PEWS5 THMTRE 'ttlHIIU FI^HT F9R FREEP9M liiiifiiiriiiiiiiiiiui/iiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiujuiiJ^iiiiiiiiiiimiiniuimiuiiiiiiiiuii THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES Plays for a People's Theatre. I. The Fight for Freedom If O^ The Fight for Freedom A Play in Four Acts BY DOUGLAS GOLDRING WITH A PREFACE BY HENRI BARBUSSE NEW YORK THOMAS SELTZER 1920 Copyright, 1920, By Thomas Seltzer, Inc. Printed in the United States of America All Rights Reserved PR PREFACE the International People's Theatre is founded, one of the first plays it ought to put on, if it means to do educational as well as artistic work, is Douglas Goldring's beautiful drama, "The Fight for Freedom." Not that this drama is a panegyric of Social- ism. On the contrary, it might almost be said to be a criticism of the Socialist party. Its merit, its strength, resides in its bringing out the pathetic tragedy of the harsh truth underlying the obscure drama that divides humanity in two. "The Fight for Freedom" puts before us the idea that at the present time dominates and in- fluences all other ideas the idea of revolution. It is set in its proper place here, taken at its source, at the very heart of man. Thence it tumbles like an impetuous torrent and dashes into a river. For it is not enough, no, it is not enough to aspire towards the happiness of the people, to- wards the deep, radical transformation of the old regime which oppresses them. It is not enough 944080 PREFACE even to work for it. It is necessary besides, it is necessary above all else, to feel in the depths of oneself the absolute accord between soul and action. As long as we have not achieved this in ourselves, the liberty of the world will remain a mere empty phrase. Humanity has not yet attained to the heights of its ideas. This is the source of all evil. If in our deeds, in our very blood, we had had the same horror of war that we had in our souls, the war would not have happened. If all who to-day dream of liberation and harmony were intimately, practically, in accord with their dream, the people, the vast mass of slaves, would be quickly set free. But those who are most determined to estab- lish the social order are sometimes the very ones who spread the germ of social disorder, because they have not in themselves, in their own lives, that grandeur, that clear vision, which they wish to inspire in others. It must be said : the ideal of justice and of rea- son towards which humanity, still blind, is ob- scurely struggling, hovers in clouds tragically far away. Written in a style brilliant, concise, profoundly stirring, Douglas Goldring's work is one of those which will help to bring the ideal down to its only fatherland, the earth of human beings. HENRI BARBUSSB. INTRODUCTION THE play which follows was written in an intellectual atmosphere wholly alien from that of London, in a country separated by a good many miles of sea-water from the one in which its scenes are laid. It was written in loneliness and exile during the last three months of the war, at a time when our Anglo-Prussian overlords, in view of their approaching victory, had definitely dis- carded their masks. The outlook for Democracy, in the autumn of 1918, was indeed horrifying. But even then, in spite of the ' ' great lie barrage, ' ' there were plenty of signs, beneath the surface, that the plain people all over Europe were beginning to wake up to a tardy realisation of the way in which their rulers had betrayed them. In some countries the proletarian movement was taking one form, in other countries it had assumed a widely different character. In Eussia the Bolsheviki, in Ireland the Sinn Feiners, in Germany the Spartacus group, in England and in America the Labour movements formed rallying-points for men and women who still retained their humanity and their idealism after the corrupting influence of four years of war. The seeds of life and of love were springing up once again in a world frozen by materialism and rendered callous by commercial greed. It did not seem to matter very much what particular 5 6 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM label happened to be borne by these armies of the Future whether they were called Pacifists, Tolstoyans, Communists, Bolshevists, Quakers, Reds, Sinn Feiners, Christians, Spartacists, or Trade Unionists. The spirit underlying every one of them was the same. It was the spirit which, throughout history, has inspired martyrs and pioneers in the cause of human progress. All these diverse kinds of people and parties were united in their determination to have done once and for ever with the past; and to break down the evil system which for four years had forced brother to slay brother to enable knaves to make their fortunes. All looked forward with pa- tience and with hope to the dawn of the New Day. Viewed from my vantage point in that sorrowful Western Island where British Labour allows British Militarism to train a conscript army in the art of strike- breaking, the situation in my native land seemed in some ways darker than in any other. England has al- ways been the most harrowing of countries to those of her children who really love her. She is incorrigible! She is able to shed the blood of hundreds of thousands of her sons without, apparently, turning a hair, with- out parting with a single one of her illusions. The Englishman is a veritable Candide among the peoples. Absolutely nothing seems able to shake the belief of John Bull, the jaunty optimist, that everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds! As a nation we English love comfort and loathe sud- den changes hence, perhaps, our passion for compro- mise, for half-truths, watered-down facts, and "official" journalism. We are a race of intellectual rabbits; and rather than face the truth in our own minds we scamper THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 7 for safety into all the funk-holes which our Government, through its bought press, is astute enough to provide for us. This vice of moral and intellectual cowardice which under the guise of "moderation" we venerate as our distinctive virtue runs through the whole of our national life, and even, alas ! permeates our Labour move- ment. Thus the first struggle which awaits those men and women in the English Labour movement who really stand shoulder to shoulder with their brothers and sisters on the Continent of Europe, will, very probably, be with the "leaders" of their own party. And there are so many people in England, particularly among the intelligentzia, who "take up progress," or "take up Socialism" as a change from taking up Jazzing or "art," and with the same essential frivolity! It is these who, when that red dawn really breaks for which they profess to be sighing, will be the first to cry out in alarm. In England the Margaret Lamberts are many, and the Eleanor Lamberts are few. As I have already explained, my first attempt at writing a play was made in an atmosphere and under conditions which, to me, at any rate, were peculiarly conducive to thinking internationally. I was a stranger in a neutral country far away from the ardours of English Labour politics and the heated discussions of the London art coteries. England seemed scarcely any nearer to me than Hungary, Switzerland, or America. It was not until "The Fight for Freedom" was at last completed that it occurred to me that, in all proba- bility, there did not exist in England any "Drama League," or theatrical organisation of any kind what- ever, which would be in the least likely to put it on. 8 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM For, apart from all questions as to its merits or demerits, it belonged to a school of play which at the present time is definitely "not done." English theatrical circles do not want internationalist plays, or plays on political or social themes which reflect the ideas of to-day, though I believe large sections of the "plain people" in England want them very badly. The new "movements" in our theatrical world concern themselves chiefly with gentle revolutions in regard to scenery and stage lighting. Revolutionary thought, in the plays which are produced, is the very last thing which is either desired or wel- comed. But if this was and still is the situation at home, instinct told me that the same state of things did not prevail beyond our own borders. It occurred to me that my play, in spite of its many imperfections, might very likely have a friendly reception on the Continent. Without, therefore, waiting for rebuffs in London, I sent the MS. to a well-known Swiss journalist who has translated some of my novels into German. Within a week or two I received from her a letter full of con- gratulation and excitement. She prophesied a great success for the play, and set to work at once on her translation. It has been printed in Die Weissen Blatter, and will probably be produced by a Frankfort theatre this winter. A little later on I signed an agreement for an Hungarian translation, which has been completed and forwarded to Buda-Pesth. Now the important fact underlying these experiences should be sufficiently obvious to those who have studied the recent tendencies of the stage. It can be summed up in a word. With the exception of England, almost all the countries of Europe, not excluding Ireland, now THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 9 possess at least the rudiments of a " people's theatre." In England, however, though we use the phrase glibly enough and though most of our new societies and leagues are chatty about that ' ' new spirit ' ' in the theatre which they propose to infuse, of the reality underlying the words there is at present hardly a trace. The com- mercial manager and the devotee of "art for art's sake" still reign supreme; and between them they still crush the life out of all the budding English playwrights. Instead of a "new spirit" they only offer us that ancient bugbear the "art nouveau" spirit. England is still waiting for its "people's theatre." In Russia, in Germany, in Austria, in Holland the theatre is- the great medium through which the unifying ideas of internationalism, brotherhood, and detestation of war are receiving full and free expression. When is English Labour going to recognise its importance, and run a theatre of its own ? My conception of a people's theatre is of a theatre run on a co-operative basis, a theatre in which all the ideas which really interest the proletariat may receive the fullest and freest expression, a theatre which is youthful and alive. The people to control such a theatre must, it seems to me, be people accustomed to do jobs of work connected with the stage, and their first task must be, politely but firmly, to push the God-dam-art crowd outside. When the last "artistic" person has been gently removed, Art may have a chance to breathe. Probably the first people's theatre in England will have to give its production in some badly-ventilated cellar, or hideous East End parish hall. This will be very- amusing, and everyone connected with the enterprise 10 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM will enjoy himself hugely and will be tempted to cling to his cellar like grim death. But, personally, I do not see any virtue in cellars for their own sake. Everything must, of course, have a beginning, but the people's theatre should play far too important a part in Eng- land's national life not to grow very quickly beyond hole-and-corner makeshifts. I should like our first peo- ple's theatre to be the most splendid playhouse in Eng- land; and I should like it to be equipped to give the people every kind of show from the simplest to the most magnificent. It will inevitably be a revolutionary (and hence an internationalist) theatre if it is to be worthy of its name. And it will put on all the good revolution- ary plays which will be written in England, and which have been written abroad. But there is no reason that I can see why it should not also produce magnificent ballets, and Shaw and Shakespeare impartially. If the English people's theatre, when it is started, is only filled with the new spirit the spirit of revolutionary idealism and ardent aspiration towards that new day which must dawn before long, even in England nothing else really matters. Then, at last, we may look forward with confidence to the long-heralded "renaissance of the English drama" which is now so dismally overdue. I believe that great days are coming for the theatre, all over the world, and that no proletarian movement can afford to neglect it. I should like to see the I.L.P., and the U.D.C., and the N.U.R. the miners, the trans- port workers, the postmen, and the police all interest- ing themselves in the establishment of a Labour theatre. I should like to see the Clyde starting a theatre of it own on the lines of the Dublin Abbev Theatre. It would THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 11 soon produce a school of playwrights, just as the Abbey Theatre has produced a school of playwrights. Synge did not create the Abbey Theatre ; the Abbey Theatre through Mr. Yeats discovered Synge. I believe this latter point to be very important. When some months ago I first began trying to interest my acquaintances in the project of starting "The People's Theatre Society," I was frequently met by the objection, "Oh, but there are no plays!" My contention was and still is that if an organisation can only be formed which will produce them, the plays will quickly enough make their appearance. Play writing is "in the air." It is impossible that authors of the younger generation who have ideas to express should long resist the temptation to express them in dramatic form. A wave of interest in, and enthusi- asm for the theatre is sweeping across Europe, carrying with it almost every writer who has not allowed himself to escape from life into the stagnation of some artistic backwater. The plays will be written. I hope that "The People's Theatre Society" will help to bring them to light, and, by giving trial performances of them, do some of the preliminary spadework which will be neces- sary before the people 's theatre proper can be established in England on a permanent basis. DOUGLAS GOLDRING. August, 1919. THE PEOPLE IN THE PLAY THE VERY REV. SAMUEL SLAUGHTER, Dean of Devizes. MRS. SLAUGHTER. MRS. LAMBERT. MARGARET LAMBERT (her daughter). Miss ELEANOR LAMBERT (Margaret's aunt). CAPTAIN MICHAEL HENDERSON. PHILIP HENDERSON. OLIVER BEECHING. Two Maidservants. The action takes place in London during the first week of August, 1918. The scene of the first and fourth Acts is a room in Miss LAMBERT'S house in Cheyne Walk; of the second Act, a room in PHILIP HENDERSON 's flat in Campden Hill; of the third Act, the drawing-room of MRS. LAMBERT'S house in Kensington Square. 12 The Fight for Freedom ACT I The dining-room of Miss ELEANOR LAMBERT'S house in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. Fireplace, left centre. At the back of the room is a long table covered with a white linen tablecloth loaded with things to eat and drink, and shining with plates, glasses, and decanters. Miss LAMBERT is giving a small evening party. The room is comfortably furnished, the pictures are good, and the plain wall-paper, of a curious shade of peacock blue, indicates that the owner of the house is not unmindful that Whistler was once one of her neighbours. When the curtain rises most of the guests have finished their supper and gone upstairs; ~but five of them THE DEAN OF DEVIZES and his wife, MRS. LAMBERT, MARGARET LAMBERT, and PHILIP HENDERSON are still eating. PHILIP HENDERSON and MARGARET are discovered stand- ing in front of the buffet, with their backs to the audience. THE DEAN, MRS. LAMBERT, and MRS. SLAUGHTER, holding coffee-cups in their hands and munching sandwiches, form a group in the front centre of the stage. MRS. LAMBERT is a stout, good-natured woman of fifty- five. She wears a blonde wig, and her habitual ex- pression denotes helplessness, placidity, and trust. Her trust in THE DEAN OF DEVIZES has remained 13 14 unshaken for fully thirty years. In her religious life he takes the place which is usually accorded to the Deity. THE DEAN is an imposing figure. His hair is white, his face rubicund, his voice loud and dogmatic. He is proud of his military bearing. (He was a subaltern in a cavalry regiment previous to his ordina- tion.) MRS. SLAUGHTER is a small, wiry woman with an acid manner, a thin penetrating voice, and a perpetual cold in the head. Her clothes have a suggestion of the uniform about them. They are not a uniform, however. She is a patron of various war activities, and in particular presides over a nursing home for officers suffering from shell-shock. THE DEAN (irritably, looking into his coffee-cup). If there is one thing I dislike more than another it is luke- warm coffee. MRS. LAMBERT. Do put that down, Samuel, and have a glass of port wine? Do! MRS. SLAUGHTER. Samuel has taken King George's pledge, Mary. He will touch no alcohol till the end of the war (sniff). MRS. LAMBERT (looking up at THE DEAN with dewy eyes). Oh, that is splendid of you. THE DEAN. Not at all. The least one can do, in my position, is to set a good example. I think the public indifference to the King's patriotic self-sacrifice in re- gard to drink is simply scandalous. The whole nation ought to have followed his lead. ('THE DEAN at this moment happens to look over his shoulder. There is an THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 15 awkward pause while they watch, PHILIP HENDERSON pouring some soda water into a tumbler containing a very little whisky, and handing it to MARGARET. ) MRS. SLAUGHTER. Really, when it comes to girls tak- ing whiskies and sodas, Mary, it is time to call a halt (sniff). THE DEAN. I must say I am surprised at you, Mary, allowing such a thing! I don't like the way Margaret is going on at all. I baptised her and I prepared her for confirmation, so perhaps I may be forgiven er for mentioning the matter ! MRS. LAMBERT (reduced almost to tears). My dear Samuel, what can I do? I don't know what has come over the girls since the war started. They have become absolutely unmanageable as far as their poor mothers are concerned. MRS. SLAUGHTER. I must say many of them have been perfectly splendid the girls in my hospital (sniff), for example. MRS. LAMBERT (bridling). Well, I'm told that nurs- ing is by no means all that it might be ; neither is show- ing Westminster Abbey to the Anzacs. As for this ' ' land army" business, it seems to give them all a prance like young cart-horses. And I must say I do not like the Wacks. They cross their legs in their mother's drawing- rooms and blow cigarette smoke in everyone's face! Then, again, I disapprove of the way they drive motor cars all over the country, with young staff officers sitting next to them. (With heat.) I can't believe it's right, even if a war is on. I'm glad Margaret has taken up art, even though it has brought her into contact with some odd people. 