SCENE IV

[A sombre, darkly furnished room in a Balkan palace. There are wooden panels and heavy gold hangings; also a window, left, a door, right, and large double doors, centre. At the left there is a table on which is a lamp with a dull gold shade. Nearby are an armchair, a footrest and a smaller chair. At the right there is a small table with two chairs. Against the walls are several quaint high-backed chairs and a curious medieval stove. As the curtain rises, D’Or is in the armchair asleep. He wears a dark dressing gown with deep gold borders and embroidery. He still has his gold rings. The window at the left is open and from the outside come the plaintive notes of a shepherd’s pipe. The light is that of early evening. Edith Packard, dressed as a nurse, enters at the right. She feels D’Or’s pulse and tiptoes noiselessly about. She places fresh golden flowers in a vase on the smaller table, then lights the lamp at the larger table and turns the flame low. After tidying the room a bit, she takes another look at D’Or, feels his forehead lightly and goes off, right. The shepherd’s pipe is silenced. There is a sudden flash of lightning at the open window and the distant rumble of thunder.]

D’Or. [In his sleep.] Not Death! Not Death! I’ve bought off Death for a time! Not yet! [He awakes with a start.] Miss Packard! I’ve been dreaming horribly again! [He looks about anxiously.] Miss Packard! Has Dr. Mirsky arrived? [Listens for reply.] They take 113my money, yet they’re not here when I need them most. [He experiences a convulsive spasm and is unable to articulate Miss Packard’s name, though he makes a painful effort to do so. He rises heavily from his chair and staggers to the bell rope near the door, right. He manages to pull it and falls in a faint over the chair standing near. Lightning and distant thunder. Edith rushes in and rubs his wrists. He revives and she succeeds in getting him to the table, right.]

D’Or. [Bewildered.] Where am I? Yes—I remember—I called—

Edith. You were sleeping peacefully when I left the room a moment ago!

D’Or. Not peacefully! I never sleep peacefully.

Edith. Do you feel any better?

D’Or. Worse—much worse! How long did I sleep?

Edith. Over three hours. It is past six o’clock.

D’Or. Evening already! Another day gone! [Lightning. Edith starts to close the window. It thunders as she looks out.]

Edith. Oh! M. D’Or, a terrible storm is approaching! The whole valley is filled with black clouds! [Lightning.]

D’Or. Close that window quickly! I cannot bear lightning. [She closes it amid thunder.] Another storm! I shall lie awake all night! [Groans.] Hasn’t Dr. Mirsky arrived?

Edith. No, he has not come. Perhaps the storm will prevent his getting here to-night.

D’Or. I must see the doctor—he must come to-night! He takes my money; he should be at my beck and call. I 114need him now—I may die before morning. Is there no one at the palace whom you can send to the village? [Heavy thunder.]

Edith. Cyril is downstairs.

D’Or. The gardener’s son? I’ll not send the boy on such a night as this. Perhaps Mirsky will get here after all.

Edith. He should come.

D’Or. I pay him well enough, eh? I pay you well, Miss Packard? I pay everybody well. I may be feeble, but I still have my gold. It serves me yet! [Thunder.]

Edith. Do you care for something to eat?

D’Or. No, I have no appetite. I am an unhappy creature. Turn up the lamp, Miss Packard—it is too gloomy. I can scarcely see. [She turns up the lamp. D’Or notices the flowers.] Why are those wilted flowers on the table?

Edith. They do seem wilted—yet they were quite fresh when I brought them in a few minutes ago. [Thunder.] Perhaps the storm—

D’Or. Nonsense! A storm cannot affect cut flowers! They must have been dying when you brought them in. [Raises their drooping heads.] Dying! Dying—their golden beauty waning—a few hours more and all will be over! [Groans.] I must see Mirsky! I feel wretched to-night. Look down the road, Miss Packard, and see if there are any signs of the doctor’s carriage. He would not come on foot to-night. [Edith opens the window. Lightning and a wild blast of wind. D’Or covers his eyes and groans.]

Edith. [Peering out.] It is too dark to see far—but the road seems quite deserted. [Thunder.]

115D’Or. Quick! Close the window! [Edith does so.] Even Mirsky fails me when I need him most. He shall hear from me to-morrow—[A pause.] if I am still alive. Have you had your dinner?

Edith. No, but there’s no hurry—I do not wish to leave you alone.

D’Or. Get your dinner by all means. You are young and healthy—you can enjoy it. Send up Cyril to keep me company; I like the boy.

