THE UNKNOWN
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
PLAYS (Uniform with this Volume) :
THE EXPLORER
MRS. DOT
A MAN OF HONOUR
PENELOPE
JACK STRAW
LADY FREDERICK
THE TENTH MAN
SMITH
LANDED GENTRY
NOVELS :
THE EXPLORER
THE MAGICIAN
THE MERRY-GO-ROUND
THE MOON AND SIXPENCE
MRS. CRADDOCK
OF HUMAN BONDAGE
7* HE UNKNOWN
A PLAY
In Three Acts
BY W. 5. MAUGHAM
LONDON : WILLIAM HEINEMANN
MC.MXX
PR
Copyright : London William Heinemann 1920
To
VIOLA TEEE.
,
This play was produced on Monday, August 9,
1920, at the Aldwych Theatre with the following
cast :
COLONEL WHARTON MB. CHARLES V. FRANCE
MAJOR WHARTON (JOHN) MR. BASIL RATHBONE
MRS WHARTON LADY TREE
MRS. LITTLEWOOD Miss HAIDEE WRIGHT
REV. NORMAN POOLE MR. H. R. HIGNETT
MRS. POOLE Miss LENA HALLIDAY
SYLVIA BULLOUGH Miss ELLEN O'MALLEY
DR. MACFARLANE MR. CLARENCE BLAKISTON
KATE Miss GWENDOLEN FFLOYD
vfl
THE UNKNOWN
CHARACTERS
COLONEL WHABTON
MAJOR WHABTON (JOHN)
MBS. WHABTON
MBS. LITTLE WOOD
REV. NOBMAN POOLE
MBS. POOLE
SYLVIA BULLOUGH
DR. MACFARLANE
KATE
COOK
The action of the play takes place at the
Manor House, Stour, in the County of
Kent.
The author ventures to suggest to the readers
of this play that he makes no pretensions to throw
a new light on any of the questions which are
discussed in it, nor has he attempted to offer a
solution of problems which, judging from the
diversity of opinion which they have occasioned,
may be regarded as insoluble. He has tried to
put into dramatic form some of the thoughts and
emotions which have recently agitated many, and
for this purpose he has chosen the most ordinary
characters in the circle with which, owing to his
own circumstances, he is best acquainted. But
because it is a good many years since he was on
terms of intimate familiarity with a parish
priest, and he was not certain how much the
views of the clergy had changed, the author
has put into the mouth of the Rev. Norman
Poole phrases from Dr. Gore's " The Religion
of the Church" and from a sermon by
Dr. Stewart Holden. Since it is impossible in
a play to indicate by quotation marks what is
borrowed, the author takes this opportunity
to acknowledge his indebtedness for the
Rev. Norman Poolers most characteristic
speeches.
THE UNKNOWN
THE UNKNOWN
ACT I
The drawing-room at the Manor House, COLONEL
WHAETON'S residence. It is a simple room,
somewhat heavily furnished in an old-fashioned
style ; there is nothing in it which is in the
least artistic ; but the furniture is comfortable,
and neither new nor shabby. On the papered walls
are the Academy pictures of forty years ago.
There are a great many framed photographs of men
in uniform, and here and there a bunch of simple
flowers in a vase. The only things in the room
which are at all exotic are silver ornaments from
Indian bazaars and flimsy Indian fabrics, used
as cloths on the occasional tables and as drapery on
the piano.
At the back are French windows leading into the garden ;
and this, with its lawn and trees, is seen through
them. It is summer, and the windows are open.
Morning
2 THE UNKNOWN
MBS. WHARTON is sitting in the corner of the sofa,
knitting a khaki comforter. She is a slight, tall
woman of five - and -fifty ; she has deliberate
features, with kind eyes and a gentle look ; her
dark hair is getting very gray ; it is simply done ;
and her dress, too, is simple ; it is not at all new
and was never fashionable.
KATE, a middle-aged maid-servant, in a print dress,
a cap and apron, comes in.
KATE.
If you please, ma'am, the butcher's called,
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh ! I arranged with Cook that we should have
cold roast beef again for luncheon to-day, Kate.
Tell the butcher to bring two and a half pounds of the
best end of the neck for to-night, and tell him to
pick me out a really nice piece, Kate. It's so long
since the Major has had any good English meat.
KATE
Very good, ma'am.
MRS. WHARTON.
And he might send in a couple of kidneys. The
Colonel and Major Wharton enjoyed the kidneys that
they had for breakfast yesterday so much.
THE UNKNOWN 8
KATE.
Very good, ma'am. If you please, ma'am, the
gardener hasn't sent in a very big basket of pease.
Cook says it won't look much for three.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, well, it doesn't matter as long as there are
enough for the gentlemen. I'll just pretend to take
some.
KATE.
Very good, ma'am.
As she is going, COLONEL WHARTON enters
from the garden with a basket of cherries.
He is a thin old man, much older than his
wife, with white hair ; but though very
frail he still carries himself erectly. His
face is bronzed by long exposure to tropical
suns, but even so it is the face of a sick man.
He wears a light tweed suit which hangs
about him loosely, as though he had shrunk
since it was made for him. He lias a
round tweed hat of the same material.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Has the paper come yet, Kate ?
KATE.
Yes, sir. I'll bring it.
[Exit KATE
B 2
4 THE UNKNOWN
COLONEL WHABTON.
I've brought you in some cherries, Evelyn. They're
the only ripe ones I could find.
MBS. WHABTON.
Oh, that is nice. I hope you're not tired.
COLONEL WHABTON.
Great Scott, I'm not such a crock that it can tire
me to pick a few cherries. If I'd been able to find
a ladder I'd have got you double the number.
MBS. WHABTON.
Oh, my dear, you'd better let the gardener get
them. I don't approve of your skipping up and
down ladders.
COLONEL WHABTON.
The gardener's just as old as I am and not nearly
so active. Hasn't John come in yet ? He said he
was only going to the post.
MBS. WHABTON.
Perhaps he went in to see Sylvia on the way back.
COLONEL WHABTON.
I shouldn't have thought she wanted to be bothered
with him in the morning.
THE UNKNOWN 5
MRS. WHARTON.
George !
COLONEL WHARTON.
Yes, dear.
MRS. WHARTON.
It seems so extraordinary to hear you say : " Hasn't
John come in yet ? He said he was only going to
the post." It makes me rather want to cry.
COLONEL WHARTON.
It's been a long time, Evelyn. It's been a bad
time for both of us, my dear. But worse for you.
MRS. WHARTON.
I tried not to be troublesome, George.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Dear child, aren't I there to share your troubles
with you ?
MRS. WHARTON.
It seems so natural that he should come in any
minute, it seems as though he'd never been away —
and yet somehow I can't quite believe it. It seems
incredible that he should really be back.
COLONEL WHARTON.
[Patting her hand.] My dear Evelyn !
[KATE brings in the paper and gives it to the
COLONEL. She goes out.
6 THE UNKNOWN
COLONEL WHARTON.
Thank you. [While he puts on his spectacles.]
It's a blessing to be able to read the births, deaths,
and marriages like a gentleman instead of turning
before anything else to the casualties.
MRS. WHARTON.
I hope before long that we shall be composing a
little announcement for that column.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Have they settled a day yet, those young people ?
MRS. WHARTON.
I don't know. John hasn't said anything, and I
didn't see Sylvia yesterday except for a moment after
church.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Evelyn dear, the gardener tells me he hasn't got
much in the way of pease ready for to-night, so
I've told him to send in a few carrots for me ; I
think they're probably better for my digestion.
MRS. WHARTON.
Nonsense, George. You know how much you like
pease, and I'm not very fond of them. I was hoping
there'd only be enough for two so that I shouldn't
have to eat any.
THE UNKNOWN 7
COLONEL WHARTON.
Evelyn, where do you expect to go when you die if
you tell such stories ?
MRS. WHARTON.
Now, George, don't be obstinate. You might give
in to me sometimes. They're the first pease out of
the garden and I should like you to eat them.
COLONEL WHARTON.
No, my dear, I'd like to see you eat them. I'm
an invalid, and I must have my own way.
MRS. WHARTON.
You tyrant ! You haven't seen Dr. Macfarlane this
morning ? I'm so anxious.
COLONEL WHARTON.
You old fusser ! No sooner have you stopped
worrying over your boy than you start worrying
over me.
MRS. WHARTON.
Even though you won't let me call my soul my
own, I don't want to lose you just yet.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Don't be alarmed. I shall live to plague you for
another twenty years.
[KATE comes in.
8 THE UNKNOWN
KATE.
If you please, ma'am, Mrs. Poole has called.
MRS. WHARTON.
Why haven't you shown her in ?
KATE.
She wouldn't come in, ma'am. She said she was
passing and she just stopped to enquire how you
were.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Tell her to come in, Kate. What's she making all
this fuss about.
KATE.
Very well, sir.
[Exit.
MRS. WHARTON.
I expect she wants to hear all about John.
COLONEL WHARTON.
If she'll wait a minute she'll have the chance of
seeing the young fellow himself.
[KATE comes in, followed by MRS. POOLE.
The visitor is a thin, rather dour person of
middle age, brisk in her movements,
competent and firm. She is a woman who
knows her own mind and has no hesitation
in speaking it. She is not unsympathetic.
She wears a serviceable black coat and skirt
and a black straw hat.
THE UNKNOWN 9
KATE.
Mrs. Poole.
[Exit.
COLONEL WHARTON.
What do you mean by trying to get away without
showing yourself ? Is this how you do your district
visiting ?
MRS. POOLE.
[SJiaking hands with MRS. WHARTON and with the
COLONEL.] I wanted to come in, but I thought you
mightn't wish to see me to-day, so I put it like that
to make it easier for you to send me about my
business.
MRS. WHARTON.
We always wish to see you, my dear.
MRS. POOLE.
If I had a son that I hadn't seen for four years
and he'd been dangerously wounded, I think I'd
want to keep him to myself for the first few days
after he got home.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Then you're not as unselfish a woman as Evelyn
MRS. WHARTON.
Or perhaps not nearly so vain.
10 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. POOLE.
Did you go down to the station to meet him on
Saturday ?
MBS. WHAETON.
The Colonel went. He wouldn't let me go because
he said I'd make a fool of myself on the platform.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I took Sylvia. I thought that was enough. I
knew I could trust her to control herself.
MRS. POOLS.
And when are they going to be married.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, I hope very soon. It's been a long and
anxious time for her.
MRS. POOLE.
Can you bear to give him up when he's only just
come back to you ?
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, but it's not giving him up when he's marrying
Sylvia. She's been like a daughter to us. D'you
know, they've been engaged for seven years.
THE UNKNOWN 11
MRS. POOLE.
I hope they'll be very happy. Sylvia certainly
deserves to be.
COLONEL WHARTON.
She's done cheerfully the most difficult thing
anyone can do. All through the war when she was
pining to be off and do her bit she stayed at home with
a bed-ridden mother.
MRS. WHARTON
Poor Mrs. Bullough.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Yes, but poor Sylvia too. It's easy enough to do
your duty when duty is dangerous and exciting, but
when you can do nothing — no one knows better than
I what it is to sit still and look on when others are
doing the things that are worth while. This war
came ten years too late for me.
MRS. POOLE.
That's what the Vicar has been saying ever since
the war began. But after all your son has taken
your place, and I think you can be proud of him.
COLONEL WHARTON.
[With intense satisfaction.] The rascal with his
Military Cross and his D.S.O.
12 THE UNKNOWN
MBS. POOLE.
I'm so glad that Ms first day here was a Sunday.
MRS. WHARTON.
You don't know what I felt when we knelt down
side by side in church. I was very grateful.
MRS. POOLE.
I know. I could see it in your face and the Colonel's.
COLONEL WHARTON.
God has vouchsafed us a great mercy.
MRS. POOLE.
The Vicar was dreadfully disappointed that he
didn't stay for Holy Communion. You know that
he looks upon that as the essential part of the service.
MRS. WHARTON.
I think we were a little disappointed, too. We were
so surprised when John walked out.
MRS. POOLE.
Did he say why he had ?
MRS. WHARTON.
No. I talked it over with the Colonel. We didn't
quite know what to do. I don't know whether to
mention it or not.
THE UNKNOWN 13
MRS. POOLE.
I do hope he'll stay next Sunday.
MRS. WHARTON.
He was always a very regular communicant.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I don't see why you shouldn't say something to
him about it, Evelyn.
MRS. WHARTON.
I will if you like.
[There is the sound of a laugh in the garden.
Why, here he is. And Sylvia.
[SYLVIA BULLOUGH and JOHN WHARTON come.
in. She is no longer quite young. She
has a pleasant, friendly look rather than
beauty, and she suggests the homely virtues
of a girl very well brought up in a nice
English family ; she gives the impression
of a practical, competent, and sensible
woman. She will make a good wife and
an excellent mother. She is very simply
dressed in light summery things, and she
wears a straw hat. She is carrying a string
bag, in which are a number of household
purchases. JOHN WHARTON is in mufti.
He is a man of thirty.
SYLVIA.
Good morning everybody !
14 THE UNKNOWN
MBS. WHARTON.
My dear, how nice of you to come in.
JOHN.
She didn't want to, but I made her.
[SYLVIA kisses MRS. WHARTON and shakes hands
with MRS. POOLE, then she kisses the
COLONEL.
SYLVIA.
[Gaily.] That's a deliberate lie. John.
MRS. WHARTON.
This is my son, Mrs. Poole.
JOHN.
[Shaking hands with her.] I daresay you sus-
pected it.
MRS. POOLE
I had a good look at you in church, you knew.
JOHN.
Is that how vicars' wives behave themselves ?
MRS. POOLE.
They allow themselves a little licence when young
people come home on leave.
THE UNKNOWN 15
COLONEL WHARTON.
Did you meet in the village ?
JOHN.
Not exactly. I saw Sylvia darting into Mrs. Gann's
shop, evidently to avoid me. ...
SYLVIA.
[Interrupting.] I don't know how you imagined I
could see you out of the back of my head.
JOHN.
So I ran like a hare, and caught her in the very
act of buying two pounds of vermicelli.
SYLVIA.
To say nothing of a tin of sardines and a packet of
mustard.
JOHN.
Now take off your hat, Sylvia. You mustn't hide
the best feature you've got.
SYLVIA.
[Taking it off.] I hope you don't think I shall
go on doing exactly what you tell me a minute after
the war's over.
JOHN.
I haven't noticed any startling alacrity to do what
I tell you as it is.
16 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA
You ungrateful fellow ! When have I hesitated to
carry out your slightest wish ?
MBS. WHARTON.
He's only been back forty-eight hours, poor dear.
JOHN.
Didn't I go down to you on my bended knees in the
middle of the road and ask you to come for a walk
with me ?
SYLVIA.
Oh, well, I wanted to see your father. I was
anxious to hear what the specialist had said.
JOHN.
[Surprised.] Have you been seeing a specialist,
father ? Aren't you well ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
Perfectly. It was only to satisfy your poor mother.
JOHN.
But why didn't you tell me ? Is anything the
matter with him, mother ?
MRS. WHARTON.
My dear, your father wouldn't let me tell you any-
thing about it when you came. He didn't want you
to be worried. And I thought myself it might just
as well keep till to-day.
THE UNKNOWN 17
COLONEL WHARTON.
The fact is I haven't been quite up to the mark
lately, and Dr. Macfarlane thought I'd better see a
specialist. So I went into Canterbury on Saturday
and saw Dr. Keller.
MRS. POOLE.
Yes, I heard you'd been to see him. They say
he's very clever.
JOHN.
What did he say ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
Well, you know what these doctor fellows are.
He wouldn't say much to me. He said he'd write
to Macfarlane.
JOHN.
Well?
COLONEL WHARTON.
I suppose Macfarlane got the letter this morning.
He'll probably be round presently.
MRS. POOLE.
I saw him going along the Bleane Road in his
dog-cart about an hour ago. You might ask him
who it was he was going to see.
c
18 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
Are you feeling ill, father ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
No. I shouldn't have dreamed of going to a
specialist, only your mother was worrying.
SYLVIA.
Don't put all the blame on her. I was, too.
JOHN.
[Going over to him and putting his arm in hisJ]
Poor old father, you mustn't be ill.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Oh, I'm not going to die just yet, you know.
JOHN.
I should jolly well think not. Wait till you're
a hundred and two, and then we'll begin talking
about it.
[The Vicar of Stour, the REV. NORMAN POOLE,
appears at the window. He is a tall, thin
man, bald, dressed in a short black coat,
with a black straw hat. He is energetic,
breezy, and cheerful. He likes to show that,
although a clergyman, he is a man ; and
he affects a rather professional joviality.
