuous, unsoiled woman!

Yes, I am a virtuous woman, Amos; and it strikes you as odd, I suppose, my insisting upon friendship with her. But look here, both of you. I'll tell you a secret. You never knew it, Amos my dear. I never allowed anybody to suspect it--

AMOS. Never knew what?

GERTRUDE. The sort of married life mine was. It didn't last long, but it was dreadful, almost intolerable.

AMOS. Gertrude!

GERTRUDE. After the first few weeks--weeks, not months!--after the first few weeks of it, my husband treated me as cruelly--[turning to AGNES]--just as cruelly, I do believe, as your husband treated you.

[AMOS makes a movement, showing astonishment.] Wait! Now then! There was another man--one I loved--one I couldn't help loving! I could have found release with him, perhaps happiness of a kind. I resisted, came through it. They're dead--the two are dead! And here I am, a virtuous, reputable woman; saved by the blessed mercy of Heaven! There, you are not surprised any longer, Amos! [Pointing to AGNES.] "My friend, Mrs Ebbsmith!" [Bursting into tears.] Oh! Oh, if my little boy had been spared to me, he should have grown up tender to women--tender to women! He should, he should--! [She sits upon the settee, weeping . . . There is a short silence.]

AMOS. Mrs. Ebbsmith, when I came here tonight I was angry with Gertrude --not altogether, I hope, for being in your company. But I was certainly angry with her for visiting you without my knowledge. I think I sometimes forget that she is eight-and-twenty, not eighteen. Well, now I offer to delay our journey home for a few days, if you hold out the faintest hope that her companionship is likely to aid you in any way.

[AGNES, standing motionless, makes no response. AMOS crosses to her, and as he pa.s.ses GERTRUDE, he lets his hand drop over her shoulder; she clasps it, then rises and moves to a chair, where she sits, crying silently.]

AMOS. [By AGNES' side--in a low voice.] You heard what she said. Saved by the mercy of Heaven.

AGNES. Yes, but she can feel that.

AMOS. You felt so once.

AGNES. Once--?

AMOS. You have, in years gone by, asked for help on your knees.

AGNES. It never came.

AMOS. Repeat your cry!

AGNES. There would be no answer.

AMOS. Repeat it!

AGNES. [Turning upon him.] If miracles could happen! If "help", as you term it, did come! Do you know what "help" would mean to me?

AMOS. What--?

AGNES. It would take the last crumb from me!

AMOS. This man's--protection?

AGNES. [Defiantly.] Yes

AMOS. Oh, Mrs. Ebbsmith--!

AGNES. [Pointing to the door.] Well, I've asked you both to leave me, haven't I! [Pointing at GERTRUDE, who has risen.] The man she loves is dead and gone! She can moralise--! [Sitting, beating upon the settee with her hands.] Leave me! [AMOS joins GERTRUDE.]

GERTRUDE. We'll go, Amos. [He takes from his pocket a small leather-bound book; the cover is well-worn and shabby.]

AMOS. [Writing upon the fly-leaf of the book with a pencil.] I am writing our address here, Mrs. Ebbsmith.

AGNES. [In a hard voice.] I already have it. [GERTRUDE glances at the book over AMOS'S shoulder, and looks at him wonderingly.]

AMOS. [Laying the book on the settee by AGNES' side.] You might forget it. [She stares at the book, with knitted brows, for a moment, then stretches out her hand and opens it.]

AGNES. [Withdrawing her hand sharply.] No--I don't accept your gift.

AMOS. The address of two friends is upon the fly-leaf.

AGNES. I thank both of you; but you shall never be troubled again by me. [Rising, pointing to the book.] Take that away! [Sitting facing the stove, the door of which she opens, replenishing the fire--excitedly.]

Mr. Cleeve may be back soon; it would be disagreeable to you all to meet again. [GERTRUDE gently pushes AMOS aside, and picking up the book from the settee, places it upon the table.]

GERTRUDE. [To AGNES, pointing to the book.] This frightens you. Simple print and paper, so you pretend to regard it; but it frightens you.

[With a quick movement, AGNES twists her chair round and faces GERTRUDE fiercely.] I called you a mad thing just now. A week ago I did think you half-mad--a poor, ill-used creature, a visionary, a moral woman living immorally; yet, in spite of all, a woman to be loved and pitied.

But now I'm beginning to think you're only frail--wanton. Oh, you're not so mad as not to know you're wicked! [Tapping the book forcibly.]

And so this frightens you.

AGNES. You're right! Wanton! That's what I've become! And I'm in my right senses, as you say. I suppose I was mad once for a little time, years ago. And do you know what drove me so? [Striking the book with her fist.] It was that--that!

GERTRUDE. That!

AGNES. I'd trusted in it, clung to it, and it failed me. Never once did it stop my ears to the sounds of a curse; when I was beaten it didn't make the blows a whit lighter; it never healed my bruised flesh, my bruised spirit! Yes, that drove me distracted for a while; but I'm sane now--now it is you that are mad, mad to believe! You foolish people, not to know [beating her breast and forehead]--that h.e.l.l or Heaven is here and here! [Pointing to the book.] Take it! [GERTRUDE turns away and joins AMOS, and they walk quickly to the door.]

AGNES. [Frantically.] I'll not endure the sight of it--!

[As they reach the door, GERTRUDE looks back and sees AGNES hurl the book into the fire. They go out. AGNES starts to her feet and stands motionless for a moment, her head bent, her fingers twisted in her hair. Then she raises her head; the expression of her face has changed to a look of fright and horror. Uttering a loud cry, she hastens to the stove, and, thrusting her hand into the fire, drags out the book.

GERTRUDE and AMOS re-enter quickly in alarm.]

GERTRUDE. Agnes--! [They stand looking at AGNES, who is kneeling upon the ground, clutching the charred book.]

END OF THE THIRD ACT

THE FOURTH ACT

[The scene is an apartment in the Campo San Bartolomeo. The walls are of plaster; the ceiling is frescoed in cheap modern Italian fashion. At the end of the room is a door leading to AGNES'S bedroom; to the left is an exit onto a landing, while a nearer door, on the same side, opens into another room. The furniture and the few objects attached to the walls are characteristic of a moderate-priced Venetian lodging.

Placed about the room, however, are photographs in pretty fanes and knick-knacks personal to GERTRUDE, and a travelling-trunk and bag are also to be seen. The shutters of the two nearer windows are closed; a broad stream of moonlight, coming through the further window, floods the upper part of the room.]