ACT IISCENE.—The Shrine on Saint Decuman’s Island in the Bristol Channel. A living room built round the shrine of the Saint, a fine piece of decayed Decorated Gothic now in the back wall of the room. A large fireplace down right. A door above fireplace. A door left; two windows, one on each side of the shrine, show the sea with the horizon line and the sky above. A bookcase; a table; old oaken panelling, about seven feet high, all round the room, and above them white-washed walls. Red brick floor. Everything very rude and simple, and yet tasteful, as if it had been done by the village mason and carpenter underMICHAEL’Sdirection. Time, a September evening. DiscoverANDREWGIBBARDpacking a portmanteau, andEDWARDLASHMAR(FATHERHILARY),a Catholic priest, about sixty, very dignified and refined. EnterWITHYCOMBE,an old boatman.WITHY. Now, gentlemen, if yu’me ready to start! If yu daunt come sune, us shall lose the tide down.FATHERH. I’m quite ready, Withycombe, as soon as I have said “Good-bye” to Mr. Feversham.WITHY. Mr. Feversham ain’t coming along with us, then?ANDR. No, he stays on the island all the week, and you are to fetch him on Saturday morning.WITHY. Saturday morning. To-day’s Wednesday. Right you are. Well and good. Saturday morning. Yu’me coming on to Saint Margaret’s along with us, Mr. Gibbard?ANDR. Yes—we can find some accommodation there for the night, can’t we?WITHY. Well, I warn ye ’tis rough.FATHERH. Rougher than my Master had on his first coming here?WITHY. Well, I waun’t say that, but so fur as I can judge ’tis about as rough.FATHERH. Then it will do for me. Where is Mr. Feversham?WITHY. A few minutes agone he wor watching the excursion steamer back to Lowburnham.FATHERH. Will you find him and tell him that I am waiting to start?WITHY. Right you are, sir. Well and good.(Exit.)FATHERH. Andrew—have you noticed any change in Mr. Feversham lately?ANDR. Change, Father?FATHERH. He seems so restless and disturbed, so unlike himself.ANDR. Does he?FATHERH. It’s six years since I was in England. But he was always so calm and concentrated. Has he any trouble, do you know?ANDR. He hasn’t spoken of any.FATHERH. No. But you’re with him constantly. Surely you must have seen the difference in him?ANDR. Yes. He has changed.FATHERH. How long has he been like this?ANDR. The last four months.FATHERH. Do you know of any reason for it?ANDR. He’s coming!EnterMICHAEL.MICH. You’re ready to start, Uncle Ned?FATHERH. Yes. You won’t change your mind and come with us?MICH. No, I must stay here. (Glancing at books, restlessly.) I want to be alone. I couldn’t be of any service to you over at Saint Margaret’s?FATHERH. There is the legend that connects her with Saint Decuman—I suppose no more is to be learnt of that than we already know?MICH. No. The fisher people only know what they have learnt from the guide books.ANDR. (standing with portmanteau). Have you anything more to take to the boat, Father?FATHERH. No, that’s all, Andrew.ANDR. Then I’ll take it down and wait for you there.(ExitANDREWwith portmanteau.)FATHERH. Then this is good-bye, Michael?MICH. Unless you’ll stay over the Sunday at Cleveheddon?FATHERH. No, I’ve done my work in England, and I must be back among my people. I wanted to see the shrines on these two sister islands again before I died. I shall leave Saint Margaret’s to-morrow morning, get back to Cleveheddon, take the afternoon train up to London, and leave for Italy on Friday morning. You’ll come and see me at Majano?MICH. When I can.FATHERH. This winter?MICH. No, not this winter. I shall be at work at once on the restorations now I’ve got all the money.FATHERH. Strange that it should all come so soon within two or three months.MICH. Yes, and from such different quarters of England—a thousand one day from Manchester—five hundred the next from some unheard-of village—and then the last great final gift last week.FATHERH. It looks as if it all came from one giver?MICH. Yes, I had thought that.FATHERH. You don’t know of any one?MICH. I’ve one or two suspicions. However, the great fact is that I have it all, and can set my architects to work.FATHERH. Michael—I was asking Andrew just now, there is something troubling you?MICH. No—no. What makes you think that?FATHERH. You are not yourself. (Pause.) Is it anything where I can be of help?MICH. There is nothing. (Pause.) There has been something. But it is past. (FATHERHILARYlooks grave.) You need have no fear for me.(Holding out hand.)FATHERH. (takes his hand, holds it for a long while, looks gravely at him). If you should ever need a deeper peace than you can find within or around you, come to me in Italy.MICH. But I am at peace now. (Restlessly, pushing his hand through hair, then a little querulously.) I am at peace now. (FATHERHILARYshakes his head.) You think you can give me that deeper peace?FATHERH. I know I can.MICH. I may come to you some day.(WITHYCOMBEputs his head in at door.)WITHY. Now, sir, if yu plaise, we’me losing the tide—us shan’t get to Margaret’s avore supper-time.FATHERH. I’m coming, Withycombe.MICH. Withycombe, you’ll come and fetch me on Saturday morning.WITHY. Saturday morning, twelve o’clock sharp, I’m here. Right you are, Mr. Feversham. Well and good.(Exit.)FATHERH. Good-bye.MICH. Good-bye, Uncle Ned.(Very hearty hand-shake. ExitFATHERHILARY. MICHAELgoes to door, stands looking a few seconds, comes in, turns to his books.)Re-enterFATHERHILARY.MICH. What is it?FATHERH. I don’t like leaving you. Come with me to-night to Margaret’s.MICH. Shall I? Perhaps it would be best—Wait a minute.WITHY. (voice heard of). Now, Mr. Lashmar, if you plaise, sir—we’me losing the tide.MICH. Don’t wait, I’m safe here. Good-bye.FATHERH. (slowly and regretfully). Good-bye.