Mrs. Arbuthnot After a pause. Gerald, I withdraw all my objections. You are at liberty to go away with Lord Illingworth, when and where you choose.

  Gerald Dear mother, I knew you wouldn’t stand in my way. You are the best woman God ever made. And, as for Lord Illingworth, I don’t believe he is capable of anything infamous or base. I can’t believe it of him—I can’t.

  Hester Outside. Let me go! Let me go! Enter Hester in terror, and rushes over to Gerald and flings herself in his arms.

  Hester Oh! save me—save me from him!

  Gerald From whom?

  Hester He has insulted me! Horribly insulted me! Save me!

  Gerald Who? Who has dared—?

  Lord Illingworth enters at back of stage. Hester breaks from Gerald’s arms and points to him.

  Gerald He is quite beside himself with rage and indignation. Lord Illingworth, you have insulted the purest thing on God’s earth, a thing as pure as my own mother. You have insulted the woman I love most in the world with my own mother. As there is a God in Heaven, I will kill you!

  Mrs. Arbuthnot Rushing across and catching hold of him. No! no!

  Gerald Thrusting her back. Don’t hold me, mother. Don’t hold me—I’ll kill him!

  Mrs. Arbuthnot Gerald!

  Gerald Let me go, I say!

  Mrs. Arbuthnot Stop, Gerald, stop! He is your own father!

  Gerald clutches his mother’s hands and looks into her face. She sinks slowly on the ground in shame. Hester steals towards the door. Lord Illingworth frowns and bites his lip. After a time Gerald raises his mother up, puts his arm round her, and leads her from the room.

  Act Drop

  Act IV

  Scene: Sitting-room at Mrs. Arbuthnot’s. Large open French window at back, looking on to garden. Doors R.C. and L.C.

  Gerald Arbuthnot writing at table.

  Enter Alice R.C. followed by Lady Hunstanton and Mrs. Allonby.

  Alice Lady Hunstanton and Mrs. Allonby. Exit L.C.

  Lady Hunstanton Good morning, Gerald.

  Gerald Rising. Good morning, Lady Hunstanton. Good morning, Mrs. Allonby.

  Lady Hunstanton Sitting down. We came to inquire for your dear mother, Gerald. I hope she is better?

  Gerald My mother has not come down yet, Lady Hunstanton.

  Lady Hunstanton Ah, I am afraid the heat was too much for her last night. I think there must have been thunder in the air. Or perhaps it was the music. Music makes one feel so romantic—at least it always gets on one’s nerves.

  Mrs. Allonby It’s the same thing, nowadays.

  Lady Hunstanton I am so glad I don’t know what you mean, dear. I am afraid you mean something wrong. Ah, I see you’re examining Mrs. Arbuthnot’s pretty room. Isn’t it nice and old-fashioned?

  Mrs. Allonby Surveying the room through her lorgnette. It looks quite the happy English home.

  Lady Hunstanton That’s just the word, dear; that just describes it. One feels your mother’s good influence in everything she has about her, Gerald.

  Mrs. Allonby Lord Illingworth says that all influence is bad, but that a good influence is the worst in the world.

  Lady Hunstanton When Lord Illingworth knows Mrs. Arbuthnot better he will change his mind. I must certainly bring him here.

  Mrs. Allonby I should like to see Lord Illingworth in a happy English home.

  Lady Hunstanton It would do him a great deal of good, dear. Most women in London, nowadays, seem to furnish their rooms with nothing but orchids, foreigners, and French novels. But here we have the room of a sweet saint. Fresh natural flowers, books that don’t shock one, pictures that one can look at without blushing.

  Mrs. Allonby But I like blushing.

  Lady Hunstanton Well, there is a good deal to be said for blushing, if one can do it at the proper moment. Poor dear Hunstanton used to tell me I didn’t blush nearly often enough. But then he was so very particular. He wouldn’t let me know any of his men friends, except those who were over seventy, like poor Lord Ashton: who afterwards, by the way, was brought into the Divorce Court. A most unfortunate case.

  Mrs. Allonby I delight in men over seventy. They always offer one the devotion of a lifetime. I think seventy an ideal age for a man.

  Lady Hunstanton She is quite incorrigible, Gerald, isn’t she? By the by, Gerald, I hope your dear mother will come and see me more often now. You and Lord Illingworth start almost immediately, don’t you?

  Gerald I have given up my intention of being Lord Illingworth’s secretary.

  Lady Hunstanton Surely not, Gerald! It would be most unwise of you. What reason can you have?

  Gerald I don’t think I should be suitable for the post.

  Mrs. Allonby I wish Lord Illingworth would ask me to be his secretary. But he says I am not serious enough.

  Lady Hunstanton My dear, you really mustn’t talk like that in this house. Mrs. Arbuthnot doesn’t know anything about the wicked society in which we all live. She won’t go into it. She is far too good. I consider it was a great honour her coming to me last night. It gave quite an atmosphere of respectability to the party.

