My dear sweet obedient Pipito.

You can take him with you if you wish.

Oh, I could just imagine my father's face if I were to return to the vicarage with Pipito.

Oh, besides, he is yours, Edith.

Your own children will be playing with him soon.

- Cousin Margaret, one doesn't say such things. - (Laughs)

Oh, three days.

And you'll be the happy radiant bride.

And then lots of little ones all clamouring for rides on Pipito.

What fun we used to have in this room.

(Piano plays in the next room)

Look. Here is the sample we worked together.

Under that most forbidding governess we had.

''Young ladies must always have clean hands

and press their lips tightly when they chew their food.''

She was an old dragon.

Oh, yes, she was rather.

And this is the bed I lay in the first night I arrived.

A little girI of nine.

I sobbed and sobbed all night.

I tried desperately not to wake you with my sobs.

You lay here. Remember?

You've not regretted it?

Mm?

Regretted being my companion?

What, living here in Harley Street?

1 0 whole years in the most fashionable part of London.

Oh, dear Cousin Edith, what girI in the worId could regret having had such an opportunity?

Then why leave?

My mother would be delighted for you to stay on.

Besides, what hope will there be for you if you bury yourself in the country?

Hope?

There are no husbands in Hampshire.

Not for you.

Come.

Oh, it's beautiful.

You'll marry a man from London.

- I'm certain of it. - Oh, will I?

I'll tell you his name if you like.

You needn't bother. It will not be him.

I promise you that.

- (Giggles) - Edith.

Your mother bids me command you to return to your guests.

They're anxious to examine these Eastern delights.

Part of your trousseau, I believe.

But we have yet to fold them.

Well, you've folded one. Now, that's sufficient. Go and display it.

Margaret and I will follow after with the others.

Good excuse, Henry.

Good excuse.

You're returning to Hampshire then, to Helstone?

Yes.

Why?

Everyone asks me why.

Well?

Well, is it so absurd a thing to want to live away from London for a while?

You say for a while.

You'll return?

Perhaps one day.

When?

Henry, you've become rather importunate.

Margaret, I have good reason.

- You must have guessed at my feelings for you. - Henry, please.

I have never thought of you but as a friend.

Pray let us keep it so.

Forgive me.

Why, Margaret, why?

I've wracked my brains continually.

Knowing all that London has to offer, why should you wish to bury yourself in the country?

Life may be fuller and richer elsewhere.

EIsewhere? Margaret, there is no place for you but London.

Oh, if you could only see the village green and the church.

And the country cottages and the gardens.

- And besides... - Yes?

I want to have a better acquaintance of my parents.

Their humiliation must cease.

What humiliation, pray?

Well, it is generally noised in London that I've been Edith's companion all these years

because my mother suffers from ill-health.

Well, is that not true?

Partly true.

The real reason is that my aunt considered my mother had married beneath her.

That is why I've been, as it were, adopted.

But your father's a clergyman.

Yes. But Papa's living is a very small one.

My father is a man of conscience.

He thinks for himself.

And that is what I intend to do, Henry.

Think for myself.

Dixon, where've you been, my dear? These flowers should be in the drawing room.

I'd finished Miss Margaret's room, ma'am,

so I thought I'd give the furniture in Master Frederick's room an extra bit of polish.

Frederick's room? But why?

Well, I'd like Miss Margaret to see that I've been keeping her brother's room spick and span.

It's a wasted effort, Dixon.

You know as I do he'll never return.

Oh, yes, he will, ma'am.

The day is not far off when you'll have your family under this roof once more.

You mark my words.

Dixon, my son will never come back to England. He can't.

But he's innocent, ma'am.

And there'll prove him innocent.

Dixon, please.

All these years I've tried to protect Margaret from the truth.

She thinks he's happy living in Spain. Well, let her.

- Forgive me, but... - (Horse and carriage)

I think I hear them.

Charlotte, Miss Margaret's here.

Allow me, ma'am.

- Margaret. - Oh, Mama!

- Welcome home. Welcome home, dear. - Oh, dear Mama.

- Had a good journey, Miss Margaret? - Yes, thank you.

How are you, Dixon?

All the better for seeing you back with the family.

- As I said to the mistress, gadding about... - Thank you, Dixon. Thank you.

Come along upstairs, dear.

- Your room's ready. - Thank you.

Dixon, has the... Has the postman called?

There's a letter on the mantelpiece, sir.

And how was the wedding? You must tell me.

Oh, Mama, I should need a whole day to tell you about that.

