THE CONFLICT A Drama In One Act By CLARICE VALLETTE McCAULEY VAGABOND PLAYS -No. 6 THE CONFLICT A Drama in One Act BT CLARICE VALLETTE McCAULEY The Norman, Remington Company Baltimore 1921 ^;^V-^ Copyright, 1920, 1921 By CLARICE VALLETTE McCAULEY Application for permission to produce this play should be made to Clarice Vallette McCauley, Columbia Univer- sity, New York City m -9 1921 CI.D 57904 n.\ THE CONFLICT First Produced at The Vagabond Theatre Monday Evening, December 6th, 1920 CAST OF CHARACTERS EMELIE Mrs. J. A. Dushane Penniman j Rose Kohler ^^^^ I Harriet Gibbs BOB John Steuart MOTHER : Mrs. S. Johnson Poe Produced by May Standish Rose Setting by the Vagabond Workshop THE CONFLICT CHARACTERS in the order of their appearance Emelie The elder daughter of the house, who has already tested her wings in a first flight Bess Seventeen — just beginning to be aware of the world outside Bobs Thirteen — a vigorous young ani- mal with no wings to speak of as yet The Mother Guardian of the nest, and very jealous of the world — where her brood is con- cerned Scene: The kitchen of an old-fashioned farmhouse Time: Late afternoon of an April day. In the back wall, well to the right, is a door leading into the garden. Left of centre a broad window cur- tained in crisp white muslin. In the right wall- down stage — a door leading to the living-rooms at the front of the house. Just opposite — in the left wall — a door which when opened reveals a narrow flight of stairs which turn and disappear — evidently the back stairway leading to the rear bed-rooms. In the upper left hand corner a built-in kitchen range with copper preserving kettle above it. In the upper right a small sink with pump attachment — a little oak-framed mirror over it — a roller towel 5 THE CONFLICT on the wall beside it. Further down, on the right, a cupboard filled with old-fashioned china — a nest of yellow bowls — a pan of apples. A drop-leaf table down right of centre is covered with a pretty blue and white cloth — a cane-seated rocker on the right of it — on the left a straight chair to match. Between outer door and window is a little table with a work- basket on it — a clock hangs on the wall above it. Near the window a chair — on the sill potted gera- niums in bloom. The window is open and through it you get a glimpse of a white lilac bush in flower. The square of sunshine on the floor is gradually cut off diagonally — as though by a slanting roof^ — till near the end it disappears entirely. Note: The room should suggest by every detail of its cheery, wholesome orderliness a certain sym- pathetic plea for the mother. Otherwise, if the home were unattractive, there would at once be furnished a reason for the children's wish to leave it ; but there is no fundamental reason — other than the primordial urge to try our wings, which gets us all, sometime ; and which no mother can successfully deny without forever crippling her child. In contrast to the crisp, clear-cut details of the kitchen is the vague, hazy sunshininess of the garden outside the door. As the curtain rises Emelie is discovered seated at left of the centre table writing a letter. (On this table stands a small black traveling-bag, and scat- tered around it gloves, purse, a few letters.) Emelie is a tall girl of about twenty-three, not exactly beautiful, but with a certain nobility of pur- pose in her face that lends her distinction, and the lines of her slender figure in its solemn black are full THE CONFLICT of allurement. Her face quivers as she writes, and she stops a moment to wipe her eyes. There is the cheery, impudent call of a robin in the garden, and Bess enters from the living-room. Bess is a girl of seventeen. She is not in mourning like her sister, but her white skirt and middy-blouse are set off by a black tie, and a black ribbon on her hair. She has emptied a vase of withered flowers on to a newspaper, and carries them carefully before her, EMELIE (Looking up and referring to the flowers) Gone — are they? BESS Yes — lilacs droop so soon. I cut these for you to take with you on the train. EMELIE (Absent-mindedly, looking at her letter) I'm sorry, Puss BESS I'm not ; I'm, oh, so glad — ^you stayed ! (She has stopped back of the chair to give her sister a hug) You can't think how much even two days more means to us. You're surely going this time? EMELIE Yes. BESS (Going up towards window) Then I'd better cut you some more. The white ones by the window — they're in bloom now — and 7 THE CONFLICT they last longer, I think. Do you like them just as well? EMELIE {Writing) Just as well, dear. BESS {Raising the lid of the range and emptying news- paper) My! It's good I looked at this fire. It's almost gone. {Reaches into wood-box and puts wood on fire a^ she speaks) And Mother told Bob to tend to it, but of course he's out — as usual — dear knows where. {There's the sound of a rapidly passing train, and the sky above the window is darkened — as is the square of sunlight on the floor, Bess looks at the clock) There goes the express now. I suppose you'll take the 5:05? EMELIE Yes. * BESS Well — You'll want supper before you go. EMELIE No, Bess, don't bother. I'm not hungry — I can get tea on the train. BESS {Coming down) Sister, you haven't changed your mind ? EMELIE No. B THE CONFLICT BESS You're really going to New York ? EMELIE Yes. BESS Does Mother know? (Emelie nods) But she doesn't believe you'll do it? emelie I suppose not. BESS And when Mother sets her mind against anything we want to do — ^you know how it is — even Father always gave in to her — in the end. Don't you feel afraid — she'll persuade you not to go? EMELIE I hate to vex her, dear, but — well — neither of you quite understand. My whole future, my very life depends on this. (Under her breath) More than my life, perhaps. BESS {who has caught the last phrase, looks at her searchingly) Sister (Coming down back of the table) you know that talk — we — had — last night? After we had gone to bed? EMELIE Yes — I kept you awake till all hours. 