  Mrs. Allonby Ah, that must have been what you thought was thunder in the air.

  Lady Hunstanton My dear, how can you say that? There is no resemblance between the two things at all. But really, Gerald, what do you mean by not being suitable?

  Gerald Lord Illingworth’s views of life and mine are too different.

  Lady Hunstanton But, my dear Gerald, at your age you shouldn’t have any views of life. They are quite out of place. You must be guided by others in this matter. Lord Illingworth has made you the most flattering offer, and travelling with him you would see the world—as much of it, at least, as one should look at—under the best auspices possible, and stay with all the right people, which is so important at this solemn moment in your career.

  Gerald I don’t want to see the world: I’ve seen enough of it.

  Mrs. Allonby I hope you don’t think you have exhausted life, Mr. Arbuthnot. When a man says that, one knows that life has exhausted him.

  Gerald I don’t wish to leave my mother.

  Lady Hunstanton Now, Gerald, that is pure laziness on your part. Not leave your mother! If I were your mother I would insist on your going.

  Enter Alice L.C.

  Alice Mrs. Arbuthnot’s compliments, my lady, but she has a bad headache, and cannot see anyone this morning. Exit R.C.

  Lady Hunstanton Rising. A bad headache! I am so sorry! Perhaps you’ll bring her up to Hunstanton this afternoon, if she is better, Gerald.

  Gerald I am afraid not this afternoon, Lady Hunstanton.

  Lady Hunstanton Well, tomorrow, then. Ah, if you had a father, Gerald, he wouldn’t let you waste your life here. He would send you off with Lord Illingworth at once. But mothers are so weak. They give up to their sons in everything. We are all heart, all heart. Come, dear, I must call at the rectory and inquire for Mrs. Daubeny, who, I am afraid, is far from well. It is wonderful how the Archdeacon bears up, quite wonderful. He is the most sympathetic of husbands. Quite a model. Goodbye, Gerald, give my fondest love to your mother.

  Mrs. Allonby Goodbye, Mr. Arbuthnot.

  Gerald Goodbye.

  Exit Lady Hunstanton and Mrs. Allonby. Gerald sits down and reads over his letter.

  Gerald What name can I sign? I, who have no right to any name. Signs name, puts letter into envelope, addresses it, and is about to seal it, when door L.C. opens and Mrs. Arbuthnot enters. Gerald lays down sealing-wax. Mother and son look at each other.

  Lady Hunstanton Through French window at the back. Goodbye again, Gerald. We are taking the shortcut across your pretty garden. Now, remember my advice to you—start at once with Lord Illingworth.

  Mrs. Allonby Au revoir, Mr. Arbuthnot. Mind you bring me back something nice from your travels—not an Indian shawl—on no account an Indian shawl. Exeunt.

  Gerald Mother, I have just written to him.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot To whom?

  Gerald To my father. I have written to tell him to come here at four o’clock this afternoon.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot He shall not come here. He shall not cross the threshold of my house.

  Gerald He must come.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot Gerald, if you are going away with Lord Illingworth, go at once. Go before it kills me: but don’t ask me to meet him.

  Gerald Mother, you don’t understand. Nothing in the world would induce me to go away with Lord Illingworth, or to leave you. Surely you know me well enough for that. No: I have written to him to say—

  Mrs. Arbuthnot What can you have to say to him?

  Gerald Can’t you guess, mother, what I have written in this letter?

  Mrs. Arbuthnot No.

  Gerald Mother, surely you can. Think, think what must be done, now, at once, within the next few days.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot There is nothing to be done.

  Gerald I have written to Lord Illingworth to tell him that he must marry you.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot Marry me?

  Gerald Mother, I will force him to do it. The wrong that has been done you must be repaired. Atonement must be made. Justice may be slow, mother, but it comes in the end. In a few days you shall be Lord Illingworth’s lawful wife.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot But, Gerald—

  Gerald I will insist upon his doing it. I will make him do it: he will not dare to refuse.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot But, Gerald, it is I who refuse. I will not marry Lord Illingworth.

  Gerald Not marry him? Mother!

  Mrs. Arbuthnot I will not marry him.

  Gerald But you don’t understand: it is for your sake I am talking, not for mine. This marriage, this necessary marriage, this marriage which for obvious reasons must inevitably take place, will not help me, will not give me a name that will be really, rightly mine to bear. But surely it will be something for you, that you, my mother, should, however late, become the wife of the man who is my father. Will not that be something?

  Mrs. Arbuthnot I will not marry him.

  Gerald Mother, you must.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot I will not. You talk of atonement for a wrong done. What atonement can be made to me? There is no atonement possible. I am disgraced: he is not. That is all. It is the usual history of a man and a woman as it usually happens, as it always happens. And the ending is the ordinary ending. The woman suffers. The man goes free.

