SHEILA.—Common sense! Actuality! They’ve come over me! I may as well say what I think! I may as well be honest! I don’t believe in that picture. I don’t believe it was painted by spirits. I think Arnold painted it himself, consciously and deliberately, and lied about it, and sold it to you for a magnificent sum. And I think he laughs at you. I hate him.
DR. FOREST.—Mother, she’s tired. You’d better go to bed, both of you, and may Harold speak to you in your dreams. (He sits at his desk again.) He comes to me almost nightly in my dreams.
MRS. FOREST leans over slowly, and kisses him, looks at him anxiously, and then, with a little sigh, crosses to the door and precedes SHEILA out the door U R. DR. FOREST sits a moment at his desk, glances toward the portrait, sees it is dark, rises and turns on the electricity. He steps backward to his chair, seats himself, seizes a pencil, and begins to write. There comes a cautious movement, and a shadow against the French window left of the portrait. For a moment the shadow stands against the window, and then moves on to the window U R C. The window opens slowly and a young man, sallow faced, haggard, dressed in a worn private’s uniform, stands in the window. He makes a movement as though to come forward, then hesitates, steps back, moves out backward through the window, and, with a long look at DR. FOREST, closes the window slowly. A pause. Then there comes a sharp knock at the door R. It is repeated. DR. FOREST, startled by this disturbance, cries out.
DR. FOREST.—What! What! What is it, I say? Who?
The door R opens and GRAFTON staggers into the room, frightened, breathless, and pauses left of the desk, leaning on it.
DR. FOREST.—What is it? Speak! GRAFTON.—Oh, sir! Oh, sir! I must tell you—
DR. FOREST (rises slowly).—A fresh sorrow, Grafton? I am prepared. I am in the care of my God. He will not desert me.
GRAFTON.—Not sorrow, sir, not sorrow. Joy. Joy—Look!
HAROLD enters slowly U R. DR. FOREST looks at him in amazed delight, and speaks in a glad whisper.
DR. FOREST.—A materialization, at last! His very image. You see it, Graton, don’t you? You see it?
GRAFTON.—Oh, sir, don’t you hunderstand? It’s ’imself. It’s Mr. ’Arold, come back, livin’ sir; im as was reported dead.
DR. FOREST.—No wonder you think so, Grafton. I’d think so, myself, if I didn’t know the truth. I’ve waited and waited for this, but I never dreamed it would be so wonderful, so real.
HAROLD.—Dad, I’m no ghost. It’s Harold.
DR. FOREST.—Grafton, he’s speaking!
GRAFTON.—’Course ’e’s a-speakin’, sir. Why shouldn’t ’e? Welcome ’ome, Mr. ’Arold, beggin’ your pardon. Welcome ’ome.
HAROLD.—Thank you, Grafton. See, Dad, he knows. He understands I’m real. Oh, Dad, it’s good―.
He reaches out his hand to his father.
DR. FOREST (takes HAROLD’S hand experimentally and looks at it with scientific detachment).—Perfect ectoplasm. The emanation of myself, of my own profound desire.
He drops the boy’s hand.
HAROLD.—Dad, has it been too much? Shall Grafton call for Mother? It’s really Harold, Dad. It’s a good joke on us all. I’ve been lying for months in that hospital you erected in my memory. For months I was there. No mind, no recollection. No consciousness at all for a long time. Then, bit by bit, I began to know I was in the world.
GRAFTON.—Mr. ’Arold!
HAROLD.—You see, they had picked me out of some unspeakable mess. Picked a dozen of us out. Stripped, mostly; disfigured; most of us done for, dead as herrings. Too messy for identification. But I was lucky. They patched me together. By and by I began to remember, but I couldn’t get my name. I tell you, I thought till I blubbered like a three-year-old. But it wouldn’t come, and then, today, suddenly I knew. Dad, it was as if I’d stopped and picked a needle out of a haysack. Found it after looking for centuries. The needle was my name, and once I had it, it grew till it was as big as a sword. Yes, sir, it seemed to me like a sword that I was holding up to the sun. I couldn’t stop to explain to the hospital people. Didn’t want to explain. Only wanted to get home.
GRAFTON.—Of course, poor lad, of course!
HAROLD.—The ward was as quiet as Sunday when I slipped out. No one saw me. Or if they did, thought nothing of it. One more luney wandering around the grounds.
GRAFTON.—Poor boy, poor boy!
HAROLD.—But, of course, I hadn’t any notion of where I was, but I looked up—
GRAFTON.—And you recognised it?
HAROLD.—Yes, by George! There was the spire of the old church and the gable of the parish house I’ve known all my life. I could have shouted. I watched for a chance, and finally, it came. The guards at the gate changed and took their time about it.
GRAFTON.—And you walked out? Good! Good!
HAROLD.—Yes, and no one noticed. And when I got outside, and I looked back at the gate of the hospital, and there it was: “The Harold Forest Memorial Hospital.” Dear, dear old Dad. What a joke!
He reaches out his arm to his father.