MR. and MRS. POOLE have that physical
resemblance which you sometimes see in
THE UNKNOWN 19
married people. You wonder if they
married because they were so much alike,
or if it is marriage which has created the
similarity.
VICAB.
Hulloa, hulloa, hulloa ! May I come in ?
MRS. WHAETON.
[Smiling.] Of course. How do you do ?
COLONEL WHABTON.
My dear Vicar !
VICAB.
[Entering.] I suppose I ought to have gone round
to the front door, and rung the bell like a gentleman.
My dear Dorothy, when will you teach me how to
behave ?
MBS. POOLE.
I've long given up the attempt.
VICAB.
I thought I'd look in and say how-do-you-do to the
wounded hero.
MBS. WHABTON.
My son. The Vicar.
o 2
20 THE UNKNOWN
VICAR.
Welcome ! I passed you in the village just now.
I had half a mind to come up and wring your hand,
but I thought you'd say, who the deuce is this clerical
gent?
JOHN.
How do you do ?
VICAR.
An authentic hero. And he speaks just like you
and me. The world's a strange place, my masters.
Well, what d'you think of Blighty ?
JOHN.
I'm very glad to be home again. I thought I never
should get back.
VICAR.
You've not been home since the beginning of the
war, have you ?
JOHN.
No, you see I was in India when it broke out. What
with Gallipoli and one thing and another, I was done
out of my leave every time.
VICAR.
Well, it's a long lane that has no turning. But I
understand that you've picked up some bits and
pieces here and there. The Military Cross and the
D.S.O., isn't it ?
THE UNKNOWN 21
MBS. POOLE.
You must be & very proud man.
VICAR.
How did you win them ?
JOHN.
Oh, I don't know. Playing about generally.
MRS. WHARTON.
I don't think you'll get very much more than that
out of John.
VICAR.
[To JOHN.] You lucky beggar ! You've had your
chance and you were able to take it. That's where
I should have been, where my heart was, with the
brave lads at the front. And my confounded chest
has kept me chained to this little tin-pot parish.
MRS. POOLE.
My husband suffers from his lungs.
JOHN.
I'm sorry to hear that.
VICAR.
Yes, the Great White Peril They say its ravages
are terrible. That's why I came here, you know ; I
was in charge of the parish of St. Jude's; Stoke
22 THE UNKNOWN
Newington when I crocked up. I tried to get them
to let me go when the war broke out, but they wouldn't
hear of it.
MRS. WHAETON.
They also serve who only stand and wait.
VICAR.
I know, I know. It's this confounded energy of mine.
I'm a crock, and I've just had to make the best of
it. I'm on the shelf. The future is in the hands
of you brave lads who've been through the fire.
I suppose you went to sleep during my sermon
yesterday.
JOHN.
Not at all. I listened to it very attentively.
VICAR.
I shouldn't blame you if you had. That's about
all I've been able to do during the war, to preach.
And, upon my word, I sometimes wonder what good
I've done.
MRS. WHARTON.
You've been a great help to us all.
VICAR.
For my part I don't deplore the war Our Lord
said : '* Think not that I come to send peace on earth :
I came not to send peace, but a sword." The Christian
Church has lived by her sword. Every advance
THE UNKNOWN 23
which this world of ours has known in liberty, in
justice, in enlightenment, has been won for it by the
sword of Jesus Christ.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I wish all parsons were as broad-minded. I know
what war is. I was in Egypt and in South Africa.
I've been through half a dozen wars in India. I
have no use for slop and sentimentality. My own
belief is that war is necessary to a nation. It brings
out all a man's best qualities.
•
VICAR.
There I heartily agree with you. It is the great
school of character. Amid the clash of arms the
great Christian virtues shine forth with an immortal
lustre. Courage, self-sacrifice, charity, self-reliance.
No one knew before the war what a pinnacle of
heroism was within the power of our brave lads at
the front.
MRS. POOLE.
What do you think about it, Major Wharton ?
JOHN.
[Smiling.] I ? I think it's a lovely day. I have
three weeks leave, and the war is a long way off.
VICAR.
[With a chuckle.] A very good answer. I've been
saying the obvious, I know that just as well as you
24 THE UNKNOWN
do, but, you know, sometimes the obvious has to be
said, and when it has, I think a man should have the
courage to say it. Now, my dear, let's be off.
MRS. POOLE.
I don't know what Mrs. Wharton will think of us
for inflicting ourselves on her like this.
VICAR.
We're all friends here, I hope and trust. If we
weren't welcome, Mrs. Wharton only had to say so.
To my mind the afternoon call is a convention more
honoured in the breach than the observance.
MRS. WHARTON.
It's been very good of you to come.
[There is a general shaking of hands.
VICAR.
[To JOHN.] Well, good-bye, young fellow. I've
tried to show you that I'm by way of being rather
broad-minded as parsons go. It wouldn't shock me
in the least to hear you say " damn " or " blast." I'm
THE UNKNOWN 25
JOHN.
It's very kind of you to say so. I may avail myself
of your suggestion on some future occasion.
VICAR.
On a future occasion, perhaps — shall we say next
Sunday ? — I hope you won't leave the House of
God without partaking in the greatest of all the
Sacraments of our Church. Don't forget that the
Almighty has in His mercy brought you in safety
through great and terrible peril. That's all I wanted
to say to you. Good-bye, God bless you.
JOHN.
Good-bye.
VICAR.
[Shaking hands with MRS. WHARTON] Good-bye.
These parsons, what a nuisance they make of them-
selves, don't they ?
MRS. WHARTON.
I wanted to ask you if you'd seen poor Mrs. Little-
wood since her return.
VICAR.
No, she didn't come to church yesterday. And of
course, Sunday's my busy day — I'm the only man in
the parish who works seven days a week — so I haven't
had a chance to see her yet, poor soul.
26 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
She came down by the 6.35 on Saturday. She
was in the same train as John, but I wasn't bothering
much about anyone else just then, and I didn't
speak to her.
COLONEL WHABTON.
I wish we could do something for her.
MRS. WHARTON.
{Explaining to JOHN.] She was telegraphed for
last week to go to Ned at Boulogne. He died on
Tuesday.
JOHN.
[With astonishment.] Ned ! But he was only a
kid.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, he'd grown up since you were home. He was
nearly nineteen.
MRS. POOLE.
Both her sons are gone now. She's quite alone.
MRS. WHARTON.
We must all be very kind to her. It will be
terrible for her in that big house all by herself.
I wish you'd spoken to her on Saturday, George.
THE UNKNOWN 27
COLONEL WHARTON.
I felt rather shy about it. After all, we've had
rather an anxious time over that young scamp there.
If anything had happened to him — well, I should
have had Evelyn, but she, poor soul, has nobody.
SYLVIA.
I ought to have gone to see her yesterday.
MRS. WHARTON.
She must be absolutely prostrated with grief.
VICAR.
I wonder if she'd like to come and stay at the
Vicarage. I can't bear to think of her all alone.
MRS. POOLE.
That's a splendid idea, Norman, and just like you.
I'll ask her at once. I'll be glad to do what I can for
her.
SYLVIA.
Of course one ought to try and find something to
occupy her mind.
VICAR.
Happily she has always been a deeply religious
woman. When all's said and done, in grief like
that there's only one unfailing refuge.
28 THE UNKNOWN
[KATE enters, followed by MRS. LITTLE WOOD.
She is a little elderly woman. She is not
dressed in mourning, but in the clothes
she may be expected to have been wearing
before Jier bereavement.
KATE.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Exit KATE.
MRS. WHARTON.
[Rising and going to meet her.] My dear friend, how
very glad I am to see you.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
How do you do ? [She smiles brightly at the assembled
company.] Oh, John, have you come back ? [To
MRS. WHARTON.] I came to ask if you and the Colonel
would come and play bridge this afternoon.
MRS. WHARTON.
Bridge !
[They all look at her with surprise, but
no one says anything.]
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
I was going to ask Dr. Macfarlane to make a fourth,
but perhaps John will come.
THE UNKNOWN 29
MRS. WHARTON.
[With embarrassment.] It's very kind of you, but
the Colonel hasn't been very well lately. I don't
think he feels like going out, and I shouldn't like
to leave him.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
Oh, I'm sorry.
MRS. WHARTON.
Won't you sit down ?
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
Thank you very much. I won't stay. I'll go
round to the Wilkinsons and see if they'll play.
VICAR.
I hope you weren't very tired by your journey.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
I wasn't tired at all.
MRS. POOLE.
We thought you were, because we didn't see you in
church.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
No, I didn't come. I thought it would bore me.
[There is a moment's silence.
30 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. WHABTON,
Did you — did you come straight through from
France ?
MBS. LITTLE WOOD.
No. I stayed a couple of nights in London
MBS. WHABTON.
[With pity in her voice.] All alone ?
MBS. LlTTLEWOOD.
No. I picked up a very nice woman in the hotel,
and we went out together. We went to the Gaiety
one night and the next we went to the Empire.
Do you know that I'd never seen George Robey before?
MBS. POOLE.
Who is George Robey ?
VICAB.
I believe he's a comedian.
MBS. LlTTLEWOOD.
[Very pleasantly.] How long are you here for,
John ?
JOHN.
I have three weeks' leave.
THE UNKNOWN 31
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
We must all make much of you. I'll give a tennis
party for you, shall I ?
SYLVIA.
Oh, Mrs. Littlewood, I'm sure you don't want to
give parties just now.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
I'd love to. It's so seldom one gets an excuse for
one in a place like this.
MRS. WHARTON.
[Taking her hand.] My dear, I want you to know
how deeply we all sympathise with you in your
great loss.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
[Patting MRS. WHARTON'S hand, and then releasing
her own.] That's very kind of you. [To SYLVIA and
JOHN.] Would Wednesday suit you young people ?
I'll have both courts marked out.
SYLVIA.
[Desperately.] I couldn't come, Mrs. Littlewood,
I couldn't come.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
Whv on earth not ?
32 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
[Controlling herself to civility.'] I'm engaged that
day.
COLONEL WHARTON.
John has so short a time at home. I think he and
Sylvia have a feeling that they don't want to go to
parties.
VICAR.
[Deliberately.] I hope you got over to France in
time to find your son alive.
[MRS. LITTLE WOOD gives him a rapid glance,
stops a moment as though to collect herself,
then answers almost indifferently.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
No, he was dead, poor child. [To MRS. WHARTON.]
Good-bye, my dear, I'm sorry you can't come and
play bridge this afternoon. I suppose I shall have to
send you a wedding-present, John.
JOHN.
I suppose you will.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
[With a smile at the rest of the company.} Good-bye.
[She goes out. They are left in amazement.
MRS. POOLE.
Is she absolutely heartless ?
THE UNKNOWN 33
COLONEL WHARTON.
I always thought she was devoted to her sons.
SYLVIA.
And Ned was her favourite.
MRS. POOLE.
She wasn't wearing mourning.
SYLVIA.
Isn't she going to, do you suppose ?
v~
MRS. WHARTON.
I can't understand it. She adored those boys.
MRS. POOLE.
I didn't ask her to come and stay at the Vicarage,
Norman.
VICAR.
I don't think we'd better till the situation's a
little clearer. She gives one the impression of not
caring two straws for Ned's death. She must be as
hard as nails.
MRS. WHARTON.
No, she isn't that. I've known her for thirty-five
years. D'you think she's mad ?
D
34 THE UNKNOWN
COLONEL WHABTON.
We'd better say a word to Macfarlane when he
comes, Evelyn.
VICAR.
I was never so taken aback in my life as when she
said she didn't come to church because she thought
she'd be bored.
MRS. POOLE.
Norman, I must go. I've got a lot of things to do
at home.
VICAR.
Come along then. We'll just walk out through the
garden.
[There are farewells, rather distracted by the
queer incident that has just occurred, and
the VICAR and MRS. POOLE go out. The
COLONEL accompanies them to the door.
SYLVIA.
You're very silent, John.
JOHN.
I was thinking about Mrs. Littlewood. She doesn't
give me the impression of being either callous or
mad.
SYLVIA.
What does she mean, then ?
THE UNKNOWN 35
JOHN.
[Reflectively.] I don't know. [With a slirug of the
shoulders, throwing off his mood.} And at the moment
I don't very much care. Come and sit down and be
a comfort to a wounded hero.
SYLVIA.
Idiot !
MRS. WHARTON
Will you stay to luncheon, Sylvia dear ?
SYLVIA.
No, I think I ought to get back to mother.
JOHN
Before you go let's tell them what we've been talk-
ing about
COLONEL WHARTON.
I don't think it's very hard to guess.
JOHN.
I want Sylvia to marry me as soon as ever it's
possible.
MRS. WHARTON.
Of course.
D 2
36 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
If we look nippy we can get a special licence and
be married on Thursday. We don't want to go far
for our honeymoon, because I have such a short time.
And my suggestion is London.
SYLVIA.
What do you think, Mrs. Wharton ?
MRS. WHARTON.
Well, my dear, I think that whatever you and John
decide will be quite right.
SYLVIA.
He's only just 'come back to you. I can't bear
to take him away immediately. Wouldn't you pre-
fer us to wait a little longer ?
MRS. WHARTON.
My dear, we've always decided that you should be
married the moment he came back. We've been quite
prepared to lose him. And perhaps after a few days,
if the Colonel's well enough, you wouldn't mind if
we came up to London, too. We'd try not to be in
your way.
SYLVIA.
[Going down on her knees beside MRS. WHARTON and
kissing her.] Oh, my dear, you're so kind to me. I
don't know how I can ever thank you for all your
kindness.
THE UNKNOWN 37
MRS. WHARTON.
It's been a weary, anxious time for all of us. I
know how unhappy you've been sometimes. I want
you to have him now. He's a good boy, and I think
he'll make you happy.
SYLVIA.
[Getting up and giving JOHN her hand.] I'm sure
he will. I'll try to make you a good wife, John.
JOHN.
I expect you'll be quite good enough for the likes
of me. Then it's to be Thursday next.
SYLVIA.
[With a smile.] It is.
[He draws her to him and kisses her. She very
nearly breaks down.
SYLVIA.
I've wanted you for so long, John, so dreadfully
ong.
JOHN.
For goodness' sake don't cry
SYLVIA.
[Breaking away from him, with a chuckle.] You
brute, John ! I hate you.
38 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. WHARTON.
Did you like the Vicar, John ?
JOHN.
He seemed all right.
COLONEL WHARTON.
He's a first-rate fellow He had a very good living
in London at one time, and he resigned and took one
in the East End instead.
JOHN.
ReaUy ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
He said he wasn't ordained to drink China tea
with elderly women of means. [With a chuckle.^
He says very good things sometimes.
MRS. WHARTON.
They were perfectly wonderful in the East End.
They wanted to live in exactly the same way as
their parishioners, so they did without a servant,
and did all their housework, even their washing,
themselves.
JOHN.
It sounds hateful, but of course it really was heroic.
THE UNKNOWN 39
MBS. WHARTON.
D'you remember what lie said to you about Holy
Communion ? Your father and I were a little
disappointed that you didn't stay for it yesterday.
JOHN.
I'm sorry for that, mother dear.
MRS. WHARTON.
It would have been such a great pleasure to both
of us if we could all three have received it together.
JOHN.
Dear mother. ... If you're really going home to
luncheon, Sylvia, I'll walk back with you.
MRS. WHARTON.
The Vicar has a Communion service on Wednesday
morning. Would you come then ? It'll be the last
opportunity before your marriage.
JOHN.
Oh, my dear, you're not going to ask me to get up
in the middle of the night ? After all, one of the
pleasures of coming home is to lie in bed in the
morning. I don't know how I ever tear myself out
of those lavender -scented sheets.
MRS. WHARTON.
Dear John, won't you come to please us ?
40 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
[Still trying to pass it off lightly.] Oh, my dear
'
pas
k it
mother, d'you think it's really necessary ?
MRS. WHARTON.
I should like it so much, my dear. You know, it
means a great deal to us.
JOHN.
[More gravely.] Don't you think one should go to
a ceremony like that in a certain frame of mind ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
[Good-humouredly.] Come, my boy, you're not
going to refuse the first request your mother has
made you since you came back ?
JOHN.
I'm awfully sorry, mother. I beg you not to
insist.
MRS. WHARTON.
I don't quite know what you mean. It's not like
you to be obstinate. . . . Won't you come, John ?
JOHN.
No, mother.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Why not ?