(Exit slowly.MICHAELwatchesFATHERHILARYoff; stays at door for some time, waves his hand, then closes door.)MICH. Now I shall be at peace! (Takes out letter from his pocket.) Her letter! I will not read it! (Puts it back in pocket, kneels and lights the fire.) Why did you come into my life? I did not seek you! You came unbidden, and before I was aware of it you had unlocked the holiest places of my heart. Your skirts have swept through all the gateways of my being. There is a fragrance of you in every cranny of me. You possess me! (Rises.) No! No! No! I will not yield to you! (Takes up book, seats himself at fire, reads a moment or two.) You are there in the fire! Your image plays in the shadows—Oh,my light and my fire, will you burn me up with love for you? (Rises, sighs.) I’m mad! (Pause, very resolutely.) I will be master of myself—I will be servant to none save my work and my God! (Seats himself resolutely, reads a moment or two, then drops book on knees.) The wind that blows round here may perhaps play round her brow, the very breath that met my lips as I stood at the door may meet hers on the shore yonder. (Rises, flings book on table, goes to window; takes out letter again, holds it undecidedly.) Why shouldn’t I read it? Every stroke of it is graven on my heart.—(Opens it.) “Dear keeper of souls in this parish, I have thought so much of our talk last night. I’m inclined to think that I have a soul after all, but it is a most uncomfortable possession. I believe if someone gave me an enormous impulse I might make a saint or a martyr, or anything that’s divine. And I believe there is one man living who could give me that impulse.” “One man living who could give me that impulse—” “But I hope he won’t. Frankly, you may save me at too great cost to yourself. So trouble yourself no further about me. But if after this, you still think my wandering, dangling soul worth a moment of your ghostly care, come and lunch with me to-morrow, and I will give you the sweet plain butter-cakes that you love, on the old blue china. And that our salvation may not be too easy, I will tempt you with one sip of the ancient Johannisburg.” And I went—yes, I went. “But for yourown sake—I speak with all a woman’s care for your earthly and heavenly welfare—I would rather you did not come. Let it be so. Let this be farewell. Perhaps our souls may salute each other in aimless vacancy hereafter, and I will smile as sweet a smile as I can without lips or cheeks to smile with, when I remember as I pass you in the shades that I saved you from your bad angel, Audrie Lesden. P.S. Be wise and let me go.” I cannot! I cannot! Yet if I do not—what remains for me? Torture, hopeless love, neglected duty, work cast aside and spoilt, all my life disordered and wrecked. Oh, if I could be wise—I will! I will tear out this last one dear sweet thought of her. (Goes to fire, tears up the letter in little pieces, watches them burn.) It’s done! I’ve conquered! Now I shall be at peace.(Sits himself resolutely at table, reads. A little tap at the door, he shows surprise; the tap is repeated, he rises, goes to door, opens it. At that momentAUDRIE’Sface appears at the right-hand window for a moment. He looks out, stays there a moment or two, closes door, seats himself again at table, reads. The tap is repeated; he rises,AUDRIEappears at door, he shows a moment of intense delight which he quickly subdues.)AUDR. May I come in? (Pause.) You are busy—I’ll go—MICH. No—(She stops on threshold.) Come in.She enters. He stands motionless at table. Sunset without. It gradually grows darker.MICH. What brings you here?AUDR. You did not expect me. You aren’t accustomed to entertain angels unawares—even bad ones.MICH. (his voice thick and a little hoarse). Your boat, your companions?AUDR. I have no boat, and no companions.MICH. (horrified, delighted). You’re alone?AUDR. Quite alone.MICH. How did you come here?AUDR. By the simplest and most prosaic means in the world. This morning I took the train to Lowburnham to do some shopping. As I was coming back to the station, a boy put this little handbill into my hand. (Showing a little yellow handbill.) Afternoon excursion to Saint Decuman’s and Saint Margaret’s Isles. I had an impulse—I obeyed it. I telegraphed to Cleveheddon for a boat to meet me here at six—(takes out watch)—it only wants ten minutes—and took the excursion steamer. They all landed here for half-an-hour. I hid myself till after the steamer had gone. Then I came up here to your cottage. I heard some voices, so I hid again—who was here?MICH. Only my secretary and my uncle Ned.AUDR. The Catholic priest. I saw a boat leaving—it was they?MICH. Yes.AUDR. They’re not coming back?MICH. No.AUDR. You’re annoyed with me for coming?MICH. No, but wasn’t it a little—imprudent?AUDR. Oh, I must do mad things sometimes, just to preserve my general balance of sanity. Besides, my boat will be here in ten minutes.