DR. FOREST (tremblingly holds him off).—Grafton, are you there? Are you there still?
GRAFTON.—Yet, I’m ’ere, sir. What can I do for you? Shall I call Mrs. Forest?
DR. FOREST.—No, no, Grafton, not yet.
He edges away from HAROLD, who is now by the lower right corner of the desk, and seats himself slowly at the desk. HAROLD looks at him, puzzled.
HAROLD.—But I don’t understand, Dad. It’s your old boy, all right. Same old sixpence. Not much good yet, perhaps, but bound to come out all right. But no more dead than Grafton or you. Maybe I’ve changed. Maybe that’s the trouble. You’d better call Mother, Grafton. She’d know me, Mother would. (His eyes fall on the picture. He looks at it, startled.) What in h—I mean, what on earth—who is it?
GRAFTON.—It’s you, sir, beggin’ your pardon.
HAROLD.—I should think you would beg my pardon, Grafton. Who did it?
GRAFTON.—Spirits, sir. It’s a spirit picture.
SHEILA enters U R and crosses slowly D R.
HAROLD.—Well, of all—
SHEILA.—Sweetheart! I knew it was your voice.
HAROLD.—You’re here, Sheila! It hasn’t been too long? You haven’t forgotten?
SHEILA.—I’m still here. It’s been long, oh, so long, but I haven’t forgotten.
HAROLD.—Sheila! Sheila!
SHEILA.—But where have you been, dear?
HAROLD.—I haven’t known anything, Sheila. It’s been like a twisting, turning hell, sweetheart; a place that never stood still. All I could see was faces that weren’t real, and battles that were over—and then, out of all the lies and the confusion, you!
SHEILA.—See, Father, that’s how he talks! I told you those messages weren’t from him. I knew he couldn’t be so stupid.
DR. FOREST.—But it can’t be! After the pain, to have him again—after the loss—the—
HAROLD.—It’s been too much for you, Dad. I should have done it all better. I should have waited—seen Sheila—sent her to tell you. Still, I didn’t know Sheila was here. I couldn’t know for certain. I couldn’t be sure of anything except your love and Mother’s. I knew that would last.
DR. FOREST.—There’s something wrong. Don’t you sense it, Sheila? Our boy never talked like this. He kept things to himself. You never could tell what he was thinking.
HAROLD looks at his father, bewildered, then turns slowly and crosses U C to right of the picture again, and stands looking at it, puzzled. He is too far up stage for the light of the picture to fall on his face.
SHEILA.—He was shy with you then, Father. After all, he was just a boy. But he’s grown up now, and he is not ashamed to show what he feels.
DR. FOREST (takes a deep breath, walks with a firm tread up back of the desk and speaks rather sternly).—Come into the light, sir. You keep your face in the shadow.
HAROLD comes down near the picture.
DR. FOREST.—Sheila, come here. Look a
t the difference. Can’t you see those faces aren’t the same.
HAROLD.—My God, Sheila, doesn’t he believe me?
DR. FOREST.—I believe in my son, sir, but not in you. You’re someone else. You’re someone who knew him. Some poor comrade of his, homeless, tempted by money—
HAROLD.—Sheila, is he mad?
DR. FOREST.—Mad? No. Sane. Too acutely sane for you.
HAROLD.—What do you mean?
DR. FOREST.—I have held communications with my hero son for almost two years. Messages have come to me, come through the barrage of death. I have two volumes of these authentic messages published. Folk come from all parts of this country and from other countries to be present when these message arrive. Even as you entered, I was receiving a message. I’ll read it—
HAROLD.—No, if you please. I couldn’t quite stand that, I think. You mean, sir, that you don’t recognise me, your son?
DR. FOREST.—I tell you, there’s no proof that you’re my son. These deceptions are common enough. I’ve heard of them. Why, my son stands high in heaven. He has met the Saviour of the World. He told me so. My boy has stood before the Christ of mankind. They stood together, two “gentlemen unafraid.” That’s where my boy is, sir, with the highest, doing his perfect work. Our Ambassador to the Court of Heaven.
HAROLD.—Oh, Sheila—Oh, God!
DR. FOREST.—You could make me suffer horribly, sir, but I shall not let you. I have suffered enough—too much. I tell you, I have found peace. No impostor shall take it away from me.
SHEILA (turns to GRAFTON).—Call his mother. Let her decide.
DR. FOREST.—He’ll work on her. He’ll bewilder her.
SHEILA.—Are you afraid to call her?
DR. FOREST.—Why should I be afraid? Have you ever seen me afraid? I’ll call—my wife.
DR. FOREST turns and goes out U R and GRAFTON follows him from the room.
HAROLD.—Am I mad, Sheila? Is this a nightmare?
SHEILA.—Oh, Harold, you must pity him.
HAROLD.—I’d have pitied him yesterday when he was mourning, but today he has me back.