THE UNKNOWN 41
JOHN.
I've been away a long time. There are some things
one can't help, you know. I've been through very
terrible experiences.
MRS. WHARTON.
[Aghast.] Do you mean to sav you've lost your —
faith ?
JOHN.
I'm awfully sorry to give you pain, dear.
SYLVIA.
[Her eyes fixed on him.] You've not answered your
mother's question, John.
JOHN.
If you want a direct answer, I'm afraid it must
be — yes.
MRS. WHARTON.
[Overcome.] Oh, John !
SYLVIA.
But you came to church yesterday.
JOHN.
That was just a formal ceremony. I assisted
passively, as a Jew might assist at the wedding of
one of his Christian friends.
42 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
You stood when we stood, and knelt down, and
seemed to pray.
JOHN.
I would do that if I were in a Roman Catholic
church. That seemed to me only good manners.
[With a smile.] Do you think it was very deceitful ?
SYLVIA.
I don't quite see why you should strain at a gnat.
JOHN.
I don't. It's the camel I can't swallow. I knew
it would distress you if I refused to come to church.
I didn't want to seem a prig. But the other seems to
me different. When I'm asked to take an active
part in a ceremony that means nothing to me it's
quite another matter. I'd rather not tell a deliberate
lie. And surely from your point of view it would be
blasphemous.
MRS. WHARTON.
[Occupied with her own thoughts.} How dreadful !
JOHN.
[Going up to her and putting his arm round her.}
Don't be unhappy, mother. I can't help feeling as I
do. After all, these are matters that only concern
oneself.
THE UNKNOWN 43
SYLVIA.
[Reflecting.] Are they ?
JOHN,
Surely. [To his mother.'] I would rather not have
told you. I knew how much you'd take it to heart.
But I was obliged to. And perhaps it's better as it
is. I hated the thought of deceiving you and father.
Now let's put it out of our minds.
COLONEL WHARTON.
John, have you forgotten, that in three weeks
you'll be going back to the Front ? Sooner or later
you'll find yourself once more in the fighting line.
Have you asked yourself what it will be like to face
death without the help of Almighty God ?
JOHN.
It's always difficult to face death.
COLONEL WHARTON.
You wouldn't be the first who found it easy to
stand alone when all was going well and found it a
very different thing in danger or illness.
JOHN
[With a smile.] When the devil was sick, the
devil a monk would be.
44 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
Archie, Mrs. Littlewood's elder boy, was badly
wounded on the Somme. His battalion had to
retreat and somehow or other he wasn't picked up.
He lay in the corner of a wood for three days and kept
himself alive on a beet that he pulled out of the field.
Heaven knows, I don't want anything like that to
happen to you, but are you sure your courage wouldn't
fail you then ? Are you sure you wouldn't call on
God instinctively to help you ?
JOHN.
And if I did, what of it ? That wouldn't be me,
that mangled, bleeding, starved, delirious thing.
It's me now that speaks, now that I'm well and
conscious and strong. It's the real me now. I
disclaim and disown anything I may feel or say
when I'm tortured with pain and sickness. It
would give my real self just as little as a prisoner
on the rack gives the truth.
SYLVIA.
[Looking at him fixedly.'] You're afraid of something
like that happening, aren't you ?
JOHN.
Yes, I shouldn't like my body to play me a dirty
trick when I hadn't the presence of mind to look
after it.
THE UNKNOWN 45
COLONEL WHARTON.
Have you ever been in real danger since you —
since you began to think like this ?
JOHN.
Yes. Once I was in a trench the Germans had
enfiladed. They'd got the line exactly. The shells
fell one after another, first at the end of the trench,
and then they came slowly down. One could calcu-
late almost mathematically when the shell must
come that would blow one to smithereens.
MRS. WHARTON.
[With a little gasp of terror.] Oh, John, don't !
JOHN.
[Smiling."] Well, something went wrong, or else I
certainly shouldn't be here now.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Do you mean to say you weren't frightened ?
JOHN.
Frightened isn't the word for it. Talk of getting
the wind up : it was a perfect hurricane. I felt as
though I were shrinking up so that my clothes sud-
denly hung about me like sacks. And against my
will a prayer came to my lips. From long habit,
I suppose, they tried to form themselves into an
46 THE UNKNOWN
appeal to God to turn the shell away. I had to
fight with myself. I had to keep saying to myself :
" Don't be a fool. Don't be a damned fool."
MRS. WHARTON.
And you resisted ? It was the voice of God speak-
ing to you. The prayer was said in your heart,
and He in His mercy heard it. Doesn't that prove
to you that you're wrong ? At that moment you
believed, even though you struggled not to. Your
whole soul cried out its belief in God.
JOHN.
No, not my soul : my fear of death.
COLONEL WHABTON.
I've been in battle, too. In South Africa and in
the Soudan we were in some pretty tight places
now and then. When I went into action I com-
mended my soul to God, and now that I'm an old
man I can say that I never knew fear.
JOHN.
I don't think I'm particularly brave. Before an
attack I've often had to light a cigarette to hide
the trembling of my lips.
COLONEL WHARTON.
The Christian doesn't fear death. His whole life
is but a preparation for that awful moment. To him
it is the shining gateway to life everlasting.
THE UNKNOWN 47
JOHN.
I should be sorry to think that life was nothing
but a preparation for death. To my mind death is
very unimportant. I think a man does best to
put it out of his thoughts. He should live as though
life were endless. Life is the thing that matters.
SYLVIA.
Doesn't that suggest a very base materialism ?
JOHN.
No, because you can't make the most of life
unless you're willing to risk it, and it's the risk that
makes the difference. It's the most precious thing
a man has, but it's valueless unless he's prepared to
stake it.
SYLVIA.
What do you think it can be worth while to risk
life for ?
JOHN.
Almost anything. Honour or love. A song, a
thought. [After a moment's reflection, with a smile.]
A five-barred gate.
SYLVIA.
Isn't that rather illogical ?
48 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
Perhaps. I don't put it very well. I think what
I mean is that life in itself has no value. It's what
you put in it that gives it worth.
COLONEL WHABTON.
Why do you think you've come safely through the
perils and dangers of the war ? John, do you know
that every day your mother and Sylvia and I prayed
that God might see fit to spare you ?
JOHN.
[With sudden energy.] Were you the only ones ?
Why didn't He see fit to spare the others ?
SYLVIA.
Who are we to question the inscrutable designs of
the Omnipotent ?
COLONEL WHABTON.
[Answering his son.] I don't know what you mean
by that. In war somebody's got to be killed. When
a commander gives battle he knows pretty accurately
what his losses are going to be before he starts.
[JOHN gives a slight shrug of the shoulders.
He recovers his equanimity.
JOHN.
If you don't mind my saying so, I think we'd much
better not start arguing. Arguments never bring
one much forrader, do they ?
THE UNKNOWN 49
MRS. WHARTON
[Gently.] But we want to understand, John. You
were always such a pious boy.
JOHN.
[Smiling.] Oh, mother, that's rather a terrible thing
to say to anybody.
MRS. WHARTON.
[With an answering smile.] Oh, I didn't mean it
like that. On the contrary, you were rather trouble-
some. Sometimes you were very headstrong and
obstinate.
JOHN.
That's better.
MRS. WHARTON.
We tried to bring you up to fear God. It used to
make me happy sometimes to see how simple and
touching your faith was. You used to pray to God
for all sorts of absurd things, to make a lot of runs
in a cricket match or to pass an exam, that you hadn't
worked for.
JOHN.
Yes, I remember.
MRS. WHARTON.
If you've lost your faith, we know it can't be
as so many lose it, on purpose, because they've
E
50 THE UNKNOWN
given themselves over to sensuality, and dare not
believe in a God whom every action of their lives
insults. If you'll only tell us everything, perhaps
we can help you.
JOHN.
My dear, you'd much better let the matter rest. I
should only have to say things that would hurt you
all.
MBS. WHARTON.
We're willing to take the risk of that. We know
you wouldn't hurt us intentionally. Perhaps they're
only difficulties that we might be able to explain.
And if we're not clever enough perhaps the Vicar can.
[JOHN shakes his head without speaking*
SYLVIA
Don't you want to believe in God, John ?
JOHN.
No.
[There is a moment's pause. KATE comes in
to announce DR. MACPARLANE. This is
a rather eccentric old man, with long white
hair, small, with rosy cheeks. He is an
old-fashioned country doctor, and wears
rather shabby black clothes and carries a
rusty silk hat in his hand. There is in him
something of the gentleman farmer and
something of the apothecary of a former day.
THE UNKNOWN 51
KATE.
Dr. Macfarlane.
[Exit.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh ! I'd forgotten for the moment. [With a smile
of welcome.] We've been expecting you.
DR. MACFARLANE.
[Shaking hands with the two ladies.] I've been busy
this morning. [To JOHN.] And how are you, John ?
JOHN.
Sitting up and taking nourishment, thank you.
DR. MACFARLANE.
You look none the worse for all your adventures.
A little older, perhaps.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, of course, you've not seen John before.
DR. MACFARLANE.
No. My wife saw him yesterday in church, but
unfortunately I couldn't go. I had to see a patient.
JOHN.
The same patient ?
E 2
52 THE UNKNOWN
DR. MACFARLANE.
I beg your pardon.
JOHN.
You've Lad to see a patient at about eleven every
Sunday morning for the last twenty-five years. I
was wondering if it was the same one.
DR. MACFARLANE.
If it is, I certainly deserve praise for keeping the
undertakers at bay so long. [Going up to the COLONEL]
And how are you feeling to-day, Colonel ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
Oh, I'm feeling pretty well, thank you. Have you
had a letter from that fellow in Canterbury ?
DR. MACFARLANE.
Yes.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Well, what does he say ?
DR. MACFARLANE.
You military gentlemen, you want to go so fast.
MRS. WHARTON.
Have you brought the letter with you ?
THE UNKNOWN 53
DR. MACFARLANE.
It's very technical. Saving your presence, I
don't think any of you would make head or tail of
it. Now, Mrs. Wharton, my dear, shall you and I go
for a little stroll in your beautiful garden, and we'll
have a talk about this old tyrant.
COLONEL WHARTON.
What's the object of that ? Evelyn will only tell
me everything you've said the moment you're gone.
She's never been able to keep anything from me in
her life.
DR. MACFARLANE.
You must have patience with me. I'm an old man,
and I like to do things in my own way.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Well, Tm no chicken, and I'm not going to stand
any of your nonsense. Tell us straight out what the
doctor says and be damned to you. I beg your
pardon, my dear, but I have to talk to the old fool
in the only way he understands.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Very rough, isn't he ?
JOHN.
The gentlest pirate who ever cut a throat.
54 THE UNKNOWN
COLONEL WHARTON.
You know, you're a transparent old fraud, Doctor.
The moment you came in I saw you had some bad
news for me. You were expecting to find Evelyn
alone.
DR. MACFARLANE.
This is the hour at which all self-respecting re-
tired colonels are reading the Times in their study
MRS. WHARTON.
What does Dr. Keller say ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
I suppose he wants an operation. It's a nuisance
but, with God's help, I can go through with it.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Well, I suppose you'd have to know sooner or
later. Let these young people clear out and we'll
talk it all over quietly.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Nonsense. John is my son and Sylvia is almost
my daughter. What concerns me concerns them, I
fancy. Why, you couldn't make more fuss if I'd
only got a month to live.
THE UNKNOWN 55
DR. MACPARLANE.
[Hesitating.] Do you want me to tell you the
whole thing now — just like this ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
Yes. You don't think I'm afraid to hear the
worst. Whatever it is, I hope I have the pluck to
bear it like a Christian and a gentleman.
[There is a pause.
DR. MACFARLANE.
You're quite right. I have bad news for you.
Dr. Keller confirms my diagnosis. I was pretty sure
of it, but I didn't want to believe it. I thought I
might be mistaken . . . I'm afraid you're very ill
indeed. You must be extremely careful.
MRS. WHARTON.
George !
COLONEL WHARTON.
Come, come, my dear, don't get in a state. And
does he recommend an operation ?
DR. MACFARLANE.
No.
56 THE UNKNOWN
COLONEL WHARTON.
[Startled.] Do you mean to say that. . . . But I
don't feel so bad as all that. Now and then I have
attacks of pain, but then . . . you don't mean to say
you think I'm going to die ? For God's sake tell me
the truth.
DR. MACFARLANE.
My dear old friend !
COLONEL WHARTON.
You mean I've got a fatal disease. Can — can
nothing be done ?
DR. MACFARLANE.
I don't know about that. There's always some-
thing that can be done.
COLONEL WHARTON.
But a cure, I mean. Can't I be cured ?
DR. MACFARLANE.
If you want the truth really, then I'm afraid I can
hold out no hope of that.
COLONEL WHARTON.
How long d'you give me ? [Trying to laugh.] I
suppose you're not going to grudge me a year or
two?
THE UNKNOWN 57
DR. MACFARLANE.
[Pretending to take it lightly.] Oh, you can be
quite sure we'll keep you alive as long as we can.
JOHN.
You've got a wonderful physique, father. My own
impression is that you'll make fools of the doctors
and live for another twenty years.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Medicine isn't an exact science like surgery. It's
a doctor's duty to tell a patient the truth when he
asks for it, but if I were a patient I would always
take it with a grain of salt.
[The COLONEL looks at him suspiciously.
COLONEL WHARTON.
You're keeping something from me. If it was only
that, why did you want to see Evelyn alone ?
DR. MACFARLANE.
Well, some people are very nervous about them-
selves. I wasn't quite sure if you'd better know or
not. I thought I'd talk it over with her.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Am I in immediate danger of death ? For God's
sake* tell me. It would be cruel to leave me in
ignorance.
58 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. WHARTON.
Please answer quite frankly, doctor.
DR. MACFARLANE.
[After a pause.] I think if you have any arrange-
ments to make, it would be wise if you made them
soon.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Then it's not a question of a year or two even ?
Is it months or weeks ?
DR. MACFARLANE.
I don't know. No one can tell.
COLONEL WHARTON.
You're treating me like a child. [With sudden
rage.] Confound you, sir, I order you to tell me.
DR. MACFARLANE.
It may be at any time.
COLONEL WHARTON.
[With a sudden cry of terror.] Evelyn ! Evelyn !
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh . my dear ! My dear husband !
[She takes Kim in her arms as though to protect
him.
THE UNKNOWN 59
DR. MACFARLANE.
Why did you force me to tell you ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
[In a terrified whisper.'] Oh, Evelyn ! Evelyn !
MRS. WHARTON.
[To the others.] Please go.
JOHN.
[To SYLVIA.] Come. They want to be alone.
Dr. Macfarlane, will you come into the garden for a
few minutes ?
DR. MACFARLANE.
Of course I will. Of course.
[They go out. COLONEL and MRS. WHARTON
are left alone. For a moment they are
silent.
MRS. WHARTON.
Perhaps it isn't true, my dear.
COLONEL WHARTON.
It's true. I know it's true now.
60 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, it's so hard. I wish it were I instead. I'd
be so glad to take your place, darling.
COLONEL WHARTON.
We've been so happy together, Evelyn.
MRS. WHARTON.
We have very much to be grateful for.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Oh, Evelyn, what shall I do ?
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry for you. I'm so dread-
fully sorry . , . I think you're very brave. If I'd
been told like that I — I should have broken down.
COLONEL WHARTON.
It was so unexpected.
MRS. WHARTON.
[Trying to comfort him.] I'm thankful that your
faith has always been so bright and clear. What a
comfort that is now, darling, what an immense
consolation ! [She draws him more closely to her.]
THE UNKNOWN 61
You're throwing aside these poor rags of mortality
to put on a heavenly raiment. It is what we've
always kept in our minds, isn't it ? that this brief
life is only a place of passage to the mansions of our
dear Father. [She feels the dismay in his heart and
she strives to give him courage.] You've never hesi-
tated at the call of an earthly leader. You're a good
soldier ; it's a Heavenly Leader that's calling you now.
Christ is holding out His loving arms to you.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Evelyn — I don't want to die.
THE END OF THE FIRST ACT.
ACT II
The Scene is the same as in the preceding Act.
Two days have passed. It is Wednesday afternoon.
MRS. WHARTON is sitting by a little table, looking
reflectively in front of her. On the table is a
work-basket, and by the side of this a baby's shirt
that she is making. A fire is alight in the grate.
After a minute, JOHN comes in. She looks up
at him with a pleasant smile. He goes to her and
futs his hand on her shoulder. She gently pats his
and.
JOHN.