(Pause.)AUDR. How strange we should be here alone!MICH. The only two beings on this island—we two!AUDR. And our two souls.MICH. I wish you wouldn’t jest with sacred things.AUDR. I won’t. (Suddenly, impulsively.) I want to be good! Help me to be good! You think I’m foolish and light and frivolous! Well, perhaps I am, but when I’m with you I’m capable of anything, anything—except being an ordinary, average, good woman.MICH. But isn’t that all that is required of a woman?AUDR. Perhaps. It’s rather a damnable heritage, isn’t it? And I’m not a barn-door fowl.MICH. What are you?AUDR. Just what you like to make of me. Don’t think I’m flattering you. Don’t think I’m bold and unwomanly. I’m only speaking the truth. You have changed me. I’m ready to do anything, believe anything, suffer anything that you bid me! To-night I’m on a pinnacle! I shall either be snatched up to theskies, or tumble into the abyss. Which will it be, I wonder?MICH. (after a struggle, in a calm voice). Neither, I trust. I hope you will take your boat back in ten minutes, have a good passage across, a comfortable dinner from your pretty blue china, and a sound night’s rest. And to-morrow you will wake and forget this rather imprudent freak.AUDR. Oh, you won’t tread the clouds with me! Very well! Down to the earth we come. I can be as earthly as the very clay itself. But I thought you wanted me to be spiritual.MICH. I want you to be sincere, to be yourself.AUDR. Very well. Tell me how. You are my ghostly father.MICH. No, you’ve never allowed me to be a priest to you.AUDR. I’ve never allowed you?MICH. And I’ve never dared.AUDR. Why not?MICH. Because you’ve never allowed me to forget that I am a man.AUDR. Very well. Don’t be a priest to me—at least not now. Tell me some one thing that you would wish me to do, and I’ll do it!MICH. In that letter you wrote me——AUDR. Did you keep it?MICH. No, I destroyed it.AUDR. Destroyed it!MICH. In that letter you said it would be better for us if we did not meet again——AUDR. No. I said it would be better foryouif we did not meet again.MICH. Better for me?AUDR. Yes, and worse for me. I came here tonight to warn you——MICH. Against what?AUDR. Myself. I’ve done something that may endanger your peace for ever.MICH. What do you mean?AUDR. Sometimes I laugh at it, sometimes I’m frightened. I daren’t tell you what I’ve done. I’ll go.(Goes to door, opens it.)MICH. No. (Stops her.) Mrs. Lesden, what have you done against me? You don’t mean your gifts to the Minster?AUDR. My gifts—what gifts?MICH. During the last four months I’ve constantly received large sums for the restoration of the Minster, and last week a very large sum was sent me, enough to carry out all the work just as I wished.AUDR. Well?MICH. It was you who sent it all.AUDR. I must see if my boatman has come.MICH. (stopping her). No. Why did you send the money—so many different sums from so many different places?AUDR. Because that gave me dozens of pleasuresinstead of one, in sending it. And I thought it would give you dozens of pleasures instead of one, in receiving it.MICH. I knew it was you! How glad I am to owe it all to you! Words couldn’t tell you how grateful I am.AUDR. And yet you wouldn’t walk the clouds with me for a few minutes?MICH. You know that I would do anything in my power for your best, your heavenly welfare.AUDR. I don’t think I care much for my heavenly welfare just at this moment. You tumbled me off my pinnacle, and here I am stuck in the mud. (Looking off at the open door.) Look! That boat is half-way to Saint Margaret’s.MICH. Yes, they sleep there to-night.AUDR. What a queer-looking man your secretary is. Is he quite trustworthy?MICH. Quite. Why?AUDR. I caught him looking at you in a very strange way a week or two back.MICH. He’s devoted to me.AUDR. I’m glad of that. How far is it to Saint Margaret’s?MICH. Three miles.AUDR. Do you believe the legend about Saint Decuman and Saint Margaret?MICH. That they loved each other?AUDR. Yes, on separate islands, and never met.MICH. They denied themselves love here that they might gain heavenly happiness hereafter.AUDR. Now that their hearts have been dust all these hundreds of years, what good is it to them that they denied themselves love?MICH. You think——AUDR. I think a little love on this earth is worth a good many paradises hereafter. It’s a cold world, hereafter. It chills me to the bone when I think of it! (Shivers a little and comes away from the door.) I’m getting a little cold.MICH. (placing chair). Sit by the fire.(She sits near fire, which is blazing up; he goes and closes door.)AUDR. (putting on some logs). Do I know you well enough to make your fire for you?MICH. I hope so.(She sits; he stands above her for some seconds, watching her keenly; a long pause.)AUDR. You were looking at me. What were you thinking of?MICH. I was wondering what memories are stored in that white forehead.AUDR. Memories? (Long sigh.) A few bright ones, and many sad ones.MICH. Your past life was not happy?AUDR. (a little shudder of recollection). No. And yours? Tell me——MICH. What?AUDR. Something about your past life, something you’ve never told to a living creature.MICH. When I was twenty——AUDR. Stay—what were you like when you were twenty? (Shuts her eyes, puts her hand over them.) Now I can see you when you were twenty.MICH. Is there anyone with me?AUDR. No, I can’t see her. What was she like? Fair or dark?MICH. Fair, with changing grey eyes that could be serious or merry as she pleased, and fine clear features, and the sweetest provoking mouth——AUDR. I hate her. Who was she?MICH. Miss Standerwick’s niece. She stayed there all the summer that year.AUDR. Was that a happy summer?MICH. The happiest I have ever known—till this.AUDR. Ah!MICH. I used to go to evening church and follow them home, and wait outside till I could see the candle in her window. When it went out I used to walk home.AUDR. Across those fields where we walked the other night?MICH. Yes.AUDR. I’ll never walk that way again. Go on.MICH. One night as I was waiting, she came out suddenly. I couldn’t speak for trembling. At last I found my tongue, and we talked about sillycommon-place things. When she was going in I dared to breathe, “Give me one