Starting Out with Java From Control Structures

through Objects 7th Edition Gaddis Solutions

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-objects-7th-edition-gaddis-solutions-
manual/
We believe these products will be a great fit for you. Click
the link to download now, or visit testbankfan.com
to discover even more!

Starting Out with Java From Control Structures through

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-objects-7th-edition-gaddis-test-bank/

Starting Out With Java From Control Structures Through

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-objects-6th-edition-gaddis-solutions-
manual/

Starting Out with Java From Control Structures through

https://testbankfan.com/product/starting-out-with-java-from-
control-structures-through-objects-6th-edition-gaddis-test-bank/

Latest Canadian Nursing Leadership and Management 1st

https://testbankfan.com/product/latest-canadian-nursing-
leadership-and-management-1st-edition-gaudine-test-bank/
Physics for Scientists and Engineers Volume 2 Chapters
21 33 6th Edition Tipler Test Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/physics-for-scientists-and-
engineers-volume-2-chapters-21-33-6th-edition-tipler-test-bank/

Managerial Accounting 9th Edition Crosson Test Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/managerial-accounting-9th-
edition-crosson-test-bank/

Financial Accounting IFRS Edition 2nd Edition Weygandt

https://testbankfan.com/product/financial-accounting-ifrs-
edition-2nd-edition-weygandt-test-bank/

Lehninger Principles of Biochemistry 7th Edition Nelson

https://testbankfan.com/product/lehninger-principles-of-
biochemistry-7th-edition-nelson-test-bank/