Such excitement.

And Edith so lovely.

Well, wasn't she, Papa?

Another cup, dear?

No, thank you.

- If you'll excuse me, I'll... - Oh, yes, Richard.

I have a rather urgent letter I must answer.

Certainly, Richard, by all means. Certainly.

Mama...

Tell me, was it a pretty dress?

What is troubling him?

Your father?

Nothing that I know of.

He looks so careworn.

You've grown up now, Margaret.

You see him as others see him.

He's always like that?

Well, I married a scholar.

He's only happy in his books.

But h is worried, isn't he, Mama?

I sometimes think your father enjoys worrying.

Oh, Mama, no.

Well, it's only a small parish. He should be able to cope.

- I shall help him. - Help him?

Yes, he readily commands people's help.

Everyone is sorry for your father.

Oh, I shall enjoy helping him, Mama.

After London, I want a useful life.

Are your shoulders broad enough?

Hm?

If you once start helping him, it'll never stop. That's something I discovered.

But it's not Papa exactly, it's the cares of the parish.

Visiting the old people, reading to them.

Well, perhaps even teaching in the school.

Sacrifice your life to charitable works?

Well, the young do have noble aims.

Fleeting perhaps, but noble.

I seek the alternative to London society, Mama.

And what's that?

No veneer.

No pretence.

The core of things.

The heart.

The truth.

How like your father you are.

In London it is always driving in carriages instead of walking.

Oh, how I long to use my own two feet.

I shall tramp through the woods and across the common.

The warm and scented air against my cheeks.

And what a delight it will be simply to stand and gaze.

Gaze? At what?

Oh, everything, Mama. Everything.

The wild, free living creatures as they bask and revel in the sunshine.

- Margaret. - Yes.

Well, I should warn you, we do have a dreadful lot of rain in the district.

Oh, Mama, what a thing to say!

Well, it's true.

Besides, a young girI of your age should have other interests.

Indeed.

And now that you're home, I must tell your father that we must associate more with the Gormans.

Why the Gormans?

Well, they do have a son.

Mama, I do not want to know the Gormans, father, mother, nor son.

But they're very well-respected.

They made their fortune in trade, did they not? They are coach builders.

And those are the very people I do not want to mix with.

But who will you have as friends now you're home?

- The village is full of them. - Oh?

Cottagers, labourers.

Well, ordinary, simple people who are part of it all.

Those are the friends I want.

- They are? - Yes.

Because I want to be part of it all too.

Don't you see? That is why I am here.

Mama, we really must start thinking about the distribution of winter clothing.

I always rely upon Dixon to tell me about the needy and the truly deserving.

But if you wish, I'll consult her now.

While it's fresh on our minds.

Thank you, Mama.

- Margaret. - Yes, Papa?

Is it of immediate consequence, that tapestry that you're doing?

I would like to speak to you in the study.

Do sit down, my dear.

Well?

My mind is made up.

I'm resolved.

I am leaving the ministry.

Papa...

I can no longer be a minister in the Church of England.

I've prayed to God for guidance.

Night and day.

For years.

But your coming home, Margaret, your honesty and innocence,

has caused me to hold fast to my own integrity.

I believe in God but I cannot accept the Thirty-Nine Articles.

I dissent from the dogma of the established Church.

Papa, have you well considered it?

It seems so terrible.

So shocking.

Listen, Margaret, this is the testimony

of one who was once clergyman in a country parish.

Like myself.

It was written by Mr OIdfield,

the minister of Carsington 1 60 years ago or more.

''When thou canst no longer continue in thy work,

without dishonour to God,

forgoing thy integrity,

wounding conscience,

and hazarding the loss of thy salvation,

thou mayest, yea, thou must believe,

that God will turn thy very silence to his glory.

When God will not use you in one kind, yet he will in another.''

I must do what my conscience bids me, must I not, Margaret?

Assuredly, Papa.

What does Mama say to this?

Your mother...

has always been ambitious for me.

A country parish was not what was in her mind all her years.

She wished me to climb.

A month ago her wish was granted.

The bishop offered me a much better living.

A town parish.

I refused it.

Poor Mama.

Had I accepted I would have had to make a fresh declaration of my conformity.

I would have had to declare again my belief in the whole of the liturgy

and I...

I do not. I cannot.

- Have you acquainted the bishop with all this? - He has been most kind.

He has tried many arguments.

Arguments which I have applied to myself with no avail.

On Sunday, I preach my farewell sermon.

Next Sunday?

But what does Mama say to this?