Edith. Very well. Is there nothing else I can do for you?

D’Or. [More softly.] Nothing, Miss Packard. You are very kind to me. Are you satisfied in this Balkan wilderness? Am I paying you enough for coming to this desolate region?

Edith. Don’t say such things. I am a nurse—it is my duty to serve you. Besides, you have been very generous to me.

D’Or. Thank you. Run along now—and don’t forget to send up Cyril. [She goes off, centre. D’Or looks nervously about him, holds his hand over his heart, then draws himself slowly up and goes to the window to peer out. Seeing nothing he opens it. A furious downpour of rain is heard, then a flash of lightning half-blinds him. He closes the window with a loud bang.] No hope of Mirsky to-night. Even my money won’t bring him out on such a night as this. [He walks slowly to the armchair.] If he does not come, I shall be dead before sunrise!

Cyril. [Putting in his head, centre.] May I come in, M. D’Or?

116D’Or. [Brightening.] Cyril! By all means! Come in, my boy! [He resumes his seat.]

Cyril. Miss Packard said you wouldn’t be angry.

D’Or. I am very glad to see you. What have you been doing all day?

Cyril. I have been exploring along the other side of the river. I left the palace this morning at five o’clock and joined some boys in the village. We tramped for several miles along the river, then crossed the bridge at Arak and went into the woods.

D’Or. It must have been delightful. You started at five o’clock?

Cyril. Yes, it was still dark. I saw the sun rise from the Hadderberg. By dinner time we were over ten miles beyond Arak.

D’Or. How did you get home so quickly?

Cyril. Oh! we saw the storm coming—at first it was a little speck of black cloud floating far off in the sky beyond the mountain range. We hurried through the woods and reached home a half-hour ago.

D’Or. You must have had a glorious tramp. Did you do any hunting?

Cyril. Oh no! The season has not opened yet—we shall go hunting later on. M. D’Or, did you ever take such trips when you were a boy? [Rumbling thunder.]

D’Or. No, I never had such sport. I didn’t live near the mountains and the forests.

Cyril. [Sits on the foot rest at D’Or’s feet.] How do the boys in your country spend their time?

D’Or. The most sensible spend their time in learning how to make money.

117Cyril. Do they need much money when they grow up?

D’Or. Nearly all of them think they need more than they have.

Cyril. What do they buy with their money?

D’Or. Whatever they think they want. What would you buy if you had twenty florins?

Cyril. A pair of hunting boots and a new knife. [He pulls out his knife.] Not a cheap knife, like this one—but one with six silver bands on the handle.

D’Or. Why six bands?

Cyril. Because my friend Boris has one with five bands and his knife is the finest in the village.

D’Or. Ah! I see! And what would you buy if you had fifty florins?

Cyril. Fifty florins! [After a pause.] I wouldn’t buy anything. I’d save until I had a hundred.

D’Or. [Interested.] And then—

Cyril. Then I would buy a handsome rifle such as I saw in a shop window in Buda-Pesth. Were you ever in Buda-Pesth?

D’Or. Yes, Cyril. I’ve seen those fine shops. Now, isn’t it pleasant to think that you can go into such a shop with a pocket full of money and pick out anything you want?

Cyril. Yes—it’s like a fairy-tale.

D’Or. [Drily.] Well, that’s why the boys in my country learn how to make money!

Cyril. [With enthusiasm.] And when they have it, they go to the shops and buy what they wanted?

D’Or. No; by that time they have usually lost interest in what they wanted—and then they desire something which they cannot buy.

118Cyril. Then it isn’t much fun after all?

D’Or. [Stroking Cyril’s hair.] No, it isn’t much fun. You have something better than money, Cyril. You have youth and health—be careful how you spend them. You wouldn’t sell them at any price, would you?

Cyril. How can one sell youth, M. D’Or?

D’Or. By doing foolish things and by wasting the precious hours of early manhood—that is how one sells youth. I want you to realize how very rich you are, even if you haven’t enough money to buy that new rifle. [The noise of carriage wheels is heard.] Do you hear a carriage? Can it be Dr. Mirsky, after all?

Cyril. [Opens the window.] Yes, it is the doctor—and another man with him in a long white robe—a strange-looking man!

D’Or. You see very well in the dark, Cyril!

Cyril. I have good eyes; father calls them forester’s eyes.

D’Or. Is it still raining?

Cyril. [Puts out his hand.] A little, but the worst is over. The clouds are breaking.