Global Business Today 3rd Edition Hill Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/global-business-today-3rd-
edition-hill-solutions-manual/
Contemporary Linguistic Analysis An Introduction 8th
Edition OGrady Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/contemporary-linguistic-analysis-
an-introduction-8th-edition-ogrady-solutions-manual/
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
[He stands looking at the closed door. Abbie comes in; looks at
Craig, hesitates, then slowly crosses the room and takes the
traveling-bag he brought in when he came; another look at
his bowed head, then, herself bowed, starts up the stairs.
(Curtain)
 ACT TWO
Scene: As in Act One, save that it is evening now; the reading lamp is
lighted, and candles. Laura is sitting before the fire knitting. Abbie is
standing at the foot of the stairs, as if Laura had called to her as she
came down.
Laura
But he took the tray, did he, Abbie?
Abbie
He let me leave it.
Laura
And how did he seem?
Abbie
I didn’t see his face. And he didn’t say anything.
Laura
He wasn’t like that until Margaret Pierce came. How long was Mrs.
Norris sick, Abbie? [As she asks this the outer door opens and
Margaret comes in.] Been out looking at the stars, Margaret? Aren’t
they bright up here in the hills?
Margaret
I—I didn’t see them.
[She looks at Abbie, who is looking at her. Abbie turns away from
Margaret’s look.
Laura
I was asking you—how long was Mrs. Norris sick, Abbie?
Abbie
Two days.
 Laura
And just what did the doctor say was the matter?
Abbie
The doctor wasn’t here.
[She steals a glance at Margaret, who is all the while looking at
her.
Laura
I know. But afterwards—what was his opinion?
Abbie
Attacks like she had had before—only worse. Ulcers in the stomach,
he thought it was.
Laura
It’s a great pity you couldn’t get a doctor. That’s the worst of living
way up here by one’s self. Mrs. Norris had seemed well, hadn’t she?
Abbie
Yes, except once in a while; the doctor had said that she ought to go
to the hospital to find out.
Margaret
[To Laura.] Too bad Craig wasn’t here.
Laura
Yes. He was detained in New York.
Margaret
Yes. I know.
Laura
Abbie, I wish you would go up and ask Mr. Norris if he would like
some more coffee and—see how he seems. [To Margaret,
resentfully.] I don’t understand why Craig should be quite like this.
[Abbie does not move until Laura looks at her in surprise, then she
turns to go.] No; I’ll go myself, Abbie. I want to see how he is.
[She goes up, and Abbie comes back. Without looking at Margaret
she is turning toward the kitchen.
Margaret
Abbie! [Reluctantly Abbie comes back, at first not looking up. Then
she raises her eyes.] Yes, he told me. [Abbie does not speak or
move.] Had she seemed unhappy, Abbie?
Abbie
No. No, I hadn’t noticed anything.
Margaret
Abbie! Don’t shut me out like this! She wouldn’t shut me out.
Bernice loved me.
Abbie
I know. I know she did. But there’s nothing for me to tell you, Miss
Margaret, and it’s hard for me to talk about. I loved her too. I lived
with her her whole life long. First the baby I took care of and played
with—then all the changing with the different years—then this—
[A move of her hands towards the closed door.
Margaret
Yes—then this. [Gently.] That’s it, Abbie. “This”—takes away from all
that. Abbie, do you understand it? If you do, won’t you help me?
Abbie
I don’t understand it.
Margaret
It’s something so—outside all the rest. That’s why I can’t accept it.
Something in me just won’t take it in—because it isn’t right. I knew
her. I know I knew her! And this—Why then I didn’t know her. Can’t
you help me?
 Abbie
I don’t see how, Miss Margaret.
Margaret
But if you would tell me things you know—little things—even though
they meant nothing to you they might mean something to me.
Abbie! Because you loved her don’t you want what she was to go on
living in our hearts?
Abbie
Oh, I do! I do! But she’ll go on living in my heart without my
understanding what she did.
Margaret
But differently. I’ll tell you what I mean. Everything about her has
always been—herself. That was one of the rare things about her. And
herself—oh, it’s something you don’t want to lose! It’s been the
beauty in my life. In my busy practical life, Bernice—what she was—
like a breath that blew over my life and—made it something.
Abbie
I know—just what you mean, Miss Margaret.
Margaret
It’s inconceivable that she should—cut off her own life. In her lived
all the life that was behind her. You felt that in her—so wonderfully.
She felt it in herself—or her eyes couldn’t have been like that. Could
they? Could they, Abbie?
Abbie
It—wouldn’t seem so.
Margaret
She wouldn’t destroy so much. Why she never destroyed anything—
a flower—a caterpillar. Don’t you see what I mean, Abbie? This
denies so much. And then is it true that all this time she wasn’t
happy? Why she seemed happy—as trees grow. Did Mr. Norris make
her unhappy? Oh, don’t think you shouldn’t talk about it. Don’t act
as if I shouldn’t ask. It’s too big for those little scruples. Abbie! I
can’t let Bernice’s life go out in darkness. So tell me—just what
happened—each little thing. [Margaret has taken hold of Abbie; Abbie
has turned away.] When did you first know she had—taken
something? Just what did she say to you about it? I want to know
each little thing! I have a right to know.
[A step is heard above.
Abbie
[As if saved.] Mrs. Kirby’s coming down now.
Margaret
I want to talk to you, Abbie, after the others have gone to bed.
[Laura comes down, Abbie passes her at the foot of the stairs, and
goes through to the kitchen.
Laura
Margaret, what is to be gained in making people feel worse than
they need? Craig upstairs—he’s so broken—strange. And even Abbie
as she passed me now. You seem to do this to them. And why?
Margaret
I don’t do it to them. I’m not very happy myself.
Laura