kiss.” She didn’t answer. I just touched her cheek with my lips, and I whispered, “Good-night, Nelly.” She said, “Good-night, Mike.”AUDR. She called you Mike?MICH. I was called Mike when I was a boy.AUDR. And your next meeting?MICH. She was called away early the next morning to her father’s deathbed. Her mother went abroad. I never saw her again. Tell me something about your past life.AUDR. Can you see me when I was eight? I was a pretty little brown maid, and I set all aflame the heart of a cherub aged ten, with strong fat legs and curly red hair. His sister was my dearest friend. He spent all his pocket-money in buying sugar-plums for me, and gave them to her to give to me. She ate them herself, and slandered me to him, for she said I was false. He kicked her on the nose, and was sent far—far away to school. This was the first tragedy of my life. Now tell me some more of your life. You have had other romances, darker, deeper ones?MICH. Nothing that I dare show. I have told you of the one love of my youth. And you—— Have you had darker, deeper romances?AUDR. I was unhappy without romance. I would show you all my heart, all my thoughts, all my life, if I could do it as one shows a picture, and let it speak for itself. I wonder if you’d condemn me——MICH. Condemn you!AUDR. I don’t think you would. You have never guessed——MICH. Guessed——AUDR. What a world there is within oneself that one never dares speak of! I wish to hide nothing from you. I would have you know me through and through for just the woman that I am, just that and no other, because, don’t you see—I don’t want to cheat you of a farthing’s-worth of esteem on false pretences—I want you to like me, Audrie Lesden, and not some myth of your imagination. But if you were armed with all the tortures of hell for plucking the truth about myself from my lips, I should still hide myself from you. So, guess, guess, guess, grand inquisitor—what is here (tapping her forehead) and here! (Putting her hand on her heart.) You’ll never guess one thousandth part of the truth!MICH. But tell me something in your past life that you have never told to another creature.AUDR. I have two great secrets—one is about yourself, one is about another man.MICH. Myself? Another man?AUDR. My husband.MICH. You said you had been unhappy.AUDR. I married as thousands of girls do, carelessly, thoughtlessly. I was married for my money. No one had ever told me that love was sacred.MICH. Nobody ever does tell us that, till we hear it from our own hearts.AUDR. I suppose it was my own fault. I was very well punished.MICH. How long were you married?AUDR. Two years.MICH. And then your husband died?AUDR. He went away from me. I never saw him again—alive. (Passionately.) And there’s an end of him!MICH. I won’t ask you what that secret is. I would wish you to keep it sacred. But your secret about myself? Surely I may ask that?AUDR. I have sold you to the devil.MICH. What?AUDR. I have sold myself, too.MICH. Still jesting?AUDR. No, I did it in real, deep earnest.MICH. I don’t understand you.AUDR. Six months ago I was tired, gnawn to the very heart with ennui, and one hot restless night I happened to take up your book, “The Hidden Life.” It came to me—oh, like a breath of the purest, freshest air in a fevered room. I thought I should like to know you. I got up early, took the first morning train down here, looked about the place, saw the Island House was to let, and rented it for three years.MICH. Well?AUDR. I got Mr. Docwray to give me an introductionto you. You annoyed me, you were so cold and priestlike. Each time I saw you, you piqued and angered me more and more. I longed to get some power over you. At last one day after you had been so frozen and distant a little black imp jumped into my brain and whispered to me. I said to the devil, “Give this sculptured saint to me, and I’ll give both our souls to you.”MICH. But you didn’t mean it?AUDR. Yes. I said it with all my heart, and I bit my arm—look—(Showing her arm.) I made the teeth meet. There’s the mark. If there is a devil, he heard me.MICH. And you think he has given me to you?AUDR. The next time I saw you, you let me kiss your mother’s portrait.MICH. Ah!AUDR. But you don’t really believe there is a devil? Why don’t you speak? Why don’t you laugh at me and tell me it’s all nonsense? I haven’t really given the devil power over your soul?MICH. No devil has any power over any soul of man until the man himself first gives him entrance and consent.AUDR. And you haven’t! Say you don’t care for me.MICH. How can I say that?AUDR. You must! I’m not strong enough to leave you of my own free will. I shall hang about you,worry you, tease you, tempt you, and at last, destroy you. Don’t let me do it! Beat me away from you, insult me, do something to make me hate you! Make me leave you!MICH. When I love you with all my being?AUDR. (shows great delight). And you dare go on? It’s an awful delight to think that a man would dare to risk hell for one! There aren’t many men who would dare lose this world for the woman they love—how many men are there that would dare to lose the other?MICH. We must lose this world, for I am vowed away from all earthly things. But why should we lose the other? Why should we not make our love the lever to raise our souls? You do love me?AUDR. Love is hardly the word. It is more like—if a man could create a dog, and be her master, friend, father, and God, I think she would feel towards him something of what I feel towards you. You have first made me know what love is, what life is. You have changed me thoroughly—no, you have changed half of me thoroughly—one