  Gerald I don’t know if that is the ordinary ending, mother: I hope it is not. But your life, at any rate, shall not end like that. The man shall make whatever reparation is possible. It is not enough. It does not wipe out the past, I know that. But at least it makes the future better, better for you, mother.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot I refuse to marry Lord Illingworth.

  Gerald If he came to you himself and asked you to be his wife you would give him a different answer. Remember, he is my father.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot If he came himself, which he will not do, my answer would be the same. Remember I am your mother.

  Gerald Mother, you make it terribly difficult for me by talking like that; and I can’t understand why you won’t look at this matter from the right, from the only proper standpoint. It is to take away the bitterness out of your life, to take away the shadow that lies on your name, that this marriage must take place. There is no alternative: and after the marriage you and I can go away together. But the marriage must take place first. It is a duty that you owe, not merely to yourself, but to all other women—yes: to all the other women in the world, lest he betray more.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot I owe nothing to other women. There is not one of them to help me. There is not one woman in the world to whom I could go for pity, if I would take it, or for sympathy, if I could win it. Women are hard on each other. That girl, last night, good though she is, fled from the room as though I were a tainted thing. She was right. I am a tainted thing. But my wrongs are my own, and I will bear them alone. I must bear them alone. What have women who have not sinned to do with me, or I with them? We do not understand each other.

  Enter Hester behind.

  Gerald I implore you to do what I ask you.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot What son has ever asked of his mother to make so hideous a sacrifice? None.

  Gerald What mother has ever refused to marry the father of her own child? None.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot Let me be the first, then. I will not do it.

  Gerald Mother, you believe in religion, and you brought me up to believe in it also. Well, surely your religion, the religion that you taught me when I was a boy, mother, must tell you that I am right. You know it, you feel it.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot I do not know it. I do not feel it, nor will I ever stand before God’s altar and ask God’s blessing on so hideous a mockery as a marriage between me and George Harford. I will not say the words the Church bids us to say. I will not say them. I dare not. How could I swear to love the man I loathe, to honour him who wrought you dishonour, to obey him who, in his mastery, made me to sin? No: marriage is a sacrament for those who love each other. It is not for such as him, or such as me. Gerald, to save you from the world’s sneers and taunts I have lied to the world. For twenty years I have lied to the world. I could not tell the world the truth. Who can, ever? But not for my own sake will I lie to God, and in God’s presence. No, Gerald, no ceremony, Church-hallowed or State-made, shall ever bind me to George Harford. It may be that I am too bound to him already, who, robbing me, yet left me richer, so that in the mire of my life I found the pearl of price, or what I thought would be so.

  Gerald I don’t understand you now.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot Men don’t understand what mothers are. I am no different from other women except in the wrong done me and the wrong I did, and my very heavy punishments and great disgrace. And yet, to bear you I had to look on death. To nurture you I had to wrestle with it. Death fought with me for you. All women have to fight with death to keep their children. Death, being childless, wants our children from us. Gerald, when you were naked I clothed you, when you were hungry I gave you food. Night and day all that long winter I tended you. No office is too mean, no care too lowly for the thing we women love—and oh! how I loved you. Not Hannah, Samuel more. And you needed love, for you were weakly, and only love could have kept you alive. Only love can keep anyone alive. And boys are careless often and without thinking give pain, and we always fancy that when they come to man’s estate and know us better they will repay us. But it is not so. The world draws them from our side, and they make friends with whom they are happier than they are with us, and have amusements from which we are barred, and interests that are not ours: and they are unjust to us often, for when they find life bitter they blame us for it, and when they find it sweet we do not taste its sweetness with them … You made many friends and went into their houses and were glad with them, and I, knowing my secret, did not dare to follow, but stayed at home and closed the door, shut out the sun and sat in darkness. What should I have done in honest households? My past was ever with me. … And you thought I didn’t care for the pleasant things of life. I tell you I longed for them, but did not dare to touch them, feeling I had no right. You thought I was happier working amongst the poor. That was my mission, you imagined. It was not, but where else was I to go? The sick do not ask if the hand that smooths their pillow is pure, nor the dying care if the lips that touch their brow have known the kiss of sin. It was you I thought of all the time; I gave to them the love you did not need: lavished on them a love that was not theirs … And you thought I spent too much of my time in going to Church, and in Church duties. But where else could I turn? God’s house is the only house where sinners are made welcome, and you were always in my heart, Gerald, too much in my heart. For, though day after day, at morn or evensong, I have knelt in God’s house, I have never repented of my sin. How could I repent of my sin when you, my love, were its fruit! Even now that you are bitter to me I cannot repent. I do not. You are more to me than innocence. I would rather be your mother—oh! much rather!—than have been always pure … Oh, don’t you see? don’t you understand? It is my dishonour that has made you so dear to me. It is my disgrace that has bound you so closely to me. It is the price I paid for you—the price of soul and body—that makes me love you as I do. Oh, don’t ask me to do this horrible thing. Child of my shame, be still the child of my shame!