PETER. [Knowing that JAMES, is demanding a kiss.] Aha! [Rubs his hands in satisfaction—then listens—and after a second pause exclaims, with an upraised finger, as though he were hearing the kiss.] Ah! Now I can go…. [He walks to the peg on which his hat hangs, and takes it down. His work is done. CATHERINE re-enters, darting into the hall in girlish confusion.
JAMES' HAPPY VOICE. [Outside.] Good-night!
CATHERINE. [Calling to him through the crack in the door.] Good-night! [She closes the door, turns the key and draws the heavy bolt—then leans against the door, candle-stick in hand—the wind has blown out the candle.] Oh, I'm so happy! I'm so happy!
PETER. Then good-night to you, my darling: love cannot say good-bye. [She goes to PETER'S chair, and, sitting, thinks it all over—her hands clasped in her lap—her face radiant with happiness.] Here in your childhood's home I leave you. Here in the years to come, the way lies clear before you. [His arm upraised.] "Lust in Rust"—Pleasure and Peace go with you. [CATHERINE looks towards the door—remembering JAMES' kiss—half smiling.] [Humorously.] Y—es; I saw you. I heard … I know…. Here on some sunny, blossoming day when, as a wife, you look out upon my gardens—every flower and tree and shrub shall bloom enchanted to your eyes…. All that happens—happens again. And if, at first, a little knock of poverty taps at the door, and James finds the road hard and steep—what is money?—a thing,—a good thing to have,—but still a thing … and happiness will come without it. And when, as a mother, you shall see my plantings with new eyes, my Catherine,—when you explain each leaf and bud to your little people—you will remember the time when we walked together through the leafy lanes and I taught you—even as you teach them—you little thing!… So, I shall linger in your heart. And some day, should your children wander far away and my gardens blossom for a stranger who may take my name from off the gates,—what is my name? Already it grows faint to my ears. [Lightly.] Yes, yes, yes, let others take my work…. Why should we care? All that happens, happens again. [She rests her elbow on the chair, half hides her face in her hand.] And never forget this: I shall be waiting for you—I shall know all your life. I shall adore your children and be their grandfather just as though I were here; I shall find it hard not to laugh at them when they are bad, and I shall worship them when they are good—and I don't want them too good…. Frederik was good…. I shall be everywhere about you … in the stockings at Christmas, in a big, busy, teeming world of shadows just outside your threshold, or whispering in the still noises of the night…. And oh! as the years pass, [Standing over her chair.] you cannot imagine what pride I shall take in your comfortable middle life—the very best age, I think—when you two shall look out on your possessions arm in arm—and take your well-earned comfort and ease. How I shall love to see you look fondly at each other as you say: "Be happy, Jim—you've worked hard for this;" or James says: "Take your comfort, little mother, let them all wait upon you—you waited upon them. Lean back in your carriage—you've earned it!" And towards the end—[Sitting on a chair by her side and looking into her face.] after all the luxuries and vanities and possessions cease to be so important—people return to very simple things, dear. The evening of life comes bearing its own lamp. Then, perhaps, as a little old grandmother, a little old child whose bed-time is drawing near, I shall see you happy to sit out in the sunlight of another day; asking nothing more of life than the few hours to be spent with those you love,… telling your grandchildren, at your knees, how much brighter the flowers blossomed when you were young. Ha! Ha! Ha! All that happens, happens again…. And when, one glad day, glorified, radiant, young once more, the mother and I shall take you in our arms,—oh! what a reunion! [Inspired.] The flight of love—to love…. And now … [He bends over her and caresses her hand.] good-night. [CATHERINE rises and, going to the desk, buries her face in the bunch of flowers placed there in memory of PETER.
CATHERINE. Dear Uncle Peter….
MARTA enters—pausing to hear if all is quiet in WILLIAM'S room.
CATHERINE, lifting her face, sees MARTA and rapturously hugs her, to
MARTA'S amazement—then goes up the stairs.
PETER. [Whose eyes never leave CATHERINE.] "Lust in Rust!" Pleasure and Peace! Amen! [CATHERINE passes into her room, the music dying away as her door closes. MARTA, still wondering, goes to the clock and winds it.] Poor Marta! Every time she thinks of me, she winds my clock. We're not quite forgotten.
DR. MACPHERSON. [Re-appears, carrying WILLIAM, now wrapped up in an old-fashioned Dutch patchwork quilt. The DOCTOR has a lamp in his free hand.] So you want to go downstairs, eh? Very good! How do you feel, laddie?
WILLIAM. New all over.
DR. MACPHERSON. [Placing the lamp on the little table right, and laying WILLIAM on the couch.] Now I'll get you the glass of cold water. [Goes into the dining-room, leaving the door open.