D’Or. I am glad of it; you may leave the window open. [Enter Mirsky at centre.]

Mirsky. Good evening, M. D’Or! I’m a bit late to-night on account of this cursed storm—I never experienced such weather before. The road to the palace is a veritable river! At every turn a fresh torrent bursts over it. How do you feel?

D’Or. Fairly well since Cyril has been keeping me company, but I felt miserable before—I feared you would not come.

119Mirsky. Not come for such a patron as M. D’Or! My dear sir, I would have come if it had been necessary to swim to the palace!

Cyril. [Laughing.] People don’t swim up hills, Dr. Mirsky.

Mirsky. No, and well-behaved boys don’t make impertinent remarks to their elders.

D’Or. Cyril tells me you had a companion in your carriage.

Mirsky. Yes—the queerest fellow I’ve ever come across. I picked him up on the road just beyond the village. He had sought shelter under a tree but I saw he would be drenched if he remained there long enough—to say nothing of the danger from lightning. He’s a sort of oriental sage—calls himself Ramanand. I expect to take him back to the village when I leave and have a chat with him to-night.

D’Or. I am interested in your find! Can’t we have him up here?

Mirsky. I turned him over to Miss Packard—I believe he is drying out at the kitchen fire. Cyril, run along and fetch up the philosopher.

Cyril. [Meekly.] Very well, doctor. I hope you will forgive me for my impertinence just now—

Mirsky. [Clapping his shoulder.] Impertinence, my boy? It was the truth. As you say, people do not swim up hill. [Cyril laughs and runs off, centre. Mirsky turns to D’Or.] Well, how is my patient? [Feels his pulse.] Still feverish and unsettled—appetite poor—all out of sorts, eh?

120D’Or. Doctor, I feel like a man whose life is ebbing away. I had a horrible seizure this evening. It’s all up with me. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends all my life. I have crowded more experience into my forty years than properly belongs there—that’s all!

Mirsky. My dear M. D’Or, you talk like a man who is preparing for another world, yet you are paying me handsomely to keep you here. One can hardly regard such remarks as complimentary—

D’Or. True enough, doctor, but there’s no power of resistance left in me. I’ve been fighting Death for some time and now I have only one real weapon left—

Mirsky. [Surprised.] One weapon?

D’Or. Yes, my money! Youth and health are gone, and I have long since turned my back upon my few friends—but my money is still my faithful slave. It has provided me this airy retreat in the Balkans, it has brought me such a devoted nurse as Miss Packard, such a skilful physician as yourself—

Mirsky. Come, come—I’m not so sordid! A true physician thinks first of the professional obligation.

D’Or. But a successful doctor does not give up a lucrative practice in Buda-Pesth to bury himself in the mountains with a solitary patient unless the latter pays handsomely, eh?

Mirsky. It is true that you are giving me many times what I could earn by my practice, but why do you constantly remind me of it?

D’Or. I don’t want to offend you, doctor—but I like to feel that my money is still helping me to keep Death at bay. I have gone through life believing that wealth is 121power and I want to think so yet. Don’t you share that belief?

Mirsky. Frankly, I do. I have even coined a new beatitude—blessed is the rich man, since he can have what he wants!

D’Or. [Gravely.] Not always—I have found that out. I want health, vigor, an interest in life.

Mirsky. Your money would obtain any of these if you gave it a fair chance. You are sated, that is all—

D’Or. It is worse than that. I’m worn out—done for!

Mirsky. M. D’Or, you are absolutely wrong. I cannot comprehend your passive yielding to this chronic invalidism. You harm not only yourself, but me likewise—professionally, I mean. I shall be quite frank with you. My reputation is at stake. All Buda-Pesth knows that I am treating the rich M. D’Or. If I restore you to health, my fortune is assured! I shall no longer be the promising Dr. Mirsky in his shabby carriage—I shall become the famous Dr. Mirsky in his automobile. Do you realize what it means to me?

D’Or. So you wish me to get well for your sake?

Mirsky. Certainly, if you have no reasons of your own. I pretend to no philanthropy in the matter. You are paying me lavishly, M. D’Or—give me a chance to earn the money.

D’Or. [Shaking his head.] You’ve taken a bad case, doctor—I’m sorry for you. You’ll have your money and the automobile in any event. Of course, you expect to find greater happiness in becoming more prominent in your profession?

122Mirsky. Yes, both happiness and reputation. I look upon it as a recompense for my early years of struggle.

D’Or. You had to make your own way?

