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 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