Of course not. None of us can be that. But I believe we should try to
bear things with courage.
Margaret
That comes easily from the person who’s bearing little!
Laura
You think it means nothing to me that my brother has lost his wife?
Margaret
Your brother has lost his wife! That’s all you see in it!
Laura
I don’t see why you seem so wild—so resentful, Margaret. Death
should soften us.
[She takes her old place before the fire.
Margaret
Well I can tell you this doesn’t soften me!
Laura
I see that you feel hard toward Craig. But Bernice didn’t. You think
he should have come right home. But you must be just enough to
admit he didn’t have any idea Bernice was going to be taken
suddenly sick. He had been out of the country for three months,
naturally there were things connected with his writing to see about.
Margaret
Connected with his writing! Laura! Don’t lie about life with death in
the next room. If you want to talk at a time like this, have the
decency to be honest! Try to see the truth about living. Craig stayed
in New York with May Fredericks—and he doesn’t pretend anything
else. Stayed there with May Fredericks, continuing an affair that has
been going on for the past year. And before it was May Fredericks it
was this one and that one. Well, all right. That may be all right. I’m
not condemning Craig for his affairs. I’m condemning you for the
front you’re trying to put up!
Laura
I certainly am not trying to put up any front. It’s merely that there
seems nothing to be gained in speaking of certain things. If Craig
was—really unfaithful, I do condemn him for that. I haven’t your
liberal ideas. [Slight pause, she takes up her knitting.] It’s
unfortunate Bernice hadn’t the power to hold Craig.
Margaret
Hadn’t the power to hold Craig!
Laura
She didn’t want to—I suppose your scoffing means. Well, she should
have wanted to. It’s what a wife should want to do.
Margaret
Oh, Laura, Bernice will never say one more word for herself! In
there. Alone. Still. She will not do one new thing to—to throw a light
back on other things. That’s death. A leaving of one’s life. Leaving it
—with us. I cannot talk to you about what Bernice “should have
been.” What she was came true and deep from—[Throwing out her
hands as if giving up saying it. Taking it up again.] It’s true there
was something in her Craig did not control. Something he couldn’t
mess up. There was something in her he might have drawn from
and become bigger than he was. But he’s vain. He has to be bowling
some one over all the time—to show that he has power.
Laura
I don’t agree with you that Craig is especially vain. He’s a man. He
does want to affect—yes, dominate the woman he loves. And if
Bernice didn’t give him that feeling of—
Margaret
Supremacy.
Laura
There’s no use trying to talk with you of personal things. Certainly I
don’t want to quarrel tonight. That would not be the thing. [In a
new tone.] How is your work going? I don’t quite know what you are
doing now, but trying to get some one out of prison, I suppose?
Margaret
Yes; I am trying to get out of prison all those people who are
imprisoned for ideas.
Laura
I see.
Margaret
I doubt if you see, Laura.
Laura
Well I don’t say I sympathize. But I see.
Margaret
No; for if you did see, you would have to sympathize. If you did see,
you would be ashamed; you would have to—hang your head for this
thing of locking any man up because of what his mind sees. If
thinking is not to become—whatever thinking may become!—then
why are we here at all? [She stops and thinks of it.] Why does
Bernice—her death—make that so simple tonight? Because she was
herself. She had the gift for being herself. And she wanted each one
to have the chance to be himself. Anything else hurt her—as it hurt
her to see a dog tied, or a child at a narrow window.
Laura
I don’t think Bernice was a very good wife for a writer.
Margaret
She would have been a wonderful wife for a real writer.
Laura
Oh, I know she didn’t value Craig’s work. And that’s another thing.
And I suppose you don’t value it either. [She looks at Margaret, who
does not speak.] Fortunately there are many thousands of people in
this country who do value it. And I suppose you think what I do of
little value too. I suppose you scoff at those things we do to put
cripples back in life.
Margaret
No, Laura, I don’t scoff at anything that can be done for cripples.
Since men have been crippled, cripples must be helped. I only say—
Don’t cripple minds—strong free minds that might go—we know not
where! Might go into places where the light of a mind has never
been. [Rising.] Think of it! Think of that chance of making life even
greater than death. [With passion.] If you have any respect for life—
any reverence—you have to leave the mind free. I do not scoff at
you, but you are not a serious person. You have no faith—no hope—
no self-respect!
Laura
[Rising.] You tell me I have no self-respect! You who have not cared
what people thought of you—who have not had the sense of fitness
—the taste—to hold the place you were born to—you tell me,
against whom no word was ever spoken, that I have no self-respect?
Margaret
You have a blameless reputation, Laura. You have no self-respect. If
you had any respect for your own mind you could not be willing to
limit the mind of any other. If you had any respect for your own
spiritual life you could not be willing to push your self into the
spiritual life of another. [Roughly.] No! You could not. [As one seeing
far.] I see it as I never saw it. Oh I wish I could talk to Bernice!
Something is down. I could see things as I never saw them.
Laura
[Gathering up the things she had been working with.] I will go
before I am insulted further.
Margaret
There’s nothing insulting in trying to find the truth. [Impulsively
reaching out her hands to Laura, as she is indignantly going.] Oh,