half is still worthless, silly, capricious, hollow, worldly, and bad—that’s my old self. She is gradually withering up under your influence, that old Audrie Lesden. The other half is looking out of my eyes at you now! Look! do you see the new Audrie Lesden that is your daughter and your creature? Aren’t you proud of her?MICH. I shall be proud of her when she is fullgrown and dares to leave me of her own free will, because she loves me, and because I am vowed to Heaven!AUDR. Do I tempt you? I’ll go. You love me. That’s enough, or it should be enough. I’ll get back to London to-morrow, and strangle the new Audrie. Then the old Audrie will come back again, and live the old weary, dry, empty life—and grow old and wrinkled and heartless and perhaps—rouged——MICH. Why do you tear me so? What do you want of me here or hereafter? Take it! It’s yours——AUDR. You dare go on—now you know?MICH. Yes.AUDR. Ah! I thought it was only women who dared hell for love. I won’t take your sacrifice—I will leave you.MICH. You will? Yes, it must be so! My work, my vows—I cannot, may not taste of earthly love. Oh, it’s cruel to dash the cup from my lips! (Pause; then very calmly.) You are right! I feel that we are choosing heaven or hell for both our souls this night! Help me to choose heaven for you, and I’ll help you to choose heaven for me.AUDR. Good-bye, my love, for ever. Be brave—and very cold to me, now. Be like marble—and death.MICH. (takes her hand; a very long pause; then speaks very calmly). It is victory, isn’t it? We haveconquered? I’ll go down to the bay and see if your boat has come.(By this time it is dark outside.)AUDR. Half-past six. I shall have a cold, dark voyage.MICH. And it is just a little rough. But Hannaford is a careful boatman.AUDR. It’s not Hannaford who is coming for me. I telegraphed for Withycombe.MICH. (pause—very pale and cold). Withycombe? But you always employ Hannaford?AUDR. Yes; and I did write out one telegram to him, and then I thought I should like to go back in the boat that always takes you. So I tore up the telegram to Hannaford, and telegraphed to Withycombe.MICH. Withycombe?AUDR. Yes, what’s the matter?MICH. He lives alone. When he goes out, he locks up his cottage. Your telegram will wait at the post office.AUDR. Why?MICH. Withycombe has gone over to Saint Margaret’s with Gibbard and my uncle. They stay there the night.AUDR. Your own boat?MICH. I had it towed back last week, so that I couldn’t be tempted to come to you.AUDR. Then——?MICH. (looks at her). No boat will come to-night.(Looks at her more intently.) No boat will come to-night!(They stand looking at each other.)VERYSLOWCURTAIN.(Two nights and a day—from Wednesday evening to Friday morning—pass between Acts II. and III.)
SCENE.—The Shrine on Saint Decuman’s Island in the Bristol Channel. A living room built round the shrine of the Saint, a fine piece of decayed Decorated Gothic now in the back wall of the room. A large fireplace down right. A door above fireplace. A door left; two windows, one on each side of the shrine, show the sea with the horizon line and the sky above. A bookcase; a table; old oaken panelling, about seven feet high, all round the room, and above them white-washed walls. Red brick floor. Everything very rude and simple, and yet tasteful, as if it had been done by the village mason and carpenter underMICHAEL’Sdirection. Time, a September evening. DiscoverANDREWGIBBARDpacking a portmanteau, andEDWARDLASHMAR(FATHERHILARY),a Catholic priest, about sixty, very dignified and refined. EnterWITHYCOMBE,an old boatman.
WITHY. Now, gentlemen, if yu’me ready to start! If yu daunt come sune, us shall lose the tide down.
FATHERH. I’m quite ready, Withycombe, as soon as I have said “Good-bye” to Mr. Feversham.
WITHY. Mr. Feversham ain’t coming along with us, then?
ANDR. No, he stays on the island all the week, and you are to fetch him on Saturday morning.
WITHY. Saturday morning. To-day’s Wednesday. Right you are. Well and good. Saturday morning. Yu’me coming on to Saint Margaret’s along with us, Mr. Gibbard?
ANDR. Yes—we can find some accommodation there for the night, can’t we?
WITHY. Well, I warn ye ’tis rough.
FATHERH. Rougher than my Master had on his first coming here?
WITHY. Well, I waun’t say that, but so fur as I can judge ’tis about as rough.
FATHERH. Then it will do for me. Where is Mr. Feversham?
WITHY. A few minutes agone he wor watching the excursion steamer back to Lowburnham.
FATHERH. Will you find him and tell him that I am waiting to start?
WITHY. Right you are, sir. Well and good.
(Exit.)
FATHERH. Andrew—have you noticed any change in Mr. Feversham lately?
ANDR. Change, Father?
FATHERH. He seems so restless and disturbed, so unlike himself.
ANDR. Does he?
FATHERH. It’s six years since I was in England. But he was always so calm and concentrated. Has he any trouble, do you know?
ANDR. He hasn’t spoken of any.
FATHERH. No. But you’re with him constantly. Surely you must have seen the difference in him?
ANDR. Yes. He has changed.
FATHERH. How long has he been like this?
ANDR. The last four months.
FATHERH. Do you know of any reason for it?
ANDR. He’s coming!
EnterMICHAEL.
MICH. You’re ready to start, Uncle Ned?
FATHERH. Yes. You won’t change your mind and come with us?
MICH. No, I must stay here. (Glancing at books, restlessly.) I want to be alone. I couldn’t be of any service to you over at Saint Margaret’s?
FATHERH. There is the legend that connects her with Saint Decuman—I suppose no more is to be learnt of that than we already know?
MICH. No. The fisher people only know what they have learnt from the guide books.