9 THE CONFLICT BESS It was I kept you. Well — ^you know what you said — about how, sometimes, when you wanted something that wasn't good for you and didn't feel very strong — how it was awfully foolish to hang around in sight of it, and how it was much, much wiser to run away from temptation? EMELIE Yes. BESS {Coming around and kneeling softly beside her) Are you — running away — from temptation? EMELIE Little sister, dear little sister, what are you say- ing? BESS {With the frank persistence of a child) Are you ? EMELIE {Frames the earnest face in her hands, and as she stoops to kiss her, whispers) Sh — ^yes. BESS ^ Oh, I was sure of it ! Then that's why you're not going back to Boston. I knew it — I knew it — It's those letters! {Reaches towards them) EMELIE {Checking her) Darling! You don't know what you're talking 10 THE CONFLICT about. Those letters are from a very, very dear friend BESS (Convictingly) In Boston! EMELIE Well, yes BESS And they always make you cry — such funny tears ! EMELIE They spoke of Father — of our loss, dear. If they made me cry it was because they were so full of tenderness — of sympathy BESS You think so much of him, sister? EMELIE So much, dear. He's the best, the truest friend I ever had. BESS {Puzzled) Then why? EMELIE Don't, darling. I've no right I don't dare Oh, I can't explain BESS {Jealously) Well — ^just the same — I'm glad you're going to New York instead. I wish I were. Is that really an honest-to-goodness contract — ^that long one? {Indicating envelope) 11 THE CONFLICT EMELIE (Laughing and abandoning hope of writing for the time) Not exactly. It's an offer, though — from one of the biggest magazines in New York — suggesting subjects for four of my kiddie pictures. If they like them — and they shall like them — they'll produce them in colors. And then — it's up to the public; If the public likes them — if it laughs — and applauds — and clamors for more — why, then I can ask, oh, just anything I want for my work — in reason, of course — and they'll give it to me. That's the way of the world. BESS Isn't it splendid? And that's when you'll send for me? EMELIE Yes, dear — if Mother will let you BESS {Despairingly) Oh, Mother EMELIE Don't cross bridges, Honey. You know I must first be very sure that I can take care of you — before I talk to Mother. BESS You don't think I'll be too old, by then? EMELIE For music? You goosie, of course not! If you don't strain those sweet little vocal-cords of yours, you'll be just right to begin. Pussy, run along now 12 THE CONFLICT and cut the lilacs, won't you? — while I finish my letter. And send Bobs if you see him about. I want him to mail this for me. BESS (Going) I shouldn't wonder if that's where he's gone — ^to the post-office. Shall I raise the shade ? EMELIE Yes, dear; and leave the door open — the air's so good to-day. BESS {Taking a large scissors from a hook near the door) (Wistfully) I wish I was going to New York. (Goes out, leaving door open) (Through the open door the sun falls in a tessel- lated square — as though through a trellis — across the threshold. Emelie resumes her letter-writing, Bess is seen through the window at the lilac bush. There is no sound for a moment but the twittering of birds and a little dry sob from the girl at the table. Then a boy^s clear whistle is heard, to which Bess replies, and presently a boy's shadow falls across the threshold, and an instant later he is apparently joined by Bess, who has gone to meet him. By this time Emelie has sealed her letter and is address-- ing it) emelie (Calling) Bobbie! 13 THE CONFLICT BOB {From outside) All right, Sis! I'm coming. {Entering) Bess said you wanted me. (Bobbie is a hoy of twelve or thirteen— perfectly clean hut barefooted, and in the hoyish dishahille of a fellow that lives close to the ground. There is no suhtlety about Bobbie— /le's just plain Boy) EMELIE Yes, I — goodness, Bobs! Bare feet, so early in Spring! Won't you catch cold? bob Cold! Forget it! D'ye think I'm a girl? Say, Em! You're sure some letter writer. Gettin' 'em and sendin' 'em every mail— must keep you busy. Don't you want a secr'tary? EMELIE If I did, I wouldn't hire you— you fourth-grader, you! bob {Good-naturedly) Gee, what a wallop! Don't I make a pretty good fist at corresponding, though? Oh, well! Who wants to write, anyway? I got no use for a pen; but gimme a hammer an' saw an' some nails, an' I'll make you own up that I can't be beat turnin' out chick'n-coops. Ain't that right? EMELIE {Laughing) It surely is ; but good gracious, Bobs, haven't you 14 THE CONFLICT any ambition ? Don't you ever think what you want to be when you're a man? BOB Sure I do ! I'm goin' to stay right here and have the best little