Are you idling, mother ? It's not often I catch
you giving the devil an opportunity.
MRS. WHARTON.
Isn't it wicked of me ?
THE UNKNOWN 63
JOHN.
What is this you're up to ? What in heaven's
name are you making a baby's shirt for ? Hang it
all, I'm not married yet,
MES. WHAETON.
[Pretending to be a little shocked.] Don't be naughty,
John. It's for poor Annie Black's baby.
JOHN.
Who's she ?
MES. WHAETON.
She was engaged to Edward Driffield, the car-
penter's second man, and they were going to be
married next time he came home on leave. He's
been killed, and she's expecting a baby.
JOHN.
Poor thing.
MES. WHAETON.
The Pooles are looking after her. You see, she had
nowhere to go, and they didn't want her to have to
go to the Workhouse, so Mrs. Poole has taken her in
at the Vicarage. And I said I'd make all the baby's
things.
JOHN.
[Affectionately.] You're a nice old mother.
64 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. WHARTON.
Don't you think it was good of the Pooles ?
JOHN.
Yes, charming.
MRS. WHARTON.
They're coming here this afternoon, John. I
wanted the Vicar to see your father. ... I haven't
told your father they're coming.
JOHN.
Haven't you ?
MRS. WHARTON.
He's rather sensitive just now. It's quite natural,
isn't it ? And I didn't know exactly how he'd take it.
I thought if Mrs. Poole came too it would look as
though it were just a friendly visit. And* perhaps
the Vicar will have an opportunity to say a few words
to your father.
JOHN.
[Smiling.] I take it that you want me to help you
to leave them alone together.
MRS. WHARTON.
I hate doing anything underhand. John, but I
think it would help your father so much if he could
have a little private talk with the Vicar.
THE UNKNOWN 65
JOHN.
Why didn't you suggest it to him ?
MBS. WHARTON.
I didn't like to. I was afraid he'd be vexed. I
thought he'd suggest it himself.
JOHN.
[Very tenderly.] Don't distress yourself, mother.
MBS. WHARTON.
I'm trying not to think of it, John. My only hope
is that the end may come without suffering.
JOHN.
I wasn't thinking of that.
MRS. WHARTON.
[After a moment's pause.] I don't know what you
mean, John.
JOHN.
Yes, you do. You only have to look in father's
face.
MRS. WHARTON.
I really don't understand. [Almost vehemently.]
You're wrong, John. He suffers much more pain than
you think. That's what gives him that look.
F
66 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
[Gravely.] It's fear that's in his face, mother,
the fear of death. You know it just as well as I do.
MRS. WHARTON.
[With dismay.] I was so hoping that no one would
know but me. It tears my heart. And I can do
nothing. And he's so strange. Sometimes he looks
at me almost as though I were his enemy.
JOHN.
He doesn't want to die, does he ? At the bottom
of his heart is envy because you can go on living.
MRS. WHARTON.
Have you noticed that ? I tried not to see it.
JOHN.
Don't be angry with him or disappointed. You
know, it's a hard thing to die for all of us. Generally
one's vitality is lowered so that life seems rather
a burden, and it's not very hard then to make a
seemly end. But poor father's got something much
more difficult to face.
MRS. WHARTON.
He's been supported all his life by his confidence
in the great truths of our religion. Oh, John, it's
THE UNKNOWN 67
so dreadful that just at this moment, when he must
put them all to the test, he should falter. It's almost
a betrayal of the God who loves him.
JOHN.
My dear, you can't imagine that God won't under-
stand ? What do these last weeks matter beside a
life that has been cheerful and innocent, devout,
unselfish, and dutiful ? We were talking about it the
other day, don't you remember ? And I claimed
that a man should be judged by what he believed
and did in the heyday of his strength, and not by
what was wrung from him in a moment of anguish.
Pray that God may give my father courage and
resignation.
MRS. WHARTON.
How can you ask me to pray, John, when you
don't believe in God ?
JOHN.
Pray all the same, my dear, and for me too.
MRS. WHARTON.
I don't suppose I shall survive your father very
long, dear. Husbands and wives who've been so
much to one another as we have don't often make a
very good job of separation. I'm so glad to think
that you'll have Sylvia.
P 2
68 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
Sylvia's a good girl, isn't she ?
MRS. WHARTON.
When you were away I was dreadfully anxious on
my own account, of course, but I was anxious on hers
too. She's had a very hard time with her mother,
and there's been dreadfully little money, only their
pensions ; if anything had happened to you, when
her mother died she would have had practically
nothing. You've been engaged so long and she's not
very young any more. It's not likely that anyone
else would have wanted to marry her.
JOHN.
Mother darling, you're being terribly sentimental
now.
MRS. WHARTON.
[With comic indignation.] I'm not, John. You
don't know what it is for a penniless woman to be
quite alone in the world when she's lost her youth.
JOHN.
Yes, I do. But the tears needn't come into your
eyes, because Sylvia and I are going to be married
and her future is quite adequately provided for.
MRS. WHARTON.
She's the only girl I've ever known that I could
bear to think of your marrying.
THE UNKNOWN 69
JOHN.
Well, as she's the only girl I ever knew that I
could bear to marry, we're both quite satisfied.
[KATE enters, followed ly MRS. LITTLBWOOD.
KATE.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Exit KATE.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
[Kissing MRS. WHARTON.] How do you do ?
MRS. WHARTON.
How are you, my dear ?
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
[To JOHN.] I brought you a wedding present,
John.
[She hands him a small case in which is a pearl pin.
JOHN.
Oh, I say, that is splendid of you. Just look,
mother. Isn't it a ripper ?
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
It was Archie's, you know. He always used to be
so proud of it.
70 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
It's awfully good of you to give me something
that belonged to him.
MRS. WHARTON.
That is nice of you, Charlotte.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
Nonsense. It wasn't any use to me any more. I
thought it much better that John should have it
than that it should lie in a safe. They tell me pearls
go yellow if they're not worn.
MRS. WHARTON.
John, dear, go and smoke a cigarette in the garden.
I want to have a chat with Mrs. Littlewood.
JOHN.
All right, mother.
[He goes out.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
Do you know that I'm thinking of letting my
house ? I only kept it so that the boys should have
a home to come to when they had a holiday, and
now that they're both dead, I think I shall find it
more amusing to live in London. I shall join a bridge
club.
THE UNKNOWN 71
MRS. WHARTON.
Charlotte, what does it mean ? Why do you talk
like that ?
MRS. LITTLE WOOD.
My dear, why shouldn't I join a bridge club ?
[With a smile.] At my age it's surely quite respectable.
MRS. WHARTON.
I'm bewildered. Don't you want me to talk of
your boys ?
•\
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
[Drily.] If you feel you really must pour out your
sympathy, you may ; but I don't know that I par-
ticularly want it.
MRS. WHARTON.
No one can understand you. You've behaved so
strangely since you came back from France ... I
think it was dreadful of you to go to the theatre
when the poor lad was hardly cold in his grave.
You seem to think of nothing but bridge.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
I suppose different people take things in different
ways.
MRS. WHARTON.
I wonder if you're quite in your right mind.
72 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. LITTLE WOOD.
[Somewhat amused.] Yes, I saw you wondered that.
MRS. WHARTON.
If you only knew how eager I am to help you.
But you won't let me come near you. We've known
one another for more than thirty years, Charlotte.
Why do you put up a stone wall between us ?
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
[Gently, as though she were talking to a child.] My
dear, don't worry your kind heart. If I wanted
your help I would come to you at once. But I
don't. I really don't.
^ [MRS. WHARTON hears her husband's step on
the stairs.
MRS. WHARTON.
Here is George. [Going to the window.] You can
come in when you want to, John.
[The COLONEL comes into the room. His face
is a little whiter than it was two days ago,
and there is in his eyes every now and then
a" haunted look.
MRS. WHARTON.
Charlotte Littlewood is here, George.
COLONEL WHARTON.
So I see. How do you do ?
THE UNKNOWN 73
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
You're not looking quite up to the mark to-day,
Colonel
COLONEL WHARTON.
That's a cheering thing to say to a man. I'm
feeling pretty well.
MRS. WHARTON.
I was thinking he was looking much better the
last day or two.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I presume it's not on my account that you've lit
the fire on a day like this.
MRS. WHARTON.
No, I feel a little chilly. You always forget that
I'm not as young as I was, George.
[The COLONEL sits down in an arm-chair and
MRS. WHARTON takes a couple of cushions.
MRS. WHARTON.
Let me put them behind you, darling.
COLONEL WHARTON.
For goodness' sake don't fuss me, Evelyn. If I
want cushions I'm perfectly capable of getting them
for myself.
[JOHN enters with SYLVIA and hears the last
two speeches.
74 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
Come, come, father, you mustn't spoil mother.
She's waited on us both for thirty years. Don't let
her get into bad habits at her time of life.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, Sylvia, we didn't expect to see you to-day.
You said you'd be too busy.
SYLVIA.
I felt I must just look in and see how you all were.
[The COLONEL gives her a suspicious look.
She kisses MRS. WHARTON and MRS.
LITTLEWOOD and the COLONEL.
JOHN.
[Showing SYLVIA the pearl pin,] Look what Mrs.
Littlewood has given me. Makes it worth while
being married, doesn't it ?
SYLVIA.
Oh, how lovely !
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
You'll find a little present waiting for you when
you get home.
SYLVIA.
How exciting ! I shall run all the way back.
THE UNKNOWN 75
MRS. WHARTON.
Now you're here you'd better stay to tea, darling.
SYLVIA.
I really can't. I've got so much to do at home.
JOHN.
Nonsense. You've got nothing to do at all.
We're not going to dream of letting you go.
SYLVIA.
Remember that you'll have me always from to-
morrow on. Don't you think you could well spare
me to-day ?
JOHN.
No.
SYLVIA.
Tiresome creature. Though I must say it's rather
pleasing.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I never saw two young people who were so thor-
oughly satisfied with one another as you are.
JOHN.
[Putting his arm round SYLVIA'S waist.] But I'm
not in the least satisfied with Sylvia. I should like
her to have jet black hair and eyes like sloes.
76 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
What are sloes, idiot ?
JOHN.
I don't know, but I've read about them from my
youth up.
SYLVIA.
Oh, Colonel, d'you know that on my way here
through the fields, I actually saw a rabbit ?
JOHN.
I hear there's absolutely nothing on the place now,
father.
COLONEL WHARTON.
No,Tthe vermin's been allowed to increase so.
There rare one or two cock pheasants round the
house ^and that's about all. I don't know what
next season — but after all, I needn't worry myself
about next season. That'll be your trouble, John.
JOHN.
I wish I had as much chance of getting a shot at
those cock pheasants as you have.
THE UNKNOWN 77
COLONEL WHARTON.
By George, I wish I were twenty years younger.
I'd take my chance of being shot by a German. It's
a bit better than dying like a rat in a trap.
[KATE enters to announce the VICAR and
MRS. POOLE.
KATE.
Mr. and Mrs. Poole.
[Exit.
MRS. WHARTON.
How do you do ?
[There are general greetings. The COLONEL
looks at them and from them to his wife,
suspiciously. The POOLES are rather cold
with MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
COLONEL WHARTON.
How do you do ? It's good of you to have come.
Sit down.
MRS. POOLS.
Well, Sylvia, are you all ready for to-morrow ?
SYLVIA.
More or less.
78 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. POOLE.
We thought you might intend to postpone the
wedding for a few days.
COLONEL WHARTON.
They've waited long enough. Why should they
wish to do that ?
SYLVIA.
[Hastily.] I told Mrs. Poole yesterday that I didn't
think I could possibly get everything arranged by
to-morrow.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I see that my wife has told you that I'm not very
well.
MRS. POOLE.
Oh, aren't you, Colonel ? I'm so sorry to hear that.
VICAR.
She told me this morning after Communion that
you weren't quite up to the mark these days.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I remember in Egypt, when a horse or a mule
sickened, the vultures used to gather round out of an
empty sky. Most remarkable.
THE UNKNOWN 79
MKS. WHARTON.
George, what are you saying ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
[With a bitter chuckle.] Did Evelyn ask you to
come and minister to me ?
VICAR.
It's not very unnatural that when I hear you're
ill I should like to come and see you. And, of course,
it does happen to be one of the duties of my office.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I don't know why Evelyn should think I want to
be molly-coddled out of the world like an old woman.
I've faced death before. I don't suppose anyone
wants to die before he must, but when my time comes
I hope to face it like a gentleman and a soldier.
JOHN.
Oh, that I should live to hear my own father
talking through his hat. Don't you believe a word
those rotten old doctors say. You'll live to bully
your devoted family for another twenty years.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Don't talk nonsense to me, John. You all treat
me like a child. No one must cross me. I must be
petted and spoilt and amused and humoured. God
damn it, you never let me forget it for a minute.
80 THE UNKNOWN
MBS. WHARTON.
Shall we go for a little turn in the garden ? The
sun is out now.
COLONEL WHARTON.
If you like. I shall stay here. I'm chilly.
MRS. WHARTON.
A stroll would do you good, George. The Vicar
was asking how the new Buff Orpingtons were
getting on.
COLONEL WHARTON.
[With a chuckle. ,] You're very transparent, my
poor Evelyn. When I want to have a chat with the
Vicar I'll let him know.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
[Who has been watching the scene with some amuse-
ment.] Why don't you have a game of piquet with
me, Colonel ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
I haven't played piquet for years. I will with
pleasure. Where are the cards, Evelyn ?
THE UNKNOWN 81
MRS. WHARTON.
I'll get them for you.
[She gets cards from a drawer, and puts them
on the card table. The COLONEL sits
down at the table and sorts the piquet cards
out of the pack.
VICAR.
I called on you on Monday, Mrs. Little wood.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
So I heard.
VICAR.
I was told you were not at home. As I walked
away it was impossible for me not to see that you
were in your garden.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
It's inadequately protected from the road.
VICAR.
I was rather hurt. I'm not aware that there's
been anything in my behaviour since I came here to
justify you in treating me with discourtesy. Our
relations have always been more than cordial.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD
I didn't wish to see you.
82 THE UNKNOWN
VICAR.
So much as that I had the intelligence to infer.
But I felt it my duty not to allow pique to interfere
with the due discharge of my office. I had various
things to say to you which I thought you should
hear, so yesterday I called again, and again was told
you were out.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
[Coolly.] I didn't wish to see you.
VICAR.
May I ask why ?
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
Well, I suppose you wanted to talk about my boy
I didn't think your conversation could give him
back to me.
VICAR.
Don't you think I could have helped you to bear
your loss ? I think I could have found in my heart
words to persuade you to resignation. I might at
least have offered you my sympathy.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
I'm sorry to seem ungracious, but I don't want
your sympathy.
VICAR.
Your attitude amazes me.
THE UNKNOWN 83
MRS. POOLE.
If we didn't all know how devoted you were to
your sons, one might really think you were indifferent
to their loss.
MBS. LlTTLEWOOD.
[Reflectively.] No, I'm not exactly indifferent.
VICAR.
Since you won't see me alone, I must say things
to you here and now which I should rather have
kept for your private ear. I have a right to remon-
strate with you because your behaviour is a scandal
to my parish.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
[With a smile.] Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought
it was my welfare you were concerned with. If it's
that of the parish, pray say anything you like.
VICAR.
[Flushing, but not to be put off.] I think it was
horrible to go to a music-hall on the very day you
had returned from your son's grave in France. But
that was in London, and you outraged nobody but
yourself. What you do here is different. This is a
very small place, and it's shameful that you should
give parties and go about from house to house playing
cards.
G 2
84 THE UNKNOWN
MBS. POOLE.
It seems so heartless not to wear mourning.
JOHN.
[Rat her flippantly, to prevent the conversation from
growing too awkward.] Why ? I certainly should hate
anyone to wear mourning for me.
VICAR.
You give all and sundry the impression that you're
perfectly callous. What influence do you think such
a thing may have on these young fellows in the
village who have to risk their lives with all the other
brave lads at the front ? You take from them the
comfort that we at home love them and if they fall
will hold their memories gratefully in our hearts for
ever.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
I shouldn't have thought the eccentricity of one
old woman could matter very much to anyone.
[She pauses and looks out into the open for a
moment, and then makes up her mind to
speak. She speaks quite quietly, almost to
herself.
When they sent for me and I went over to France
I wasn't very anxious, because I knew that God, who
had taken my eldest son, would leave my second.
You see, he was the only one I had left. And when
I got there and found he was dead — I suddenly felt
that it didn't matter.