ANDR. (standing with portmanteau). Have you anything more to take to the boat, Father?
FATHERH. No, that’s all, Andrew.
ANDR. Then I’ll take it down and wait for you there.
(ExitANDREWwith portmanteau.)
FATHERH. Then this is good-bye, Michael?
MICH. Unless you’ll stay over the Sunday at Cleveheddon?
FATHERH. No, I’ve done my work in England, and I must be back among my people. I wanted to see the shrines on these two sister islands again before I died. I shall leave Saint Margaret’s to-morrow morning, get back to Cleveheddon, take the afternoon train up to London, and leave for Italy on Friday morning. You’ll come and see me at Majano?
MICH. When I can.
FATHERH. This winter?
MICH. No, not this winter. I shall be at work at once on the restorations now I’ve got all the money.
FATHERH. Strange that it should all come so soon within two or three months.
MICH. Yes, and from such different quarters of England—a thousand one day from Manchester—five hundred the next from some unheard-of village—and then the last great final gift last week.
FATHERH. It looks as if it all came from one giver?
MICH. Yes, I had thought that.
FATHERH. You don’t know of any one?
MICH. I’ve one or two suspicions. However, the great fact is that I have it all, and can set my architects to work.
FATHERH. Michael—I was asking Andrew just now, there is something troubling you?
MICH. No—no. What makes you think that?
FATHERH. You are not yourself. (Pause.) Is it anything where I can be of help?
MICH. There is nothing. (Pause.) There has been something. But it is past. (FATHERHILARYlooks grave.) You need have no fear for me.
(Holding out hand.)
FATHERH. (takes his hand, holds it for a long while, looks gravely at him). If you should ever need a deeper peace than you can find within or around you, come to me in Italy.
MICH. But I am at peace now. (Restlessly, pushing his hand through hair, then a little querulously.) I am at peace now. (FATHERHILARYshakes his head.) You think you can give me that deeper peace?
FATHERH. I know I can.
MICH. I may come to you some day.
(WITHYCOMBEputs his head in at door.)
WITHY. Now, sir, if yu plaise, we’me losing the tide—us shan’t get to Margaret’s avore supper-time.
FATHERH. I’m coming, Withycombe.
MICH. Withycombe, you’ll come and fetch me on Saturday morning.
WITHY. Saturday morning, twelve o’clock sharp, I’m here. Right you are, Mr. Feversham. Well and good.
(Exit.)
FATHERH. Good-bye.
MICH. Good-bye, Uncle Ned.
(Very hearty hand-shake. ExitFATHERHILARY. MICHAELgoes to door, stands looking a few seconds, comes in, turns to his books.)
Re-enterFATHERHILARY.
MICH. What is it?
FATHERH. I don’t like leaving you. Come with me to-night to Margaret’s.
MICH. Shall I? Perhaps it would be best—Wait a minute.
WITHY. (voice heard of). Now, Mr. Lashmar, if you plaise, sir—we’me losing the tide.
MICH. Don’t wait, I’m safe here. Good-bye.
FATHERH. (slowly and regretfully). Good-bye.
(Exit slowly.MICHAELwatchesFATHERHILARYoff; stays at door for some time, waves his hand, then closes door.)
MICH. Now I shall be at peace! (Takes out letter from his pocket.) Her letter! I will not read it! (Puts it back in pocket, kneels and lights the fire.) Why did you come into my life? I did not seek you! You came unbidden, and before I was aware of it you had unlocked the holiest places of my heart. Your skirts have swept through all the gateways of my being. There is a fragrance of you in every cranny of me. You possess me! (Rises.) No! No! No! I will not yield to you! (Takes up book, seats himself at fire, reads a moment or two.) You are there in the fire! Your image plays in the shadows—Oh,my light and my fire, will you burn me up with love for you? (Rises, sighs.) I’m mad! (Pause, very resolutely.) I will be master of myself—I will be servant to none save my work and my God! (Seats himself resolutely, reads a moment or two, then drops book on knees.) The wind that blows round here may perhaps play round her brow, the very breath that met my lips as I stood at the door may meet hers on the shore yonder. (Rises, flings book on table, goes to window; takes out letter again, holds it undecidedly.) Why shouldn’t I read it? Every stroke of it is graven on my heart.—(Opens it.) “Dear keeper of souls in this parish, I have thought so much of our talk last night. I’m inclined to think that I have a soul after all, but it is a most uncomfortable possession. I believe if someone gave me an enormous impulse I might make a saint or a martyr, or anything that’s divine. And I believe there is one man living who could give me that impulse.” “One man living who could give me that impulse—” “But I hope he won’t. Frankly, you may save me at too great cost to yourself. So trouble yourself no further about me. But if after this, you still think my wandering, dangling soul worth a moment of your ghostly care, come and lunch with me to-morrow, and I will give you the sweet plain butter-cakes that you love, on the old blue china. And that our salvation may not be too easy, I will tempt you with one sip of the ancient Johannisburg.” And I went—yes, I went. “But for yourown sake—I speak with all a woman’s care for your earthly and heavenly welfare—I would rather you did not come. Let it be so. Let this be farewell. Perhaps our souls may salute each other in aimless vacancy hereafter, and I will smile as sweet a smile as I can without lips or cheeks to smile with, when I remember as I pass you in the shades that I saved you from your bad angel, Audrie Lesden. P.S. Be wise and let me go.” I cannot! I cannot! Yet if I do not—what remains for me? Torture, hopeless love, neglected duty, work cast aside and spoilt, all my life disordered and wrecked. Oh, if I could be wise—I will! I will tear out this last one dear sweet thought of her. (Goes to fire, tears up the letter in little pieces, watches them burn.) It’s done! I’ve conquered! Now I shall be at peace.