Laura, we die so soon! We live so in the dark. We never become
what we might be. I should think we could help each other more.
Laura
[After being a moment held.] It would have to be done more
sympathetically.
Margaret
I didn’t mean to be unsympathetic. [Watching Laura go up the
stairs.] I suppose that’s the trouble with me. [She stands a moment
thinking of this. Then there is something she wants to say. She
knows then that she is alone—and in this room. Slowly she turns
and faces the closed door. Stands so, quite still, realizing. Suddenly
turns to the stairway, goes up a few steps.] Craig! [Listens, then
goes up another step and calls a little louder.] Craig!
Laura
[From above.] Please don’t disturb Craig, Margaret.
[Margaret hesitates, turns to go down. A door opens above.
Craig
Did some one call me?
Margaret
I did, Craig. I’m down here alone—lonely.
Craig
[As if glad to do so.] I’ll come down. [After coming.] I wanted to
come down. I thought Laura was down here. I can’t pretend—not
tonight.
Margaret
No. I can’t. I wanted so to talk to Bernice, and when I couldn’t I—
called to you.
Craig
I was glad to hear my name. It’s too much alone. [He and Margaret
stand there hesitatingly, as if they are not able to do it—settle down
in this room and talk. Craig takes out his cigarette case. In the
subdued voice of one whose feeling is somewhere else.] You want a
cigarette, Margaret?
Margaret
No. I don’t believe so.
 Craig
Oh, I remember, you don’t like these. Bernice must have some of the
—
[He opens a chest on the mantel, takes from it a beautiful little
box.
Margaret
[As she sees the box.] Oh—[Turning away.] Thank you, Craig, but—
Craig
Of course. [Holds the box for a moment, then slowly replaces it. He
looks around the room. Then, helplessly.] I don’t know what I’m
going to do.
[He sits down before the fire. Margaret also sits. The door at the
other side of the room opens and the Father comes in from
his room.
Father
I was going to bed now. I thought I’d go in here first.
[Slowly goes in where Bernice is. A little while Craig and Margaret
sit there silent.
Craig
And I don’t know what he’s going to do. Poor old man. Bernice was
certainly good to him—keeping him happy in that life he made for
himself away from life. It’s queer about him, Margaret. Somehow he
just didn’t go on, did he? Made a fight in his youth, and stopped
there. He’s one of the wrecks of the Darwinian theory. Spent himself
fighting for it, and—let it go at that. [Running his hand through his
hair.] Oh, well, I suppose we’re all wrecks of something. [With a
nervous laugh.] What are you a wreck of, Margaret? You’re a wreck
of free speech. [Impatiently.] I’m talking like a fool. I’m nervous. I’ll
be glad when he goes to bed. [Looking upstairs.] I guess Laura’s
gone to bed. [After looking into the fire.] Well, Bernice isn’t leaving
any children to—be without her. I suppose now it’s just as well we
lost our boy before we ever had him. But she would have made a
wonderful mother, wouldn’t she, Margaret?
Margaret
Oh, yes!
Craig
You ever wish you had children, Margaret?
Margaret
Yes.
Craig
[Roughly.] Well, why don’t you have?
Margaret
[Slowly.] Why, I don’t just know, Craig. Life—seems to get filled up
so quickly.
Craig
Yes. And before we know it, it’s all over—or as good as over. Funny
—how your mind jumps around. Just then I thought of my mother.
How she used to say: “Now eat your bread, Craig.”
[His voice breaks, he buries his face in his hands. Margaret
reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder. The door
opens and the Father comes out. He stands looking at them.
Father
[Gently.] Yes. Of course. I’m glad you’re here Margaret. But my little
girl looks very peaceful, Craig. [Pause.] She had a happy life.
[Craig moves, turning a little away. Margaret makes a move as if to
shield him, but does not do this.
Father
Yes; she had a happy life. Didn’t she, Margaret?
Margaret
I always thought so.
Father
Oh, yes. She did. In her own way. A calm way, but very full of her
own kind of happiness. [After reflection.] Bernice was good to me. I
suppose she might have liked me to have done more things, but—
she wanted me to do what—came naturally to me. I suppose that’s
why we always felt so—comfortable with her. She was never trying
to make us some—outside thing. Well—you know, Margaret, I can
see her now as a baby. She was such a nice baby. She used to—
reach out her hands. [Doing this himself.] Well, I suppose they all
do. I’m going to bed. [After starting.] I’m glad you’re here with
Craig, Margaret. Bernice would like this. You two who know all about
her—well, no, nobody knew all about Bernice—but you two who
were closest to her, here now as—close as you can be. I’m going to
bed. Good-night.
Margaret
[Crying.] Good-night.
Craig
[After the father has closed his door. With violence.] “Reached out
her hands!” And what did she get? [Roughly grasping Margaret’s
wrists.] I killed Bernice. There’s no use in your saying I didn’t. I did.
Only—[Letting go of her] don’t flay me tonight, Margaret. I couldn’t
stand it tonight. [With another abrupt change.] Am I a fool? Why did
I never know Bernice loved me like this? [In anguish.] Why wouldn’t
I know it? [Pause.] We don’t know anything about each other. Do
we, Margaret? Nothing. We never—get anywhere. [Shivering.] I’m
cold. I wonder if there’s anything to drink in the house. There must
be something. [He goes out into the kitchen; after a moment there
is the sound of running water; he comes in with a bottle of whiskey,
a pitcher of water.] I don’t see the glasses. Things seem to have
been moved. [Looks at Margaret as if expecting she will go and get
them; she does not; he goes out again. From the kitchen.] Margaret,
have you any idea where the glasses are?
 Margaret
No, Craig. I don’t know. [After hearing him moving things around.]
Isn’t Abbie somewhere there?
Craig