THE UNKNOWN 85
MRS. WHARTON.
My dear, what do you mean ? How can you say
such a thing ?
JOHN.
Don't, mother. Let her go on.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
I didn't feel that anything very much mattered.
It's difficult to explain exactly what I mean. I feel
that I have nothing more to do with the world and
the world has nothing more to do with me. So far
as I'm concerned it's a failure. You know I wasn't
very happy in my married life, but I loved my two
sons, and they made everything worth while, and
now they're gone. Let others take up the — the
adventure. I step aside.
MRS. WHARTON.
You've suffered too much, my dear.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
No, the strange thing is that I haven't suffered
very much. Don't you know how sometimes one
has a horrid dream and knows one's only dreaming
all the time ? [To the VICAR, with the same good
temper, almost amused.] You're surprised that I
should go to the theatre. Why ? To me, it's no
more unreal a spectacle than life. Life does seem
86 THE UNKNOWN
to me just like a play now. I can't take it very
seriously. I feel strangely detached. I have no
ill-feeling for my fellow-creatures, but you don't
seem very real to me or very important. Why
shouldn't I play bridge with you ?
VICAR.
Oh, but, my dear, my dear, there's one reality that
you can never escape from. There's God.
[A flash passes behind the old woman's eyes.
She rises and puts out her hand as though
to ward off a blow.
MBS. LlTTLEWOOD.
I don't think we'll talk about God if you please.
I prefer to play piquet.
[She sits down at the table at which the COLONEL
has already taken his seat.
COLONEL WHABTON.
Do you play four hands or six to the game ?
MBS. LlTTLEWOOD.
Four — and double the first and last. It makes it
more exciting.
COLONEL WHABTON.
Shall we cut for deal ?
THE UNKNOWN 87
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
[Cutting.] You're not likely to beat that.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I suppose in the Vicar's presence we daren't play
for money ?
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
We'll pretend he's not there. Will a shilling a
hundred suit you ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
I don't think that'll break either of us.
[KATE enters, followed by DR. MACFARLANE.
KATE.
Dr. Macfarlane.
[Exit.
DR. MACFARLANE.
How d'you do ?
MRS. WHARTON.
[Shaking hands with him.] So nice of you to come
in.
DR. MACFARLANE.
How is the Colonel to-day ?
88 THE UNKNOWN
COLONEL WHABTON.
Playing piquet.
JOHN.
You're coming to-morrow, aren't you, Doctor ?
DR. MACFARLANE.
Of course I am. I brought you both into the
world. I have almost a personal interest in seeing
you made one flesh.
VICAR.
[Jovially.] It's many a long day since you've been
inside a church, Doctor.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Since you clerical gentlemen left off threatening
me with eternal flames I feel justified in following
my own inclinations in the matter.
VICAR.
[Chaffing him.] But we still believe in annihilation.
DR. MACFARLANE.
I'm willing to take my chance of that. It has no
terrors for a man who's not had a holiday for twenty
years.
THE UNKNOWN 89
VlOAR.
You're not an irreligious man. I don't know why
you don't come to church.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Shall I tell you ? Because after repeated experi-
ment I've reached the conclusion that I'm not a
whit the better for it.
JOHN.
You'll have to give him up, Vicar. He's a stubborn
old thing. He takes advantage of the fact that he's
the only doctor within ten miles who won't kill you
so long as he can make seven and sixpence a visit
by keeping you alive.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Do you mean to say that our Church doesn't
believe any longer in eternal punishment ?
JOHN
Oh, father, hell has always left me perfectly cold,
You and I are quite safe. You see, mother would
never be happy in heaven without us, and God
couldn't refuse her anything she asked.
MRS. WHARTON.
[Affectionately.] John, what nonsense you talk.
90 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. POOLE.
I sometimes think the modern Church has been
very rash in surrendering a belief which has the
authority of Our Lord himself. How many sinners
have been brought to repentance by the fear of
everlasting punishment !
JOHN.
That rather suggests calling down fire from heaven
to light a cigar.
MRS. POOLE.
That may be funny, but I don't see the point of it.
JOHN.
[Good-humour edly.] Well, I should have thought it
hardly required anything so tremendous as eternity
J to deal with human wickedness. I suppose sin is
due to a man's character, which he cant help, or
to his ignorance, for which he isn't to blame.
VICAR.
In fact, to your mind sin is all moonshine.
JOHN.
I think it a pity that Christianity has laid so much
stress on it. We assert in church that we're miserable
sinners, but I don't think we mean it, and what's
more I don't think we are.
THE UNKNOWN 91
MRS. POOLE.
We are conceived in sin, and sin is part of our
inheritance. Why did Christ die if not to atone for
the sin of men ?
JOHN.
In war one gets to know very intimately all sorts
„ of queer people. I don't suppose I shall ever know
any men so well as I knew the men in my company.
They were honest and brave and cheerful, unselfish,
good fellows ; perhaps they swore a good deal, and
they got drunk if they had the chance, and they
had the glad eye for a pretty girl- But do you think
they were sinners for that ? I don't.
VICAR.
Look in your own heart and say if you are not
conscious of grievous, terrible sin.
JOHN.
Frankly, I'm not.
VICAR.
Do you mean to say that you have nothing to
reproach yourself with ?
JOHN.
I've done a certain number of things which I think
were rather foolish, but I can't think of anything
that I'm particularly ashamed of.
92 THE UNKNOWN
VICAR.
Do you mean to tell me that you've always been
perfectly chaste ?
JOHN.
I'm normal and healthy. Fve been no more
chaste than any other man of my age.
VIOAR.
And isn't that sin ?
JOHN.
I don't think so. I think it's human nature.
VICAR.
We're arguing at cross-purposes. If when you say
" white " you mean what the rest of the world calls
" black," all words are futile.
JOHN.
[With a smik.] The singular thing is that if I'd
answered your question with a " yes," you would
probably have thought me a liar or a fool.
VICAR.
This terrible condition of humanity, which seems
to cry out against the very idea either of man's
dignity, or of God's justice, has but one explanation,
and that is sin.
THE UNKNOWN 93
JOHN.
You're referring to the war? It needs some
explaining, doesn't it ?
VICAR.
Every Christian must have asked himself why God
allows the infamous horror of war. I'm told the
padres are constantly being asked by the brave
lads at the Front why the Almighty allows it to
continue. I can't blame anyone for being puzzled.
I've wrestled with the question long and anxiously
.... I can't believe that God would leave His
children to suffer without a clue to His intention.
MRS. POOLE.
The ways of God are inscrutable. How can we
tell what are the aims of the eternal ? We only know
that they are good.
JOHN.
Meanwhile men are being killed like flies, their
wives and mothers are left desolate, and their children
fatherless.
VICAR.
You mustn't forget exactly what is meant by
" Almighty." It means not so much able to do all
things as powerful over all things.
94 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
Ah, the padre of my regiment told me that. I
may be very stupid, but I think the distinction
rather fine. For the plain man the difficulty re-
mains. Either God can't stop the war even if He
wants to, or He can stop it and won't.
MBS. POOLE.
In my opinion there can be no hesitation. It ia
written : " Not a sparrow shall fall on the ground
without your Father."
VICAE.
Remember that we have free will and God makes
use of our free will to punish us and to teach us and
to make us more worthy of His grace and mercy.
Man, born in sin, justly brought this long-drawn
disaster on himself as surely as Adam brought on
himself the divine punishment which we all inherit.
JOHN.
If I saw two small boys fighting I'd separate them,
even though one was a lazy little beggar and the
other had stolen Farmer Giles' apples. I wouldn't
sit by and let them seriously hurt one another so
that they should be better boys in future.
MRS. POOLE.
But you speak as though all this suffering must be
useless. We all know how suffering can purify and
elevate. I've seen it myself over and over again.
THE UNKNOWN 95
DR. MACFARLANE.
People say that. They're generally thinking of
elderly ladies in comfortable circumstances who
with the aid of a very good doctor show a becoming
resignation in a chronic disease.
JOHN.
I should like some of those people who talk about
the purifying influence of suffering to have a mouthful
of gas and see how they liked it.
VICAR.
The war is terrible. Its cruelty is terrible. The
suffering it has caused is terrible. " There is only one
explanation for it ; and that is the loving kindness
and the infinite mercy of our heavenly Father.
JOHN.
Can you bring yourself to believe that ?
VICAR.
We were given over to drunkenness and lust, to
selfishness and flippancy and pride. It needed this
tremendous trial to purify us. It will be a nobler
England that comes out of the furnace. Oh, I pray
to God that all this blood may wash our souls clean
so that we may once more be found worthy in His
sight.
96 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. POOLE.
Amen.
JOHN.
You must evidently know much more about it
than I do. When the men in my company did
things I thought were wrong I used to jolly them a
bit. I fancy I got better results than if I'd bashed
them on the head with a sledge-hammer.
VICAR.
Sin began with the beginning of the human story
and has continued through all its course. The
motive of the divine redemption lies in the fact that
men, though created for so lofty a purpose, have
plunged so deep into sin and have so deeply defaced
in themselves the image of God, that only the self-
sacrificing act of God in redeeming them can raise
them from ruin.
JOHN.
I wish you'd been a company-commander and had
seen how gaily a man can give his life for his friend.
VICAR.
But I know, my dear boy, I know. And do you
think God will be unmindful of their sacrifice ? I
pray and believe that they will find mercy in His
sight. I am sure He is more ready to pardon than
to punish. After all, our Lord came to call sinners
THE UNKNOWN 97
to repentance, and who should know better than the
Ministers of God that to err is human, to forgive,
divine ?
[The piquet players have played their game with
a certain distraction, and during the last
few speeches have made no more pretence
of playing at all, MRS. LITTLE WOOD has
listened attentively. Now she puts down
her cards, gets up, and walks up to the
VICAR.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
And who is going to forgive God ?
MRS. WHARTON.
[With horror.] Charlotte !
VICAR.
[With grave disapproval.] Don't you think that is
rather blasphemous ?
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
[Quietly and deliberately at first, but with ever-
increasing excitement.] Ever since I was a child I've
served God with all my might, and with all my
heart, and with all my soul. I've tried always to
lead my life in accordance with His will. I never
forgot that I was as nothing in His sight. I've
been weak and sinful, but I've tried to do my duty.
MRS. WHARTON.
Yes, dear, you've been an example to us all.
H
98 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
[Taking no notice.] Honestly, I've done everything
I could that I thought was pleasing in His sight.
I've praised Him and magnified His name. You've
heard that my husband deserted me when I'd borne
him two children, and I was left alone. I brought
them up to be honest, upright and God-fearing men.
When God took my eldest son I wept, but I turned
to the Lord and said : " Thy will be done." He was a
soldier, and he took his chance, and he died in a
good cause.
VICAR.
A great and a good cause.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
But why did God take my second ? He was the
only one I had left, the only comfort of my old age,
my only joy, the only thing I had to prevent me
from seeing that my life had been wasted and it
would have been better if I had never been born.
I haven't deserved that. When a horse has served
me long and faithfully till he's too old to work I
have the right to send him to the knacker's yard,
but I don't, I put him out to grass. I wouldn't treat
a dog as my Father has treated me. I've been
cheated. You say that God will forgive us our
sins, but who is going to forgive God ? Not I. Never.
Never !
[In a height of frenzy she rushes out into the
garden. There is silence in the room.
THE UNKNOWN 99
MRS. WHARTON.
Don't be angry with her, Vicar. She's beside
herself with grief.
VICAR.
She'll come back. She's like a petulant child that
has been thwarted for its good. It cries and stamps,
but in a little while it throws itself into its mother's
arms, and begs, all tears, for forgiveness.
MRS. POOLE.
[With a little sigh of relief.] I knew you'd take it
like that, Norman. You're so tolerant and broad-
minded.
VICAR.
I think I see my way to help her, poor soul.
JOHN.
I wonder how. Your only explanation of evil is
sin. I daresay you can get people to acknowledge
that they've deserved their own suffering. But
you'll never prevent them from being revolted at
the suffering of others. Why is evil permitted in
the world by an all-good Grod ?
VICAR.
I can hardly hope that any answer of mine will
satisfy you. By God's grace I am a Christian.
You are an atheist.
[There is a moment's embarrassment. JOHN
realises that his mother or SYLVIA has
repeated what he has said,
H 2
100 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
That suggests a very dogmatic attitude. I don't
see how anyone can positively assert that there is
no God. It would be as reasonable as to assert that
there's nothing on the other side of a wall that you
can't look over.
VICAR.
Do you believe in God ?
JOHN.
I don't think it's quite your business to ask me.
[With a smile.] Wasn't it St. Paul who said : « Be
not zealous overmuch."
VICAR.
You can't be unaware that by certain statements
of yours the other day you gave the greatest pain
to those nearest and dearest to you.
SYLVIA.
What you said made me very unhappy, John. I
didn't know what to do. I went to the Vicar and
asked his advice.
JOHN.
Don't you think that a man's belief is his own
affair ? I don't want to interfere with other people's.
Why can't they leave me quietly to mine ?
THE UNKNOWN 101
SYLVIA.
Ife can't be entirely your affair, John. You and I
propose to be married to-morrow. It's only reason-
able that I should know exactly how you stand in
a matter that concerns me so closely.
JOHN.
I hadn't thought of that. I daresay there's
something in what you say. I'm willing to do my
best to explain to you and to father and mother.
But I really think we needn't drag strangers in.
MRS. WHARTON.
I think it would be much better if you would talk
with the Vicar, John. We don't pretend to be very
clever, and it wouldn't mean much if you asked us
questions that we couldn't answer.
VICAR.
When you're ill you send for a doctor, he prescribes
for you, and you get well.
JOHN.
[With a smile.] What do you think of that,
doctor ?
DR. MACFARLANE.
It is an idea that we do our little best to spread
about the world.
102 THE UNKNOWN
VICAR.
Anyhow, you take a doctor's advice and you don't
argue with him. Why ? Because he's an expert,
and you presume that he knows his business. Why
should the science of the immortal soul be a less
complicated affair than the science of the perishable
body ?
MRS. WHARTON.
Look upon us as very silly, old-fashioned people,
and be kind to us. If various doubts are troubling
you, put them frankly before the Vicar. Perhaps
he caij help you.
VICAR.
[Sincerely.] Believe me, I'll do everything in my
power.
MRS. WHARTON.
And if he can convince you that you were wrong,
I know you too well to dream that pride would stop
you from confessing it. It would give us such
heartfelt joy, my dear, if you could believe again
as you did when you were a little child and used to
say your prayers kneeling on my lap.
VICAR.
I really think I can help you. Won't you forget
that I'm a stranger and let me try ?
THE UNKNOWN 103
DR. MACPARLANE.
Perhaps you'd like me to leave you. I was only
waiting till the Colonel had finished his game so
that I might take him upstairs and have a look at
him. But I can come back later.
JOHN.
I don't mind your staying at all. [To the Vicar.]
What is it you wish to ask me ?
VICAR.
Do you believe in the God in whose name you
were baptised into the Church ?
JOHN.
No!
VICAR.
That at all events is frank and honest. But
aren't you a little out of date ? One of the most
gratifying occurrences of recent years has been the
revival of belief among thoughtful men.
JOHN.
I should have thought it was a revival of rhetoric
rather than of religion. I'm not enormously im-
pressed by the cultured journalist who uses God to
balance a sentence or adorn a phrase.
104 THE UNKNOWN
VICAR.
But it hasn't only been among educated men.
Not the least remarkable thing about the war has
been the return of our brave lads at the Front to the
faith which so many of us thought they had forgotten.
What is your explanation of that ?
JOHN.
Fear with the most part. Perplexity with the
rest.
VICAR.
Don't you think it very rash to reject a belief that
all the ablest men in the world have held since the
dawn of history ?
JOHN.
When you're dealing with a belief, neither the
number nor the ability of those who hold it makes
it a certainty. Only proof can do that.
MRS. POOLE.
Are you quite sure that at the bottom of your
heart it's not conceit that makes you think differently
from the rest of us ?
VICAR.
No, my dear, let us not ascribe unworthy motives
to our antagonist.
THE UNKNOWN 105
JOHN.
[Smiling.] At all events, not yet.
VICAR.
What makes you think that the existence of God
can't be proved ?
JOHN.
I suppose at this time of day people wouldn't still
be proving it if proof were possible.
VICAR.
My dear fellow, the fact that there is no people on
the face of the earth, however barbarous and de-
graded, without some belief in God, is the most
conclusive proof you can want.
JOHN.
What of ? It's conclusive proof that the desire
for His existence is universal. It's not proof that
the desire is fulfilled.