16 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM THE DEAN. Well, well, there is no accounting for taste, Mary. But I should have thought you would have preferred your daughter to go in for some branch of war work, particularly as she is engaged to be married to a soldier who is gallantly defending his country. If some of the specimens who are here to-night may be taken as examples, her new acquaintances are certainly questionable some of them look highly undesir- able! MRS. SLAUGHTER. Eleanor and I have known each other for many years; but I must say I think she is hardly the right influence for Margaret just now. MRS. LAMBERT. I don't see what I can do, Janey. Margaret is devoted to Eleanor, and she considers herself quite old enough to choose her own associates, apart from the fact that Eleanor is the child's aunt! MRS. SLAUGHTER. I'm very fond of Eleanor myself, Mary; but you must admit that she was always most unbalanced. MRS. LAMBERT. How can I interfere? I try my hardest to keep pace with Margaret; but mothers have not got a chance nowadays. It's no good. If you were a mother, Janey, you would understand. THE DEAN. H 'm ! I think I had better have a little chat with Margaret later on in the evening. I don't like all those writers and painters those so-called ar- tists. How did they get their exemptions, I ask myself? They looked to me like Socialists pro-Germans, even conscientious objectors! It isn't fair to Michael to let the girl run wild. After all, I baptised Margaret my- self and I prepared her for confirmation ! perhaps I had better go over and speak to her now . . . THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 17 MRS. LAMBERT (in an ecstasy of nervousness). Oh, please don't, Samuel. At any rate not this evening; she would never forgive me. And, after all, Michael will be home to-morrow. THE DEAN. What? Michael home to-morrow? Why was I not informed, may I ask? MRS. LAMBERT. We only heard yesterday, ourselves. He ought to be with us to-morrow morning. He got seven days' leave quite unexpectedly. Isn't it splendid? THE DEAN. Well, I 'm delighted to hear it delighted. I hope he'll give Margaret a sound talking to. (Sltty.) You know it would be the best thing that could possibly happen if they were married before he goes back. MRS. LAMBERT (with gloomy forebodings). He has been away a long time eighteen months. I am afraid he will find Margaret very much changed. THE DEAN. Changed? In what way? MRS. SLAUGHTER. It's not difficult to guess (sniff). MRS. LAMBERT (with a sigh of perplexity and help- lessness). There's no denying that Margaret has al- tered very much during the past year or more. She comes out with the most extraordinary ideas sometimes revolutionary ideas! She quite frightens me. THE DEAN. This is really scandalous, scandalous! I thought those unkempt-looking men and those disorderly women were tainted with pacifism and revolution. I knew it ! I am never mistaken ! They are the enemies of all decency and order, those sort of people . . . MARGARET and PHILIP HENDERSON leave the buffet car- rying their plates and glasses, and overhear the end of THE DEAN'S remarks. 18 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM PHILIP HENDERSON is a man of thirty-six, clean-shaven, wears eyeglasses. He has an easy, jovial manner and an outlook of humorous cynicism of the kind which flourishes in the Treasury, of which he is a first-class clerk. MARGARET LAMBERT is a very beautiful, fair girl, medium height. She is just twenty-two, and her character is as yet unformed, except in so far as a capacity for capturing male admiration constitutes a part of it. Her outlook on life is eager and idealistic, and she is innocent and unspoiled without being ignorant. PHILIP HENDERSON (offering a plate of sandwiches to DEAN SLAUGHTER,). Have a sandwich, sir. Foie gras! THE DEAN (sternly). Thank you (takes two). MARGARET. Oh, do tell me who the "enemies of decency and order" are? I was thrilled. THE DEAN. These traitors of Socialists, my dear. I hope you will have nothing to do with them. MARGARET (laughing). Now at last I know what "landing troops to restore order" means. Of course it means sending soldiers to suppress Socialism. I wonder what would happen if the soldiers, instead of suppress- ing it, were to catch the germ themelves? THE DEAN. The soldiers our soldiers, at any rate have a great deal too much sense, Margaret. You ask Michael when you see him. MARGARET. H'm, yes. I suppose Michael wouldn't be likely to catch the germ. THE DEAN. He certainly would not. Nor will he be pleased to know that you have been consorting with Socialists in his absence. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 19 MARGARET (gaily). But I'm a Socialist, Dean. In fact, I believe I'm a Bolshevik! Whatever shall I do? I can hardly leave off consorting with myself. MRS. LAMBERT (in despair). Margaret, don't be so foolish ! THE DEAN. You and I will have to have a talk to- gether, my child. This is no laughing matter. I feel a deep sense of responsibility. Remember I baptised you and prepared you for confirmation. (PHILIP and MARGARET make faces at one another.) MRS. SLAUGHTER. I really think we ought to go back to the drawing-room. Eleanor will be looking for us. MRS. LAMBERT. Yes, I'm sure we ought. (Exit THE DEAN, MRS. SLAUGHTER, MRS. LAMBERT ) MARGARET. Phew! Stupid old geyser! He talks about Socialists as if they were criminals! "What busi- ness is it of his or of Michael's either whom I choose to consort with! I'm not a schoolgirl any longer. Mi- chael hasn't won me in a raffle. How can I help it if the old fool "baptised me and prepared me for confirma- tion"? (she mimics THE DEAN'S tones.) PHILIP. Margaret, I'm afraid you've no proper re- spect for the dear Dean. MARGARET (pouting prettily, "but really very much annoyed). Oh, damn the dar Dean! I think it's too bad the way mother talks about me to that old figure- head, as if I were a child of six. Surely I 'm old enough to choose my own friends! Besides, I'm years older than she is ! I wonder why it is that parents will never realise that their children are their seniors. We begin, 20 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM mentally, at the point where they leave off. (Signs.) I suppose that is what makes everything so difficult! PHILIP (walks to buffet and pours some whisky from a decanter, measuring the amount carefully). Mustn't exceed my ration! MARGARET. However, it's just as well for the family that they should have one link with the future. When the social revolution breaks out in England they will rush to us for help. And what will the Dean do then poor thing! PHILIP (chuckling). What, that bally old revolution stunt still going strong! I suppose they are all devils for merit, these geniuses with red ties. But it seems a pity they don 't do a bit more and talk a bit less. MARGARET (as if repeating a lesson). Well, at all events, they have ideas in their heads and something to talk about. They are real people; they think things out for themselves. They don't take their ideas ready- made from the leading articles in the Daily Mail! They haven't only one dreary set of parrot-cries. They have the courage of their opinions, too. In this war for freedom they are the only people who are not slaves, who still have ideals and who are trying to save the remnants of humanity, when the world has gone mad, and our boasted civilisation . . . PHILIP. ... is crumbling to pieces beneath our feet! Oh, my dear girl, don't go on ! I can do all that patter standing on my head. In my youth, for my sins, I was a member of the Fabian Society I, even I ! MARGARET (sweetly). More shame to you then, that's all I can say. (Starting off again.) We went into this "war for liberty" with fine ideals at least the nation THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 21 did. What are we fighting for now ? for coal and iron, and indemnities, and annexations, just like our enemies ! The whole world is enslaved by militarist governments. If even the Fabians have lost their faith and thrown over their old beliefs, no wonder the mob has been swept off its feet. But there are some who have stood firm. PHILIP ( wit In sudden feeling, and also with a sense of dramatic effect). There are, indeed. . . . Their bones lie scattered round the ruins of Ypres. But for a lucky chance Michael's dead body would be lying there, too. But, I suppose, you never think of that. MARGARET. Why must you play to the gallery, Philip, even when you are talking alone to me? The people you would call the peace cranks are the only people, it seems to me, who ever do think of these things. The patriots and their press won't be satisfied till the whole of Europe is one vast graveyard, and there is no one left alive except munition makers, old men, women, children, and a few millions of lazy tjrovernment officials. PHILIP. Steady, Margaret. Pity the poor official S.O.S.! MARGARET. All right; I'll let you off, silly. You are much too fat and comfortable to take seriously. But come and sit over here and try to be aa serious as you can. I do wish Oliver Beeching would turn up. He said he'd be late; but it's nearly half -past ten. His meeting must be over by this time. PHILIP. Meetings! Oh, good Lord, Margaret, what has come over you? And who is Oliver Beeching, if I may ask without impertinence? MARGARET. A friend ... a great friend. 22 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM PHILIP. Margaret, do you still regard me as a ' ' great friend" ... a real friend . . . one you can talk to frankly? MARGARET. Yes. PHILIP. Then, my dear girl ... do set my mind at rest. Is there anything in all this that will affect you and Michael? MARGARET. I'm glad you asked me. I didn't dare broach the subject on my own account. Philip, I am utterly miserable ... I don't know what to do ... but I know I shall never be able to marry Michael. PHILIP. Good Lord! MARGARET. We should never agree. It would be hopeless from the start. I have been going to write to him for months past to break off our engagement. But I have kept on putting it off. Now I must write to him to-night, so that he gets the letter on his arrival. And it seems so cruel, so heartless. But what can I do? Surely it is better to be honest. PHILIP. It will be a bad jag for the poor fellow, that's certain. But are you sure it won't be different when you see him? He has been away a long time, I know . . . and out of sight is out of mind. Margaret, write to him if you like, but don't refuse to see him. Promise me that. MARGARET. Oh, of course we shall meet as usual. PHILIP. I don't mean "as usual" . . . but some- where where you can talk. Give the poor fellow his chance, Margaret. MARGARET. I suppose I oughtn't to funk it. But I know it won't be any use. So much has happened dur- THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 23 ing the long time he has been away. I have changed so completely. My whole outlook on ... everything, has altered. PHILIP. Have you said anything about this to your mother? MARGARET. No, I haven't spoken about it to anyone except Aunt Eleanor. PHILIP. Oh, Aunt Eleanor. And what does she say ? MARGARET. Tell the truth. That's her invariable advice in all the difficulties of life. PHILIP. That's all very well in the millennium . . . after you've had your famous social revolution and started your Bolshevik republic; but it's sometimes deuced uncomfortable at the present moment . . . un- less, of course, you do it by instalments. MARGARET. Philip, when you see Michael at the sta- tion to-morrow morning, couldn't you prepare him for my letter? . . . Couldn't you tell him what has hap- pened in your own way? . . . Couldn't you give him a first instalment of the truth? PHILIP (sighing). This is really awful Margaret. I 'm very fond of both of you. You I've known nearly all my life. I look on you already as a sister-in-law. I'm really not fitted for these emotional crises. I shall lose my appetite completely. I shall become as thin as a lath ! MARGARET (on the verge of tears). What about me then? I don't know when I've felt so utterly miser- able. PHILIP. I'm not an expert in psychology, my dear, but even I can see there's someone else . . . someone who has had a share in this remarkable change. How- ever, I shall ask no questions. 24 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM (Enter Miss LAMBERT with OLIVER BEECHING. Miss LAMBERT is a woman of sixty, grey-haired, with a thin and willowy figure and rather a forbidding, scornful expression, which disappears when she smiles. She has a direct, occasionally truculent manner, and carries a face-d-main as if it were a lethal weapon. She stabs at the air with it when she is talking. OLIVER BEECHING is a dark, lithe, eager man of thirty, with enthusiastic eyes and a preternaturally serious manner.) Miss LAMBERT. Margaret, will you see that Oliver has something to eat? He has only just turned up, and as the meeting began at seven, I don't suppose he's had any dinner. He's dreadfully absent-minded. Philip, this is Mr. Beeching Mr. Philip Henderson. (They bow.) Don't be too long, Margaret. We are waiting for you to sing. MARGARET (enthusiastically). What was it a meeting of this evening, Oliver? OLIVER. Oh, it called itself "The Freedom League." My sainted Sam, the Freedom League! I had to read 'em a paper on ' ' The Fight for Freedom. ' ' Lot of damn rabbits ! MARGARET (laughingly). Sainted Sam! That's rather a good name for the Dean. Miss LAMBERT. Come along, Philip ; this won't inter- est you. To talk about Freedom to a Government offi- cial is as cruel as pouring cold water on a cat. (Exit PHILIP HENDERSON and Miss LAMBERT .) MARGARET (handing OLIVER food and drink). I do THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 25 wish I could have been there to hear you. "Were there any interruptions this time? OLIVER (in a vile temper, walking up and down the room). Interruptions! Good God, no! They hadn't an interruption in 'em. Why, if they'd had a rotten egg between the lot, there wasn't a man in the room with the guts to throw it! Oh no, that was the worst of it. They were all sympathisers. Mild, be-spectacled cranks, all busy turning the other cheek, and sighing and blinking about liberty of conscience ! Call 'emselves Labour men, too! Members of the I.L.P. ! Trade Unionists! What a crowd! . . . Now, whaft hope have we got of kicking together an active Democracy in this country, when the Labour Party the Labour Party takes office under a Government like this, and allows its leaders to be snubbed, insulted, and dis- missed by Lloyd George, merely for telling the truth? And what a "leader" to put up with it! Why, Labour, if it wasn't utterly servile, if it wasn't made up of men who really are inferior, and are content to remain, so, would have taken over the government of the country years ago. The war would have been ended with hon- our. The capitalists will never end it of their own free will. They daren't. Millions of lives would have been saved. The whole world would have moved one stage nearer freedom. As it is, Labour in England bleats like a feeble sheep, and even munition-makers and newspaper proprietors are allowed to libel its chosen representa- tives. Any kind of corrupt swine, with a medical di- ploma, or a two-penny-ha'penny Government job, can torture and bully the British labourer with the most per- fect impunity. . . . He loves it. MARGARET. Oliver, how can you! 26 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM OLIVER. Because it's true. The working people of England deserve everything they get. They deserve to be made to die for the war aims of the munition-makers. They deserve to be made to lick the dust, touch their hats, grovel and say thank you when their liberties are robbed from them ... in the sacred name of Liberty! They let themselves be bamboozled by the Government agents who masquerade as "patriotic" leaders; they allow their press to be muzzled, and the men and women among them who have an ounce of backbone to be thrown into jail, herded with the lowest criminals, in- sulted by police court magistrates. Those who are not in khaki will lie down under anything so long as they are exempted from the trenches and get an increase of wages. The other poor devils can't help themselves. It's no good, Margaret. As a nation we are rotten to the very heart. The only decent men among us are the poor devils in France; and Democracy at home has simply left them to their fate, thrown them to the wolves. ... I will say this, though, for the long-haired cranks and the meek dissenters they have got the courage of their convictions! They go to jail before they give in! Those few thousand unfortunate honest men may save us yet. I don't know. Germany and Russia are the real hope of the world. Soon Germany will revolt and gain her liberty. She will take English Liberty from us and she will give us Prussian Militarism in exchange! Mark my words: Germany, in defeat, will win the greatest Victory of the War. She will save her own soul. MARGARET. Oliver, I can't bear to hear you running down your own side. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 27 OLIVER. I'm not running 'em down. I'm just ad- mitting the truth about them, in private, to the woman I love. Surely I may do that, mayn't I? MARGARET (softly). Do you know what you said just then? OLIVER (goes to sofa and suddenly kisses MARGARET,). Oh, well, you knew that months ago, you darling ! Don 't pretend you didn't. MARGARET. Well, it's different being told. OLIVER. I can't see any real difference. A fact's a fact. Printing it in the newspapers doesn 't make it any more a fact quite the contrary. Everything about me has been telling you that I love you, for months and months. MARGARET. And what about me? What have I told you? OLIVER (blushing). Oh, well, I don't know. You've put up with it, anyway. Silence gives consent. MARGARET. Oh, dear, it's all my fault! OLIVER. What is? MARGARET. We both seem to have forgotten I'm en- gaged ! OLIVER. Engaged ! Good Lord ! MARGARET. Like a coward I 've never written to break it off. He 's coming home to-morrow on seven days ' leave. I think he wants to marry me before he goes back to the trenches. OLIVER (whistles). Don't want to marry Mm, I sup- pose? MARGARET. Oliver, how can you? It's too bad. After all ... OLIVER. We've omitted to say to one another? 28 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM MARGARET. Well, if you like ; but oh, I do feel such a wretch. I 've behaved rottenly to Michael. He '11 despise me and hate me, and so will everyone who hears of it. OLIVER. Oh, nonsense, baby! It wasn't your fault. It wasn't any of our faults. We couldn't help ourselves. It just happened. After all, an engagement is not the same as marriage. If you don 't really care for him you ought to thank your stars you 've found it out before it 's too late. That is what engagements are for to give people a chance. MARGARET. Yes, I suppose that is so. I certainly hardly knew Michael when we became engaged. It was only a silly school-girl affair. I've changed utterly since those days. Looking back, I hardly recognise my- self. I used to wear the badge of his regiment as a brooch! that alone speaks volumes. OLIVER. Now, Margaret, listen to me, darling. Let's put the cards on the table. Break your engagement with this chap Henderson by all means. It seems an absurd sort of affair anyhow. But beware how you accept me when I propose to you ! MARGARET (laughing). Well, you haven't shown any sign of proposing to me yet, so how do you know I in- tend to accept you? OLIVER. Well, one does know these things. MARGARET. Conceit ! OLIVER. Well, will you? MARGARET (archly). Will I what? OLIVER. Marry me, of course? MARGARET. It isn 't fair to ... OLIVER. I know. That is just what I was saying when you interrupted me. It isn't fair, unless you THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 29 understand what you are letting yourself in for. As far as your people and your whole family and social circle is concerned, I'm in the enemy's camp ; and if you marry me they'll think you a traitor. Your mother's friend, the dear Dean, will go to the police about it! I 'm an electrical engineer, as you know : a kind of extra special artisan, a skilled labourer, in short. My father was a cabinet-maker. A jolly good workman he was, too. But he wasn't a gentleman, thank the Lord! He earned his living, and so do I earn mine. MARGARET. Oliver, how can you! You are mean, to pretend to misunderstand me when I said "it wasn't fair." I meant it wasn't fair to put a leading question . . . and make me say, ''yes, I will," right out like that just as if we were in church. OLIVER. My dear, I don't want you to say you will, unless you know what you are doing. Henderson is rich, and I'm not. He's a soldier; I'm a revolutionary working-class agitator. If you jilt him for me, your family and his family will turn and rend you. They'll also point out quite rightly that it's bad business. MARGARET (tearfully). I don't believe you really want me. As if I should care whether we are rich or poor. In any case I've got enough for both of us. I don't care if you only make thirty shillings a week. OLIVER (shocked). Thirty shillings a week! I'd have you to understand, young woman, that when I'm not wasting my time on public platforms I make eight pounds a week, and earn every penny of it. Thirty shillings, indeed! You evidently think I'm the same kind of slave as the fools I'm always girding against. Not me, thank you. What I really want to find out is 30 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM whether you are good enough for the life I offer you. Can you face the world of To-morrow, or will you turn and look back like Lot's wife, and with the same un- fortunate results at Yesterday? That's what I want to know. MARGARET (puzzled and resentful). You aren't very encouraging, I must say! I should have thought I was good enough for anybody. OLIVER. I'm not going to kiss you again ... at least not yet. If we admit that you are good enough, are you strong enough? It means a very complete break with everything that you are used to. It will demand of you plenty of energy and activity, plenty of hard work. It will entail a fair share of danger and hardship. It means, in a word, crossing the gulf which separates people of your particular class and up- bringing from the rest of the world, which includes, among a great many other people, people of my class and upbringing. MARGARET. I believe you think that nobody has the least intelligence, or is capable of using their brains, except yourself. You are the most irritating creature I 've ever met. OLIVER; Then you think you can face the disadvan- tages and all the disagreeables of life that really is life ? (Sadly.) I wonder! MARGARET. Of course I can. I 've got, perhaps, more endurance than you suppose. I think it's horrid of you to go on like this. (Indignantly.) If you despise me, why do you pretend you care for me? OLIVER. I don't despise you, idiot. But I want to make sure that you really are of a sufficiently robust THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 31 constitution to be able to face, with impunity, the keen air of a life that's free, and open, and unsafe! To make sure that if you unpack yourself from the cotton-wool with which you have always been surrounded, you won't catch cold! MARGARET. You talk to me as if I were just a spoilt and pampered child. I'm a human being, Oliver. I've got some sort of a mind, and will . . . and heart. OLIVER (sits down on sofa and looks at Tier). And do you know why I'm talking to you like this? It's just because I love you, Margaret, love you so much that I want to find out if we are likely to remain good com- rades all our lives. MARGARET (pouting). You say you love me, and yet you don't trust me! You think I'm just a weak fool who doesn 't know what she 's doing ! I don 't believe you understand me one little bit. OLIVER. No, darling, I don't suppose I do. That is what worries me! You are living on the surface, as you have always lived. You don't know what is under- neath that pretty surface; neither do I. Nor do you know what sort of person I really am. You don't know why you like me. We are comparative strangers who happen to feel a strong attraction to one another. "We don't really know why. MARGARET. You aren't a stranger to me anyway, silly. I know you better than you know yourself, and a thousand times better than I ever knew Michael Henderson. He is a " comparative stranger," if you like. OLIVER. Good Lord! I keep forgetting that un- 32 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM fortunate Henderson. AVhat are you going to do about him? MARGARET. I'm going to write to-night and ask him to release me . . . and I suppose I shall have to see him. You'll think me a fearful little coward, I expect, but I dread the interview. OLIVER. Wish I hadn't to go to Glasgow to-morrow. I shall be away for nearly a week, too. Otherwise I could have gone with you, or waited outside to pick up the pieces. MARGARET. Oliver. OLIVER. Yes, darling. MARGARET. Do you know that I love you? OLIVER (thoughtfully). Ah! ... do you? (They kiss.) MARGARET. I really think I'm the happiest woman who ever lived ! (Enter PHILIP HENDERSON hurriedly, just too late to see them.) PHILIP. Oh, there you are, Margaret! Still eating and drinking. Well, I'm blest ... in war-time, too! I've just been sent down to round you up. The party is clamouring for you to sing to it. Will you ? MARGARET (radiantly). Sing! Why, of course I will. I feel as if I could lift the roof off ! Come on, both of you, and hear me. (She runs off the stage, left, followed by PHILIP and OLIVER.,) (Curtain.) ACT II The afternoon of the following day. The scene is a com- fortably furnished sitting-room in PHILIP HENDER- SON'S flat in Campden Hill. Door, back centre. Fireplace, right. At right angles to the fire (facing the audience) is a big chesterfield sofa. Against the wall, to the left of the door, is an oak sideboard. The pictures and books show signs of the artistic veneer which is now almost universal among our bureaucracy. When the curtain rises PHILIP HEN- DERSON is lolling in an armchair with his legs crossed, looking at his brother, CAPTAIN MICHAEL HENDER- SON, who is sitting rather stiffly on the sofa. MI- CHAEL HENDERSON, who is in uniform, is a tall, lean man with a small, dark moustache, a complexion deeply tanned by exposure, and the eyes of a mad- man. His glance makes his brother secretly uneasy, and as he sits in his armchair he avoids MICHAEL'S eyes as much as he can. MICHAEL. What time did she say she would be here ? PHILIP. Four o'clock. MICHAEL (looks at his watch). Another quarter of an hour. PHILIP. She's sure to be twenty minutes late she always is. MICHAEL (sharply). You seem to know! Been keep- ing the home fires burning, I suppose ? PHILIP. Oh, dry up, Michael! Chuck it! You are taking this business all wrong. I know it's hard luck. 33 34 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM I would give anything for it not to have happened. But I give you my word of honour that I knew nothing whatever about it till Margaret told me herself last night at Miss Lambert's. If I had known before, I would have written to warn you. MICHAEL. Very kind of you, I'm sure. However, I 've not done with Margaret yet not by any means. PHILIP. Come, take it philosophically, old chap. It's no good my attempting to soften the blow: I'm afraid she 's done with you. There's another fellow. Some sort of a Socialist, I believe, but I can't remember his name. If I were you, I'd make the best of a bad job. Margaret isn't the only pretty girl in the world. You '11 get over it. MICHAEL. Margaret was mine before I went to France. She shall be mine now I've come back alive, for seven days! PHILIP (sighs 'helplessly). If you take my tip, old chap, you won't worry your head about her more than you can help. It's damned hard lines, but it isn't any- body's fault. Margaret was awfully cut up about it. She felt she ought to have told you before. . . . All the same, you can't bully her into loving you if she doesn't. MICHAEL (bitterly). I suppose some elegant official with plenty of time on his hands has been diverting him- self in his leisure moments. While we poor devils spend our days in rat-infested trenches, tasting the delights of several hundred different kinds of hell, your comfort- able colleagues run about seducing our women. PHILIP. Good heavens! he isn't one of my colleagues. He's a Socialist, I tell you. MICHAEL. Whose name you can't remember! PHILIP. Now, my dear boy, don't, for God's sake, THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 35 start that kind of talk. You'll only spoil your leave, and have a rotten time when you might be enjoying yourself. Margaret has changed enormously during the last year and a half, and it isn't her fault or ours. She has grown up. She has got all kinds of mad ideas into her head; thinks the war ought to stop, and that kind of thing. She practically lives at Eleanor Lambert's house now. MICHAEL (bitterly). Catch a Government official thinking the war ought to end! Unless a few of your fat friends get hanged on lamp-posts the war will never stop, without a revolution here or in Germany. Every soldier knows that. We sha'n't quarrel on that point anyway. Go on, please. PHILIP. All I can tell you is that Margaret is as obstinate as they make 'em. You'll only waste your precious seven days if you don 't accept what I 'm afraid is the inevitable. MICHAEL. I shall not surrender Margaret without a fight ; even if I have to put a bullet through the neck of this damned thief. PHILIP. Don't look so ferocious, for Heaven's sake! He isn't a damned thief. Quite a harmless youth, I assure you. The incarnation of the Nonconformist conscience! After all, Margaret isn't a piece of real estate. She's a human being with the right to dispose of herself as she pleases. If she has the bad taste to prefer this young man to you, there's nothing to be done except grin and bear it with your usual dignity. Do drop this Adelphi melodrama line ... it's out of date, old chap. MICHAEL. Do you think so? If what you call violence is out of date, what do you suppose twenty 36 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM million men are occupied in at the present moment on the continent of Europe? You stay here safely on this island, with the British Army and Navy to protect you, and you imagine the world is going on the same as before. It isn't. (Gets up and begins walking about the room.) If you set men to kill each other for your comfort, you must expect to find 'em altered when they return. If you think I shall allow Margaret to be stolen from me behind my back, without lifting a finger, you must be raving. PHILIP. That's all very well, Michael. She is coming here to see you. By all means try to win her back, make love to her again and that kind of thing. But remember she has the right to give her love freely to whoever she pleases. She is of age; she is her own mistress. Prussian methods of courtship, as you ought to know yourself, don't work. MICHAEL. Don't they? How do you know? PHILIP. "Well, anyway, it is not a criminal offence to break off an engagement. Some people would regard it as criminal for a woman to let things go on, if her feelings have altered. Margaret is a splendidly honest and straightforward girl, I will say that for her. She feels the whole situation most keenly. The fact that she agreed to this meeting proves it. It must have required a good deal of pluck on her part. MICHAEL. You are a funny crowd, you stay-at-homes. You are like children playing blissfully in fairyland. You don't know what life means, Philip, till you have faced death day after day, week after week, month after month. All the old delusions get shattered to pieces. The small terrors of ordinary life cease to exist. Do THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 37 you really expect me to stand by and let some Socialist fellow swindle me out of all my hopes of happiness? I claim what would have been mine if I had not been sent to France. PHILIP. I do wish you wouldn't talk like the heavy villain, Michael. These things will occur in war time as well as in peace. You can't alter human nature. Look at the things which happened during the South African war ! After all, it isn 't as if you had married Margaret and then come home to find an unexpected addition to the family. She isn't yours. She never has been yours. . . . MICHAEL. Yes, she has. . . . PHILIP. Rot ! There 's all the difference in the world between an engagement and a marriage. Why, good Lord, I 've been engaged myself I don 't know how many times. I've certainly been jilted twice. The other times it ... just lapsed. But I certainly didn't rush round breathing fire and slaughter on my hated rivals. MICHAEL (grimly). No. You wouldn't do that, Philip. PHILIP. Too much common sense, old boy. Women aren't worth it. They are like omnibuses there's always another one coming. No, you come out on the spree with me to-night, Michael, and enjoy yourself like a sensible chap. After all, you can have a lot of fun in seven days. . . . MICHAEL (contemptuously). What an immoral fellow you are! Shall I tell you what I did this morning? I discovered how to get an emergency marriage licence. I intend to marry Margaret Lambert before I go back to France. I am afraid I can't accept your kind invita- 38 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM tion to wallow in the stews. It wouldn't be fair to my future wife. PHILIP (impatiently). It's all very well to get on your high horse, but the girl has refused to marry you. She has transferred her affections, very foolishly, I ad- mit, to someone else. You can't marry her against her will. MICHAEL. That shows how little you understand women, Philip. Have you never heard of marriage by capture? Our ancestors hadn't these modern notions . . . and, fundamentally, human nature hasn't changed in the slightest degree with the passage of the ages. Women, all women, love a master. I could tell you curious stories to illustrate this point, but I refrain out of respect for your feelings. We soldiers get to know human nature in the raw, as it really is. You only see it covered up in the cheap frills of your rotten civilisa- tion. I have no fears about Margaret once she is mar- ried to me. It is the first step which counts with a woman as with everything else. Margaret is owed to me by England: I have a right to her; I don't intend to give her up. If you've any decent feeling left in you, Philip, you'll stand by me. PHILIP. Bless my soul, Margaret has changed a lot; but you've changed more. I'm hanged if I recognise you at all, old chap. I'll stand by you, of course, but I must stand by you both. I '11 keep the ring and see fair play. I wish you luck, Michael. None but the brave, etc. All the same, don't forget the game has rules. MICHAEL (laughing). Oh, I won't forget. But I warn you I may break them all. All's fair in love and war, you know. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 39 PHILIP (reassured by MICHAEL'S joking tone). By Jove, I believe you 've been pulling my leg all this time. I was getting quite nervous. If I didn't know that, in spite of your ferocious talk, you are the same old chivalrous fellow you always used to be, I'm hanged if I'd allow Margaret to visit you alone in my flat! I'd stay and play gooseberry by Gad, I would! As it is, I'd better give you my blessing and retire, or I shall meet her on the stairs. (A ring is heard.) Good Lord! there she is. MICHAEL (his eyes glittering curiously). Well, why don't you let her in? (PHILIP goes to the front door of the flat and throws it open.) PHILIP. Well, Mar . . . Good heavens! the Dean ... I mean, how do you do, sir? THE DEAN (striding into the room, rather annoyed with his reception). How are you, Michael? (Shakes hands.) You both seem very surprised to see me, I must say. MICHAEL. Not at all, Dean delighted. THE DEAN. As an old friend of your parents, Mi- chael, and of Margaret's parents, I felt I must be among the first to welcome you home. You are looking splendid, my boy splendid ! MICHAEL. That's very nice of you, sir. THE DEAN (stretching himself in the most comfort- able armchair). Well, it looks as if we had them on the run at last, eh? Stirring times! Magnificent! What an ennobling and purifying effect this war is having on the 40 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM nation! I envy you your privilege, Michael. I wish I were your age, and in your shoes! MICHAEL (sourly). That's a safe wish, sir. You will never be my age, and so you will never have to be in my shoes. Perhaps you. wouldn't envy me so much if you were. THE DEAN (startled). Ah! I know exactly how you feel, my boy. It is all too near, too terrible. . . . But wait till it is all over, and you are marching to Berlin at the head of your men. Then you will be proud and happy to think of the part you took in the great fight for freedom. MICHAEL. Perhaps. I shall postpone my rejoicings for the present, anyway. Sometimes I think I would sooner march on to London, at the head of my men, than on to Berlin. THE DEAN (beaming with pleasure). Oh yes! what a day that will be for us all! What a welcome our brave fellows will receive! MICHAEL. Der tag, in fact! THE DEAN (impressively). A heavy responsibility has been laid on the Church during these historic times. The Church has had to prepare the nation spiritually for the ordeal of battle. . . . And it will have to take its part a leading part in reconstruction. MICHAEL. (Conventional good manners cause him to make an effort to conceal his boredom. Every now and then he looks at PHILIP, who is hovering behind THE DEAN'S chair, and makes a grimace of misery). It will have its work cut out ! THE DEAN. Undoubtedly, Michael . . . undoubtedly. But the Church has been far from idle during the war, THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 41 you know. It has organised itself on a sound, progres- sive basis. We have kept ourselves up to date we have marched with the times. Why, we have had to make arrangements for the spiritual comfort of millions of our brave lads. No easy task that! We have had to adapt ourselves. MICHAEL, (wearily, but with venom). I believe you, sir. THE DEAN (warming to this theme). Personally, I was in favour of releasing our younger men for service in the trenches. I wrote to the Times about it. But I had to bow to the Archbishop on that point. . . . Yes, I had to bow to the Archbishop. . . . MICHAEL. So the Church wasn't combed out after all! Whatever was the Daily Mail thinking of? THE DEAN. Oh, the Daily Mail inspired, possibly, by my few words in the Times did take the matter up to some extent. A most patriotic paper in spite of its occasional defects of style. But the Archbishop's veto was final. Perhaps he was right. After all, the Church has its special work to perform encouragement, succour, spiritual consolation. All the same, it was hard on the younger clergy very hard. PHILIP (bravely attempting a diversion). I say, Dean, I wonder if you and Mrs. Slaughter could lunch with me here on Thursday ? the day after to-morrow. Then you and Michael could have a good long talk about everything. . . . Just now, Michael . . . THE DEAN. That's very good of you, Philip; we shall be delighted. And I hope dear Margaret will be one of the party and this really brings me to the object of my call, Michael. It is really Margaret about whom 42 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM I want to talk to you. You know I feel to some extent in loco parentis in regard to that dear child. I am in a very special sense her spiritual father. I baptised her and I myself prepared her for her confirmation, so that we are very near to one another very near. I confess I am alarmed about her, Michael. MICHAEL (rising, in the hope of dislodging THE DEAN,). We must have a good long chat on Thursday, sir. I shall look forward to it. I hope you won't think me inhospitable, but I have rather an important appoint- ment in a few minutes. THE DEAN. My dear boy, I am so sorry. I am afraid I must have called at a very inopportune moment. Can we go along together ? My car is at the door now. MICHAEL. Oh, thanks very much, sir. But I have one or two things to see to here, before I start. THE DEAN. "Well, good-bye till Thursday. (Shakes hands with MICHAEL. ) I am really very much alarmed about Margaret. I am afraid she has got into the hands of some highly undesirable people Socialists, and so on". But you will soon put all that nonsense out of her head, I'm sure. It's a blessing you've come home. Take my advice, Michael, leave nothing to chance this time. Settle it up at once. MICHAEL (grimly). That's exactly what I mean to do, sir. We must talk things over on Thursday. Good- bye for the present. I sha'n't forget your advice. PHILIP (hustling DEAN SLAUGHTER out of the flat). I wonder if you could drop me in Pall Mall ? THE DEAN. With pleasure, Philip, particularly as my own destination happens to be the Athenaeum. (Exit PHILIP and THE DEAN.J THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 43 MICHAEL (heaves a sigh of relief and stares for some moments at the closed door). Phew! (He walks across to the sofa and sits down meditatively. Then he pulls a small box like a snuff-box from his trousers pocket, opens it, and puts it back. Then he gets up, walks to the sideboard and produces a champagne bottle and two glasses which he leaves in readiness. He returns to the sofa and waits in silence, glancing at the clock. At five minutes past four a knock is heard at the outer door. He goes out of the room, leaving the room door open, and admits MARGARET. Their greeting is heard in the passage.) MICHAEL. Margaret! At last! MARGARET. Michael! (She enters the room, followed by MICHAEL. Turning towards him.) Am I fearfully late? MICHAEL. Better late than never. As a matter of fact, you just gave me time to get rid of the Dean. MARGARET. Not Sainted Sam? What an escape! Just fancy if I had run into him! (Sits down on sofa.) MICHAEL. You missed him by about two minutes. (Sarcastically.) He talked about the ennobling and puri- fying influence which the war has had on the British nation and the marvellous adaptability shown by the Church of England. Philip and I were fairly caught without our masks gassed. What he really came for, though, was to talk about you. MARGARET. I like his cheek. I wish he would mind his own business. 44 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM MICHAEL. Oh, parsons are like that (slirugs his shoulders. Then offers MARGARET a cigarette and takes one himself.) (Sharply.) So I Ve stayed away too long, eh, my dear? MARGARET (her nervousness apparent). Michael, I wish with all my heart I hadn't to welcome you like this. MICHAEL. I can't pretend it isn't a blow. MARGARET. I would have told you before, but things have happened so very gradually. All the time you have been away I have been, I suppose, growing up, changing; and I've grown up altogether different from the child you knew. It wasn't to be helped, Michael . . . one's brain seems to have nothing to do with these things. It's just Fate. MICHAEL (bitterly). No, we can't help ourselves. Our actions seem to be planned for us ahead. We carry out our orders and we imagine we give the orders our- selves. We don 't. God or the Devil is our Master ! MARGARET (looks at MICHAEL with startled eyes, apprehensive. The ivords "shell-shock" form themselves on her lips). Michael, forgive me. Let's be friends, at least. But you are queer. There's such a strange look in your eyes. MICHAEL. My eyes have looked on strange things since they last looked on you, Margaret. Have you ever thought about what my life has been all this long time? Have you ever thought of the cold, the wet, the monotony, the ear-splitting noise, the unendurable, ines- capable smell of death, the smell of the dead mouldering bodies of one's own friends? MARGARET. I'm always thinking of it always. That's what makes things so terribly difficult! THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 45 MICHAEL. Perhaps I've changed as much as you have, Margaret. Take back your decision for a day or two! You owe me that much surely. It isn't a great deal to ask two or three days' grace. At the end of that time, if you are still certain that you don 't care for me any more, you can tell me so and I sha'n't grumble. (Goes over to the sofa and takes MARGARET'S hand. She represses a shudder.) MARGARET. Oh, it isn't any use, Michael. It would only be cruel to you and unfair to me. It isn't only that I've changed . . . but oh, why do you make me say it ? I have begun to care for another man. MICHAEL (grimly). You've changed your mind once. How do you know you may not change it again ? MARGARET. Michael, don't torture me, I beg of you. I am bitterly sorry for what has happened. I would give anything for things to have fallen out differently. After all you have been through to have to treat you like this is an agony to me. But I can't help it. One can't love to order. No one can control their affections. MICHAEL (looking at her curiously). Aha! That's interesting. I agree with you absolutely. No one can control his affections ! MARGARET (her nervousness increasing). I am sure of it. If I could have controlled mine, do you think I would have treated you like this? Indeed I wouldn't. But, Michael, love is something that can only exist in absolute freedom. You may shame or coerce people into marrying, but never into loving. And marriage without love is a defilement, an unclean thing. So that is why it seems to me that, at whatever cost, it is better to be honest. My dear, I was a child when you and I met; 46 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM but I 'm not a child any longer. I must be free. If one is honest about love one has to be ... a little ruthless. MICHAEL (smiling). You admit that, then . . . that an honest love is ruthless? MARGARET (on the verge of tears). Don't cross-exam- ine me, Michael, I beg of you. You don't know what it has meant to me to come here and tell you this, alone. It wasn 't easy, I assure you. My knees knocked together with nervousness so that I could hardly walk. ( MICHAEL is caught in a sudden gust of sexual ferocity. Her nearness has 'become a torment to him. His eyes devour Tier body disrobingly and fasten on the contour of Tier breast. He has great difficulty in controlling himself. His voice shakes when he speaks.) MICHAEL. So your little white knees shook, did they ... as you came to tell the man who loves you that you have thrown him over? And your little bosom, that thinks it knows what love is, rose and fell with nervousness, you poor little bird! "What do you know about passion, you sleeping beauty ! I could teach you . . . I could wake you up! And you tell me love is ruthless ! You spoke the truth there, at any rate. ('MARGARET jumps to her feet in great alarm. MICHAEL rises, too, and interposes between her and the door.) MARGARET. Michael, please don't go on like this. T am very sorry for what has happened, but it is absolutely irrevocable. (Softening.) I must go home now. Do let us part friends. (She holds out her hand. He takes it, pulls her towards him, then lets it drop.) THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 47 MICHAEL. There, I'm sorry if I frightened you, my dear. Of course I hope we shall always be friends very great friends. (He looks round, with assumed care- lessness to the sideboard at the back of the room.) Hullo, I'm hanged if Philip hasn't put out a bottle of Moet in a conspicuous place. Isn't that just like him? We mustn't slight his hospitable instincts (goes to side- board). We shall have to drink a glass together before you go for the sake of old times, or else he will be of- fended. You won't refuse me that, Margaret? (He looks at her appealingly. She stands undecided for a moment, then smiles.) MARGARET. Dear old Philip ! he thinks of everything ! (MARGARET returns to the sofa. MICHAEL opens the champagne bottle, with his back to the audience. After a slight pause, when the two glasses are filled, he turns round and hands one of the glasses to MARGARET. He raises his own glass.) MICHAEL. Here's to the future, Margaret yours and mine. MARGARET (lifting her glass and looking at him). Good luck to you, Michael! (She drinks, then looks curiously at the champagne as if it had a queer taste.) MICHAEL (with gusto). By Jove, this is good stuff! What memories it brings back, doesn't it? Do you remember that dance at Oban when the Admiral got so fearfully foxed? That must have been almost our first meeting. How well I remember it ... and it seems a hundred years ago. (He sits down by MAR- GARET'S side.) All the time I have been in France, Margaret, I have thought of this moment looked for- 48 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM ward to it. Luckily, I didn't realise what was ; n store for me. (Sighs.) Margaret, I give you another toast, a last one to finish our glasses! Here's to love, the real love, the love that is ruthless ! (They drink. When her glass is emptied MARGARET suddenly gasps.) MARGARET. Oh, oh, my head! . . . Michael! (The glass falls from her hand. Her head sinks down against the sofa. She sighs deeply and murmurs unintelligible words. MICHAEL rises swiftly, goes to the door, locks it, then comes back, puts his arm round MARGARET'S recumbent body and kisses her.) MICHAEL. Mine ... at last! (Curtain.) The scene is the drawing-room of MRS. LAMBERT'S house in Kensington Square. The furniture is either very middle-aged or ultra-modern, and the mixture of styles gives the room an incongruous appearance. Incidentally it symbolises the difference between MARGARET and her mother. When the curtain rises MRS. LAMBERT is sitting with her spectacles on her nose, reading a letter. (Her spectacles clash with the youthfulness of her blonde wig.) She has been weeping, as her eyelids in- dicate, and when she comes to the end of the letter she sighs deeply and begins it all over again. At last she puts it down, takes off her spectacles and wipes them with her pocket handkerchief. The door is opened by the PARLOUR-MAID. MAID. The Dean of Devizes and Mrs. Slaughter. MRS. LAMBERT. Oh, Janey, I am so glad you've come ! (kisses MRS. SLAUGHTER.^ It is good of you, Samuel. (shakes hands with THE DEANJ THE DEAN. My dear Mary, I was deeply shocked when I got your letter. Deeply shocked! Why, I called on Michael on the very afternoon on which this sad business took place. ... I thought his manner was strange. Indeed, he practically asked me to go because he "had an appointment." If I had only known the nature of that appointment! If I had only known! MRS. LAMBERT. I am in despair about poor Margaret. 