No; she isn’t here. She seems to have gone outdoors. She’s left the
door open too. No wonder it was cold. [Calling at an outer door.]
Abbie! [Sound of the door closing. Again the sound of dishes being
moved.] Well, I don’t know where they can have put—
Margaret
[Covering her face.] Don’t look for things. [More quietly.] Bring
anything, Craig, there must be something there.
Craig
[Coming in with cups.] Things have been moved around. I stumbled
over things that didn’t used to be there. You’ll have a little,
Margaret? It—we need something.
Margaret
I don’t—oh, I don’t care.
[He pours the drinks and drinks his.
Craig
[Abruptly shoving his cup away.] Margaret, I loved Bernice. I
suppose you don’t believe that! And I thought Bernice knew I loved
her, in spite of—other things. What do you think it is is the matter
with me, Margaret, that I—[Saying it as if raw] miss things. You can
tell me. I’d be glad to feel some one knew. Only—don’t leave me
alone while you’re telling me!
Margaret
I’m afraid I have nothing to tell you, Craig. I thought I knew Bernice.
And now—I did know Bernice! [Gropingly.] I feel something we don’t
get to.
 Craig
And Bernice can’t help us.
Margaret
I think she would expect us to—find our way. She could always find
her way. She had not meant to leave us here. Bernice was so kind.
Craig
She was kind.
Margaret
Such a sensitive kindness. The kindness that divined feeling and was
there ahead—to meet it. This is the very thing she would not do.
Craig
[Slowly, as if feeling his way.] Margaret, I wish I could tell you about
me and Bernice. I loved her. She loved me. But there was something
in her that had almost nothing to do with our love.
Margaret
Yes.
Craig
Well, that isn’t right, Margaret. You want to feel that you have the
woman you love. Yes—completely. Yes, every bit of her!
Margaret
So you turned to women whom you could have.
Craig
Yes.
Margaret
But you “had” all of them simply because there was less to have.
You want no baffling sense of something beyond you. [He looks at
her reproachfully.] You wanted me to help you find the truth. I don’t
believe you can stand truth, Craig.
 Craig
It’s hard tonight.
Margaret
[Intensely.] But perhaps it is tonight or not at all. It’s a strange thing
this has done. A light trying to find its way through a fog. [In her
mind the light tries to do this.] Craig, why do you write the things
you do?
Craig
Oh, Margaret, is this any time to talk of work?
Margaret
It seems to be. Tonight it’s all part of the same thing. Laura and I
were talking of work—quarreling about it: you were talking of
Bernice’s father. The light—just goes there. That poor sad old man—
why didn’t he go on? You said he was a wreck of the Darwinian
theory. Then me—a wreck of free speech.
Craig
Oh I didn’t mean you were, Margaret.
Margaret
But I might be. I can see that. We give ourselves in fighting for a
thing that seems important and in that fight we get out of the flow
of life. We had meant it to deepen the flow—but we get caught. I
know people like that. People who get at home in their fight—and
stay there—and are left there when the fight’s over—like this old
man. How many nights Bernice and I have sat in this room and
talked of things! And I had thought—[With sudden angry passion.] If
you had been good to her, she would be in this room now. [After a
look at him.] I’m sorry. But can I help feeling it?
Craig
I didn’t know.
Margaret
No; you didn’t know. We don’t know. When you think what a writer
might do for life—for we don’t know. You write so well, Craig, but—
what of it? What is it is the matter with you—with all you American
writers—’most all of you. A well-put-up light—but it doesn’t
penetrate anything. It never makes the fog part. Just shows itself off
—a well-put-up light. [Growing angry.] It would be better if we didn’t
have you at all! Can’t you see that it would? Lights which—only light
themselves keep us from having light—from knowing what the
darkness is. [After thinking.] Craig, as you write these things are
there never times when you sit there dumb and know that you are
glib and empty?
Craig
Did you ever try to write, Margaret?
Margaret
No.
Craig
I suppose you think it’s very simple to be real. I suppose you think
we could do it—if we just wanted to do it. Try it. You try.
Margaret
So you do this just to cover the fact that you can’t do anything? Your
skill—a mask for your lack of power?
Craig
I should think you’d want to be good to me tonight, Margaret.
Margaret
Be good to you! Keep you from seeing. That’s the way we’re good to
each other. There’s only one thing I could do for you tonight, Craig.
You don’t want that. So—
[Moves as if to rise.
Craig
No, don’t go away. My brain won’t keep still either. What I think is
just as bad as what you say. Well, why do you think it is I—miss
things—never get anywhere?
Margaret
I don’t know. And it’s true of all of us. Of me too. I do things that to
me seem important, and yet I just do them—I don’t get to the thing
I’m doing them for—to life itself. I don’t simply and profoundly get to
life. Bernice did.
Craig
Yes. Bernice did.
Margaret
And yet you had to—shy away from Bernice. Into a smaller world
that could be all your world. No, Craig, you haven’t power. It’s true.
And for one hour in our lives let’s try to—Those love affairs of yours
—they’re like your false writing—to keep yourself from knowing you
haven’t power. Did you ever see a child try to do a thing—fail—then
turn to something he could do and make a great show of doing that?
That’s what most of our lives are like.
Craig
[Rudely.] Well, why haven’t I power? If you are going to be any
good to me—tell me that.
Margaret
[Shaking her head.] I can’t tell you that. I haven’t any light that—
goes there. But isn’t it true? Isn’t your life this long attempt to
appear effective—to persuade yourself that you are something?