(Sits himself resolutely at table, reads. A little tap at the door, he shows surprise; the tap is repeated, he rises, goes to door, opens it. At that momentAUDRIE’Sface appears at the right-hand window for a moment. He looks out, stays there a moment or two, closes door, seats himself again at table, reads. The tap is repeated; he rises,AUDRIEappears at door, he shows a moment of intense delight which he quickly subdues.)
AUDR. May I come in? (Pause.) You are busy—I’ll go—
MICH. No—(She stops on threshold.) Come in.
She enters. He stands motionless at table. Sunset without. It gradually grows darker.
MICH. What brings you here?
AUDR. You did not expect me. You aren’t accustomed to entertain angels unawares—even bad ones.
MICH. (his voice thick and a little hoarse). Your boat, your companions?
AUDR. I have no boat, and no companions.
MICH. (horrified, delighted). You’re alone?
AUDR. Quite alone.
MICH. How did you come here?
AUDR. By the simplest and most prosaic means in the world. This morning I took the train to Lowburnham to do some shopping. As I was coming back to the station, a boy put this little handbill into my hand. (Showing a little yellow handbill.) Afternoon excursion to Saint Decuman’s and Saint Margaret’s Isles. I had an impulse—I obeyed it. I telegraphed to Cleveheddon for a boat to meet me here at six—(takes out watch)—it only wants ten minutes—and took the excursion steamer. They all landed here for half-an-hour. I hid myself till after the steamer had gone. Then I came up here to your cottage. I heard some voices, so I hid again—who was here?
MICH. Only my secretary and my uncle Ned.
AUDR. The Catholic priest. I saw a boat leaving—it was they?
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. They’re not coming back?
MICH. No.
AUDR. You’re annoyed with me for coming?
MICH. No, but wasn’t it a little—imprudent?
AUDR. Oh, I must do mad things sometimes, just to preserve my general balance of sanity. Besides, my boat will be here in ten minutes.
(Pause.)
AUDR. How strange we should be here alone!
MICH. The only two beings on this island—we two!
AUDR. And our two souls.
MICH. I wish you wouldn’t jest with sacred things.
AUDR. I won’t. (Suddenly, impulsively.) I want to be good! Help me to be good! You think I’m foolish and light and frivolous! Well, perhaps I am, but when I’m with you I’m capable of anything, anything—except being an ordinary, average, good woman.
MICH. But isn’t that all that is required of a woman?
AUDR. Perhaps. It’s rather a damnable heritage, isn’t it? And I’m not a barn-door fowl.
MICH. What are you?
AUDR. Just what you like to make of me. Don’t think I’m flattering you. Don’t think I’m bold and unwomanly. I’m only speaking the truth. You have changed me. I’m ready to do anything, believe anything, suffer anything that you bid me! To-night I’m on a pinnacle! I shall either be snatched up to theskies, or tumble into the abyss. Which will it be, I wonder?
MICH. (after a struggle, in a calm voice). Neither, I trust. I hope you will take your boat back in ten minutes, have a good passage across, a comfortable dinner from your pretty blue china, and a sound night’s rest. And to-morrow you will wake and forget this rather imprudent freak.
AUDR. Oh, you won’t tread the clouds with me! Very well! Down to the earth we come. I can be as earthly as the very clay itself. But I thought you wanted me to be spiritual.
MICH. I want you to be sincere, to be yourself.
AUDR. Very well. Tell me how. You are my ghostly father.
MICH. No, you’ve never allowed me to be a priest to you.
AUDR. I’ve never allowed you?
MICH. And I’ve never dared.
AUDR. Why not?
MICH. Because you’ve never allowed me to forget that I am a man.
AUDR. Very well. Don’t be a priest to me—at least not now. Tell me some one thing that you would wish me to do, and I’ll do it!
MICH. In that letter you wrote me——
AUDR. Did you keep it?
MICH. No, I destroyed it.
AUDR. Destroyed it!
MICH. In that letter you said it would be better for us if we did not meet again——
AUDR. No. I said it would be better foryouif we did not meet again.
MICH. Better for me?
AUDR. Yes, and worse for me. I came here tonight to warn you——
MICH. Against what?
AUDR. Myself. I’ve done something that may endanger your peace for ever.
MICH. What do you mean?
AUDR. Sometimes I laugh at it, sometimes I’m frightened. I daren’t tell you what I’ve done. I’ll go.
(Goes to door, opens it.)
MICH. No. (Stops her.) Mrs. Lesden, what have you done against me? You don’t mean your gifts to the Minster?
AUDR. My gifts—what gifts?
MICH. During the last four months I’ve constantly received large sums for the restoration of the Minster, and last week a very large sum was sent me, enough to carry out all the work just as I wished.
AUDR. Well?
MICH. It was you who sent it all.
AUDR. I must see if my boatman has come.
MICH. (stopping her). No. Why did you send the money—so many different sums from so many different places?
AUDR. Because that gave me dozens of pleasuresinstead of one, in sending it. And I thought it would give you dozens of pleasures instead of one, in receiving it.
MICH. I knew it was you! How glad I am to owe it all to you! Words couldn’t tell you how grateful I am.