49 50 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM The child is simply distracted. I was afraid last night that she would lose her reason. MRS. SLAUGHTER (with a ghastly cheerfulness). Oh, come, come, Mary. She will get over it. She must be brave about it. We must all be brave. We must put our heads together. Samuel will advise us. (In an ingratiating whisper.) Tell us exactly what happened, Mary, from the very beginning! MRS. LAMBERT. Oh, I can't talk of it ... it's so altogether dreadful . . . horrible. The only gleam of consolation is that Michael seems to be thoroughly ashamed of himself. Here is his letter. It came an hour ago, and I'm sure I don't know what to make of it. (hands letter to DEAN SLAUGHTER.,) THE DEAN (detaching his eyeglasses from their perch on his corded silk waistcoat, begins to read the letter. MRS. SLAUGHTER, standing on her toes, reads it over his shoulder). H'm! h'm! h'm! I am bound to admit that it seems a very straightforward and manly letter. MRS. LAMBERT. He certainly seems anxious to do all in his power to make amends . . . but I don't know how Margaret will take it; she does nothing but weep. Oh, dear, I wish it hadn't happened ... I wish it hadn't happened, (putting her head in her hands.) I feel as if my brain would burst, wondering what to do about it. THE DEAN. There, there, calm yourself, Mary ! There are some sentences in this letter which leave us in no doubt whatever as to the right course for Margaret to pursue. The Church in her wisdom has laid down a definite rule in these cases. Where the man is willing, the couple ought to marry, and Michael wants nothing THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 51 better. Listen to what he says: "The very first thing I did when I arrived in London was to get a special marriage licence in the hope that Margaret might be persuaded to marry me before my leave was up. The dearest wish of my heart is that she will still consent, in spite of what has happened, and that she will eventually forgive me for a moment of madness, which I look back on with horror and regret." . . . Well, well. Sad as this terrible business is, we mustn't judge the boy too harshly. We must remember all that he has endured for our sakes, Mary. MRS. LAMBERT. But it isn't we who have to judge him, Samuel. It is Margaret. It's really no business of ours. It is she who has to marry him, not us. THE DEAN. No, Mary, judgment is not in our hands. . . . And neither is it in Margaret's hands. But we are told that the Lord in His mercy will not despise a broken and contrite heart. As a clergyman I am bound to say this letter shows a very proper spirit. As a man of the world, it strikes me as being straightforward, generous, and, if I may say so, gentlemanlike. MRS. LAMBERT (sighing). That's all very well, Sam- uel, but you are leaving Margaret out of all your calcu- lations. She will never consent to be made an honest woman of just like a housemaid who has got into trouble. THE DEAN. I shall talk to her, Mary. If necessary, I shall say a few words to her in private. I feel sure that she will do her duty as a Christian English gentle- woman. MRS. SLAUGHTER. If Margaret has any decent pa- triotic feeling, Mary, she must take the view of this 52 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM business that we do. After all, Michael has a splendid record as a soldier. He has the Military Cross and the Legion of Honour! He's a good match in every way, and, besides, he must have fully 4000 a year of his own. It would be lunacy to let her ruin all her prospects in life. They ought to be married at once to-morrow. That is the only possible way to make things right. MRS. LAMBERT. Margaret doesn't think so. She calls him a criminal. I suppose people do get put into prison for that sort of thing -poor people, of course. Didn't your under-gardener, Samuel, get into trouble for something of the kind? I don't know how Margaret heard of that, but she keeps quoting it. THE DEAN (indignant). Really, Mary, I must protest against this imputation. The cases bear no resemblance whatever. The man Jenkins, to whom you refer, was a man of thoroughly vicious and depraved instincts. Even before he joined the army I had twice given him notice for intemperance. MRS. SLAUGHTER (brightly). Come, Mary, do let us stick to the point and try to look at the whole matter calmly and sensibly. It is no use wringing one's hands over a disaster. The only thing to do is to apply First Aid at once. The war has taught us that, at any rate. THE DEAN. In this case the policy of reason and good sense happens also to be in complete accordance with the teaching of the Church, Mary. Our path is perfectly clear before us. MRS. LAMBERT (unconvinced). I'm afraid Margaret is not in a very sensible mood. . . . THE DEAN. Or in a very religious mood either, I expect Well, well, we must be as gentle with her, poor THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 53 child, as is consistent with firmness, in her own interest. There is little time to lose, though. Michael's leave is up the day after to-morrow. MRS. LAMBERT. I 'm afraid her heart is quite broken. She will never consent. MRS. SLAUGHTER. It will mend, Mary; it will mend. I know what I'm talking about. This whole business has much more to do with medicine than morality. When Margaret understands she will forgive. After all, I ought to know about these things if anyone does, consid- ering the hundreds of shell-shock cases we have had at the hospital. The poor fellows are not responsible . . . that's the long and the short of it. They 'ought not to be judged by ordinary standards. Michael probably had a sudden nerve-storm. Now that he is recovered he is only too anxious to make amends. You know, Mary, it's a splendid match. They ought to be married to- morrow, and go away together for the rest of Michael's leave. It would be the very best thing that could hap- pen. Marriage will take Margaret away from those low acquaintances who are poisoning her mind with their Socialistic theories. And at least there can be no ques- tion about Michael's love for her. MRS. LAMBERT. It isn't my idea of love, I must say! And if he's mad, how can I let her go away with him? MRS. SLAUGHTER. I never said he was mad. THE DEAN (rising and walking impressively about the room). Do you remember, Mary, those profound words of the late poet laureate? And yet we trust that, somehow, good Will be the final goal of ill. 54 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM It must be our duty to ensure that good comes out of this terrible affair. That is where religion comes in, Mary. That is where the guidance of the Church is of such inestimable importance. MRS. SLAUGHTER. After all, we can't forget that Michael has been risking his life for our safety, for Margaret's safety, for eighteen months. We must re- member there's a war on. (sniff.) Surely the least we can do, in common gratitude, is not to take too harsh a view of what has happened, particularly after Mi- chael 's penitent letter. As the Dean says, it is the letter of a thorough gentleman. MRS. LAMBERT. Gentlemen didn't give their future wives drugged champagne when I was a girl ... as an aid to courtship. THE DEAN. The boy yielded to a sudden temptation, at a time of great nervous strain. After all, he had been thinking of Margaret in the trenches, day after day, for eighteen months. And on his return he was met with the news that Margaret had heartlessly thrown him over! Just consider what a terrible shock that must have been. No wonder he lost his moral balance. I am bound to say that Margaret herself seems to me by no means free from blame in this matter. MRS. LAMBERT. Margaret was an innocent, unspoiled child. MRS. SLAUGHTER. And to-morrow or the next day, if she behaves sensibly, she can be a happy married woman. Come, Mary, be reasonable. MRS. LAMBERT. She won't be happy. MRS. SLAUGHTER. We must try to make her happy. We must cheer her up give her confidence help her THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 55 to forget this trouble in the excitement of her wedding. I will go with her myself and help her choose her trousseau. I know a place which specialises in war weddings. They'll give her everything she needs in forty-eight hours; and she will be so busy she won't have a moment's time in which to think about her grievances. MRS. LAMBERT. You don 't either of you seem to real- ise that the reason why she broke off her engagement with Michael was because she had begun to care for somebody else. That is what makes it all so dreadful. MRS. SLAUGHTER. What? you don't mean that Social- ist agitator who was at Eleanor Lambert's party, the other night? How could you have allowed it? THE DEAN. A Socialist agitator ... an atheist ! Do you actually mean to tell me that she jilted a man of her own class for a Socialist? But no, I cannot believe that you are serious. If it is true, I regard this whole business as an act of Providence. Verily, God moves in a mysterious way! It is a blessed escape for her, Mary. Any doubts I may for a moment have enter- tained as to the necessity for her marriage with Michael are entirely disposed of. F^om every point of view it is essential that the ceremony should take place forth- with. MRS. SLAUGHTER. Samuel, go to the telephone and speak to Michael. Ask him to come round here as quickly as ever he can. We'll get the whole thing set- tled immediately. There is nothing like prompt action. Do go, Samuel. The telephone is in the hall, Mary, isn't it? MRS. LAMBERT. Yes. (Exit THE DEAN.,) (With a 56 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM sudden access of spirit.) What I want to know is, where does Margaret come in? Samuel can go and telephone as much as he likes, but I know Margaret. After all, she 's my own daughter. She won 't marry anyone against her own will. We can't force her to marry Michael. MRS. SLAUGHTER (Tier voice rich with diplomacy). No, of course not, but we can put the whole position to her kindly and reasonably. She'll be a sensible girl and do the right thing when it comes to the point. I feel certain of it. Just let me talk to her, Mary. Hadn't we better ask her to come down now, while Samuel is out of the room? MRS. LAMBERT. Yes, I suppose so. (MRS. SLAUGHTER gets up, and walks across the room to the fireplace, and presses the bell with determina- tion.) MRS. SLAUGHTER. Of course, I know how terribly upset the darling child must be. It has been a fearful shock to her nerves. But she'll get over it. She'll get over it. (Enter PARLOUR-MAID.,) MAID. Did you ring, m'am? MRS. SLAUGHTER. Yes, Wilkins. Just ask Miss Mar- garet if she would mind coming down to the drawing- room for a moment. MAID. Yes, m'am. (Exit.) MRS. LAMBERT (furious with MRS. SLAUGHTER for ordering her maid about). Margaret will never forgive THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 57 me for having told you. She hates me talking about her or her affairs. MRS. SLAUGHTER. Really, Mary, considering that I'm her godmother . . . and that the Dean baptised her, and that we have known Philip and Michael ever since they were infants in arms, I think even Margaret will admit that we had a right to be told. Who is there better fitted to give her help and advice in this time of trouble than Samuel? MRS. LAMBERT. You know quite well, Janey, that I consult Samuel in everything. He is the first person I turn to for help in any difficulty. But Margaret is such a very queer girl. Do you know, she actually told Eleanor the whole story before she told me ! MRS. SLAUGHTER (visibly shaken). Mary, you don't say so! Eleanor is the very last person who ought to have been brought into this business at all. Her in- fluence over Margaret has from the first been most un- fortunate. It is my belief that Eleanor Lambert is really responsible for the whole affair, (sniff.) If Mar- garet hadn't jilted Michael he would never have er lost his head as he did. (MARGARET comes into the room. She is very pale, Tier eyelids are red, and she looks wretchedly ill. The condition of Tier nerves is at once apparent, as she glances apprehensively about her.) MRS. SLAUGHTER (rushing forward and implanting a maternal embrace). My poor darling! (MARGARET shudders and winces as if she had been struck. She looks appealingly at her mother.) 58 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM MARGARET. Do you want me for something, mother? MRS. SLAUGHTER (taking command again). Yes, my darling child, we have some happy news for you. . . . There now! Things aren't as bad as they seem. MARGARET (coldly and enunciating Tier words with difficulty). I am afraid I don't understand, Mrs. Slaughter. I 'm not expecting any happy news. MRS. SLAUGHTER (regardless of the warning note in MARGARET'S voice). My dear, your mother has had a long and most honourable letter from Michael. MARGARET (turning to MRS. LAMBERT ). Mother! How could you? . . . How could you be so cruel? (She sinks into a chair, sobbing, Tier face covered by her two white hands.) MRS. LAMBERT (overcome with emotion, a pathetic but rather ludicrous figure in her distress). Margaret, my dear! "What could I do? I had to ask advice. It was all so difficult. I meant it for the best. Indeed I did. MARGARET (in a burst of anger). What right had you to discuss what happened to me with anyone at all, without my leave ? I 'm not a child. MRS. SLAUGHTER. Margaret, you amaze me! Surely you can trust your parent's life-long friends. Your own godmother. . . . The Dean, who received you into the Church. Your honour is our honour, darling. MARGARET. Never. Every woman's honour is in her own keeping. When I need help I have a tongue in my head. I can ask for it. MRS. SLAUGHTER (to MRS. LAMBERT ). I am afraid the poor child is in a sadly unreasonable and overwrought condition! (To MARGARET.,) Listen, Margaret. I quite understand how you feel, dear. But you must remember THE FIGHT FOE FREEDOM 59 that we are older than you and we have seen a good deal more of the world. Our one idea our sole desire, Margaret is to help you to do what is best in your own interests. It was only her great love for you which prompted your dear mother to seek the advice of the Dean and myself. . . . MARGARET (scornfully). She always seeks his advice if the cook gives notice, or the fire doesn't draw, or her investments don't pay. It's a habit. But this . . . this is too much. MRS. LAMBERT. Margaret, you are breaking my heart. MRS. SLAUGHTER (ingratiatingly). Try to calm your- self, my dear. Let me tell you as simply as I can what has happened, and then think over the whole position. MARGARET. What do you imagine I have been doing, then? Think it over! MRS. SLAUGHTER. Margaret, listen to me. Michael is bitterly sorry for the injury he did you ... he has written your mother a most manly letter. His whole existence is bound up in you. He begs for your for- giveness. There is nothing in the world he wants more than to marry you at once before he goes back to France. Consider, Margaret. Don't be hard. When he goes back to the front, think what may be in store for him ! It may be that after this week you may never see him again. MARGARET. I shall never see him again if I can avoid it. MRS. SLAUGHTER. Margaret! MARGARET. Oh, I don't want him to be Tailed, if that is what you are thinking. I mean exactly what I say. 60 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM MRS. SLAUGHTER. Well, you are an extraordinary girl, I must say. Why make the worst of things, my dear? You might be so happy. A real war wedding! The Dean himself would perform the ceremony. All your friends would be here to wish you well! Come now. . . . MARGARET. Thank you, Mrs. Slaughter. I don't want any war wedding. I'm sick to death of the war. Michael knows very well that I can never marry him. What he did was his revenge. He has bluffed you all. (Enter DEAN SLAUGHTER.,) THE DEAN (smiling with satisfaction). Ah! there we are! My dear child! (Takes MARGARET'S hands.) Such good news ! Cheer up, all will come right ! MARGARET. Will it? How? THE DEAN. You will forgive, Margaret, as God in His great mercy will forgive you. If you marry Mich- ael, as I hope you will, my dear, you will have a good husband. And you will be able to keep him in order. I know it; I know it. Often marriages which begin badly turn out the happiest of all. MARGARET. There is not going to be a marriage. THE DEAN. Surely, my dear . . . after Michael's letter ! His sole desire is to undo the evil he has done. You cannot refuse him. . . . MARGARET. Oh, what do I care about his letter. Can't any of you understand? MRS. SLAUGHTER. It is just because we do under- stand, Margaret, because we understand something of life, that we are begging you to be sensible. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 61 MARGARET. I won't marry Michael Henderson. I don't care what you say. Mother, let me go. Why are you letting me be persecuted like this? MRS. LAMBERT. Oh, my child, I am so unhappy. But the Dean must be right. I know he is. MARGARET. It's nobody's business but mine, and I won't do it. MRS. SLAUGHTER (severely). Now, listen to me, Mar- garet. We are all older than you are, and perhaps just a little bit wiser and more experienced. We know ex- actly how you feel. . . . MARGARET. I don't believe it. MRS. SLAUGHTER (keeping herself in check). Whether you believe it or not, it is true. You won't succeed in antagonising me, my dear, no matter what you say. MARGARET. No, I suppose you won't allow me even that satisfaction. MRS. SLAUGHTER. We have your interests too much at heart. Some day you will realise it and be grateful to us. We are thinking of the future, Margaret. We can't let your whole life be ruined by this . . . this misfortune. Michael is only too anxious to give you the protection of his name. MARGARET. How magnanimous of him! THE DEAN. Your tone pains me inexpressibly, my child. Surely you will not forget your duty as a Christian. . . . MRS. SLAUGHTER. Try not to be so hard, Margaret. Why can't you be a little generous? He does really love you. . . . For a year and a half he has been risk- ing his life . . . for you. Try to make allowances for the terrible effect which the war has had on the poor 62 THE FIGHT FOE FREEDOM fellow. Think of the awful strain of the trenches . . . month after month! You cared for him once, enough to become engaged to him. Surely your love is not completely dead? MARGARET (rising). Mrs. Slaughter, please don't go on. I shall not bring an action against Michael I don 't want the man imprisoned. I am not vindictive. But I will not marry him. I know him. MRS. LAMBERT. Margaret, dear! THE DEAN. What preposterous nonsense ! Action in- deed! Why, it would ruin you! The publicity! The scandal ! And, what is more, no judge would dream of convicting and quite rightly. MARGARET. Wasn 't your gardener convicted ? Sha 'n 't we convict the Germans when we get the chance, for their atrocities ? And haven 't they undergone the strain of war? Why should Michael be excused? (ELEANOR LAMBERT is shown into the room by tJie servant.) THE DEAN (Jiotly). The cases are absolutely differ- ent. There is not a shadow of resemblance between them. Miss LAMBERT (to MRS. LAMBERT ). Good afternoon, Mary. (To THE DEAN and MRS. SLAUGHTER.,) Good afternoon, Janey. Well, Samuel ! (shakes hands.) Mar- garet, my dear, you look like Daniel in the lions' den, but evidently you haven't his technique. MARGARET (weeping). Oh, Aunt Eleanor! (she buries her head on her aunt's breast. Miss LAMBERT puts for a moment a strong, protecting arm round her, then forces her back into her cliair.) THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 63 Miss LAMBERT. There, sit down, Margaret. What is all this about, pray? Are you conducting the inquest, Samuel? What case is different from what, may I ask? MARGARET. The Dean says that Michael's behaviour is quite different from his gardener's. He had the gar- dener put in prison ... he wants me to marry Michael. THE DEAN (seriously disconcerted). I appeal to you, Eleanor ... if you have the least good feeling! The child is beside herself. Miss LAMBERT. I haven't any good feeling, Samuel: not a rap. You ought to know me by this time ! Why shouldn't Michael Henderson share your gardener's fate, pray, if he has committed the same offence? THE DEAN (impressively). I shall not discuss the matter with you, Eleanor. If the sacrifices which Mich- ael has made for his country mean nothing to you . . . Miss LAMBERT. Aha! I thought we should come to it the famous "unwritten law"! the law which de- crees that women are the slaves of their "defenders," that they may be outraged with impunity, that their lovers may be murdered, and so on! A fine law. . . . And how enthusiastically you stick up for it, Samuel! THE DEAN (~hauglitily). I am quite indifferent to your insults, Eleanor. I shall endeavour to do my duty undeterred. Miss LAMBERT. You mean you'll try to force this child into marrying a man who, if he is not a criminal, is certainly a lunatic . . . just because he wears a khaki coat! MARGARET. I will die rather than marry him. Miss LAMBERT. If you take my advice you 11 do neither. 