chick'n-farm in the county. Nothin' but Wy'ndottes an' Barr'd Rocks in mine! Well — mebbe some Leghorns f r the eggs. EMELIE {Smilingly) Oh, well! In that case, it's all right, I suppose. It's a good thing one of us wants to stick to the old place. If it were only Jim, now By the way, Bobs, where is Jim? I haven't seen him all day. BOB Off with the gang, I guess. EMELIE Oh, dear ! That isn't right. He ought to cut that out! — ^that's how he got into all that trouble. BOB You got it doped out wrong. Cutting it out's what got him in Dutch ! EMELIE Bob! What do you mean? I don't understand. BOB {Loftily) No, and nobody takes the trouble to understand a fellow around here. 15 THE CONFLICT EMELIE Robert! I don't think that's quite fair — not to me! BOB Oh, well, it makes me sore. Jim's all right — even if he does get pretty bossy sometimes. And Jim never got a square deal in this mixup — never, from nobody. Seems to me anyone could understand that you can't go out with fellers one day an' cut 'em out the next — just like that! {He makes a little 'perpendicular chopping-off ges- ture with one hand) But you know how Mother is! When she says cut it out — it means cut it out — just like that! Not to-morror', or th' next day — or lettin' 'em down easy — but now! Well, the night she said "No more of it!" the gang was meetin' at Dutch Heinie's for a game o' cards EMELIE Oh, Bobbie! BOB Oh, well — they'd been meetin' all winter — nothin' to it! But sombody must've got wind of it — an' the whole crowd gets pinched! — an' of course, just 'cause Jim had cut it out so sudden and shame-faced like, they thought he was the squealer — and mebbe they didn't have trouble planted for him from that on. Say, he didn't any more break into Martin's show-case than I did. EMELIE Of course he didn't! My own brother! Don't I know that, Bobs? 16 THE CONFLICT BOB Well, if you'd heard Mother questioning him — you*d 'a' thought he was a liar as well as a thief. EMELIE Sh — Bobbie ! That's the unfortunate part of it. That's what he got for going with bad company. BOB Well — he sure had enough of 'em. When he got out didn't he just beg Mother to let him get away from here? He knows they're no good — but in a little place like this what's a fellow goin' to do? He wanted to go to Fall River ; Uncle Zack'd 'a' got him a job there. But Mother said he was too young to be breaking home ties. EMELIE Oh, Bobbie — you don't understand, dear. Mother didn't want him away then, with Father sick. BOB (Sullenly) No, and she won't let him go now, with Father (He stops, gulps, and turns away suddenly, brush- ing his eyes with his coat-sleeve) EMELIE (Going to him) There, there, Bobbie — I know ! It does seem as if everything was set against his getting a chance. But we will have to think hard — and stand together — and just be patient a little longer. 17 THE CONFLICT BOB Well, I'll tell you something ! It wouldn't surprise me none if he'd run away and enlist some day. EMELIE He can't! He's too young. BOB What's the matter with lying? EMELIE Bobby! BOB Oh, well, Jiminy Crickuts ! If I wanted to get out of a place as bad as Jim does out 'a this one my brain 'u'd get so cracked I'd forget my name — let alone my birthday. Where's Mother? Out? EMELIE I think she's taking a nap, dear — she went up to lie down. You know she's all worn out with nurs- ing BOB (Nodding and speaking quickly) Does she take it all right — you're going? EMELIE Bobs, dear! I don't like to hear you speak of Mother that way. BOB Aw, gee ! EMELIE Well, I don't! It sounds so disrespectful. And you love her. 18 THE CONFLICT BOB Course I do — you know it ! EMELIE Sure I know it. Why, just think! You are her baby! BOB (Slyly) Say, I don't get no chance to forget that neither. EMELIE (Shaking him) Bobbie, you're incorrigible. BOB (Purposely as ungrammatical as he knows how to be) I ain't never goin' to get no chance to grow up ! I'm like that guy — what's his name? Peter Pan! That's me! Well, where's this letter you wanted me to mail? (Going to table) EMELIE You haven't been to the post-office? BOB No. (Half -sheepishly) Mrs. Lane's. She promised to have something for me. (Picks up letter) Bosting, eh? Well— Jumpin' Jee-hosaphat ! What do you want to mail this here for? Why don't you take it along? 19 THE CONFLICT EMELIE I'm not going that way. BOB You ain't going by the 5.15 to Boston EMELIE No, dear youth — I take the 5.05 to New York. BOB {Whistles) Mother know? (Enter Bess with lilacs) EMELIE Yes, she — knows, BOB Well, I'm off. {To Bess) Shall we show her what I got? {Exits) BESS {Explaining Bob's last speech) Pansies, Emelie. EMELIE Oh, for Father. {Taking the lilacs from Bess) Thank you, dear — they're beautiful — and like you. They'll go along to take care of me. Sweetheart. {Re-enter Bob with a broad, shallow basket filled with pansy plants) BOB Pansies! Ain't they beauts? Mrs. Lane gave 'em to me. It looks so rough up there — no sod, nor 20 THE CONFLICT nothin' growin'. Bess an' I were goin' to set 'em out this afternoon, but they can wait till morning. I won't have more'n time to get to the post-office and back before your train goes. Well — you don't have far to go — ^that's one comfort. Comes in sort o' handy this havin' a private railroad station at your back door, eh? Well — I'm off. EMELIE Wait, Bobbie. I don't want you to come back here. BOB What ! Not to say