Mirsky. My father was a poor village shoemaker; my mother eked out his income by what she could earn at washing and sewing. I was the youngest of five children.

D’Or. And the others?

Mirsky. They were all sacrificed for my sake. They are hard-working men and women to-day. My parents died before I achieved independence in my profession. I should like to help my brothers and sisters, but they refuse my aid.

D’Or. Perhaps you don’t offer them enough.

Mirsky. M. D’Or, they have pride! They feel that an unfair advantage was given to me—and they are right!

D’Or. I fail to see it. This was clearly a case of one rising from the depths, or none at all. If they have pride, they should take pride in you.

Mirsky. It has made a permanent breach between us, I fear.

D’Or. And they will feel even more bitter when you return to Buda-Pesth and ride about in your new automobile?

Mirsky. [Gloomily.] Yes, I have been thinking of that. If I could only drive them from my mind!

D’Or. Yet you look forward to happiness! Is there no way of making wealth obedient to our desires?

Cyril. [Putting in his head at central door as before.] May I bring in Mr. Ramanand?

D’Or. Certainly—I shall be glad to see him. [Cyril throws the door open and Ramanand enters in stately fashion, garbed in an oriental robe.]

123Mirsky. Ah! Ramanand, quite dry now? I want to present you to M. D’Or, the tenant of this palace and my worthy patron. He has heard of our meeting on the road.

Ramanand. [With a profound bow, speaks in a deep, rich voice.] My salutations and greetings, monsieur. I am indebted to you for your hospitality.

D’Or. Won’t you be seated? [Ramanand takes a seat, right, Cyril sits on the foot rest.] I trust they made you comfortable downstairs. Didn’t you suffer in the storm?

Ramanand. A slight wetting—no more. I am accustomed to rough weather. I travel constantly on foot. It is no hardship for such as I.

Mirsky. Are you familiar with this country?

Ramanand. No. I am on my way to the West, to study the civilization of other lands. I have read of them and their manners; I now seek to know them by actual experience.

D’Or. You have doubtless traveled far enough to find things different?

Ramanand. Yes, I already feel the mark of the West in your customs. In the East, all things are deliberate and, whether right or wrong, rest upon traditions handed down from the remotest ages. Here you strive for things that are new and you are ever ready to forget the old.

D’Or. But why do you follow such a roving life? Is there any profit in it? Will you be better off when you have completed your travels?

Ramanand. There is much profit in it—I shall enrich my mind with golden thought—

124D’Or. But does it enrich your purse with golden coin—that’s more to the point!

Ramanand. Money! It is a delusion!

Mirsky. A delusion?

Ramanand. [Placidly.] Yes. Has it ever proved otherwise?

D’Or. Why, it brings power, the thing best worth having in life.

Ramanand. It brings mostly care and sorrow.

Mirsky. Did you ever hear such a philosophy?

D’Or. [To Cyril.] Cyril, you recall speaking to me this evening of a new rifle?

Cyril. Yes, M. D’Or.

D’Or. We shall send to Buda-Pesth to-morrow for that rifle and when it arrives it is yours.

Cyril. [Leaping up in pleasure and kissing D’Or’s hand.] Oh! dear M. D’Or, you are like a good magician in the story-books!

D’Or. [To Ramanand.] And the agency of such happiness as this you call a delusion! Where’s your care and sorrow?

Ramanand. [Smiling.] You are a ready man with your proof. No one can deny the momentary exaltation that follows a gift or a favor, nor do I believe that gratitude is a forgotten virtue. But look about you, and note what a curse wealth has brought upon humanity.

Mirsky. I should not care to entertain the philosophy of the East.

Ramanand. Mine is not the philosophy of the East. We also have the worship of gold among us and its 125devotees lead the same blind lives in its pursuit as your own people. The views I express are my own.

D’Or. Then you really believe that the poor man is the happiest man?

Ramanand. Yes, if he is not possessed by the lust for gold.

Mirsky. And the rich man is the unhappiest man?

Ramanand. Yes, if he is the slave of his own wealth.

D’Or. Rail against wealth if you will—I maintain that poverty has nothing to recommend it.

Ramanand. [Reflectively.] I too sought material wealth as a young man and I gained nothing but care; for many years I have cherished poverty and my days are crowned with peace. I ask no better test of my philosophy.

Mirsky. If you are satisfied, you have reached a state of mind that neither M. D’Or nor I shall ever experience. [Edith enters, centre; Mirsky and Ramanand rise.]