64 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM THE DEAN (tremulous witli anger). Beware, Eleanor, Low you come between Margaret and her duty as a Christian ! Beware, I tell you ! . . . Miss LAMBERT. Christian fiddlesticks! (Turning sharply on MRS. LAMBERT.,) Mary, I hope you treated this infamous proposal with the contempt it deserved? MRS. LAMBERT. I have to think of the child's future. And I believe the Dean is right. MRS. SLAUGHTER. You really can't expect Christian people to adopt your heathen standpoint, Eleanor. We are well aware that you have no patriotic feeling. Miss LAMBERT. If patriotic feeling should urge you to open a maison toleree as an annex to your hospital for officers, I certainly should not ask Margaret to vol- unteer for inclusion in it. MRS. SLAUGHTER. I don't care tuppence for your jibes, Eleanor. Margaret will have to live in the world as she finds it. The great mass of our people honour and respect our brave lads, even if you don't. Michael has suffered terribly in his country's cause, and no decent man or woman would condemn him, or judge him harshly. THE DEAN (icily). All Margaret's friends and rela- tions, yourself excepted, will take the view that we do, Eleanor. MRS. LAMBERT. Really, you know, Eleanor . . . there is a good deal in that. I can't help . . . Miss LAMBERT. My dear Mary, why will you always do anything except think ? The country has been rotted by this kind of appeal to shoddy sentiment. It makes me perfectly sick. . . . Nowadays you have only to make an hysterical reference to "our brave lads" to carry an THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 65 audience with you regardless of right and wrong, of truth, justice, and even common sense. What do you care for our brave lads, Samuel, I should like to know ! You are always preaching "the knock-out-blow"; you are always pointing out the dangers of concluding any kind of peace that may be in time to save the world from famine and revolution. You would sacrifice a mil- lion lives to-morrow, rather than surrender one ingrained prejudice. And nearly all the Englishmen of your age and class are like you. THE DEAN. A pacifist discourse was not expected from you, Eleanor. But may I remind you that we are discussing Margaret's future happiness? At this mo- ment the child's whole future is at stake. All this po- litical discussion, if I may say so, is absolutely irrelevant. Miss LAMBERT. I have no doubt it seems so to you. But if you thought it over, Samuel, you might realise that this war "for the world's freedom" is the arch- atrocity from which all the other minor atrocities spring. War sets free the beast in man and it often sets free the bitch and the hyena in woman. It is a plague. Michael Henderson is suffering from this plague. Through no fault of his own he is infected, contaminated by it; but Margaret, so far, is healthy. Now you are clamouring for her to sacrifice herself also to be ruined by this evil thing. Do you really want the youth of both sexes to be sacrificed to the greed and wickedness of the old? I thought it was only the blood of our boys you thirsted for! Apparently you want the virtue of our girls as well to be offered up at the altar of your false gods! THE DEAN (derisively). Really, Eleanor, you are for- 66 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM getting yourself. This sort of talk is most unpleasant before Margaret. I am old-fashioned enough to be dis- gusted that such a conversation should take place before a young girl. MARGARET. Are young girls not allowed to hear the truth in old-fashioned circles, Dean even when their "whole future" is at stake? MRS. SLAUGHTER. The truth, my dear, is that Michael Henderson has made a slip as we all may do and that he is sincerely penitent. He loves you devotedly and will make you an excellent husband. You will re- gret it all the days of your life if you condemn him harshly, if you go on nourishing these vindictive thoughts and listening to evil counsel. MARGARET (sullenly). I've said I won't prosecute him. THE DEAN. If you were foolish enough to attempt anything so monstrous, you would find that my view is the view held by all our ablest judges. And what is the reason, I ask myself? The reason is that they are Christian men, and obey the ruling of our grand old established Church. Miss LAMBERT. Well, Samuel, I'm quite prepared to champion the cause of our poor boys and girls, and of our suffering humanity. But as for our sentimental magistrates and our judges, with softening of the brain (not to speak of our grand old Church), it's my opinion that it would be far better for this country if they could be exported to the front, and used as cannon fodder. It is high time the judges who have upheld this wicked "unwritten law" that a man in uniform can do no wrong were put on trial themselves. Why, they do THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 67 what the gutter newspapers tell them more readily even than our politicians! MRS. SLAUGHTER (sniffs). Eleanor is evidently get- ting on to her tub. This is not Hyde Park corner, Eleanor. Miss LAMBERT (laughing heartily). Ha! I shall go on, though, Janey. There's no escape for you. It is thanks to our "Christian" judges and the police court magistrates whom Samuel admires so much, that women in England have time and again been degraded and in- sulted. Wives have become mere chattels of husbands whom they loathe. Their lovers are now liable to be murdered with impunity, and the murderer is acquitted and made a popular hero. And if you think the sacred cause of the Allies is going to be benefited by regulation 40D, which turns all young and desirable women into slaves who can be either outraged or persecuted by any maniac in uniform who takes a fancy to them, I 'm sorry for you. How on earth you expect us to work ourselves into a frenzy over tales of German atrocities when you condone similar acts committed by our own men, and our own Government, I can't imagine! If you really believed in the Christianity you profess . . . (shrugs her shoulders.) MRS. SLAUGHTER. We don't pretend to be authorities on suffragette ethics, Eleanor. We are here to try to save Margaret. MARGARET. I don't see who is to save me unless I save myself. I am old enough to mind my own business. THE DEAN. My dear girl, there is only one way to save yourself, and that is by putting your trust in Almighty God and obeying the word of Christ. Try 68 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM to cultivate a little Christian charity. A great wrong has been done you, but now is just the time to return good for evil. Margaret, with my own hands I baptised you when you were a tiny child. Be guided now by me in this hour of distraction and bitterness. If you delay your decision till after Michael has gone back it may be too late. MARGARET. Oh, why do you go on at me like this? What harm have I done you all? I hate Michael! I will not marry him, not if he goes on his knees to me! Why are you all bent on persecuting me? The Dean crushes me with his religion, . . . Mrs. Slaughter gives me good advice. . . . My mother weeps. (Screams.) Oh! you are all like surgeons cutting at my very heart. I can't bear it. Leave me alone I can't bear it. I hate your Christianity hate it, hate it, hate it! MRS. SLAUGHTER (to the DEAN,). It is evidently hope- less to try to talk to her while she is in her present frame of mind. Miss LAMBERT. Then why not leave her to do as she pleases ? She has a mind and will of her own. She is a free agent. Why don't you grant her self-determi- nation, Samuel? She isn't an Irish girl, after all! (laughs heartily at Tier joke.) THE DEAN. I have a duty to perform. Miss LAMBERT. And so has her mother. Mary, what do you say? (She looks at MRS. LAMBERT, who is dis- solved in tears and incapable of speech, and shrugs her shoulders humorously.) THE DEAN. Margaret, I must say one word more, then I have finished. I ask you most earnestly to con- sider well before you decide. You have it in your power THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 69 now not only to ensure your own future happiness, but to save Michael's soul. If you refuse him I am much afraid that you will drive him to evil courses. He will despair. . . . He will go under. But Michael is good at heart. His manly letter proves it absolutely. All that he needs to keep him straight is the softening in- fluence of a good and pure woman, the . . . MARGARET (bitterly). But I suppose, according to your code, I am no longer ' ' good and pure. ' ' MRS. SLAUGHTER. Margaret! how can you? (Then, with resignation.) Well, I'm sure we've done our best for you. It certainly will not be our fault if you cut off your nose to spite your face. MARGARET. Oh, I don't want to seem ungrateful to you, Mrs. Slaughter; I am sure you mean it all very kindly, but I really have no vocation to become a rescue woman. (With a touch of malice.) I am quite sure you yourself would do Michael much more good than I am ever likely to. Miss LAMBERT. Excellent ! excellent ! a most sensible suggestion. The difficulty is solved provided, of course, that the Dean has no qualms. After all, those whose mission it is to preach self-sacrifice to others ought to be willing to show the way in person. You are quite cut out for this task, Janey. You shall accomplish the reformation of Michael, while his victim escapes the martyrdom so piously urged upon her. Delightful! MRS. SLAUGHTER. You are very clever, Eleanor. We all know that. But what will happen to Margaret if she listens to you, I should like to know? Miss LAMBERT. If she listens to me, she will do ex- actly as she herself thinks best. 70 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM MRS. SLAUGHTER. You may try to dodge your re- sponsibility as much as you please, but the fact remains that the fate to which you are trying to condemn the poor girl is heart-breaking to think of. You evidently wish her to live out her life as a marked woman, nursing her grievance. You want her to grow old in spite and resentment, to become soured and aged at twenty-two in order, I suppose, that she may appear on some politi- cal platform and support you in some contemptible, un- English propaganda ! I have no desire to shock this un- fortunate child by referring to unpleasant facts, Eleanor, but you leave me no alternative. We have to face the possibility of consequences. . . . THE DEAN. Er I think, Janey, we need not touch on that aspect of the matter. . . . MARGARET (calmly). I suppose you mean, Mrs. Slaughter, that there is some prospect of my having a baby, and that, therefore, if I have any sense I must jump at any chance that offers of providing it with a father. Surely there is no need to mince matters. That seems to me to be the one and only real argument for my marrying Michael. It would save the family from the possibility of a scandal. MRS. LAMBERT (galvanised with "horror ). Margaret! How can you say such things? Miss LAMBERT. The point at last ! THE DEAN. Nonsense. MRS. SLAUGHTER. You force me to think that you have very little delicacy. However, since you have chosen to be explicit, I may as well tell you that your only chance of marrying in your own class is to marry Michael Henderson. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 71 Miss LAMBERT. What a class, and what a condem- nation ! MRS. LAMBERT (tearfully). My darling, I am bound to agree with what the Dean and your godmother tell you. . . . Yes, I am, Eleanor. It's no use your glaring at me ! I 'm a good churchwoman. I always have been, and I hope I always shall be. I brought you up to go to church, Margaret. It isn't my fault if you ivill go off to the Oratory to hear the music. The music at St. Mary Abbott's is every bit as good, and I always told you so. MARGARET (with melancholy amusement). I 'm afraid, mummy, I can't follow the argument. MRS. LAMBERT. Oh, my dearest girl, you don't know the dangers that await you, if you refuse to marry Michael Henderson! MARGARET. But I know very well the degradation in store for me if I do marry him. Mother, I can't stand this any more. You must let me go. ... I'm not a coward . . . and I'm not so utterly ignorant of life as you all seem to suppose. It is my trouble, not yours. MRS. SLAUGHTER. Very well, Margaret. You will only have yourself to blame for it if disaster overtakes you. Don't look to us for help and sympathy. . . . Miss LAMBERT. "When she needs it Oh dear no! Only when she doesn't need it is it thrust upon her! How utterly Christian, Janey ! THE DEAN. Mary, this is really too much. I came here, at your express invitation, solely to try to help Margaret. I did not come here to bandy words with Eleanor. I wash my hands of the matter, absolutely. 72 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM Miss LAMBERT. Like Pontius Pilate ! So the sacrifice is off. The victim proves recalcitrant! Well, I'm very glad she does, though I'm really sorry if I have an- noyed you, Samuel. MRS. SLAUGHTER. I'm sure you couldn't help it! (Sniffs violently.) THE DEAN (turning to MRS. LAMBERT,). Good-bye, Mary. I did my best. (They shake hands. A ring is heard at the hall door.) Why, good gracious; that must be Philip and Michael. We forgot all about them ! Most unfortunate ! MARGARET (her voice rises almost to a scream). You told that man to come here ! Oh, how shameful ! Aunt Eleanor, Aunt Eleanor, come with me! I won't meet him: I won't! (Rushes to the door, dragging Miss LAM- BERT with her. The door suddenly opens before she can get to it. Her escape cut off, she retreats at once to the far end of the room, followed "by Tier aunt. She remains there sobbing, with her back turned to the others.) MAID. Captain Michael Henderson . . . Mr. Philip Henderson. ( The two men, both looking very solemn, shake hands with MRS. LAMBERT, and with THE DEAN and MRS. SLAUGHTER. They bow to ELEANOR LAMBERT and to MARGARET'S back.) THE DEAN. Michael, I am sorry to say I was too optimistic when I telephoned to you just now. Our efforts have been in vain. Mrs. Slaughter and myself were just making our departure when you came. MRS. SLAUGHTER. I am afraid Margaret prefers to listen to her aunt's advice than to ours. MICHAEL (looks steadily at MARGARET,). Margaret . . . THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 73 MARGARET (almost inaudibly). How do you dare come here to persecute me ? MICHAEL. Margaret, hear me out ... I beg of you. I have come to tell you before everyone that I am bit- terly sorry for the wrong I did you. I must have been mad. Margaret, can't you try to forgive me? Let us be married before I go back. It is more than likely that you will never see me again. THE DEAN. A very manly confession. It does you credit, my dear boy. I knew I was right. Miss LAMBERT (truculently. Producing Tier face-a- main). Manly fiddlesticks! Obviously he ought to be in a hospital. A sedative, absolute quiet, and plenty of fresh air is my prescription. Really, Mary, it is high time you exerted yourself and put an end to this farce. PHILIP. Oh Lord, oh Lord! This is simply awful! (Tie gazes round Tiim in comical distress.) I feel just as if I 'd caused the whole trouble myself. Miss LAMBERT (cheerfully Tieartless). My dear boy, you are by no means guiltless. Don't think it. MICHAEL (savagely, to Miss LAMBERT ). It was you who first set Margaret against me, when I was away in France. Now you are poisoning her mind again. MRS. SLAUGHTER. Yes, how about your own responsi- bility, Eleanor? PHILIP. Oh, for goodness' sake don't let us stand about saying the most appalling things to one another! Mrs. Lambert, this is terrible for poor Margaret. . . . Margaret, my dear girl, I am so awfully sorry for this . . . unfortunate scene. I never dreamt it would be like this. I honestly thought, from what the Dean said over the telephone, that you'd decided to give Michael 74 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM a chance. Otherwise I wouldn't have come or let Mm come. I hoped that everything was going to be happy and jolly once more. Oh Lord! (sighs. Then, to MI- CHAEL. ) "We'd better go, Michael. Come on. MICHAEL. Thanks. You are not my keeper. Miss LAMBERT (softening). Oh, what an Englishman you are, Philip! Anything to avoid unpleasantness! Personally, I thoroughly enjoy a scene. . . . MARGARET. Aunt Eleanor, I can't bear this any longer. Do take me away from here. Please! If they won't go, I must. (Moves slowly towards door.) Miss LAMBERT. It is really disgraceful, Mary, letting this lunatic be sent for. Are you absolutely inhuman? MICHAEL. Margaret, I beg you once again to forgive me. I will do absolutely anything you ask if you will only marry me and let me try to make amends to you. MRS. LAMBERT. Oh, my dear chick, don't be too hard on Michael. Don't! Think it over quietly, my love. Oh dear, oh dear! I don't know what to do for the best. I don't know what to do. Miss LAMBERT. Then why do anything, Mary? MRS. LAMBERT. I know I seem to be against her, Eleanor. . . . But I can't help it. The future looks so terrible. (To MARGARET.,) You must remember, dearie, the Dean is a clergyman . . . and clergymen really ought to be able to advise us on points like this. It is their business. MARGARET (bitterly). Mother, will you never remem- ber that I am no longer in the nursery. You make me wish I had never told you. I wish I never had. I might have been spared this infamous treatment. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 75 MRS. SLAUGHTER. ' ' Infamous treatment ! ' ' Infamous ingratitude ! MICHAEL. Margaret . . . hear me! MARGARET (shrinking away from Mm). No, no, never! I would sooner die than marry you. You may be able to deceive my mother, but you can't deceive me. What you did to me, you planned out of revenge. You only want to marry me now out of revenge. It is all because I told you our engagement was a mistake . . . and about Oliver Beeching. You are vain and jealous and cruel, and I loathe you. MRS. SLAUGHTER. Good gracious, child! Oliver Beeching, indeed! So that is the man you jilted poor Michael for! It's the name of that Socialist person, Samuel. . . . THE DEAN. Then it is serious? I could scarcely believe it when you first told me. This is deplorable, utterly deplorable! Really, Mary, whatever happens, you cannot allow this intrigue to continue! The man Beeching is a criminal agitator of the lowest type, who is doing his best to wreck the whole fabric of society. I am inexpressibly shocked. Miss LAMBERT. I am glad something has touched you at last, Samuel. MRS. LAMBERT. I didn't know you had told Michael that. MARGARET. I told him on the morning of his return. MRS. LAMBERT. But you can't really care about that young man, my dear. I daresay he's clever enough, but he talks with such an extraordinary twang! I simply can 't understand it. MARGARET. No, mother; you can't understand it. It 76 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM is so long since you were in love with anyone that you have forgotten. (Pointing to MICHAEL .) But Tie under- stands it. He wants to complete his revenge by forcing me to marry him. MICHAEL. I'll have you yet! MARGARET. Can't you see that if he really cared for me, he could never have come here like this, or written his precious letter? Oh, it was well thought out! I suppose he calculated that I should be so nervous of my reputation that I should immediately give in. Never! I value my freedom a good deal more than my good name. MICHAEL (in a frenzy of rage). Pah! Listen to her! Her ' ' freedom ' ' ! What about the millions of men whom you and the Dean and your mother, and all the people like you, have sent off so cheerfully to France? Didn't they value their freedom? What freedom have they had I should like to know, in the past four years? Have I been free? Am I free now? Do you think I would go back into hell if I were free? . . . Oh, we started off all right because, mugs that we were, we thought our women were worth fighting for, worth dying for. Do you know what our foolish faith in women like you has led us to endure? No of course you don't. You wouldn't know if you were told; and your rotten Gov- ernment takes good care that no one tries to tell you. . . . You make me sick all you civilians, with your smug virtue, and your cold, selfish, fishlike hearts. ... As for you, Margaret, what have you got to offer me that thousands of girls wouldn't be glad to have a chance of giving? Except in my imagination, there never was anything desirable about you but your sex. But you THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 77 happened to be the girl I chose. You were mine. Be- fore the war, you promised yourself to me. And all through the months that I have been stuck in that cess- pool of mud and blood and putrid bodies and infernal noise, I had nothing but the thought of you to cling on to. ... And when at last I got leave, all the accumu- lated longings of those horrible months consumed me. I came home to find that you had been spending your time flirting with some snivelling Socialist! Did you expect me to sit down under that? (Shouting.) If you send your men abroad to live like wild beasts, to be- have like beasts for months at a time, what complaint can you make if you find them beasts when they return ? Now, when I offer you all I have to offer I who owe you nothing, you prate to me of your precious "free- dom"! You talk to me of a Mr. Oliver Beeching! Where is the dirty skunk? Why don't you bring him here to face me? Where is he? . . . PHILIP. Oh, steady on, old fellow! That's enough. MARGARET (speaking loudly and excitedly). He talks to me as if I were a possession like his dog, or his cigarette-case! (To MICHAEL. She is quite hysterical now.) If you want to know, Oliver is away in Glasgow. And it's a lucky thing for you that he is. THE DEAN. Quietly, now, Margaret, quietly. You mustn't lose your head. You and I will go away into another room and have a quiet talk together. There now ! Come along ! . . . MARGARET. Why do you let this man insult me? MICHAEL. Insult her ! PHILIP. Oh, shut up f Michael ! Come away ! (drags 78 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM him by the arm.) Come on; you've said too much al- ready. MICHAEL (sneering at MARGARET ). So you told him everything, did you? Well, I'm sorry for you, that's all I can say . . . for he certainly won't marry you now! ('MARGARET'S self-control gives way completely. She utters a choking cry of rage, darts forward and strikes MICHAEL in the face with her open hand. The onlookers show signs of confusion and conster- nation.) Miss LAMBERT. Poor dears! MRS. LAMBERT. Margaret! . . . MRS. SLAUGHTER. She's demented. . . . PHILIP. Michael! come away at once. (Seizes his brother firmly in his arms.) THE DEAN. What a shocking exhibition! Deplor- able! MARGARET (her effort has completely exhausted her, and she sinks moaning to the floor. Her aunt stands over her in an attitude of protection). Aunt Eleanor . . . Aunt Eleanor! (Curtain.) ACT IV The scene is the drawing-room in Miss LAMBERT'S house in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. The two tall French windows at the rear of the stage open on to a verandah overlooking the river. The door is on the right. The room is very beautifully furnished, but what first strikes the eye is the quantity of flowers which stand in bowls and vases. Miss LAMBERT has a passion for flowers; they form her principal ex- travagance. When the curtain rises MARGARET is sitting in an armchair turning the pages of "Vogue." Miss LAMBERT is reading Hansard through her face-d-main. MARGARET. I wonder how soon he will come? I sup- pose he may be here at any moment now. Oh, aunt, I feel so nervous! I wish I could imagine how he'd take the news. Miss LAMBERT. I wish you could. MARGARET. I suppose he will be mad with rage. Miss LAMBERT (with a harsh laugh). I'm sure you will be, if he isn 't. r MARGARET. I really don't know how I've lived through these days. I feel twenty years older . . . sick, tired. I don't think I've any hope left. Things that seemed lovely once now make me shudder. What I looked forward to as the most beautiful thing in life fills me now only with horror and disgust. I feel as if I should never be clean again. 79 80 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM Miss LAMBERT. So do half the married women you meet, but they don't obtrude their feelings on other people. Pull yourself together, child, for heaven's sake! Most of the tragedies in this life are of our own making. Do try to overcome this morbid sense of shame . . . there's nothing virtuous in it. ... Shame is only a combination of vanity with moral cowardice. A mis- fortune is a test of character. Don't bow your pretty head like this. Look the world in the face ! MARGARET (rising from Tier chair). Oh, I'm not going to bow my head . . . only . . . only when I think of Oliver my courage seems to desert me. I don't know how I shall look him in the face. I have been robbed of what was his alone. Miss LAMBERT. Margaret, you enrage me. You are talking like a slave-woman. So long as you feel like that you will walk straight into all the foolish snares which the world has been setting for women for the past ten thousand years. Where has all your precious love of freedom got to, I wonder? Shake yourself! Freedom is a wonderful ideal. The pity is that those who talk about it most ecstatically are usually those who understand it least. It is better to be free even than to be loved . . . far better to be free than to be hedged in by other people's respect. After all, only if you are free the captain of your own soul, impervious to anything that other people can possibly do to you can you really understand what love means. And when you have grasped that, point you will look round you and see the half of humanity in chains of its own making hugging and idealising those chains! Nations and individuals, we choose deliberately to be blind rather THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 81 than to use our eyes, to be slaves rather than free, to obey anyone who will consent to say to us ' ' do this, ' ' " do that," rather than take the trouble to listen and follow the directions of our own Daimon. The chances of happiness in this world which we throw away! The horrors of hell will lie in the belated realisation of them! MARGARET. I never knew you were religious, aunt. Miss LAMBERT. Then you must have thought me a fool, my dear. Only fools are irreligious. It is a pity that folly is such an aid to ecclesiastical preferment ; but I suppose that can't be helped in the present age of materialism ! MARGARET (primly). It seems to me rather irreligious to make light of what has happened. Miss LAMBERT. True religion would enable you to make light of it. ... If your mind and soul are un- touched the rest is unimportant. Do you know, you disappoint me, Margaret. You have learned very little from Oliver. You repeat his words glibly enough. But I doubt very much if you understand what they mean. Sometimes I think you are as much the slave of con- ventional thought as the people whom you deride. You are always talking about the social revolution ; but what good will that, or any other revolution, do you, if you can't free yourself first? Half the civilised world has allowed itself to be enslaved in the vilest form of servi- tude, in order effectively to slaughter the other half, which is equally abject, in the sacred name of freedom. Nearly every man and woman at the present day thinks that he or she is taking part in a struggle for freedom ! But how many of them really are doing so ? Open yo 11 82 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM inner eyes, Margaret! Nothing else matters. I'm an old woman, my dear, but I am not tired. I wait for the Dawn. I pray that I shall live to see it. MARGARET. Aunt Eleanor, you know that I long for it, too. Miss LAMBERT. Yes, you think you do. But what I am afraid of is that when it comes at last after this black night of horror its rays will blind you and burn you, and you will shrink from it in fear and trembling. I often wonder whether you and Oliver really under- stand each other's natures. The Dawn will have no terrors for "him. MARGARET. Aunt Eleanor, how can you say that! I love Oliver with my whole heart. I understand him enough for that, at all events. I do think you are being unkind. . . . Miss LAMBERT. Ah, I'm an old witch. I feel like leaping on to my broomstick at any moment. Don't I look like a witch? (Miss LAMBERT suddenly puts down Tier Hansard and glares at MARGARET. ) MARGARET. "Well, you do rather, Aunt Eleanor, if you'll forgive me for saying so. But what is there about the changes we both long for which I sha'n't welcome and Oliver will? Miss LAMBERT. You haven't yet got over your up- bringing, Margaret. Sometimes I think you never will get over it. The cotton-wool with which our class wraps up its young women is terribly clinging stuff ... it clings and clogs and muffles. MARGARET (goes and sits on the floor at Tier aunt's feet). Aunt, tell me, talk to me ; I want to know. I do really. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 83 Miss LAMBERT. Mind, I warned you I was an old witch. MARGARET. A beloved old witch Miss LAMBERT. A spiteful old witch, with claws. Sometimes you make me want to stick them into you, Margaret. Misfortune and unhappiness rouse my worst passions. When I see you weeping over what has hap- pened to you I could laugh in your face a harsh cackle that would make you writhe. When the Dawn breaks you will shrink as you are shrinking now. Be warned in time. Oliver will not shrink. He and I, the old woman and the young man, we are brother and sister, mated lovers. The future is ours. MARGARET. Aunt Eleanor! What do you mean? . . . What are you talking about? . . . What is this "Dawn"? ... I am beginning to hate it al- ready. . . . Miss LAMBERT. And perhaps you are right to hate it. I hope not, but sometimes when I look at you I am afraid. As for me, I live for it, my whole soul longs for it. And it is so murky now, so black a night of suffering and terror, that one knows it must be at hand. One knows that oh ! ever so soon the Dawn will come rising in its red splendour over this shattered and deso- late world. And how its rays will scorch and stupefy all those who cling unconsciously to the past! For the great bulk of English people, the Dawn may be far more terrible even than the present gloom. What will they not have to swallow! All the things which they have lived for will be snatched for ever from their grasp. All their favourite lies will be exposed, their dear dishon- esties! Ah! it will be a bitter gospel for many, the 84 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM gospel of the Dawn . . . and I fear lest it may be bitter for you, my poor little grey dove. But when the day comes, I shall die happy. Oh, I am filled with longing for it! The thought of it gives me strength to fight, strength to live. Sometimes I seem to hear, far away and faint, a lovely music . . . the singing of strange, bitter, exquisite voices heralds of destruction and of new birth! (She looks straight ahead for a long while in silence. Then she loofis down at MARGARET and laughs.) ^MARGARET. Dear Aunt Eleanor, you talk as if you were inspired. Miss LAMBERT (sharply). Or demented? Ha! but don't forget that the ravings of to-day are the common sense of to-morrow. MARGARET. It's all very well, though, to talk about the coming of the Dawn and all that, but it does seem to me that if we want to achieve anything we shall have to be a little more constructive . . . evolve some definite programme. Miss LAMBERT. There, my dear! It was too bad to inflict on you such a tirade, particularly when all the while you naturally wanted to hug your own unhappi- ness. I am sure you feel that the ' ' heralds of the Dawn ' ' ought to organise themselves sensibly . . . elect a presi- dent, a number of vice-presidents and patrons, and a small working committee. But do the great storms have small working committees? Has the earthquake evolved his programme? Is the volcano reasonable? And do you suppose that God Himself is really organised on a sound liberal basis? My poor child, what agonies are in store for you! THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 85 MARGARET. You aren't very comforting, I must say. Miss LAMBERT. No, but I'm irritating. You are twice the girl you were a quarter of an hour ago. Com- fort is lowering to the system. There's no tonic like annoyance. If I had a child I should always slap it severely when it was sorry for itself. MARGARET. Well, you've given me some nasty knocks this afternoon. And I suppose Oliver, when he comes, will give me a few more, particularly as you say I don't understand him. I suppose you are right. He does frighten me sometimes, I confess. But oh, aunt, if he fails me now I shall die. I can't, I can't bear it. It's too much. At least Oliver is my friend. I've no one else to cling to except you and he. Miss LAMBERT. Then give up clinging: clinging women are detestable and out-of-date. ... I have been young, Margaret, and now I am old. I have worked through more sorrows and disappointments than you have, and I tell you this . . . the only thing that really matters is not to fail yourself. If you have nothing inside yourself to hold you up, sooner or later you will fall flat. MARGARET. It's all very well to say that . . . but it isn't even irritating, Aunt Eleanor. It just makes me feel wretcheder than ever. Miss LAMBERT. Nonsense, child, don't be so silly. What did you tell Oliver, by the way? MARGARET. I told him everything . . . exactly what happened. I had to tell him. I owed him that. At least he has taught me to be honest with myself and with him. Miss LAMBERT. Well, that's a good job, at all event&) 86 THE FIGHT FOE FREEDOM (A ring is Tieard.) Hullo ! Here he is. I'd better leave you together. MAID. Mr. Philip Henderson! Miss LAMBERT. Good gracious, Philip, what an anti-climax! We were expecting someone really in- teresting ! PHILIP HENDERSON. May I come in and talk to Mar- garet, Miss Lambert? Miss LAMBERT. Absurd creature . . . MARGARET. Of course you may, Philip, if you promise to go as soon as you are sent. PHILIP HENDERSON. My dear girl, you don't think I'd force my company on you, surely? Miss LAMBERT. Listen to the man! I really can't have you bursting into floods of tears, Philip, all over the drawing-room carpet. Ring for a whisky-and-soda, Margaret, if he begins to give way. (Exit.) PHILIP (sinking into a chair). Michael's gone, thank goodness ! . . . went off the night before last ! MARGARET (with relief). Oh! PHILIP. It seems like a nightmare, Margaret. I've