good-bye ? EMELIE I can't say good-bye to you children that way. I don't want either of you here when — ^they're going to be so hard — these last few moments with Mother. Bess will take the pansies and wait for you — ^you know the little siding where the train almost stops? I'll wave good-bye to you there ; and after the train's gone, why you two can go to the cemetery together, and all the way to New York I'll be seeing you set- ting out the pansies on Father's grave. BOB Don't, Em! Funny how a feller misses him — though he hardly ever said much Aw' Gee! (Disgusted with himself for showing emotion) Take care of yourself, Em. Write soon ! {Rushes blindly off) (The two girls stand for a moment in each other's arms, then they break away with a guilty look at the clock) 21 THE CONFLICT BESS Do you think she's sleeping? EMELIE No. BESS Then why EMELIE Oh, it makes it so hard for me ! It's her way, you know Will you go up and tell her, dear, that I'm almost ready to go — and that there isn't much more time? BESS {Crossing towards the door to the hack stairway) Yes. What did you do with your suitcase. Sister ? EMELIE I sent it over early this afternoon. And Bess — I don't want to go up to the room again — you might just bring my hat and coat, dear — I have everything else. (Bess runs up the hack stairway, leaving the door swing open hehind her, Emelie gathers up her writing materials, drop- ping the letters into the little satchel. One of these she stops to reread; in the midst of it with a little soh, and a gesture of renunciation, she tears up the letter and drops the pieces into the fire. Coming back she stops and picks a pansy which she slips into the hook on the table before she drops that into the satchel, too. Bess comes down the stairs carrying Emelie's hat and coat) 22 THE CONFLICT BESS She'll be down in a minute. (Then, in reply to the question in Emelie's face) She was up — looking out of the window. EMELIE What did she say ? BESS Only that she thought you'd given up going. EMELIE (Sighs) Good-bye, dear. BESS You won't forget you're going EMELIE to send for me? I won't forget. BESS (Taking up basket) Bobs and I'll be at the siding. EMELIE And I'll be sure to lean out of the window and throw you kisses as far as I can see you. BESS (Tremulously) Good-bye. (She goes out waving her hand and is seen passing the window) EMELIE Good-bye, little sister — and God keep you, darling — as you are. 23 THE CONFLICT (Emelie turns and sees Mother, who during the last speech has come down the stairway. She has taken down the kitchen apron that is hanging on nail inside of door, and is putting it on. There is a moment's embarrassed pause, then Emelie speaks) Mother — I hated to disturb you ; but I was begin- ning to be afraid you might not waken till the last minute. MOTHER (Placidly) I wasn't asleep. I thought you'd reconsidered going. EMELIE Mother — ^you make it so hard for me - MOTHER I mean to make it hard — very hard. (She goes to the dresser and takes from it a large pan of apples, a knife and a bowl. Then she draws the cane-seated rocker to the left of the table and proceeds to peel the apples in long, thin, unbroken curls — possible only for the woman with a steady hand and no troublesome nerves) For that matter, Tve never said that staying right here was going to be the easy thing for you to do ; but you can't get out of the fact that it's your duty, Emelie. (The rocker stops a moment, as though its occu- pant expected a reply; then, as there is none, it con- tinues its placid rhythmic swing, as the Mother re- sumes her argument) You can't always have things the way you want them — and I don't think it would be good for you if you could. 24 THE CONFLICT (Emelie, who has come down behind the tablet makes a sudden sharp movement as though to speak, then closes her lips firmly. She picks up one of her gloves, examines it mechanically for a moment — and then goes up stage to the work basket, and stands there finding needle and thread, etc., during next speeches. Meanwhile all the mother's attention ap- pears to be centred on the careful coring and quarter- ing of the apple in her hand. She leisurely selects another before continuing) Now that youVe got used to your freedom and your own way, it's asking a sacrifice of you — I real- ize that ; but you'll have to make lots of them before you're as old as I am. EMELIE {With a sudden lift of her head, and in a tone — crisp, clean-cut, that somehow shows the fight is on) It's your idea of life, isn't it, Mother? MOTHER Making sacrifices? EMELIE Yes. MOTHER Well, it's a pretty big part of it — as you'll find out. EMELIE I'm a poor scholar. MOTHER When you don't like the lesson? 