VICAR.
I see you have the usual Rationalistic arguments
at your fingers' ends. Believe me, they're old
friends, and if I've answered them once I've answered
them a thousand times.
106 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
And have you ever convinced anyone who wasn't
convinced before ?
VICAE.
I can't make the blind to see, you know.
JOHN.
I wonder that hasn't suggested to you a very
obvious conclusion.
VICAR.
What?
JOHN.
Why, that arguments are futile. Think for a
minute. You don't believe in God for any of the
reasons that are given for His existence. You
believe in Him because with all your heart you feel
that He exists. No argument can ever touch that
feeling. The heart is independent of logic and its
rules.
VICAR.
I daresay there's something in what you say.
JOHN.
Well, it's the same with me. If you ask me why
I don't believe in the existence of God I suppose I
can give you a certain number of reasons, but the
real one, the one that gives all the others their force,
is that I feel it in my heart.
THE UNKNOWN 107
VICAR.
What is the cause of your feeling ?
JOHN.
I'm sure you'll think it very insufficient. I had
a friend and he was killed.
VICAR.
I'm afraid one must be prepared to lose one's
friends in a war like this.
JOHN.
I daresay it's very silly and sentimental of me.
One gets used to one's pals dying. Someone says
to you : " So-and-So's knocked out." And you
answer : " Is he really ? Poor chap." And you
don't think very much more about it. Robbie
Harrison wasn't quite an ordinary man.
MRS. WHARTON.
I was afraid you'd feel his death very much. You
never mentioned it in your letters. I felt it was
because you couldn't bear to speak of it.
JOHN.
He was one of those lucky beggars who do every-
thing a little better than anybody else. He was
clever and awfully nice-looking and amusing. I
never knew anyone who loved life so much as he
did.
108 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. WHARTON.
Yes, I remember his saying to me once : " Isn't
it ripping to be alive ? "
JOHN.
But there was something more in him than that.
He had one quality which was rather out of the
ordinary. It's difficult to explain what it was like.
It seemed to shine about him like a mellow light. It
was like the jolly feeling of the country in May.
And do you know what it was ? Goodness, Just
goodness. He was the sort of man Hiat I should
like to be.
MRS. WHARTON.
He was a dear.
JOHN.
I was awfully excited when war was declared, I
was in India at the time. I moved heaven and
earth to get out to the Front. I thought war the
noblest sport in the world. I found it a dreary,
muddy, dirty, stinking, bloody business. And I
suppose Robbie's death was the last straw. It
seemed so unjust. I don't know that it was grief
so much that I felt as indignation. I was revolted
by all the horror and pain and suffering.
MRS. POOLE.
You must have seen some dreadful things.
THE UNKNOWN 109
JOHN.
Perhaps it's Christianity that has shown us the
possibility of a higher morality than Christianity
teaches. I daresay I'm quite wrong. I can only tell
you that all that's moral in my soul revolts at the
thought of a God who can permit the monstrous
iniquity of war. I can't believe that there is a God
in heaven.
VICAR.
But do you realise that if there isn't, the world is
meaningless ?
JOHN.
That may be. But if there is it's infamous.
VICAR.
What have you got to put in the place of religion ?
What answer can you give to the riddle of the
universe ?
JOHN.
I may think your answer wrong and yet have no
better one to put in its place.
VICAR.
Have you nothing to tell us at all when we ask you
why man is here and what is his destiny ? You are
like a rudderless ship in a stormy sea.
110 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
I suppose the human race has arisen under the
influence of conditions which are part of the earth's
history, and under the influence of other conditions
it will come to an end. I don't see that there is any
more meaning in life than in the statement that two
and two are four.
SYLVIA.
[With suppressed passion.] Then you think that all
our efforts and struggles, our pain and sorrow, our
aims, are senseless ?
JOHN.
Do you remember our going to the Russian ballet
before the war ? I've never forgotten a certain
gesture of one of the dancers. It was an attitude
/ she held for an instant, in the air ; it was the most
• lovely thing I ever saw in my life ; you felt it could
only have been achieved by infinite labour, and the
fact that it was so fleeting, like the shadow of a bird
flying over a river, made it all the more wonderful.
I've often thought of it since, and it has seemed to
me a very good symbol of life.
SYLVIA.
John, you can't be serious.
JOHN.
I'll tell you what I mean. Life seems to me like a
huge jig-saw puzzle that doesn't make any picture,
but if we like we can make little patterns, as it were,
out of the pieces.
THE UNKNOWN 111
SYLVIA.
What is the use of that ?
JOHN.
There's no use, and no need. It's merely something
we can do for our own satisfaction. Pain and sorrow
are some of the pieces that we have to deal with.
By making the most of all our faculties, by using all
our opportunities, out of the manifold events of life,
our deeds, our feelings, our thoughts, we can make a
design which is intricate, dignified, and beautiful.
And death at one stroke completes and destroys it.
[There is a moment's silence.
MRS. POOLE.
I wonder why you're coming to church to-morrow
to be married ?
JOHN.
[With a smile.] I think Sylvia would be outraged
at the thought of being married in a registry office.
MRS. POOLE.
It's lucky for you the Vicar is broad-minded. A
stricter man might think it his duty to refuse the
blessing of the Church to an unbeliever.
MRS. WHARTON.
[Anxiously.] Vicar, you're not thinking of doing
anything like that ?
112 THE UNKNOWN
VICAR.
I confess the question has crossed my mind.
[Kindly.] I don't think I can bring myself to expose
such good Christians as you and Sylvia to such a
humiliation.
SYLVIA.
You need not harass yourself, Vicar. I've decided
not to marry John.
JOHN.
[Aghast.] Sylvia ! Sylvia, you can't mean that !
SYLVIA.
I was dreadfully troubled the other day when you
told us you'd lost your faith, but I hadn't the courage
to say anything then. It came as such an awful
shock.
JOHN.
But you never made the least sign.
SYLVIA.
I hadn't time to think it out, but I've been thinking
hard ever since, day and night, and I've listened
very carefully to what you've said to-day. I can't
keep up the pretence any more. I've quite made up
my mind. I won't marry you.
THE UNKNOWN 113
JOHN.
But in God's name, why ?
SYLVIA.
You are not the John I loved and promised myself
to. It's a different man that has come back from
abroad. I have nothing in common with that man.
JOHN.
Sylvia, you don't mean to say that you don't care
for me any more because on certain matters I don't
hold the same views as you ?
SYLVIA.
But those matters are the most important in the
world. You talk as though it were a difference of
opinion over the colour of our drawing-room curtains.
You don't even understand me any more.
JOHN.
How can I understand something that seems
absolutely unreasonable to me ?
SYLVIA.
Do you think religion is something I take up with
my Prayer-book when I go to church, and put away
on a shelf when I get home again ? John, God is a
living presence that is always with me. I never at
any moment lose the consciousness of that divine
love which with infinite mercy tends and protects me.
I
114 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
But, dear heart, you know me well enough. You
know I would never hinder you in the exercise of
your religion. I would always treat it with the
utmost respect.
SYLVIA.
How could we possibly be happy when all that to
me is the reason and the beauty of life, to you is
nothing but a lie ?
JOHN
With tolerance on both sides, and, I hope, respect,
there's no reason why two people shouldn't live
peaceably together no matter how different their
views are.
SYLVIA.
How can I be tolerant when I see you deep in
error ? Oh, it's more than error, it's sin. You've
had your choice between light and darkness, and
you've deliberately chosen darkness. You are a
deserter. If words mean anything at all you are
condemned.
JOHN.
But, my dear, a man believes what he can. You
don't seriously think that a merciful God is going to
punish him because he's unable to believe something
that he finds incredible ?
THE UNKNOWN 115
SYLVIA.
No one doubts that Our Lord will have mercy on
those who have never had the chance of receiving His
teaching. You've had the chance, and you've refused
to take it. Do you forget the Parable of the Ten
Talents ? It is a terrible warning.
JOHN.
After all, if I'm wrong I hurt nobody but myself.
SYLVIA.
You forget what marriage is. It makes us one
flesh. I am bidden to cleave to you and to follow
you. How can I, when our souls must ever be
separated by an unsurpassable abyss ?
MRS. WHARTON.
Sylvia, this is a dreadfully grave decision you're
making. Be careful that you're acting rightly.
JOHN.
Sylvia, you can't throw me over like this after
we've been engaged for seven years. It's too heart-
less.
SYLVIA.
I don't trust you. I have no hold over you.
What have you to aim at beside the satisfaction of
your own vulgar appetite ? Sin means nothing to
you.
i 2
116 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
My dear, you don't suppose it's religion that makes
a man decent ? If he's kind and honest and truthful
it's because it's his nature, not because he believes
in God or fears hell.
SYLVIA.
We're neither of us very young any more, there's
no reason why we should make a mystery of natural
things. If we married my greatest hope was that we
should have children.
JOHN.
It was mine too.
SYLVIA.
Have you asked yourself how this would affect
them ? Which are they to be, Christians or Agnostics ?
JOHN.
My dear, I promise you I will not interfere with
your teaching of them.
SYLVIA.
Do you mean to say you will stand by while they
are taught a pack of worthless lies ?
JOHN.
Your faith has been the faith of our people for
hundreds of years. In the case of a difference of
THE UNKNOWN 117
opinion I could not take it on myself to refuse children
instruction in it. When they reach years of dis-
cretion they can judge for themselves.
SYLVIA.
And supposing they ask you about things ? The
story of Our Saviour appeals to children, you know.
It's very natural that they should put you questions.
What will you answer ?
JOHN.
I don't think you could ask me to say what I
thought untrue.
MRS. WHARTON.
He could always refer them to you, Sylvia dear.
SYLVIA.
You naturally wouldn't come to church. What
sort of an example would you set your children in a
matter of which I was impressing on them the
enormous importance ?
JOHN.
[With a smile.] My dear, surely you're letting a
lack of humour cloud a lively intelligence. Vast
numbers of excellent churchmen don't go to church,
and I'm not aware that their children are corrupted
by it.
118 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
[Passionately.] You don't understand. You'll
never understand. It's a joke to you. It's all over
and done with, John. Let me go. I beseech you to
let me go.
COLONEL WHARTON.
[Half rising from his chair.] I feel most awfully ill.
MRS. WHARTON.
[In alarm.] George !
JOHN.
[Simultaneously.] Father !
[MRS. WHARTON, JOHN, and the DOCTOR
hurry towards him.
DR. MACFARLANE.
What's the matter ?
MRS. WHARTON.
George, are you in pain ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
Awful!
DR. MACFARLANE.
You'd better lie down on the sofa.
THE UNKNOWN 119
COLONEL WHARTON.
No, I'd rather go upstairs.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Don't crowd round him.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I feel as if I were going to die.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Do you think you can manage to walk ?
COLONEL WHARTON.
Yes. Help me, Evelyn.
JOHN.
Put your arm round my neck, father.
COLONEL WHARTON.
No, it's all right. I can manage.
DR. MACFARLANE.
We'll get you upstairs and put you to bed.
MRS. WHARTON.
Come, darling, put all your weight on me.
120 THE UNKNOWN
DR. MACPARLANE.
That's right. You needn't come, John. You'll
only be in the way.
[MRS. WHARTON and the DOCTOR help the
COLONEL out of the room.
MRS. POOLE.
We'd better go, Norman. [To JOHN.] I hope it's
nothing very serious.
JOHN.
I'm sure I hope not.
MRS. POOLE.
Please don't bear us a grudge for any of the things
Norman or I have said to you to-day. You know, I
saw the letter your Colonel wrote to Mrs. Wharton
when you were wounded, and I know how splendid
you've been.
JOHN.
Oh, nonsense !
VICAR.
I'm afraid you may have to go through a good deal
of distress in the near future. If you should change
your mind in some of the things that we've talked
about this afternoon no one would be more happy
than myself.
THE UNKNOWN 121
JOHN.
It's very good of you to say so, but I don't think
it likely.
VICAR.
One never knows by what paths the Most High will
call His creatures to Himself. He is more cunning
to save His children than they are to lose themselves.
If you listen to the call, come to the Communion
Table. I will ask no questions. It will be a joyful
day for me if I am privileged to offer you the Blessed
Sacrament of Our Lord and Saviour.
[He stretches out his hand and JOHN takes it.
JOHN.
Good-bye.
[THE VICAR and MRS. POOLE go into the
garden. JOHN turns to SYLVIA.
JOHN.
Is it the question that the Vicar put me when we
were talking about sin that has upset you, Sylvia ?
SYLVIA.
No, 1 don't think it was very nice of him to put it.
I never thought about the matter. I don't see why
I should expect you to be better than other men.
JOHN.
Did you really mean all you said just now ?
122 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
Every word.
[She takes off her engagement ring and hands it
to him. He does not take it.
JOHN.
[With deep emotion.] Sylvia, I couldn't say it
before all those people, it seemed too intimate and
private a matter. Doesn't it mean anything to you
that I love you ? It's been so much to me in all
I've gone through to think of you. You've been
everything in the world to me. When I was cold and
wet and hungry and miserable, I've thought of you,
and it all grew bearable.
SYLVIA.
I'm very sorry. I can't marry you.
JOHN.
How can you be so cold and heartless ? Sylvia,
my dear, I love you ! Won't you give it a chance ?
[She looks at him steadily for a moment. She
braces herself for the final effort.
SYLVIA.
But I don't love you any more, John.
[She hands him the ring again and he takes it
THE UNKNOWN 123
JOHN.
It's not a very swagger one, is it ? I was none too
flush in those days and I didn't want to ask father
to help me. I wanted to buy it out of my own money.
SYLVIA.
I've worn it for seven years, John.
[He turns away from SYLVIA and walks over
to the fire-place. When SYLVIA sees what
he is going to do she makes a gesture as
though to prevent him, but immediately
controls herself. He stands looking at the
fire for a moment, then throws the ring in ;
he watches what will happen to it. SYLVIA
clutches her heart. She can hardly prevent
the sobs which seem to tear her breast.
SYLVIA.
I think I'll be getting home. John — if your
father or mother want me you can send, can't you ?
JOHN.
[Looking over his shoulder.] Of course. I'll let
you know at once.
SYLVIA.
[In a natural voice.] Good-bye, John.
124 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
Good-bye, Sylvia.
[He turns back to look at the fire, and she walks
slowly out of the rooom.
THE END OF THE SECOND ACT.
ACT III
The Scene is the same as in the preceding Acts. It is
early morning on the following Wednesday,
The dead ashes of yesterday's fire are still in the
grate. Not far away is heard the ringing of a
church bell to call the faithful to the first service.
MRS. WHARTON is standing by a table on which is a
large basket of white flowers which she had just
brought in from the garden. She picks up a rose,
and with a faint smile gives it a little caress.
SYLVIA comes in from the garden.
SYLVIA.
[With surprise.] Mrs. Wharton !
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, Sylvia, is it you ?
SYLVIA.
It startled me to see you there. I came in this
way because I saw the door was open and your front
door bell's so noisy. I thought if the Colonel was
asleep it might wake him.
126 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. WHARTON.
It's early, isn't it ?
SYLVIA.
Yes, I'm on my way to the early service. I
thought I'd look in just to ask how the Colonel was.
But I didn't expect to see you. I thought Kate or
Hannah might be about.
MRS. WHARTON.
George is dead, Sylvia.
SYLVIA.
[In amazement.] Mrs. Wharton !
MRS. WHARTON.
He died quite peacefully about an hour ago. I've
just been to gather some flowers to put in his room.
SYLVIA.
Oh, Mrs. Wharton, I'm so sorry. I'm so dreadfully
sorry for you.
MRS. WHARTON.
[Patting her hand.] Thank you, my dear ; you've
been very kind to us during these days.
SYLVIA.
Where is John ?
THE UNKNOWN 127
MRS. WHARTON.
I think he must have gone out for a walk. I
went to his room a little while ago and he wasn't
there. He wanted to sit up with me last night, but I
wouldn't let him.
SYLVIA.
But . . . but doesn't John know his father is
dead?
MRS. WHARTON.
No, not yet.
SYLVIA.
Didn't you call him ?
MRS. WHARTON.
I had no idea the end was so near. George wanted
to be alone with me, Sylvia. We'd been married for
thirty-five years, you see. He was conscious almost
to the last. He died quite suddenly, like a child
going to sleep.
SYLVIA.
It's such a terrible loss. You poor dear, you must
be quite heart-broken.
MRS. WHARTON.
It's a very great loss, but I'm not heart-broken.