never known anything so awful in the whole of my life. Do you know, during the last two days of his leave he was drunk the whole time. MARGARET. Ugh ! How loathsome ! PHILIP. You do sympathise with me, don't you? My nerves! MARGARET. I do, Philip. But just then I was think- ing of myself, oddly enough. Three days ago you wanted me to forgive him and marry him ! PHUJP. Don't remind me of it, Margaret, please! I tried to do the decent thing by both of you. I've been THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 87 regretting it ever since. ... Do you know, I believe he was half mad that's my theory half mad. I wouldn't have believed it possible. Fancy such a thing happen- ing, and in my own flat! It has completely shattered me. ... MARGARET (lightly to relieve PHILIP'S distress). People don't go mad in Government offices, do they? But when they are very, very middle-aged and rather high up, their brains begin to fail. The result of hard work, I suppose? PHILIP. Margaret, don't laugh at me. I feel this very much. I don 't know when I 've been so upset. MARGARET. As if I should laugh at you . . . when you're so very busy running the war for us! Why, it would be shamefully unpatriotic. I leave that kind of hilarity to the Huns, Philip, I assure you. PHILIP. Why to the Huns ? MARGARET. Well, you see, you are such a much better joke to them. PHILIP. It's all very well to jeer at me, Margaret, but I 've heard privately from my chief that I 'm going to be made a K.B.E. MARGARET. My God! PHILIP. That's really what I want to tell yon . . . only you don't help a fellow. . . . You see, it's like this. Now that Michael's gone and muffed his chance, and you've refused him and all that . . . well, there isn't anything actually disgraceful about being a K.B.E. , Margaret. Don't look at me like that. Oh, Lord, this is awful! MARGARET. My dear boy, I congratulate you most heartily ! You look the part to perfection. I can imag- 88 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM ine nothing more becoming. Where will you wear it. In your button-hole or round your neck? PHILIP. You see, my idea was that as you've a very natural prejudice against the Army you might give the Civil Service a chance. Now, don't you think you might, Margaret? I know you must hate the very name of Henderson . . . but it's a frightfully common name . . . there are heaps and heaps of Hendersons. You could really never be sure you mightn't marry some Hender- son some time or other. So what I thought was, you see, that as we've always got on rather well. . . . MARGARET. Oh, you dear old silly! You want to marry me ! Oh, Philip ! (She is deeply touched. Her eyes fill with tears and Tier voice trembles.) You always were the funniest old thing! PHILIP. I'm afraid that doesn't sound awfully hope- ful somehow. You see, the fact is I suppose I ought to have started with this ... I do usually . . . only this time I wanted it to come off so much that I lost my nerve and began all wrong. You see . . . Margaret . . . I simply love you desperately . . . desperately. I can 't help it. It is a habit of years' standing. After all, I knew you first, didn't I now? MARGARET. You did, my dear; and I'm very grateful to you. You couldn't have done a kinder thing. . . . PHILIP. Kind! Good heavens ... it was horribly selfish. You know I am a bit selfish, Margaret ... I must admit that. MARGARET. I'm afraid it's no use, Philip. Yon see, apart from other considerations, there's someone else . . . and he may arrive here at any moment. In fact, I've been expecting him for the past ten minutes. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 89 PHILIP. I seem to reduce blundering, where you are concerned, to a fine art! My dear, I do hope you will be happy. Be serious for once and know that I mean it with all my heart. MARGARET. I do realise it, Philip, and Pm ever so grateful. MAID. Mr. Beeching! ('OLIVER BEECHING enters the room "briskly. He looks well and cheerful. After greeting MARGARET, "he shakes hands cordially with PHILIP HENDERSON.) OLIVER. Well, Margaret! (To PHILIP.,) How d'you do, sir? PHILIP. Margaret, I must go. I've stayed much too long. MARGARET. Good-bye, dear Philip. (With the ap- pearance of OLIVER her manner has changed suddenly. She looks white, nervous, a tragic figure. When ihe door closes on PHILIP she turns and faces OLIVER with distraught eyes.) Oliver. . . . OLIVER (seizing her by the hands and kissing her). Margaret, my darling, I hurried back as soon as I could. Here I am. MARGARET. You got my letter, Oliver? OLIVER. I did. You poor little thing! It was hor- rible, a wretched piece of bad luck. But you mustn't let yourself get into a morbid condition about it. Try to put it all out of your mind for ever ! MARGARET. I can never put it out of my mind. That loathsome man has ruined my whole life. Oh, it makes my blood boil when I think of it. And that was the man 90 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM whom my relatives, except Aunt Eleanor, tried to force me to marry, knowing what they did. . . . OLIVER. My God, I think the sentimental idiocy of middle-class English people is one of the greatest problems mankind has to grapple with! And it can't be grappled with: it has a thousand heads. Being a sensible girl, of course you refused. . . . And I suppose you gave those concerned a piece of your mind. I should have done so in your place, anyhow. MARGARET. I believe I struck him in the face . . . the coward! Oh, it is awful to hate anyone as I hate that man ! OLIVER (surprised). Who, that poor devil, Captain Henderson? Whatever is the use of hating Mm? He's an object of pity, if ever there was one! MARGARET. Oliver, how can you say that! He is black and cowardly to the very depths of his soul. Pity him indeed! That's what they all said. That's why they wanted me to marry him. Mrs. Slaughter kept impressing on me the necessity of cultivating Christian charity! Oh, you can't any of you realise what I've been through, or you wouldn't talk like this! OLIVER. My dear girl, I realise perfectly. The very thought of it is an agony. I know what you are suffer- ing now. All the same, I'm on Mrs. Slaughter's side about the charity. MARGARET. Oliver . . . are you going to turn against me and preach at me? Oh, I can't bear it! This is too much ! OLIVER. Oh, don't be absurd, Margaret! Do pull yourself together a bit. Of course the suggestion that you should marry the poor devil was simply monstrous. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 91 But I do think you ought to try to make allowances for him. MARGARET (deeply hurt). You talk like all the others. That is what they all said to me. OLIVER. It is annoying when tiresome people talk sense, but that doesn 't make it nonsense, you know. The worst of this wretched war is that it seems to have de- stroyed everyone's sense of proportion. We are all ex- tremists. Up to a point, the people who condone every- thing done by "our brave lads" are quite right, MARGARET. Like Mrs. Slaughter? OLIVER. Yes, certainly. The poor devils of soldiers suffer so horribly that they are really not responsible. Human nature can't stand what they are called on to go through. There must be a reaction. The strain is unendurable. In normal circumstances this Henderson would probably be quite a decent sort of fellow, in- capable of the grotesque blackguardism of which you were the victim. Surely you must see that? Ten to one he was completely out of his head. The only thing to do with the poor dears is to put them in homes for shell-shock and try to restore them to sanity. MARGARET (fierce with anger and disappointment). So you can call Michael Henderson a "poor dear"! 7 think he ought to be in prison. OLIVER. Pooh! that's nonsense. Punishment for the crimes of soldiers, even for "atrocities," ought to be visited not on the tortured devils who actually commit them, but on the heads of those who made the war, on those who have prolonged the world's torment for two extra years by rejecting peace. Those are the real crim- inals. If a soldier commits a crime, the proper thing 92 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM to do is to hang a few journalists ''propaganda" mer- chants for choice. The men who have so cheerfully "given" their sons, while doubling and trebling their own incomes ; the writers who have filled their fountain pens with blood because it paid them they are the vil- lains, Margaret. Keep your hate for them. Punish every man who has made a penny out of this war ; im- prison and flog every scribbler who has fanned the flames of hatred. Don't punish the poor wretches who have lost all, even reason and human decency. MARGARET. You are an extraordinary person. . . . Which side are you on the side of the Junkers, or the side of Democracy? OLIVER. I am on the side of humanity, Margaret. And a very unpopular side it is just at present. I am on the side of those who suffer. My enemies are those who inflict suffering and become rich in the process. Oh, it's so simple, and so heart-breaking. MARGARET. Why ? OLIVER. Well, because it makes one love one's enemies just as much as one's friends. Very often all my sympathies are with the soldiers who throw rotten eggs or stones at me, when they are home on leave, be- cause some journalist on the hunt for popularity has told them I am a "traitor." Very often I loathe and detest my own associates in the Labour party who are willing to let their sons and brothers go on being tor- tured, provided they themselves get an increase of wages. Do you think the Labour party 's memorandum on ' ' War Aims" makes me respect them? Why, I could spit in their stupid, sheep-like faces! They are worse than the other side, because, in a way, they understand. They sin THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 93 against the Light. They pass resolutions to salve their consciences; but the hope of a rise in wages is the only thing that ever makes them act . MARGARET. I think you are very inconsistent. OLIVER. Yes, I suppose you do. One has to be either inconsistent or dishonest nowadays. (Sighing.) But aren't we all just groping in the dark anyway? MARGARET. There it is again! I'm sick to death of all this "dark night" business, and the "coming of the Dawn." Aunt Eleanor has been going on about it all the afternoon. She tells me that you and she will wel- come "the Dawn," and that I shall loathe it because I 've had a middle-class upbringing. Is it my fault what sort of upbringing I've had? You say you are on the side of humanity. You aren't. You think of nothing but your wretched theories. The people who don't hap- pen to fit in with them may go to the wall for all you care. You are utterly selfish. You have failed me, Oliver when I needed you most. Oh, I wish I was dead! OLIVER (looking at MARGARET in surprise). Well, I'm blessed ! This is a revelation. How long have you been storing all this up in your queer little head? MARGARET. That's right. Patronise me, just as Aunt Eleanor does. I haven't any brain. I'm only a fool to be spoken to like a child, or talked down to. I'm a "middle-class Englishwoman," and you and Aunt Elea- nor belong to "the future." The future! What sort of a future is it, I should like to know, that you are always bragging about and looking forward to? OLIVER. Well, not the day when the middle-class Eng- lishman shall possess the earth I'm afraid. But why 94 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM so much heat, Margaret? I thought we were good friends, but I 'm hanged if I understand you. MARGARET. No, of course you can 't. We don 't speak the same language. I know it now. I was a blind fool ever to believe in you, ever to rely on you. . . . But I know better now. I shall make my own fight for freedom freedom to be myself. OLIVER (acidly). Well, if you feel like that, my dear, at least you can congratulate yourself on having recov- ered in time. MARGARET. I do. OLIVER (with more emotion than he shows). I don't pretend to be a sentimentalist, Margaret. But this is a knock-out blow. You don't care for me any longer, then? Because I refuse to consider a calamity a crime? MARGARET. Care! What do you know about caring? All you want is a female echo of your own opinions. I may have been brought up in cotton-wool, as Aunt Eleanor says, but, at least, I'm not a slave. Aunt Eleanor has just told me how much better it is to be free than to be loved. Well, I'm going to be free. OLIVER (insufferably.) I wonder. (Shrugs his shoul- ders.) (There is a ring and the sound of voices outside the room. They break off an altercation now begin- ning to grow heated (particularly on MARGARET'S side), and stare at tJie door. It opens and MRS. SLAUGHTER, followed by MRS. LAMBERT and PHILIP, burst into the room.) MRS. SLAUGHTER. My dear child! THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 95 MRS. LAMBERT. Oh, Margaret, where is your Aunt Eleanor? PHILIP. I knew it all the time! (Enter Miss LAMBERT. ) Miss LAMBERT (coldly, to MRS. SLAUGHTER,). How do you do? (To MRS. LAMBERT.,) Well, Mary! (To PHILIP.,) Back again? And what did you know "all the time" pray ? MRS. LAMBERT. Eleanor, we had to come round to tell poor Margaret the news. Philip has just had a telegram. Michael is completely insane. They are send- ing him home to an asylum. It's too terrible. ... I really don't know what we ought to do. ... Oh, I do wish the Dean were here to advise us! Miss LAMBERT. H'm! I thought his advice was im- mediate matrimony? MRS. SLAUGHTER ("haughtily). At least you will admit, Eleanor, that Samuel and I were right when you were all wrong. We knew Michael could not have acted as he did if he were in his sober senses. We be- lieved in the poor fellow even when things looked black- est against him. I shall always remember with thank- fulness that we stood by him. We stuck to him through thick and thin. Miss LAMBERT. At Margaret's expense, of course. But you forget I told you myself that Michael was probably a madman ! MRS. SLAUGHTER (triumphantly). Michael's charac- ter is cleared. MARGARET (faintly). Philip, let me see the telegram. 96 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM (PHILIP goes across to MARGARET. Miss LAMBERT looks from her to OLIVER, and draws Tier own con- clusions.) Miss LAMBERT. Well, Oliver, what do you think about it all? OLIVER. I 'm bound to say that I was on Mrs. Slaugh- ter 's side about Captain Henderson. I felt one had to stick up for the poor wretch. But, of course, the mar- riage idea was utterly grotesque. MRS. SLAUGHTER. It was all your fault, Mr. Beeching. But for you, the poor boy might never have lost his reason. You can keep your sympathy. I don't want your precious support ! OLIVER (mildly). You know, I can't help thinking this blasted war had something to do with it all! But then I 'm a crank. I don 't approve of war as a sporting pastime for the youngsters never did. (Everyone except Miss LAMBERT regards OLIVER with coldness. PHILIP and MARGARET have noticeably drawn away from him.) MARGARET. Take me away, Philip. ... I can't bear any more. You at least have behaved decently all through. I can rely on you. PHILIP. My dear girl, I only wish you would. You must be tired out. We'll go away and have some tea. You'll excuse us, Miss Lambert? Miss LAMBERT (chuckling). By all means. (A certain constraint falls on the company after their departure.) THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM 97 MRS. LAMBERT (apologetically). I thought it only right to come and tell the poor darling at once, Eleanor. MRS. SLAUGHTER. We oived it to Michael's memory. . . . "Well, I suppose they've gone now, and I daresay we had better be going too, Mary. Philip will be such a comfort to the dear child. After all, he's the oldest friend she has. . . . MRS. LAMBERT. Yes, we'd better go now. Oh, dear. Oh, dear, how terribly sad everything all is. (Taking OLIVER'S liand rather charmingly and calling Mm, for the first time, by liis Christian name.) Good-bye, Oliver. I do wish everything weren't so terribly sad . . . and so difficult to understand. But I'm sure it's all for the best . . . somehow. (To Miss LAMBERT. ) Good-bye, Eleanor, dear. ( Miss LAMBERT and MRS. SLAUGHTER shake hands coldly. The door closes behind them. Miss LAMBERT sinks into a chair by OLIVER'S side and looks up at him quizzically. ) Miss LAMBERT. So the silly child proposes to jilt you, because you refused to flatter her egoism by regarding her as a "fallen" woman! Well, she'll be happier with Philip than she ever would have been with you. I can't pretend I'm sorry except perhaps for her. OLIVER. Well, you needn't be so beastly inhuman about it! Miss LAMBERT. Not inhuman immoral: the exact opposite. OLIVER. Why immoral? Miss LAMBERT. Because I take a common-sense view 98 THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM of sex attraction instead of a moral and sentimental one. Boys of your age always want to marry their mistresses. It's such a mistake. OLIVER. Good heavens, she wasn't my mistress! Miss LAMBERT. No, but she would have been if you had married her. OLIVER. You seem quite certain that she's thrown me over. I'm not. Miss LAMBERT. You soon will be then. I know Mar- garet very well. Now that the test has come her courage will fail her. She will never be able to cross the Rubicon with you to welcome, with you, the new world which will be built on the ruins of the old. It's no good, Oliver. We're left alone together, you and I the old woman and the young man. Ah ! we shall see the Dawn break yet. We shall live to see the Revolution. OLIVER. You best of comrades! What else really matters? (Laughing and singing:) Then raise the scarlet standard high, Within its shade we'll live or die! Miss LAMBERT (taking the song up. Botli together:) Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer, We'll keep the Red Flag flying here. (They clasp one another's liands.) (Curtain.) OF CALIFOKNI* L08 ANGKUBI S R L F SEE SPINE FOR BARCODE NUMBER FR 6013 G6Ufi 1920