25 THE CONFLICT EMELIE Yes. For nearly twenty years I've tried to learn it, but — I can't do it. MOTHER How you exaggerate, Emelie. {There is nothing impetuous in the speech of these women — there is power — repose — reserve — at bot- tom both are very much alike) EMELIE Oh, no, I don't. Stop and think. I was three years old when Robert was born. I was expected to grow out of babyhood right then and there. And when he died — ^there was James to do for — and give in to. Do you remember what a naughty child I used to be? Poor little tempestuous mite — always being pun- ished — hardly ever understanding what for MOTHER Well, you did have a bad temper. EMELIE And, of course, that had to be sacrificed ! {At the little exclamation of surprise from her mother she continued hastily) Oh, I know that must sound absurd to you, be- cause you don't — perhaps you can't see it as I do ; but all the little things you didn't like about me — had to be lopped off, even if I was as surely maimed thereby as though you had cut off my arms and legs. Dear Mother ! I know you meant everything for the best — always ! You were determined I should be unsel- fish — well-disciplined — and self-controlled — cut out 26 THE CONFLICT and fashioned by a pattern on your nail; weren't you? {She has come down right of table during this speech, and on the last two words, to soften the un- filial tone of it, reaches out and just touches her mother's hand) MOTHER (Not hurt at all by the criticism — and equally un- touched by the caress) Do you think you're any the worse for it? EMELIE Who knows ? MOTHER I don't think you understand, Emelie. Just what do you mean to complain of? EMELIE I don't mean to complain of anything, dear. You loved us all devotedly — no one could have been a bet- ter mother — if only — {She hesitates, then finishes whimsically) If only you could have individualized us a bit, dear, instead of lumping us all together as just "your children." MOTHER {Her hands idle for a moment, she revolves what seemed to her an absurd arraignment; then, sur- rendering to the apparent need for justification) I suppose you will admit, Emelie, that you were a very jealous child? EMELIE Oh, undoubtedly ! Frightfully so ! Did you think you had cured me, Mother? 27 THE CONFLICT MOTHER I tried EMELIE On the contrary, you fed the flame — don't you see ? You exercised the unlovely thing till it grew strong. I learnt jealousy as a fine art at the mature age of seven. It frightens me to think how I used to feel — how I could feel now if any {She catches herself up and finishes rather lamely — as she goes back to the sewing table) anyone gave me cause. MOTHER (Looking back after her a moment — then down at her work) Emelie! You've never told us — me — much about your friends. EMELIE No? (She lingers a bit unnecessarily over the smooth- ing out of the gloves, but finally places them beside her hat and coat and comes slowly down to her mother's side) What is it you would like to know, Mother? MOTHER Something about the way you're living now — ^the people who have helped you in your work. That girl you roomed with first — for instance; what's become of her? EMELIE I don't know. I never see her any more. 28 THE CONFLICT MOTHER Why not? EMELIE Mother ! Let's not go into that. It's a long story — and it would have no bearing on the subject we are discussing. MOTHER {Mildly) I thought that was settled. EMELIE {Her eyes flashing ominously, hut her voice quiet) Did you? You thought that all my life to come was to be narrowed within the limits of your "NO" ; that I'd give up my plan to go to New York, to forego all the splendid opportunities this year is holding out to me, just because you believe my duty is here. And after all, is that your real reason, Mother? Isn't it rather that you're afraid — that you distrust your child — and your teaching? If not, why is it that you seem to resent each problem that I dare to solve for myself, each step I take unaided, each fresh proof that I'm no longer a child at your apron-strings? MOTHER Emelie ! EMELIE Yes, Mother, I beg your pardon. I know I'm going to hate myself presently for talking to you like this — but can't you see that I've got to fight you? All my life with you has been a fight — a fight to keep true to myself — ^a constant conflict of wills — ideals 29 THE CONFLICT and principles that clash and clash — it's terrible — terrible! Can't you see — (She stops to get hold of herself) MOTHER Can't I see what, Emelie ? EMELIE (More gently) Can't you see that you cannot hope to always have the ordering of your children's lives ? We grow up ; it is the way of children, Mother. We have adult responsibilities — problems of our own which we have a right to face ourselves ; and to each one of our bat- tles we bring all that we have inherited from our parents — and all the teaching we've got at their hands — but something of our own besides. And^ Mother (She kneels beside her) that something is the God within us! Forever to do violence to that something is to kill the individual. Can't you — can't you try to understand before it's too late? Jim — Bess — Bobs, even, will have his future some day to decide for himself. MOTHER That's just why you're needed at home; you're the eldest. You always were more like a boy than a girl — Jim'll listen to you. EMELIE It took me a long time. Mother, to realize how exacting your love was. Do you remember how you opposed the idea of my studying in Boston? Why, 30 THE CONFLICT if I had not gotten that first scholarship at the art school, Fd never have had my chance at all — and then I had to go v^ith the bitter thought of your dis- pleasure at my heart like a stone all summer long. MOTHER {Rather 'proudly) You had it in you ! You'd have gotten there just the same — no matter where you studied — if a little later, perhaps. EMELIE Yes, but that's such a tragedy! The joy of bat- tle and achievement belongs to youth! / want it now! Not when Fm forty. And you know that if I hadn't made good — right from the very start — I should have had to come home. Not because my people couldn't afford it — that I would have under- stood — but just because Fate — in your own person — said "No!" Talk about signs from heaven! I fairly worshipped those first checks. Why, fifty dollars was a fortune that meant room-rent for a month — yes, and food, too. It took so little to live in a hall bedroom with the aid of a twenty-five-cent gas-stove and the delicatessen around the corner. MOTHER (Dryly) No wonder you've ruined your digestion. EMELIE Digestion depends upon the frame of mind, Mother. Mine was better in the hall bedroom than it has been here in my father's house, bottling up my sorrow and fighting your displeasure. 