What a way to spend the little time there is for living.
Craig
I fancy it’s the way most lives are spent.
Margaret
That only makes it infinitely sadder.
 Craig
[As if he can stay in this no longer.] As to writing, Margaret, the
things that interest you wouldn’t interest most people.
Margaret
“Wouldn’t interest most people!” Oh, Craig, don’t slide away from
that one honest moment. Say you haven’t got it. Don’t say they
wouldn’t want it. Why, if now—in this our day—our troubled day of
many shadows—came a light—a light to reach those never lighted
places—wouldn’t want it? I wish some one could try them! No, Craig,
they all have their times of suspecting their lives are going by in a
fog. They’re pitifully anxious for a little light. Why—they continue to
look to writers. You know, Craig, what living makes of us—it’s a rim
—a bounded circle—and yet we know—have our times of suspecting
—that if we could break through that. [Seeing.] O-h. It’s like living in
the mountains—those high vast places of Colorado—in a little house
with shaded windows. You’d suspect what was there! A little
sunshine through the cracks—mountain smells—and at times the
house would shake—and you’d wonder—and be fretted in your little
room. And if some day you could put up the shade and—see where
you were. Life would never be so small a thing again. Bernice could
do that. Her own life did not bound her.
Craig
No. That was what—
Margaret
Hurt your vanity?
Craig
I don’t know. I’m trying to be honest. I honestly don’t know.
Margaret
No. We don’t know. That’s why—oh, Craig, it would be so wonderful
to be a writer—something that gets a little farther than others can
get—gets at least the edge of the shadow. [After her own moment
on the edge of the shadow.] If you ever felt the shock of reality, and
got that back in you—you wouldn’t be thinking of whom it would
“interest”! But, Craig—this. [A movement toward the closed room.]
Doesn’t this give you that shock of reality?
Craig
What of you? Doesn’t it give it to you? You’re speaking as if this
hadn’t happened! You leave it out—what Bernice did because of me.
You’re talking of my having no power. What of this? Had I no power?
[After her look at him.] Oh, yes—I know I used it terribly—plenty of
years for my heart to break over that. But can you say I didn’t have
it?
Margaret
I do leave it out. It isn’t right there should be anything in Bernice not
Bernice. And she had a great rightness—rightness without effort—
that rare, rare thing.
Craig
You say it isn’t right—and so you leave it out? And then you talk
about the shock of reality.
Margaret
I don’t say it isn’t fact. I say it isn’t—in the rightness.
Craig
“In the rightness!” Is that for you to say? Is rightness what you
think? What you can see? No. You didn’t know Bernice. You didn’t
know she loved me—that way. And I didn’t know. But she did! How
could I have had that—and not known? But I did have it! I did have
it! You say life broke through her—the whole of life. But Bernice
didn’t want—the whole of life. She wanted me. [He goes to the door,
bows against it, all sorrow and need.] I want to talk to her—not you.
I want her now—knowing.
[He opens that door and goes in to Bernice. Margaret stands
motionless, searching, and as if something is coming to her
 from the rightness. When she speaks it is a denial from that
inner affirmation.
Margaret
No! I say—No! [Feeling some one behind her, swiftly turning she
sees Abbie outside, looking through the not quite drawn curtains of
the door. She goes to the door and draws Abbie in.] Yes, I am here—
and I say no. [She has hold of her, drawing her in as she says it.]
You understand—I say no. I don’t believe it. What you told me—I
don’t believe it.
Abbie
[At first it is horror—then strange relief, as if nothing could be so bad
as this has been.] Well, I’m glad you know.
Margaret
[Very slowly, knowing now it is fact she has come to.] Glad I know
what?
Abbie
That it isn’t true. That she didn’t do it.
Margaret
Didn’t do it? Did not take her own life?
Abbie
No. Of course she didn’t.
Margaret
[Still very slowly, as if much more is coming than she can take in.]
Then why—did you say she did?
Abbie
Because she said I must. Oh—look at me! Look at me! But you knew
her. You know the strength of her. If she’d told you the way she told
me—you’d have done it too. You would!
 Margaret
[Saying each word by itself.] I can not understand one word you’re
saying. Something is wrong with you. [Changing, and roughly taking
hold of Abbie.] Tell me. Quick, the truth.
Abbie
Wednesday night, about eight o’clock, about an hour after she told
me to telegraph you, she said, “Why, Abbie, I believe I’m going to
die.” I said no, but she said, “I think so.” I said we’d send for Mr.
Norris. She said no, and not to frighten her father. I—I didn’t think
she was going to die. All the time I was trying to get the doctor.
There were two hours when she was—quiet. Quiet—not like any
quiet I ever knew. Thinking. You could see thinking in her eyes—
stronger than sickness. Then, after ten, she called me to her. She
took my hands. She said, “Abbie, you’ve lived with me all my life.”
“Yes,” I said. “You love me.” “Oh, yes,” I said. “Will you do something
for me?” “You know I will,” I told her. “Abbie,” she said, looking right
at me, all of her looking right at me, “if I die, I want you to tell my
husband I killed myself.” [Margaret falls back.] Yes, I did that too.
Then I thought it was her mind. But I looked at her, and oh, her
mind was there! It was terrible—how it was all there. She said—and
then she [The sobs she has been holding back almost keep Abbie
from saying this]—held out her hands to me—“Oh, Abbie, do this
last thing for me! After all there has been, I have a right to do it. If
my life is going—let me have this much from it!” And as still I
couldn’t—couldn’t—the tears ran down her face and she said, “I