George is happy and at rest. We should be very
poor Christians if the death of those we love made us
unhappy. George has entered into eternal life.
128 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
Oh, Mrs. Wharton, what a blessed thing it is to
have a faith like yours.
MBS. WHARTON.
My dear, a very wonderful thing happened last
night. I can't feel grief for dear George's death
because of the recollection of that. I feel so strange.
I feel as though I were walking in an enchanted
garden.
SYLVIA.
I don't know what you mean.
MRS. WHARTON.
Since that day when George refused to talk with
the Vicar I never dared mention the subject. He was
not himself. It made me so unhappy. And then last
night, soon after Dr. Macfarlane went away, he
asked of his own accord for Mr. Poole. The Vicar's
a dear, kind man. He'd said to me that if ever
George asked for him he'd come at once, at any
hour of the day or night. So I sent for him.
He gave George the Holy Sacrament. And Sylvia, a
miracle happened.
SYLVIA.
A miracle ?
MRS. WHARTON.
No sooner had the bread and the wine touched his
lips than he was transfigured. All his — his anxiety
THE UNKNOWN 129
left him, and he was once more his dear, good, brave
self. He was quite happy to die. It was as though
an unseen hand had pulled back a dark curtain of
clouds and he saw before him, not night and a black
coldness, but a path of golden sunshine that led
straight to the arms of God.
SYLVIA.
I'm so glad. I'm happy too now.
MRS. WHARTON.
The Vicar read the prayers for the dying arid then
he left us. We talked of the past and of our reunion
in a little while. And then he died.
SYLVIA.
It's wonderful. Yes, it was a miracle.
MRS. WHARTON.
All through my life I've been conscious of the hand
of God shaping the destinies of man. I've never
seen His loving mercy more plainly manifest.
[KATE opens the door and stands on the threshold,
but does not come into the room.
KATE.
The woman's come, ma'am.
130 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. WHARTON.
Very well. I'm just coming.
[KATE goes out and shuts the door behind her.
MRS. WHARTON takes up her basket of
flowers.
MRS. WHARTON.
John will be in immediately, Sylvia. He promised
to come and relieve me at half-past eight, so that
I might get something to eat. Will you see him ?
SYLVIA.
Yes, Mrs. Wharton, if you wish me to.
MRS. WHARTON.
Will you tell him that his father is dead ? I know
you'll do it very gently.
SYLVIA.
Oh, Mrs. Wharton, wouldn't you prefer to tell him
yourself ?
MRS. WHARTON.
No.
SYLVIA.
Very well.
THE UNKNOWN 131
MRS. WHARTON.
You know he loves you, Sylvia. It would make me
so happy if you two could arrive at some under-
standing. It seems such a pity that the happiness
of both of you should be ruined.
SYLVIA.
I would do anything in the world for John, but I
can't sacrifice what is and must be dearer to me
even than he.
MRS. WHARTON.
Can't you teach him to believe ?
SYLVIA.
Oh, I wish I could. I pray for him night and day.
MRS. WHARTON.
I wished afterwards that I'd asked him to be
present when his father and I received the Com-
munion. I think at that last solemn moment he
might have been moved to receive it with us.
SYLVIA.
D'you think . . . Perhaps a miracle would have
taken place in him, too. Perhaps he would have
believed.
K 2
132 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. WHARTON.
I must go upstairs.
[An idea seizes SYLVIA, and she gives a strange
little gasp. As MRS. WHARTON is about
to leave the room she stops her with a sudden
question.
SYLVIA.
Mrs. Wharton . . . Mrs. Wharton, do you think
the end can ever justify the means ?
MRS. WHARTON.
My dear, what an extraordinary question ! It can
never be right to do evil that good may come.
SYLVIA.
Are you quite sure that that's so always ? After
all, no one would hesitate to tell a lie to save another's
life.
MRS. WHARTON.
Perhaps not. [With a faint smile.] We must thank
God that we're not likely to be put in such a position.
Why did you ask me that ?
SYLVIA.
I was wondering what one should do if one could
only rescue somebody from terrible danger by com-
mitting a great sin. Do you think one ought to do
it or not ?
THE UNKNOWN 133
MRS. WHARTON.
My dear, you haven't the right to offend God for
the sake of anyone in the world.
SYLVIA.
Not even for the sake of anyone you loved ?
MRS. WHARTON.
Surely not, my dear. And no one who loved you
would wish you for a moment to do a wicked thing
for his sake.
SYLVIA.
But take your own case, Mrs. Wharton ; if you
saw the Colonel or John in deadly peril wouldn't
you risk your life to save them ?
MRS. WHARTON.
[With a smile.] Of course I should. I should be
happy and thankful to have the opportunity. But
that's not the same. I should only be risking my
life, not my soul.
SYLVIA.
[Almost beside herself.] But if their souls were
in peril, wouldn't you risk your soul ?
MRS. WHARTON.
My dear, what do you mean ? You seem so
excited.
134 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
[Controlling herself with a great effort.] I ? You
mustn't pay any attention to me. I haven't been
sleeping very well the last three or four nights.
I daresay I'm a little hysterical.
MRS. WHARTON.
Wouldn't you prefer to go home, darling ?
SYLVIA.
No, I'd like to stay here if you don't mind. I'd
like to see John.
MRS. WHARTON.
Very well. I shan't be very long.
[She goes out. The church bell gives a hurried
tinkle and then stops. SYLVIA walks up
and down the room and stands still in front
of a photograph of JOHN in his uniform.
She taJces it up and looks at it. Then
putting it down she clasps her hands and
raises her eyes. She is seen to be praying.
She hears a sound in the garden, inclines
her head to listen, and goes to the window.
She hesitates a moment and then braces
herself to a decision. She calls.
SYLVIA.
John !
[He comes, stops for a moment on the threshold,
and then walks forward casually.
THE UNKNOWN 135
JOHN.
Good morning ! You're very early.
SYLVIA.
I looked in to ask how your father was.
JOHN.
When I left him last night he was fairly com-
fortable. I'll go and find out from mother how he is.
SYLVIA.
No, don't — don't disturb him.
JOHN.
I'm going to take mother's place in a few minutes.
I awoke early, so I went for a walk. . . . You've been
very good and kind to all of us during these wretched
days, Sylvia. I don't know what we should have
done without you.
SYLVIA.
I've been so dreadfully sorry. And you all had so
much to bear. It wasn't only the thought that the
poor dear couldn't — can't recover, but ... it was
so much worse than that.
JOHN.
[With a quick glance at her.] I suppose it was
inevitable that you should see it too. Somehow I
hoped that only I and mother knew.
136 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
Oh, John, you can't mind about me. I've loved
your father as though he were my own. Nothing he
did could make me love him less.
JOHN.
He's afraid to die. It's dreadful to see his terror
and to be able to do nothing to help him.
SYLVIA.
Would you do anything to help him if you could ?
JOHN
Of course.
SYLVIA
It's unfortunate that you found it necessary to say
what you did about religion. He's always been a
very simple man. He always accepted without
question the faith in which he was brought up.
Perhaps he's not quite so sure now.
JOHN.
Nonsense, Sylvia. Father's faith is very much too
steady for it to be unsettled by any opinions of
mine.
SYLVIA.
Ordinarily, I dare say. But he's ill, he's in terrible
pain, he's not himself. I think perhaps it's a pity
you didn't hold your tongue. It's so easy to create
doubts and so hard to allay them.
THE UNKNOWN 137
JOHN.
disturbed.] That's an awful thought to have
put into my head, Sylvia. I should never forgive
myself if ...
SYLVIA.
If you'd believed as we believe, he would have been
supported, as it were, by all our faith. It would
have made that terrible passage from this life to
the life to come a little less terrible. You've failed
him just when he needed you.
JOHN.
[Indignantly.] Oh, Sylvia, how can you say any-
thing so heartless ?
SYLVIA.
[Coldly.] It's true.
JOHN.
Heaven knows, I know that death isn't easy.
You can't think I'd be so inhuman as to do anything
to make it more difficult ?
SYLVIA.
Except mortify your pride.
JOHN.
[Impatiently.] What has pride got to do with it ?
138 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
There was pride in every word you said. Are you
sure it's not pride of intellect that's responsible
for your change of heart ?
JOHN.
[Icily.] Perhaps. How do you suggest I should
mortify it ?
SYLVIA.
Well, you see, you can confess your error.
JOHN.
I don't think it's an error.
SYLVIA.
At least you can undo some of the harm you've
done. Do you know what is chiefly tormenting your
father ? Your refusal to receive the Holy Com-
munion. He keeps talking about it to your mother.
He keeps harping on it. He's dreadfully distressed
about it. If you received the Communion, John,
it would give your father peace.
JOHN.
Sylvia, how can I ?
THE UNKNOWN 139
SYLVIA.
All your life your father has done everything in
the world for you. Nothing's been too good for
you. You owe him all your happiness, everything
you are and hope to be. Can't you do this one
little thing for him ?
JOHN.
No, it's out of the question. I really can't. I'm
awfully sorry.
SYLVIA.
How can you be so hard ? It's the last wish he'll
ever have in the world. It's your last chance of
showing your love for him. Oh, John, show a little
mercy to his weakness !
JOHN.
But, Sylvia, it would be blasphemous.
SYLVIA.
What are you talking about ? You don't believe.
To you it's merely an idle ceremony. What can it
matter to you if you go through a meaningless form ?
JOHN.
I've been a Christian too long. I have a hundred
generations of Christianity behind me.
140 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
You never hesitated at coming to church when we
were going to be married.
JOHN.
That was different.
SYLVIA.
How ? That was a sacrament, too. Are you
afraid of a little bread and wine that a priest has said
a few words over ?
JOHN.
Sylvia, don't torment me. I tell you I can't.
SYLVIA.
[Scornfully.] I never imagined you would be
superstitious. You're frightened. You feel just
like people about sitting thirteen at table. Of
course it's all nonsense, but there may be something
in it.
JOHN.
I don't know what I feel. I only know that I,
an unbeliever, can't take part in a ceremony that was
sacred to me when I believed.
SYLVIA.
[Bitterly.] It's very natural, It only means that
you love yourself better than anyone else. Why
should one expect you to have pity for your father,
or gratitude ?
THE UNKNOWN 141
JOHN.
Oh, Sylvia, where did you learn to say such cruel
things ? I can't, I tell you, I can't. If father
were in his normal mind, neither he nor mother
would wish me to do such a thing.
SYLVIA.
But your mother does wish it. Oh, John, don't be
stubborn. For God's sake give yourself the oppor-
tunity. Your father's dying, John ; you have no
time to lose. . . . John, the Communion Service
has only just begun. If you get on your bicycle
you'll be there in time. The other day the Vicar
said if you presented yourself at the Communion
table he'would not hesitate to administer it.
[JOHN looks steadily in front of him for a
moment, then makes up his mind ; he
stands up suddenly and without a word goes
out of the room.
SYLVIA.
[Li a whisper. 1 0 God, forgive me, forgive me,
forgive me !
[The Curtain is lowered for one minute to
denote the lapse of half an hour. When
it rises SYLVIA is standing at the window,
looking out into the garden.
[MRS LITTLEWOOD enters.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
May I come in ?
142 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
Oh, Mrs. Little wood, do !
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
I met Dr. Macfarlane just outside my house, and
he told me the Colonel was dead. I came with him to
see if I could be of any use.
SYLVIA.
It's very kind of you. Is Dr. Macfarlane here ?
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
Yes. He went upstairs. Where is John ?
SYLVIA.
He'll be here directly.
[MRS. WHARTON comes in, followed by DR.
MACFARLANE. MRS. LITTLE WOOD goes
up to her and the two old ladies kiss one
another. For a moment they stand clasped
in one another's arms.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
My dear old friend !
MRS. WHARTON.
It was dear of you to come, Charlotte. I knew
you'd feel for me.
THE UNKNOWN 143
DR. MACFAELANE.
Now sit down, my dear Mrs. Wharton, sit down and
rest yourself.
[He puts her into a chair and places a cushion
behind her
MRS. WHARTON.
Hasn't John come in yet ?
SYLVIA.
I'm sure he won't be long now. He should be here
almost at once.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Sylvia, my dear child, won't you go and get Mrs.
Wharton a cup of tea ? I think it would do her good.
SYLVIA.
Certainly.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh. my dear, don't trouble.
SYLVIA.
But it's no trouble. You know I love doing
things for you.
[She goes out.
144 THE UNKNOWN
MBS. WHARTON.
Everybody's so very kind in this world. It makes
one feel humble. . . . George and I have been married
for five and thirty years. He never said a cross word
to me. He was always gentle and considerate. I
daresay I was very troublesome now and then, but
he was never impatient with me.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
Is it true that John and Sylvia are not going to be
married after all ?
MRS. WHARTON.
I'm afraid so.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
Isn't it strange how people in this world seem to
go out of their way to make themselves unhappy !
MRS. WHARTON.
I've talked it over with Sylvia. Religion means
so much to her. She wouldn't have minded if John
had come back blind and crippled, she'd have devoted
her life to him without a murmur.
DR. MACFARLANE.
People always think they could put up with the
faults we haven't got. Somehow or other it's
always those we have that stick in their throats.
THE UNKNOWN 145
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, Doctor, don't say sarcastic things. You
don't know how deeply Sylvia is suffering. But it's a
matter of conscience. And I do see that one can't
ask anyone to compromise with his soul.
DR. MACFARLANE.
I have an idea our souls are like our manners, all
the better when we don't think too much about them.
MRS. WHARTON.
Sylvia's giving up a great deal. I don't know
what's to become of her if she doesn't marry John.
When her mother dies she'll only have thirty pounds
a year.
[SYLVIA comes back with a cup of tea on a small
tray and puts it on a table by MRS.
WHARTON' s side.
SYLVIA.
Here is the tea, Mrs. Wharton.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, thank you, my dear, so much. You do spoil
me. ... I can't imagine why John is so long.
He's generally so very punctual.
SYLVIA.
[In a low voice.] John came in, Mrs. Wharton.
L
146 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, then, you saw him ?
SYLVIA.
Yes.
MRS. WHARTON.
Did you speak to him ?
SYLVIA.
Yes.
MRS. WHARTON.
Why did he go out again ? Where has he gone ?
SYLVIA.
He'll be back immediately.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Drink your tea, dear lady, drink your tea.
[SYLVIA takes her place again at the window
and looks into the garden. She takes no
notice of the people in the room.
MRS. WHARTON.
I'm glad to have you two old friends with me now.
The only thing that really seems to belong to me
any more is the past, and you were both so much
part of it.
THE UNKNOWN 147
DR. MACPARLANE.
You came here immediately after your honeymoon.
Is that really thirty-five years ago ?
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
My mother and I were the first people who called
on you. I remember how stylish we thought you in
your green velvet, Evelyn.
MRS. WHARTON.
I remember it well. I had it dyed black its third
year. I think the fashions were very much more
ladylike in those days. A bustle did set off a woman's
figure, there's no denying that.
DR. MACPARLANE.
What waists you had and how tight you used to
lace !
MRS. WHARTON.
I often wonder if the young people ever enjoy them-
selves as much as we used to. Do you remember the
picnics we used to have ?
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
And now it's all as if it had never been, all our
love and pain and joy and sorrow. We're just two
funny old women, and it really wouldn't have mattered
a row of pins if we'd never been born.
L 2
148 THE UNKNOWN
DR. MAOPABLANE.
I wonder, I wonder.
You've had the privilege of giving two sons to a
noble cause. Wasn't it worth while to be born for
MBS. WHABTON.
.'ve had th<
cause. Wa
that ?
MBS. LlTTLEWOOD.
Sometimes I've asked myself if this world in which
we're living now isn't hell. Perhaps all the un-
happiness my husband caused me and the death of
those two boys of mine is a punishment for sins
that I committed in some other life in some other
part of the universe.
MBS. WHABTON.
Charlotte, sometimes you say things that frighten
me. I'm haunted by the fear that you may destroy
yourself.
MBS. LlTTLEWOOD.
I ? No, why should I ? I don't feel that life is
important enough for me to give it a deliberate end.
I don't trouble to kill the fly that walks over my
ceiling.
DB. MACFABLANE.
I've been curing or killing people for hard on
fifty years, and it seems to me that I've seen in-
numerable generations enter upon the shifting scene,
act their little part, and pass away. Alas, who
THE UNKNOWN 149
can deny that in this world virtue is very often
unrewarded and vice unpunished ? Happiness too
rarely comes to the good, and the prizes of this life
go too frequently to the undeserving. The rain falls
on the just and on the unjust alike, but the unjust
generally have a stout umbrella. It looks as though
there were little justice in the world, and chance
seems to rule man and all his circumstances.
