Fires of St. John Part 13

How shall I ever thank you?

Marie.

I want you to do me one favor. Will you promise me?

George.

If it's in my power, certainly!

Marie.

Then I must first confess to you. A few moments ago, when papa questioned me, I deceived him. I was attacked last night--yes--but not by a man, but by a woman--a Lithuanian woman. George, that woman was my mother!

George.

But I understood your mother was dead.

Marie.

No, no; that is not so. Not one of you ever told me the truth. On the day of my confirmation I was waylaid by that very same woman--I cannot have been mistaken.

George.

Come, tell me, how did it happen?

Marie.

I was walking along quietly--'twas already dawning--when suddenly a gaunt form arose from the ditch beside the road. I looked, and saw before me a miserable beggarwoman, who called out to me in a trembling voice: "Marie--Madame--Daughter!" I turned cold in fear and horror, and, unable to utter one sound, I began to run; and I ran, ran, ran, and behind me I only heard her agonizing call: "My Marie--my daughter!"

And so, I ran away from my own mother. And now, after a few hours'

thought, I realize I did wrong. I must see her and speak to her, and learn from her own lips who and what I am; and as papa has forbidden me to leave this house--I would go in spite of him, but I have a fear--I beg of you, George, dear, go to her, I implore you, find her for me--she cannot be far away, and----

George.

And then?

Marie.

Then bring her to me, into the garden, or, better still, into this room towards evening, when papa and mama are calling on the old pastor----

George.

Marie, I cannot do that!

Marie.

The first time I ask a favor of you--and you say you cannot do it?

George.

Marie, dear, listen to me! You have been so kind to me of late--and that has not always been so; but if you had sacrificed for me even more than your own comfort and rest, I--I could not do it--I could not deceive your father and mother, for I fear the consequences.

Marie.

Then can't you understand that, a foundling though I am, a desire might come over me to see my own mother, though she be but a common beggar and an outcast? That I might want to lay my head on her shoulder and be petted and fondled, and cry myself to sleep on mine--on my own mother's breast?

George.

Are you not fondled, are you not petted--has mama not always been kind to you?

Marie.

Yes, but it is not the same--not the same. Never have I felt the desire, the demand within me for my own flesh and blood, as just now.

George.

But why just now?

Marie.

[_Imploringly_.] Because my heart is bursting. Oh, George!

George.

I cannot. I dare not do it!

Marie.

Then you refuse me?

George.

You know I must!!

Marie.

Then have you forgotten what took place in there, in your heart, four years ago?

[_Pause_.]

George.

Marie, you have read my ma.n.u.script!

Marie.

Yes, I read it. Will you do it now?

George.