31 THE CONFLICT {The girl's lips quiver pitifully. The Mother rises, and, on her way back to the sink with the ap- ples, she stops with a half clumsy caress and says gently) MOTHER You're a good girl, Emelie, lots of ways. You mustn't think I'm always finding fault with you. It's strange how you've taken your father's death harder than any of the other children — though you were away from home so much — and never his favorite. EMELIE I guess there's no grief quite so bitter as the loss of someone we have loved imperfectly. Oh, it's all so irrevocable — and it's such a pity. Father — work- ing, slaving all his life for us — unrecompensed, un- appreciated. MOTHER Why, Emelie ! I think we all did our duty by father. EMELIE Duty? Oh, yes. Duty — weighed — ^measured; so much politeness, so much service, so much tolerance of individual likings — ^with a sort of affection, too, of course. We all loved Father — Oh, as a father, all very much according to the letter of the law — but did any of us ever try to understand him — as an individ- ual, like ourselves? And now it's too late! Oh, Mother dear, I do wish we could understand each other a little better before I go. MOTHER (In the act of crossing to the range with the sauce-' pan of apples) 32 THE CONFLICT But I thought you'd come to see it my way — about going. EMELIE {With a little wail of hopeless desperation in her voice) Yes, yes, I know you did ! And the pity of it is that you'll keep on thinking so till the whistle blows. We talk round and round in a circle — and my train will be here in fifteen minutes. Couldn't you just give in once — kiss me good-bye and wish me success? It takes lots of strength to travel the hard lonely road in a strange city. MOTHER (The mother is through with her work. NOW they will have it out. She turns her back definitely upon the range, and for the first time speaks directly to the girl. All through the preceding scene she has made you feel that Emelie and her problem must take second place to this dish of apple-sauce — the duty of the moment) That's another thing I don't understand. You might as well be frank with me, Emelie. I've never liked secrecy — and you're mighty close about your affairs. You were perfectly content with Boston when you came here a month ago. What's changed you — why this sudden notion for going to New York, instead ? EMELIE {Half-heartedly) We'll all need more money now that Father's gone — and Jim's not making much yet. I think I can earn more in New York. 33 THE CONFLICT MOTHER And spend more, too. A year ago you were de- lighted with your place. EMELIE That was a year ago. Now, the drawing of insipid faces and faultless figures in absurd gowns seems intolerable — because I've grown and my work has grown. Fashion-work was just a means to keep me in food and lodging while I studied. MOTHER Suppose you don't get anything to do — what then ? EMELIE I'm pretty sure to fall into something. If I fail, there's always the fashion-work to fall back on. But I have offers — good ones. MOTHER Who from? EMELIE Friends who have faith in me. MOTHER That's another thing I don't like. You never ia^A; about your friends. 'Tain't natural — unless you're ashamed of them. EMELIE Mother ! MOTHER I don't care — it doesn't look right. You've had letters and sent some every day — even the day of the 34 THE CONFLICT funeral — but I notice how careful you were not to let them lie around none. EMELIE {Looks nervously around the room — her eyes light on the clock) Mother, we're wasting time. You've known all along that I couldn't stay on here indefinitely. MOTHER I can't see why not. Why is one place any better than another to make pictures in? The boys are away all day. You needn't be afraid I'd expect much housework of you. EMELIE (Looks at her mother in silence for a moment. There grows in her face a determination to force the issue, yet she reads the unspoken trouble at her mother's heart and her sense of justice counsels her to be very patient under the probe) Mother, suppose we quit fencing like this — get down to facts. Just why are you so determined to keep me here ? MOTHER I don't trust you, Emelie, and that's the truth. You are changed somehow. You're older and more world-wise — and nervous — and there's something going on that you don't tell me. You never were one to talk much, but you don't give me your confidence at all, now. EMELIE And you think you can force it ? Have I ever given you any real cause for not trusting me? 35 THE CONFLICT MOTHER {Reluctantly) Not as I know of. EMELIE Am I necessarily guilty of something unless I con- tinually prove myself innocent ? MOTHER I don't like it. You're not frank with me. EMELIE I'm all