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Philip. Well, I've done all I can to

Doctor. Yeh have, eh?

Philip. She's had all the money she needed. . . . If she'd a' done as I wanted her to, this never'd a' happened. I tried to get her away six months ago, but she wouldn't go. She was as obstinate as a mule.

Doctor. Strange that she should want to be near you, aint it? If she'd got tired of you and wanted to go, you wouldn't have let her. Philip. (With a sickly smile.) You must think I'm

Doctor. I don't think anything about it. I know just what such animals as you are.

Philip. Why, I

haven't seen her for

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yeh! well, then, sup

pose you go and see her to-day.

Philip. (Alarmed.) No, I won't. I can't do that!

Doctor. You will

do just that.

Philip. (Showing temper.) I won't go near her.

Doctor. (Quietly.) Yes, you will. She sha'n't lie there and die like a dog.

Philip. You wouldn't dare to tell

Doctor. I want you to go and see this girl! (They face each other.) Will yeh or won't yeh ?

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the baby crowing about her. Fleming, with the easy shift of such natures, has thrown off his depression, and is in good spirits the following morning. Dr. Larkin calls to warn Fleming that he had better take Margaret away at once. She has trouble with her eyes which a nervous shock might intensify. He promises to do so, but the act closes with Margaret's

departure to visit Lena Schmidt, who has sent for her. The third act takes place in Mrs. Burton's cottage, where the girl is dying. Dr. Larkin enters, finds Mrs. Burton holding the babe in her arms. I quote the conversation as a fine example of its truth and suggestion.

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Mrs. Burton. O Doctor! I didn't hear ye knawk. Did I keep y' waitin' ?

Doctor. No. How're the sick folks?

Mrs. Burton. Haven't y' seen Dr. Taylor! Didn't he tell yeh ?

Doctor. Haven't seen him. I suppose you mean

Mrs. Burton. Yes. Doctor. Humph! When'd she die ?

Mrs. B. 'Bout half

an hour ago.

Doctor. I had two calls on my way here. When did the change come?

Mr. Herne as Joe Fletcher in "Margaret Fleming." Act I. "Can't I sell ye a bath sponge?" See page 553.

Mrs. B. Ther' wa'n't no change t' speak 'f. About two

hours ago, she et a nice cup o' grule, and asked me to fix the pillers so's her head 'd be higher. I done it. Then she asked f'r a pensul 'n paper, an' she writ f'r quite some time. After that she shet her eyes an' I thought she was asleep. She never moved till the Doctor come, then she opened her eyes 'n smiled at him. He asked how she felt, an' she gave a l-o-n-g sigh-an' that was all there was to it.

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Margaret comes in and Dr. Larkin, horrified, tries in vain to get her to return. Maria, the dead girl's sister, comes out of the bedroom, with a letter in her hand, and with barbaric ferocity turns upon Margaret. A scene of great

dramatic power Mrs. Herne as Margaret Fleming. Act II. See page 554. follows, and under

the stress of her suffering, Margaret goes blind. It all ends in the flight of Fleming, and the destruction of their home. Several years later a chain of events brings wife and husband together in the office of the Boston Inspector of Police. Joe Fletcher, a street pedler, and husband of Maria, the sister of Lena Schmidt, was the means of bringing them together again. Fleming runs across Joe on the

Common, and Joe takes him to see Maria. Margaret has found Maria and her child, which Maria had taken. Philip's altercation with Maria brings them into the police office. After explanations, the inspector turns to the husband and wife, and voicing conventional morality, advises them to patch it up. When you want me, ring that bell," he says, and leaves them alone. There is a hush of suspense, and then Fleming, seeing the work he had wrought in the blind face before him, speaks.

it.

Philip. Margaret!

Margaret. Well!

Philip. This is terrible

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Marg. You heard the inspector. He calls it a common case.

Philip. Yes. I was wondering whether he meant that or only said

Marg. I guess he meant it, Philip. We'll be crowded out of his thoughts before he goes to bed to-night.

Marg. Ah, well, it's done now, and

Philip. Yes, it's done. For four years I've been like an escaped prisoner that wanted to give himself up and dreaded the punishment. I'm captured at last, and without hope or fear, I was going to say without shame,— I ask you, my judge, to pronounce my sentence. Marg. That's a terrible thing to ask me to do, Philip.... (She hesitates.) Philip. Of course you'll get a divorce?

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Marg. Don't let us have any more ceremonies, Philip. I gave myself to you when you asked me to. We were married in my mother's little home. Do you remember what a bright, beautiful morning it was ?

Philip. Yes.

Marg. That was seven years ago. To-day we're here! . . .

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I am calm. My eyes have simply been turned in upon myself for four years. I see clearer than I used to.

Philip. Suppose I could come to you some day and say, Margaret, I'm now an honest man. Would you live with me again?

Marg. The wife-heart has gone out of me, Philip.

Philip. I'll wait, Margaret. Perhaps it may come back again. Who knows?

Philip. Is it degrading to forgive?

Marg. No; but it is to condone. Suppose I had broken faith with you?

Philip. Ah, Margaret!

Marg. I know! But suppose I had? Why should a wife bear the whole stigma of infidelity? Isn't it just as revolting in a husband ?. . .

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Then can't you see that it is simply impossible for me to live with you again?

Philip. That's my sentence.

We'll be friends?

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Marg. Yes, friends. We'll respect each other as friends. We never could as man and wife.

As they clasp hands, something latent, organic rushes over her. She masters it, puts his hand aside: "Ring that bell!"

Played as Mrs. Herne plays it, this act is the supreme climax toward which the action moves from the first. It is her knowledge of its significance, her belief in its justice, and her faith in its beneficence, that makes her

Mr. Herne and his daughter Dorothy as Joe and little Lena on the Common. See page 557.

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