want to rest before pain comes again. Promise me so I can rest.”
And I promised. And you would have too!
Margaret
You don’t know what you’re telling me! You don’t know what you’re
doing. You do this now—after she can do nothing? [Holding out her
hands.] Abbie! Tell me it isn’t true!
Abbie
It’s true.
 Margaret
You are telling me her life was hate? [Stops, half turns to the room
where Craig is with Bernice.] You are telling me she covered hate
with—with the beauty that was like nothing else? Abbie! You are
telling me that as Bernice left life she held out her hands and asked
you to take this back for her?
Abbie
There are things we can’t understand. There’s no use trying.
[She turns to go.
Margaret
You can’t leave me like this!
Abbie
[More gently.] You shouldn’t have tried to know. But—if you have
got to know things—you have got to take them.
[Craig comes out; Abbie goes.
Craig
Go in there, Margaret. There’s something wonderful there.
Margaret
[Turned from him, her face buried in her hands.] Oh no—no—no. I
can never go in there. I—I never was—in there.
[Her other words are lost in wild sobbing. He stands regarding her
in wonder, but not losing what he himself has found.
(Curtain)
 ACT THREE
Scene: The same as in Acts One and Two; it is early afternoon of the
next day; the door leading outdoors is a little open; when the curtain
is drawn Craig is seen outside, just passing the window, as one who
is walking back and forth in thinking. In the room are Laura and the
Father—the Father sitting at the table by the stairs—Laura, standing,
watches Craig pass the door; she has in her hand a paper on which
are some memoranda. After watching Craig she sighs, looks at her
notes, sits down.
Laura
I’m sorry to be troubling you, Mr. Allen. Certainly you should not be
asked to discuss these matters about—arrangements. But really, you
and I seem the only people who are capable of going on with things.
I must say, I don’t know what to make of everyone else. They all
seem to be trying to—keep away from one. I think that’s a little
unnecessary. Of course I know what grief does, and I’m sure I have
every consideration for that, but really—I’m sorry Craig keeps his
own sister out. When I’m here to help him. And Abbie—why she
seems to have lost her head. Just when it’s so important that she
look after things. And as to Margaret Pierce—she certainly is worse
than useless. I don’t see what she came for if she didn’t want to be
helpful.
Father
Margaret and Bernice were very dear friends, Laura.
Laura
Is that any reason for not being helpful in Bernice’s household at a
time like this? Really I do like control. [After looking at her notes.]
Then the minister will come here at three, Mr. Allen. Why that will be
little more than an hour! Think of things having been neglected like
this! [As Craig, having turned in his walk, is again passing the door.]
Craig! [He steps to the door.] The minister, Mr. Howe, will come
here, Craig, at three.
Craig
What for?
Laura
Craig! What for?
Craig
I don’t see why he comes here. Why Bernice scarcely knew him. [To
her father.] Did Bernice know him?
Father
Well, I don’t know whether she knew him, but—
Laura
It is not a personal matter, Craig.
Craig
I think it is. Very personal.
Laura
You mean to say you are not going to have any service?
Craig
I haven’t thought anything about it. Oh, Laura! How can I think of
such things now?
Laura
Well, I will think of them for you, dear.
Craig
Don’t bring him here. He can go—[Stops] there, if he wants to.
Where—we have to go. Not here. In her own house. The very last
thing.
Father
I’m afraid it will seem strange, Craig.
Craig
Strange? Do I care if it seems strange? Bernice seemed strange too.
But she wasn’t strange. She was wonderful. [Putting out his hand
impatiently.] Oh, no, Laura. There’s so much else to think of—now.
[He steps out of the door and stands there, his back to the room.
Father
[In a low voice.] I wonder—could we go somewhere else? Into my
room, perhaps. I’m afraid we are keeping Craig out of here. And I
think he wants to be here—near Bernice. We will be undisturbed in
my room.
[He gets up and goes to the door of his room, Laura turns to
follow. Outside Craig passes from sight.
Laura
I think it’s too bad things have to be made so—complicated.
Father
[After opening the door.] Oh, Margaret is in here.
Margaret
[From the other room.] I was just going out. I just came in here to—
[Enters.] I just went in there—I didn’t think about it being your
room.
Father
Why that was quite all right, Margaret. I’m only sorry to disturb you.
Margaret
No. That doesn’t matter. I—wasn’t doing anything.
Laura
There is a great deal to do.
 [She follows the Father into his room. Margaret walks across the
room, walks back, stands still, head bent, hands pressing her
temples. Abbie comes part way down the stairs, sees Margaret,
stands still as if not to be heard, turns to go back upstairs.
Margaret
[Hearing her, looking up.] Abbie! [Abbie comes slowly down.] Where
is he, Mr. Norris? Where is he?
Abbie
I don’t know. He was here a little while ago. Perhaps he went out.
[Indicating the open door.
Margaret
I have to tell him!
Abbie
[After an incredulous moment.] Tell him what you made me tell you?
Margaret
Of course I have to tell him! You think I can leave that on him? And
the things I said to him—they were not just.
Abbie
And you’d rather be “just” than leave it as she wanted it?
Margaret
Oh, but Abbie—what she wanted—[Holds up her hand as if to shut
something from her eyes.] No. You can’t put that on anyone. I
couldn’t live—feeling I had left on him what shouldn’t be there.
Abbie
But you wouldn’t tell him now?
Margaret
I must tell him now. Or I won’t tell him. And I must go away. I can’t
stay. I can’t stay here.
 Abbie
But what will they think—your leaving? You mean—before we’ve
taken her away?