SHEILA.—But think, Harold. Yesterday you were his proof of immortality. Your father is a famous man—
HAROLD.—Yes, but Dad wouldn’t let—
SHEILA.—For one person who knew your father as a great scientist, ten thousand know him as the greatest communicator with the dead. Look at that pile of mail, Harold. That’s the third pile that size today. He built a memorial hospital in your honour—
HAROLD.—Yes, I know.
SHEILA.—That hospital was built and endowed with the proceeds from the books filled with your spirit messages. You see?
HAROLD.—I suppose I do. I come back and shatter his reputation.
SHEILA.—Yes. You give him the lie. You expose him as a dupe.
HAROLD.—But he can’t love a reputation more than his own son.
SHEILA.—He loves his faith above all things, and—
HAROLD.—Yes, go on.
SHEILA.—You’d make him the laughing stock of the world.
HAROLD.—But he’s my father, and I’m his son.
SHEILA.—You’re his dead son.
HAROLD.—But doesn’t he love me, Sheila?
SHEILA.—He loves your memory.
HAROLD.—You mean—he never loved me as he loves my memory?
SHEILA.—That’s a hard thing to say, Harold, but do we ever prize real things as we do ideals?
HAROLD.—But you, Sheila—
SHEILA.—I never idealised you. I loved you as you were, and I love you as you are.
HAROLD.—Darling—
He starts to take her in his arms.
SHEILA.—No, wait, Harold. There’s more I must say. Please try to understand.
HAROLD.—Yes?
SHEILA.—You see, dear, the belief that you were dead and could communicate with the living, was a definite proof of immortality. It was more than that. It proved that the personality survives.
HAROLD.—Yes?
SHEILA.—That’s what people want, you see. They yearn to believe that those who are dead remain the same, and your father’s books and lectures have brought hope and faith to thousands; to hundreds of thousands, I suppose.
HAROLD.—I see. I feel like a criminal.
SHEILA.—It’s grotesque, isn’t it? But with your return, those thousands of messages will mean nothing, and thousands of people who have believed will lose their faith again.
HAROLD.—I understand.
DR. FOREST enters U R, leaning on GRAFTON’S arm.
SHEILA.—You didn’t bring her?
DR. FOREST.—She is sleeping. My wife is sleeping. I couldn’t bear to waken her. I couldn’t worry her with such a thing. She’d reject you, young man. She’d know you weren’t her son, but she’d be tormented the rest of her days with the thought that you might have been her son. I couldn’t endure that. I’d die of it. I’ve suffered enough. No one shall make me suffer any more.
GRAFTON helps DR. FOREST into his chair back of the desk, and stands anxiously right of him.
HAROLD.—No, you shouldn’t suffer anymore. I see that. I’ll always remember that you really couldn’t endure any more.
SHEILA.—What are you saying, Harold?
HAROLD.—I have a confession to make to this gentleman.
SHEILA.—No!
HAROLD.—I am, as he suspected, a fraud. I was seeking, as he said, for a soft place. They said, in our regiment, that his son and I looked like each other. I traded on that. But it wasn’t enough resemblance to deceive a father. There is no use in fighting a shining warrior in heaven, is there? I wouldn’t try it. Goodbye, Dr. Forest. I’ll take myself away, completely, forever. There’s only one thing I ask—that you keep all that happened here tonight to yourself. Promise that.
DR. FOREST.—I promise.
HAROLD.—Never speak of it, in any way, to the last day of your life, to—to—your wife.
DR. FOREST.—Never. I promise.
HAROLD.—Grafton, lift your right hand. I must have your word, too. For the sake of old days, Grafton.
GRAFTON.—My oath, sir.
Goes out U R.
HAROLD.—Goodbye, sir. May you comfort your thousands.
DR. FOREST.—Oh, my boy in heaven, pity me, help me!
HAROLD (turning to SHEILA).—Goodbye, Sheila. (He reaches out his hands hungrily toward her, and then drops them to his sides.) I’ve—I’ve seen you, anyway.
SHEILA.—You don’t dare—
HAROLD.—What do you mean?
SHEILA.—You can’t say goodbye to me. I’m going with you. You know that perfectly well.
HAROLD.—But, Sheila, I’m penniless. I don’t know where I’m going—I don’t know what I’ll have strength to do.
SHEILA.—I have money and strength.
HAROLD.—Oh, Sheila—
DR. FOREST (rises, shaking).—Shame on you, shame on you, Sheila. Can you shame him with an imposter?
SHEILA.—We can’t argue it, Father. Don’t worry, and get comfort wherever you can. Always remember that you’re giving happiness to unknown thousands. Hold on to that thought. You’re going to need it.
DR. FOREST (sinks in his chair again)—Oh, Sheila, do you love me?
SHEILA.—Always.
DR. FOREST.—But you’re leaving me. Mother and I will be alone.
SHEILA.—It’s your choice, Father. Come, Harold.
As she leads HAROLD U C behind his father’s chair, SHEILA pauses with HAROLD a moment, and then, with firm gentleness, leads him across the room, and out U R. DR. FOREST, rising, takes a step toward the portrait, lifts both hands appealingly, and falls on his knees before it.
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