Edith. Pardon me—I have come to tell Cyril that his father is ready to take him back to the lodge.

Cyril. [Leaping up and running to the window.] Oh! it is clearing up beautifully—the moon will rise soon. I suppose I’ll have to go. [He shakes hands.] Good night, Dr. Mirsky. [He stands abashed before Ramanand.] Good night, Mr. Ramanand.

Ramanand. [Stroking Cyril’s hair as if invoking a blessing on the boy.] Good night, Cyril.

Cyril. Good night, M. D’Or. Shall I pray that you should get better?

D’Or. [Surprised.] Should you pray—why—yes, if you care to.

Cyril. You won’t forget about the new rifle?

126D’Or. What has the rifle to do with your prayer?

Cyril. I think I could pray better if I knew I was sure to get it. [Ramanand shakes his head.]

D’Or. Very well, Cyril, just pray your very best for me. Good night.

Cyril. Good night, Miss Packard. Why don’t you make M. D’Or get better? That’s what nurses are for.

Mirsky. The young rascal will be censuring me next for not having M. D’Or in perfect physical condition. Run along.

Cyril. [Laughing.] Good night, everybody. [He goes off hastily.]

Edith. [To D’Or.] It is time for your medicine.

Mirsky. One moment, Miss Packard. We shall discontinue that medicine; I am not satisfied with our patient’s response. We shall adopt a new course—no drugs at all for the next few days.

D’Or. I am heartily glad of it. I get far more benefit from your talk, doctor, than from your medicines. Our little discussion to-night has made me forget myself for the time. By the way, let us see how Miss Packard feels about the matter. She will be an unprejudiced judge.

Mirsky. One whose opinion will be worth having. [Ramanand bows politely.]

D’Or. We were trying to decide among ourselves whether wealth is a blessing or a curse. Do you believe it brings power?

Edith. Yes, unquestionably.

Mirsky. Does it bring happiness?

Edith. Certainly. Why shouldn’t it bring happiness?

Ramanand. Does it bring sorrow and misery?

127Edith. Far too often, I fear.

D’Or. Are all three of us right in our contentions? Wealth seems to be rather fickle, Miss Packard, according to your view.

Edith. It appears a very simple matter to me. The unattainable always seems attractive; what we possess is apt to pall after a time. Wealth does not usually bring power, nor happiness, nor sorrow until its possessor has taken some initiative in the matter. The owner of the wealth must in a large measure determine its influence on his career.

D’Or. If you possessed great wealth, would you test its power to secure for you the things that you might deem most desirable—social position, for instance?

Edith. I think not. I should prefer to expend it in a quest of happiness, but it would be a happiness that came from service—from using the wealth to bring sunshine and peace into other lives. Perhaps as a nurse I have come to think differently than many other women—

Mirsky. More self-sacrificing, I am sure.

Ramanand. Does Miss Packard believe in the philosophy of service—that our lives can be counted most successful when we make ourselves most useful to our fellow men?

Edith. Assuredly. Service seems to me the ideal of a well-ordered life. I can imagine no finer life than that of my honored country-woman, Miss Eleanor Richmond—

D’Or. [Springing up.] Eleanor Richmond!

Ramanand. A noble woman, indeed, a goddess of charity. I met her in Bombay last year.

128Mirsky. I have heard of her—she organized a relief committee for the India famine—

Edith. Yes, and is devoted heart and soul to the great cause.

D’Or. Eleanor Richmond—in India! [To Edith.] You know her?

Edith. Very well. I have been with her at different times for several years. I was a member of her party that went into the fever district.

D’Or. She—has not married?

Ramanand. Such a woman needs no family of her own. All mankind is her family!

D’Or. How strange that you should know her. I always passed over the accounts of India famines in the papers—such unpleasant reading, such harrowing details.

Mirsky. Think of the heroism of a woman who will plunge into the midst of such misery and desolation!

Ramanand. There are parts of India where Miss Richmond is worshiped as a saint!

Edith. She deserves it. I know of no one who has made such a splendid use of wealth as she has done. She has been an inspiration to me at times when I felt weak and discouraged. [Moonlight shines in at the window.]

Mirsky. The moon has risen; what a glorious light it sheds into this room. We must be going, M. D’Or, if we are to reach the village before midnight. We shall have a well-lighted road, at all events. [He goes to the window. D’Or is staring into space.]

Edith. I shall have the carriage sent around to the door. [She goes off, centre.]

