Sydney. Mother, you know you did the very best—
Hilary. If it had been heaven—what difference does it make? I was a dead man. Do you know what the dead do in heaven? They sit on their golden chairs and sicken for home. Why did you never come?
Margaret. They wouldn’t let me. It made you worse.
Hilary. Because I wanted you so.
Margaret. But you didn’t know me.
Hilary. My voice didn’t—and my speech and my actions didn’t. But I knew you. Meg—behind the curtain—behind the dreams and the noises, and the abandonment of God—I wanted you. I wanted—I wanted— [He puts his hand to his head.] Look here—I tell you we mustn’t talk of these things. It’s not safe, I tell you. When I talk I see a black hand reaching up through the floor—do you see? there—through the widening crack of the floor—to catch me by the ankle and drag—drag—
Sydney. Father—Father—go slow!
Margaret. [Terrified] Sydney!
Sydney. It’s all right, Mother! We’ll manage.
Hilary. [Turning to her] Yes, you tell your mother. I’m all right! You understand that, don’t you? Once it was a real hand. Now I know it’s in my mind. I tell you, Meg, I’m well. But it’s not safe to think about anything but—Oh, my dear, the holly and the crackle of the fire and the snow like a veil of peace on me—and you like the snow—so still—