MRS. WHARTON.
But we know that all that is mere idle seeming.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Seeming perhaps, but why idle ? Seeming is all
we know. The other day when you were talking I
held my tongue, because I thought you'd say I was a
silly old fool if I put my word in, but I've puzzled
over suffering and pain too. You see, in my trade
we see so much of them. It made me unhappy,
and for long I doubted the goodness of God, as you
doubt it, dear friend.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
[With a smile.] I think you're preaching at me,
Doctor.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Then it's the first time in my life.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
Go on.
150 THE UNKNOWN
DR. MACFARLANE.
I want to tell you how / found peace. My ex-
planation is as old as the hills, and I believe many
perfectly virtuous persons have been frizzled alive
for accepting it. Our good Vicar would say I was
a heretic. I can't help it. I can't see any other way
of reconciling the goodness of God with the existence
of evil.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
Well, what is it ?
DR. MACFARLANE.
I don't believe that God is all-powerful and all-
knowing. But I think He struggles against evil as
we do. I don't believe He means to chasten us by
suffering or to purify us by pain. I believe pain
and suffering are evil, and that He hates them, and
would crush them if He could. And I believe that
in this age-long struggle between God and evil we
can help, all of us, even the meanest ; for in some
way, I don't know how, I believe that all our good-
ness adds to the strength of God, and perhaps — who
can tell ? — will give Him such power that at last
He will be able utterly to destroy evil — utterly, with
its pain and suffering. [With a smile.] When we're
good, we're buying silver bullets for the King of
Heaven, and when we're bad, well, we're trading with
the enemy.
SYLVIA.
{Without looking round.} John has just ridden
back on his bicycle.
THE UNKNOWN 151
DR. MACFARLANE.
Come, Mrs. Little wood, they don't want us here
just now.
MRS. LITTLE WOOD.
[Getting up.] No, I'm sure you will prefer to be
alone with John.
MRS. WHARTON.
It was very good of you to come. Good-bye, my
dear, and God bless you.
MRS. LlTTLEWOOD.
Good-bye.
[They kiss one another and MRS. LITTLE WOOD
goes out.]
DR. MACFARLANE.
[Shaking hands with MRS. WHARTON.] I may look
in later in the day to see how you are.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, my dear doctor, I'm not in the least ill, you
know.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Still, don't try to do too much. You're not quite
a young woman, you know. Good-bye, Sylvia.
[SYLVIA does not answer. DR. MACFARLANE
goes out. SYLVIA advances into the room
and then turns and looks again at the door
through which JOHN must come. She does
all she can to control her great nervousness.
152 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. WHARTON.
Sylvia, is anything the matter ?
SYLVIA.
No. Why?
MRS. WHARTON.
You seem so strange.
SYLVIA.
{Paying no attention to the remark.] John is just
coming.
MRS. WHARTON.
You know, my dear, it seems to me that in this life
most difficulties can be arranged if both parties are
willing to give way a little.
SYLVIA.
Sometimes it's impossible to give way, and then
the only hope is — a miracle.
[She says the last word with a little smile to
conceal the fact that she attaches the greatest
importance to it. JOHN comes in. He is
pale and looks extremely tired. He stops
for a moment in surprise on seeing his
mother. He goes over and kisses her.
JOHN.
Oh, mother, I thought you were upstairs. I'm
afraid I'm very late.
THE UNKNOWN 153
MRS. WHARTON.
It doesn't matter, my dear. How dreadfully
white you look.
JOHN.
I went for a walk this morning. I've had nothing
to eat. I'm rather tired.
MRS. WHARTON.
My dear, you frighten me, your face is all drawn
and pinched.
JOHN.
Oh, mother, don't worry about me. I shall be all
right after breakfast. After all, it's quite enough to
have one invalid on your hands.
[MRS. WHARTON looks at him in surprise.
SYLVIA gives a nervous start, but imme-
diately controls herself.
SYLVIA.
Have you been — where you said you were going ?
JOHN.
Yes.
[SYLVIA opens her mouth to speak, but stops ;
she gives JOHN a long, searching look ;
she realises that what she had hoped for
has not taken place, and with a little gasp
of misery turns away her head and sinks,
dejected and exhausted, into a chair.
JOHN has held her look with his and now
turns to his mother.
154 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
Is father asleep ?
MRS. WHARTON.
[With a little shiver.} John !
JOHN.
What's the matter ?
MRS. WHARTON.
I thought you knew. My dearest, your father's
dead.
JOHN.
Mother !
MRS. WHARTON.
I asked Sylvia to break it to you. I thought . . .
SYLVIA.
[In a dull voice.] I didn't tell him when you asked
me to, Mrs. Wharton.
JOHN.
I don't understand. It seems impossible. He was
well enough last night. When did he die ?
MRS. WHARTON.
At about seven this morning.
THE UNKNOWN 155
JOHN.
But, mother dear, why didn't you call me ?
MRS. WHARTON.
I didn't expect it. We'd been talking and he said
he was tired and he thought he could sleep a little.
He dozed off quietly, and in a little while I saw he
was dead.
JOHN.
Oh, my poor mother, how will you bear your grief ?
MRS. WHARTON.
You know, it's so strange, I'm not in the least
unhappy. I don't feel that he's left me. I feel him
just as near to me as before. I don't know how to
explain it to you. I think he's never been so much
alive as now. Oh, John, I know that the soul is
immortal.
JOHN.
Darling, I'm so glad you're not unhappy. Your
dear eyes are positively radiant.
MRS. WHARTON.
If you only knew what I seem to see with them !
JOHN.
Won't you take me up and let me see him ?
156 THE UNKNOWN
MRS. WHARTON.
I think the women are not done yet, John. I'll
go up and see. I'll call you as soon as everything is
ready.
JOHN.
I'm sorry I've caused you so much pain since I
came back, mother. I wish I could have avoided it.
MRS. WHARTON.
[She puts her arms round his neck, and he Msses her.]
My dear son !
[She goes out. JOHN goes towards the window
and looks out into the garden. For a
moment SYLVIA does not dare to speak to
him. At last sh# makes an effort.
SYLVIA.
[Desperately.] John, whatever you have to say to
me, say it.
JOHN.
[With frigid politeness.] I don't think I have
anything in particular to say to you.
SYLVIA.
I suppose you think I'm just a wicked liar.
JOHN.
I ask you no questions. I make you no reproaches.
What is the matter ?
THE. UNKNOWN 157
SYLVIA.
Oh, John, after all we've been to one another it's
brutal to talk to me like that. If you think I did
wrong, say so.
JOHN.
Why?
SYLVIA.
You're cruel and hard. [She goes up to him.]
John, you must listen to me.
JOHN.
Well?
SYLVIA.
Your mother asked me to tell you of your father's
death. I concealed it from you. I told you a whole
tissue of lies. I traded deliberately on your tender-
ness for your father. I was horrified at myself. It
was my only chance of getting you to take the
Communion.
JOHN.
If you'd had any affection for me, you couldn't
have done such an abominable thing. If you'd had
any respect for me you couldn't have done it.
SYLVIA.
Let me speak, John.
158 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
Be quiet ! You've insisted on talking about it, and
now, by God, you're going to listen to me. Do you
know what I felt ? Shame. When I took the bread
and the wine, I thought they'd choke me. Because
once I believed so devoutly it seemed to me that I
was doing an awful thing. Deliberately, with full
knowledge of what I was doing, I told a dirty lie.
And I feel dirty to the depths of my soul.
SYLVIA.
I thought perhaps it wouldn't be a lie. I had to do
it, John. It was my only chance.
JOHN.
Why did you do it ?
SYLVIA.
Don't look at me so sternly. I can't bear it. You
frighten me. I can't collect my thoughts.
JOHN.
Why did you do it ? Shall I tell you ? Because
at the back of all your Christian humility there's the
desire to dominate. It isn't so much that I didn't
believe as that I didn't believe what you wanted me
to believe. You wanted to grind my face in the dust.
THE UNKNOWN 159
SYLVIA.
[Passionately.] John, if you only knew ! I only
thought of you. I only thought of you all the time,
JOHN.
Don't be such a hypocrite.
SYLVIA.
[Brokenly.] I expected a miracle.
JOHN.
At this time of day ?
SYLVIA.
For God's sake have mercy on me ! It was your
mother who put the idea in my head. Your father
received the Communion last night.
JOHN.
You have no charity for human weakness. You
were all so terrified that he shouldn't make an
edifying end. As if it mattered if the poor dear's
nerve failed him at the last.
SYLVIA.
[Eagerly.] But it didn't. That's just it. You
noticed your mother's face yourself. Notwithstanding
all her grief she's happy. Do you know why ?
160 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
Why?
SYLVIA.
[As though suddenly inspired.] Because when he'd
received the Blessed Sacrament the fear of death left
him. He was once more a brave and gallant gentle-
man. He had no dread any longer of the perilous
journey before him. He was happy to die.
JOHN.
[More gently.] Is that true ? Dear father, I'm very
glad.
SYLVIA.
It was a miracle. It was a miracle.
JOHN.
I still don't follow.
SYLVIA.
I thought that when you knelt at the chancel steps,
and received the Communion as you used to receive it
when you were a boy, all the feelings of your boyhood
would rush back on you. I had to make you take it.
JOHN.
In my frame of mind ? Surely I had no right to.
THE UNKNOWN 161
SYLVIA.
I know. That's what makes iny sin the greater.
Perhaps I was mad. To God all things are possible.
I felt certain you'd believe.
JOHN.
[Very gravely.] Perhaps you have worked a miracle,
but not the one you expected.
SYLVIA.
What do you mean ?
JOHN.
When you said you wouldn't marry me I was —
I was knocked endways — I felt like a man who's been
shipwrecked. All my plans for the future had been
bound up with you. I couldn't imagine it without
you. I felt utterly forlorn.
SYLVIA.
But don't you know what it cost me ?
JOHN.
At first I couldn't think you meant it. When you
said you didn't love me, I couldn't believe it. It
seemed too preposterous. I was awfully miserable,
Sylvia.
SYLVIA.
John, I didn't want you to be unhappy.
M
162 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
And then, when I received the Communion some-
thing quite strange took place in me. I can't tell you
what I felt. I felt as though mother had heard me
saying something obscene. I forced myself to go
through with it, because I really did think it might
give poor father some peace of mind. But it was you
who made me do it. The thought of you filled me
with horror.
SYLVIA.
[With dismay.] John !
JOHN.
You've cured me, Sylvia. I ought to be grateful
to you for that. My love for you has fallen from me
as a cloak might fall from one's shoulders. I see the
truth now. You were quite right. In these long yei-js
we've become different people and we have nothing
to say to one another any more.
SYLVIA.
[Passionately.] But I love you, John ! How can
you be so blind ? Don't you see that I only did it
because I loved you ? Oh, John, you can't leave me
now ! I've waited for you all these years. I've
longed for you to come back. Forgive me if I did
wrong. I can't lose you now. I love you, John,
you won't leave me ?
JOHN.
[After a moment's pause.] Of course I won't leave
you. I thought you didn't want to marry me.
THE UNKNOWN 163
SYLVIA.
[Hardly knowing what she is saying.] I'm not young
any more. I've lost my freshness. I've got nobody
but you now. Oh, John, don't forsake me ! I couldn't
bear it.
JOHN.
[As though he were talking to a child.] My dear,
don't distress yourself. I'm not thinking of for-
saking you. We'll be married as soon as ever we can.
SYLVIA.
Yes, we'll be married, won't we ? I love you so
much, John, I'll make you love me. I couldn't lose
you now. I've waited too long.
JOHN.
Come, darling, you mustn't be unhappy. It's all
settled now. Dry your eyes. You don't want to
look a fright, do you ?
SYLVIA.
[Clinging to him.] I'm so miserable.
JOHN.
Nonsense, give me a nice kiss, and we'll forget all
about our troubles. I'll try to make you a good
husband, Sylvia. I'll do all I can to make you happy.
Give me a kiss.
[When he seeks to raise her face in order to kiss
her, she tears herself violently from him.
164 THE UNKNOWN
SYLVIA.
No, don't! Don't touch me ! God give me strength !
I'm so pitifully weak.
JOHN.
Sylvia !
SYLVIA.
Don't come near me ! For God's sake ! [She puts
her hands "before her face, trying to control and to collect
herself, and there is a moment's pause.] It never
occurred to me that you didn't care for me any
more, and when you told me, for a moment I lost
my head. Forgive me for that, dear, and forget it.
I'm not going to marry you.
JOHN.
Now, Sylvia, don't be idiotic. It would be so
unseemly if I had to drag you to the altar by the hair
of your head.
SYLVIA.
You're very kind, John. I suppose it wouldn't be
very good form to back out of it now. I'm poor, and
I've wasted my best years waiting for you. You
needn't worry about what is going to happen to me.
I can earn my living as well as other women.
JOHN.
Oh, Sylvia, you're torturing yourself and me.
Can't you forget what I said in a moment of exaspera-
tion ? You must know how deep my affection is for
you.
THE UNKNOWN 165
SYLVIA.
I don't want to forget. It is the will of God. I
lied. I did an abominable and evil thing. I don't
think you can imagine how terrible my sin has been.
I risked my soul to save you, John, and God has
inflicted on me a punishment infinitely less than I
deserved. He has taken out of your heart the love
you bore me.
JOHN.
But you love me, Sylvia.
SYLVIA.
Better than anyone in the world. I've loved you
ever since I was a child of ten. That's only the weak-
ness of my flesh. My soul exults in the great mercy
that God has shown me.
JOHN.
Oh, my dear, you're going to be so unhappy.
SYLVIA.
No, don't be sorry for me. You've given me a
great opportunity.
JOHN.
I?
SYLVIA.
I've been mortified because I was able to do so
little in the war. I knew it was my duty to stay
166 THE UNKNOWN
here and look after mother. But I wanted to go out to
France and do my bit like all my friends.
JOHN.
That was very natural.
SYLVIA.
Now at last I have the chance to do something.
No sacrifice is worthless in the eyes of God. A broken
and a contrite heart, 0 God, thou wilt not despise.
I sacrifice now all that was precious to me in the
world, my love and my hope of happiness in this
life, and I sacrifice it with a cheerful heart, and I
pray that God may accept it. So shall I do my part
to atone for the sins which have brought on this
horrible war.
JOHN.
It would have been better if I'd never come back.
I've caused misery and suffering to all of you.
SYLVIA.
John, you took away the ring you gave me when
we became engaged. You threw it in the fire.
JOHN.
I'm afraid that was very silly of me. I did it in
a moment of bitterness.
SYLVIA.
You went into Canterbury to buy a wedding ring.
What have you done with it ?
THE UNKNOWN 167
JOHN.
I have it here. Why ?
SYLVIA.
Can I have it ?
JOHN.
Of course.
[He takes it out of his waistcoat pocket, and,
wondering, gives it to her.
SYLVIA.
[Slipping the ring on her finger.} I will put the love
of man out of my life. I will turn from what is poor
and transitory to what is everlasting. I will be the
bride of One whose love is never denied to them that
seek it. The love of God is steadfast and enduring.
I can put all my trust in that and I shall never find it
wanting. . . . Good-bye, John, God bless you now
and always.
JOHN.
Good-bye, dear child.
[She goes out quickly. In a minute KATE
comes in. She is carrying a square wooden
box in which are papers, firewood, a hearth-
brush, and a large soiled glove.
KATE.
Please3 sir, Mrs. Wharton says, will you go upstairs
now?
168 THE UNKNOWN
JOHN.
Yes.
[He goes out. KATE goes to the fire-place,
kneels down, puts on the glove, and begins
to rake out the ashes. The COOK enters.
She is a stout homely body of forty-Jive.
COOK.
The butcher's come, Kate. I don't exactly like
to go up to Mrs. Wharton just now. I've got the
cold beef for lunch, but they'll be wanting something
for dinner.
KATE.
Oh, well, they always like best end. You can't go
far wrong if you have that.
COOK.
I've got a fine lot of pease.
KATE.
Well, they'll do nicely.
COOK.
I was thinking I'd make a fruit tart. I think p'raps
I'd better order two and a half pounds of best end.
[She goes out. KATE continues to lay the fre.
THE END.
PRINTED IN CRBAT BRITAIN BY R. CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,
BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E. I, AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
j 8iND/NG LJCTNOVi
1928
Maugham, William, Sonerset
6025 The unknown
A86U5
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