129Ramanand. Monsieur, I am deeply indebted to you and to the good doctor for the shelter you have afforded me, and for your tokens of good will.

D’Or. [Recovering himself.] And to-morrow you continue your westward march—in search of truth?

Ramanand. In search of truth, M. D’Or. There is the most precious wealth that the earth affords. It will be a long and difficult quest.

D’Or. I have been searching for truth for many years and in many lands; to-night I believe I have stumbled upon it by chance. A few hours ago I was wondering what new bribe I might offer Death to postpone for a time the final settling of my account. Now I yearn for a chance to redeem my past follies, to add a new and more creditable chapter to my career. You have done me much good to-night, doctor! I feel better and happier at this moment than I have been for many years!

Mirsky. Not too fast! Don’t be in too much of a hurry to deprive me of so profitable a patient.

D’Or. Have no fear, doctor—you shall have no occasion to regret the cure that you wrought here to-night.

Mirsky. You are indeed a changed man—I am glad to see it. Good night, M. D’Or.

Ramanand. [To D’Or.] Good night, monsieur. [He bows.]

D’Or. Good night! A pleasant ride back to the village! [They go out, centre. D’Or examines the wilted flowers and laughs softly. He then goes over to the window and stands in the moonlight. He calls to the others below.] Good night! Good night! [The sound of carriage 130wheels is heard. Edith comes in, centre, and looks at D’Or a few moments before speaking.]

Edith. You may catch cold at the window—

D’Or. [Turning.] Miss Packard! I did not hear you enter.

Edith. You are feeling much better?

D’Or. I am a new man to-night. Pray tell me, do you know if Eleanor Richmond is in India now?

Edith. She is on her way to India. She wrote me from London that she would be at Port Said in a fortnight.

D’Or. Port Said! You have a letter from her?

Edith. Yes. Do you know her?

D’Or. We were very good friends—many years ago, over in America. It seems so long ago—almost like another existence.

Edith. Would you like to see her letter? It tells of her plans for the coming year.

D’Or. You are very kind—

Edith. I shall fetch the letter; I am sure it will interest you. [She goes off, right.]

D’Or. [In meditation.] Fifteen years! It seems like a lifetime! A lifetime of hideous nightmare and delusion. Fifteen years! [He paces the room. Edith returns.]

Edith. Here is Miss Richmond’s letter.

D’Or. [Takes the letter to the light and tries to read. His hand trembles. He speaks in an uncertain voice.] Won’t you read it for me?

Edith. [Reading.] ‘I am now in London with my secretary, Mr. Hanson, making final preparations for another year’s work in the Orient. Mr. Hanson’s wife and I have been buying great quantities of supplies to be 131shipped to the East. She is a most helpful woman—just another like’—[A pause.]

D’Or. [Softly.] ‘Like yourself.’

Edith. [Embarrassed, continues.] ‘From all reports the distress is even greater than before and we shall have to labor harder than ever to relieve the miseries of those unfortunate people. How my heart bleeds for them! I have found many good friends who have contributed generously to our fund, but the need is so great that we can never bring adequate relief. We can assist a little here and there, and instil new courage in those who are partly able to help themselves, but there is much that we can never hope to undertake. I wonder that I ever had the hardihood to attempt this work. Now it has become my mission in life and it means everything to me. We shall be at Port Said on the 25th, and shall spend two or three days there. I wish you could arrange to rejoin me this year. I recall our days of labor among the poor in New York and in Chicago. You were so very’—Oh! M. D’Or, won’t you read the rest?

D’Or. [Taking the letter.] Too modest to sound your own praises? [He reads in silence.] Very true, Miss Packard, what she says of you is indeed true. No wonder she wants you with her again. [He reads.] ‘The work is a consecration—it has made life very sweet to me’—[As he goes on, Edith silently steals from the room by the centre door.] ‘What a pleasure it is to bring the light of joy and gratitude into the eyes of others. In my devotion to their welfare I have tried to forget an early sorrow of my own’— [He pauses, overcome with emotion. He looks up and sees that he is alone. His 132hand trembles as he holds the letter near the lamp.] ‘I hope we may soon meet again—time alone can tell.’ Time alone can tell! How that phrase brings back that last evening together in the garden—the legend on the sun-dial—‘Time will reveal all things.’—[He rises and stands by the window, glancing over the letter in the moonlight.] ‘I have tried to forget an early sorrow of my own’—Tried to forget! Eleanor! [He gazes at the letter as the curtain slowly falls.]

133