right, Mother. Oh, why should I worry you with my problems ? I can't do it — ^though I love, you, dear. (She flings her arms impulsively around her mothers neck; hut the whole unyielding figure is so prohibitive, so keenly censorious, that the next mo- ment her hands fall limply to her side) Well — what is it you want to know, Mother? MOTHER (Grasping at the permission, without noticing what she pays for it) This man you've been getting letters from — ^who is he? EMELIE A gentleman I met through my work. Mother. He's been very good to me — in a business way MOTHER Yes, but it don't look like just business to be writ- ing letters back and forth every day 36 THE CONFLICT » EMELIE Then it would be safe to conclude that there was more than just business between us. MOTHER What's his name? EMELIE (Flinching) Is that necessary ? MOTHER Are you ashamed of him? EMELIE No. MOTHER (After a dissatisfied pause) What's he do? EMELIE He's — he's on a magazine, Mother — what they call "Managing Editor." MOTHER That how you came to meet him ? EMELIE Yes. I illustrated some articles for him. MOTHER (Not looking at her) Known him long — do you see much of him? 37 THE CONFLICT EMELIE About a year. Yes, I see quite a great deal of him. {The girl's steady eyes have never wavered from her mother's face. There is a cold, hitter little smile about her lips. She could quicker understand a storm of passionate, anxious scolding than this in- quisitorial skirmishing that keeps getting closer and closer to the vital question, hut that dreads to ask it) MOTHER I suppose he takes you out — sometimes ? EMELIE Frequently. MOTHER You go — alone — with him? EMELIE Usually. MOTHER Of course — he's single? EMELIE No. MOTHER What! EMELIE (Stiffening against the tahle — her nervous hands fingering the edge of the cloth, her coat, her gloves) He's married. I don't think I am hurting his wife. She does not care. 38 THE CONFLICT MOTHER (Indignantly) How do you know? EMELIE They have not lived together for years; she's abroad most of the time. MOTHER (Speaking the word as though it were sacrilege) Divorced ? EMELIE No — there's a child — a girl, just reaching wom- anhood. For her sake — well, they've never just hap- pened to MOTHER And you run around with him like this — you? I want to know — he says he loves you ? EMELIE (Laughing shortly) Yes. MOTHER And you? EMELIE I love him — ^yes. (The last speeches have been spoken almost flip- pantly. Her attitude, during the earlier part of the scene, has been that of a child whistling in the dark. Now that her secret has been dragged boldly, nakedly into the daylight her attitude becomes one of im- pregnable, hurt defiance. In her anxiety the mother is blind) 39 THE CONFLICT MOTHER I can't grasp it! I've felt there was something like this in the wind all along — yet I couldn't believe it of you, Emelie. Mind you, Fm not saying you've done anything really bad EMELIE Thank you. {There is a flash of gratitude in her face hut it fades into bitterness as her mother quite uncon- sciously spoils it) MOTHER You've had too good training for that — but I didn't think you'd cheapen yourself so. How can you be- lieve this man EMELIE Because belief is the very life of love — something you've never learnt. Mother. You kill love by doubt- ing it. MOTHER Can't very well believe in a married man who makes love EMELIE Mother ! Might I suggest that you do not know either the man or the circumstances? MOTHER (Very emphatically) There aren't any circumstances that can make wrong right. 40 THE CONFLICT EMELIE Oh! {Pause) Very well. Then, since you've judged me, what do you propose to do? MOTHER I am trying to think. You want to go to New York. Why? EMELIE I told you MOTHER You didn't ! You told me a lot of nonsense. You never gave me the real reason. EMELIE Which is- MOTHER This man ! He lives in New York — or he's going to live there. Ain't that why you want to go ? (The girl looks at her mother incredulously — her whole attitude one of helpless aloofness. It is asi though she looked across an ever-widening gulf at the dead) EMELIE (With a gesture of hopelessness) Well MOTHER Do you think I can't put two and two together? Those big envelopes you got from New York yester- day and again to-day — and you walking about like one in a dream ! He's on a magazine you say — and look at you — so sure of getting work in a strange city. Well, why don't you speak? Isn't it so? 41 THE CONFLICT EMELIE What's the use of speaking? You can't expect to extract truth with a probe — and get it out undam- aged. You have chosen to put your own construction on appearances — go on! I'm anxious to see what you're going to make of it. Just what you will do to my life, (The train is heard whistling in the distance) MOTHER You shall not go to New York to-night. EMELIE No? Well, that looks exceedingly probable. I should have to run now to catch the train. Yet I could make it! Quick, Mother! I know all that's worrying you. But of what good was your training if you can't trust me ? I've made my choice — I want to abide by it. Just say that I may. MOTHER You see ! Why are you so set on going by this very train if it isn't an appointment ? If you are so deter- mined on leaving home to-night it will have to be for Boston. You're playing on the brink of a precipice — and you don't know it I EMELIE Take care, Mother, that you don't push me over — MOTHER Oh, yes — I know you're stubborn — but after all, 42 THE CONFLICT you're my child ! Maybe when you Ve had a night to think {The unwonted stimulus of opposition has aroused the mother quite out of her quiet calm. All the majesty of outraged motherhood is in her bearing as she sweeps to the outer door and locks it. After the first little cry of ''Mother, don't do that!'' the girl, makes no protest Listlessly she goes to the sink; as in a dream she washes her hands and dries them on the roller-towel, and at the little mirror studies her face curiously while she fastens on her hat. While she is doing this the smoke of the New York train darkens the window. The girl parts the curtains and stands watching. You hear the grinding of brakes, the hissing of escaping air, the momentary portent- ous silence, the clang of the bell, the exhaust — and then the throbbing of the departing south-bound train. The girl slips into her coat and picks up her bag as the mother moves stolidly over to the door and throws it open. Once more a shaft of sunlight — a long, pale one this time — falls across the threshold, and the birds break out into a joyous twittering. The girl joins her mother in the doorway, and for a moment they stand there in silence, so incongruously out of it all — all that the spring would tell them if they could but hear) EMELIE Well, Mother — good-bye. MOTHER I suppose you'll have to go, now. You wouldn't care to stay till morning? 43 THE CONFLICT EMELIE Hardly. MOTHER {Flustered by the girl's steady eyes, takes refuge in a commonplace) Fd 'a thought you*d have more pride, Emelie. I had when I was your age. You'll write? EMELIE I don't know — it depends. MOTHER On what? EMELIE I can't see the outcome of this, Mother. But what- ever happens I want you to feel that I'll not hold you responsible for my decisions. MOTHER Emelie ! EMELIE Funny ! You believe in predestination — don't you. Mother? I never did — before. I never could see Fate as a cat playing with a mouse — I never believed that God played with us in wanton sport, but what's the difference if he lets His creatures do it for Him ? MOTHER You mustn't talk like that — I don't understand. EMELIE I hope you never will. 44 THE CONFLICT MOTHER (Drawing her quickly to her in alarm) Emelie ! EMELIE Oh, don't! Please don't! {In a sudden hurst of anger she tears herself brusquely out of her mother's arms) You've faith in no one but yourself! Well, you can sleep to-night very sure of how beautifully you've managed everyone's life. (Train whistles) Let me go ! I don't want to miss my train. (Emelie goes quickly out of the door and down the walk without a backward look) MOTHER (Making a movement after her) Emelie! What a way for a girl to speak to her mother. (Muttering to herself) Well, she needn't feel so bitter about it. I'm sure I did it all for her own good. But that's the way with children. (Coming down) They never understand — ^till it's too late. She's forgot her flowers. Well, it's too late for them, too. I wonder what she meant by (Bess is heard calling from right "Emelie! Oh, Emelie! Where are you?'' She runs excitedly in at the door down right, and takes in her mother's ap- pearance with an evident start of dismay. Train is heard stopping) 45 THE CONFLICT BESS Why, Mother! Where's Emelie? Didn't she go? We waited for her at the siding. I'm sure she wasn't on the train for it stopped an awful long time there. We ran all the way back. I came cross-lots and through the front because Bob got a BOB {Who has run around the house is seen passing window and runs in at kitchen door) Didn't she go? {Train is heard going rapidly in distance) {After a pause) Yes — she went. To New York? No — to Boston. MOTHER BESS MOTHER BESS Oh ! I wonder what made her change her mind. BOB Shucks ! And I found this telegram for her at the post-office, too! That chump of a green kid of Sweeny's put it in our mail box. MOTHER A telegram? BOB Yes; do you suppose it's anything important? 46 THE CONFLICT MOTHER Give it to me. I'll see. {She opens it — reads — looks stunned. Still clutch- ing the envelope, in a dazed sort of way she drops the telegram, and crosses unsteadily towards the door, left) Emelie! My girl! Oh, why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me? (She goes heavily, brokenly up the stairs, mutter- ing) I — I didn't understand her — she said Oh, my God — my God ! What have I done ? BOB Why, whatever's the matter with Mother? What's in the thing, anyway? (Picks up telegram) That's funny — I don't see anything in this BESS (Faintly) What's — it say, Bobs. BOB Why, all it says is — "You can't mean to go out of my life like this. Think how I need you. I shall be waiting at South Station for you to-night, with what anxiety you can imagine. Don't fail me. Devotedly, Craig." Who's Craig? Do you know? Well, any- way, it's from Boston. I don't see anything the mat- ter with that. She'll meet him 0. K. since she got that train. (Goes to stairway) 47 THE CONFLICT Oh, Mother! It's all right! That telegram was from Boston, you know. {Waits a moment; then starts up the stairs) Say, Mother! What's the matter? Ain't you goin' to have any supper ? BESS (Staring down at the forgotten flowers, and speak- ing in a low, frightened voice) She — didn't take — my lilacs. (curtain) 48 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 011^400^313 #