Margaret
Oh, I don’t know. How can I—plan it out? I’m going as soon as I can
tell him. All night—all day—I’ve been trying to tell him—and when I
get near him—I run away. Why did you tell me?
Abbie
[Harshly.] Why did you know—what you weren’t to know? But if you
have some way of knowing what you aren’t told—you think you have
the right to do your thing with that? Undo what she did? What I did?
Do you know what it took out of me to do this? There’s nothing left
of me.
Margaret
[With a laugh. Right on the verge of being not herself.] No. You’re a
wreck. Another wreck. It’s your Darwinian theory. Your free speech.
Abbie
Oh, I was afraid of you. I didn’t want you to come. I knew you’d—
get to things.
[Abbie goes to the door and looks out.
Margaret
He is out there?
Abbie
Yes.
[Margaret tries to go; moves just a little.] And you’d go to him and—
what for?
Margaret
Because I can’t live—leaving that on him—having him think—when I
know he didn’t. I can’t leave that on him one more hour.
 Abbie
[Standing in the door to block her going.] And when you take that
from him—what do you give to him?
[They stare at one another; Margaret falls back.
Margaret
Don’t ask me to see so many things, Abbie. I can only see this thing.
I’ve grown afraid of seeing.
Abbie
[After looking at her, seeing something of her suffering.] Miss
Margaret, why did you do what you did last night? How did you
know?
Margaret
I don’t know.
Abbie
But you knew.
Margaret
No. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. It didn’t come from me. It came—
from the rightness.
[A laugh.
Abbie
If you could get that without being told—why don’t you get more
without being told? [Margaret gives her a startled look.] For you will
never be told.
Margaret
You know more?
Abbie
No. My knowing stops with what you got from me last night. But I
knew her. I thought maybe, as you have some way of knowing what
you aren’t told, you could—see into this. See.
Margaret
I’ve lost my seeing. It was through her I saw. It was through Bernice
I could see. And now it’s dark. [Slowly turning toward the closed
room.] Oh, how still death is.
[The two women are as if caught into this stillness.
Abbie
[Looking from the door.] He turned this way. [Swiftly turning back to
Margaret.] But you couldn’t tell him.
Margaret
No, I can’t. Yes, I must! I tell you there’s something in me can’t
stand it to see any one go down under a thing he shouldn’t have to
bear. Why that feeling has made my life! Do you think I’ve wanted to
do the kind of work I do? Don’t you think I’d like to be doing—
happier things? But there’s something in my blood drives me to—
what’s right.
Abbie
And something in my blood drives me to what’s right! And I went
against it—went against my whole life—so she could rest. I did it
because I loved her. But you didn’t love her.
Margaret
Oh—Abbie!
Abbie
Not as you love—what’s right. If you loved her, don’t you want to
protect her—now that she lies dead in there? [Her voice breaking.]
Oh, Miss Margaret, it was right at the very end of her life. Maybe
when we’re going to die things we’ve borne all our lives are things
we can’t bear any longer. Just—don’t count that last hour.
Margaret
[After a moment of being swayed by this.] Yet you counted it, Abbie.
You did what she said—because of the strength of her. You told me
last night—her mind was there. Terrible the way it was right there.
She hadn’t left her life.
Abbie
Well, and if she hadn’t left her life! If all those years with him there
was something she hid, and if she seemed to feel—what she didn’t
feel. She did it well, didn’t she?—and almost to the last. Shan’t we
hide it now? For her? You and me, who loved her—isn’t she safe—
with us? [Going nearer Margaret.] Perhaps if you would go in there
now—
Margaret
Oh no—no.
Abbie
[In a last deeply emotional appeal.] Miss Margaret, didn’t she do a
good deal for you?
Margaret
Do a good deal for me? Yes. Yes!
Abbie
Yes. She did for me. I—I’m something more on account of her.
Aren’t you?
Margaret
Yes.
Abbie
Yes, I think you are too. I can see myself as I’d have been if my life
hadn’t been lived round her. [Thinks, shakes her head.] It would be
left you—what feels and knows it feels. And you said it was through
Bernice you could see. Well, lets forget what we don’t want to know!
On account of what we are that we wouldn’t have been—lets put it
out of our minds! One ugly thing in a whole beautiful life! Let it go!
And let all the rest live! [They can see Craig outside.] Oh—do this for
her. Make yourself do it. Let that be what’s dead—and let all the rest
live! You were her friend not his.
[Craig turns to the house, but when about to come in, turns away,
covering his face.
Margaret
[Taking hold of Abbie.] You see? He thinks she loved him and he
killed her. He might do what he thinks she did!
Abbie
[Falling back.] O-h.
[Craig comes in, stands by the door; Margaret has drawn Abbie
over near the stairway. He sees them, but gives no heed to
them, immersed in what he is living through. While he stands
there Margaret does not move. He turns toward the room
where Bernice is; when he moves Margaret goes a little
toward him—his back is to her; Abbie moves to step between
Craig and Margaret; Margaret puts her aside. But when Craig
comes to the closed door, and stands there an instant before
it, not opening it, Margaret too stops, as if she cannot come
nearer him. It is only after he has opened the door and closed
it behind him that she goes to it. She puts out her hands, but
she does not even touch the door and when she cannot do
this she covers her face and, head bent, stands there before
the closed door. Laura and the Father come out from the room
where they have been. As they enter Abbie slowly goes out,
toward the kitchen.
Laura
[After looking at Margaret, who has not moved.] We are going in an
hour, Margaret.
Margaret
Going?