AUDR. And yet you wouldn’t walk the clouds with me for a few minutes?
MICH. You know that I would do anything in my power for your best, your heavenly welfare.
AUDR. I don’t think I care much for my heavenly welfare just at this moment. You tumbled me off my pinnacle, and here I am stuck in the mud. (Looking off at the open door.) Look! That boat is half-way to Saint Margaret’s.
MICH. Yes, they sleep there to-night.
AUDR. What a queer-looking man your secretary is. Is he quite trustworthy?
MICH. Quite. Why?
AUDR. I caught him looking at you in a very strange way a week or two back.
MICH. He’s devoted to me.
AUDR. I’m glad of that. How far is it to Saint Margaret’s?
MICH. Three miles.
AUDR. Do you believe the legend about Saint Decuman and Saint Margaret?
MICH. That they loved each other?
AUDR. Yes, on separate islands, and never met.
MICH. They denied themselves love here that they might gain heavenly happiness hereafter.
AUDR. Now that their hearts have been dust all these hundreds of years, what good is it to them that they denied themselves love?
MICH. You think——
AUDR. I think a little love on this earth is worth a good many paradises hereafter. It’s a cold world, hereafter. It chills me to the bone when I think of it! (Shivers a little and comes away from the door.) I’m getting a little cold.
MICH. (placing chair). Sit by the fire.
(She sits near fire, which is blazing up; he goes and closes door.)
AUDR. (putting on some logs). Do I know you well enough to make your fire for you?
MICH. I hope so.
(She sits; he stands above her for some seconds, watching her keenly; a long pause.)
AUDR. You were looking at me. What were you thinking of?
MICH. I was wondering what memories are stored in that white forehead.
AUDR. Memories? (Long sigh.) A few bright ones, and many sad ones.
MICH. Your past life was not happy?
AUDR. (a little shudder of recollection). No. And yours? Tell me——
MICH. What?
AUDR. Something about your past life, something you’ve never told to a living creature.
MICH. When I was twenty——
AUDR. Stay—what were you like when you were twenty? (Shuts her eyes, puts her hand over them.) Now I can see you when you were twenty.
MICH. Is there anyone with me?
AUDR. No, I can’t see her. What was she like? Fair or dark?
MICH. Fair, with changing grey eyes that could be serious or merry as she pleased, and fine clear features, and the sweetest provoking mouth——
AUDR. I hate her. Who was she?
MICH. Miss Standerwick’s niece. She stayed there all the summer that year.
AUDR. Was that a happy summer?
MICH. The happiest I have ever known—till this.
AUDR. Ah!
MICH. I used to go to evening church and follow them home, and wait outside till I could see the candle in her window. When it went out I used to walk home.
AUDR. Across those fields where we walked the other night?
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. I’ll never walk that way again. Go on.
MICH. One night as I was waiting, she came out suddenly. I couldn’t speak for trembling. At last I found my tongue, and we talked about sillycommon-place things. When she was going in I dared to breathe, “Give me one kiss.” She didn’t answer. I just touched her cheek with my lips, and I whispered, “Good-night, Nelly.” She said, “Good-night, Mike.”
AUDR. She called you Mike?
MICH. I was called Mike when I was a boy.
AUDR. And your next meeting?
MICH. She was called away early the next morning to her father’s deathbed. Her mother went abroad. I never saw her again. Tell me something about your past life.
AUDR. Can you see me when I was eight? I was a pretty little brown maid, and I set all aflame the heart of a cherub aged ten, with strong fat legs and curly red hair. His sister was my dearest friend. He spent all his pocket-money in buying sugar-plums for me, and gave them to her to give to me. She ate them herself, and slandered me to him, for she said I was false. He kicked her on the nose, and was sent far—far away to school. This was the first tragedy of my life. Now tell me some more of your life. You have had other romances, darker, deeper ones?
MICH. Nothing that I dare show. I have told you of the one love of my youth. And you—— Have you had darker, deeper romances?
AUDR. I was unhappy without romance. I would show you all my heart, all my thoughts, all my life, if I could do it as one shows a picture, and let it speak for itself. I wonder if you’d condemn me——
MICH. Condemn you!
AUDR. I don’t think you would. You have never guessed——
MICH. Guessed——
AUDR. What a world there is within oneself that one never dares speak of! I wish to hide nothing from you. I would have you know me through and through for just the woman that I am, just that and no other, because, don’t you see—I don’t want to cheat you of a farthing’s-worth of esteem on false pretences—I want you to like me, Audrie Lesden, and not some myth of your imagination. But if you were armed with all the tortures of hell for plucking the truth about myself from my lips, I should still hide myself from you. So, guess, guess, guess, grand inquisitor—what is here (tapping her forehead) and here! (Putting her hand on her heart.) You’ll never guess one thousandth part of the truth!
MICH. But tell me something in your past life that you have never told to another creature.
AUDR. I have two great secrets—one is about yourself, one is about another man.
MICH. Myself? Another man?
AUDR. My husband.
MICH. You said you had been unhappy.
AUDR. I married as thousands of girls do, carelessly, thoughtlessly. I was married for my money. No one had ever told me that love was sacred.
MICH. Nobody ever does tell us that, till we hear it from our own hearts.
AUDR. I suppose it was my own fault. I was very well punished.
MICH. How long were you married?
AUDR. Two years.
MICH. And then your husband died?
AUDR. He went away from me. I never saw him again—alive. (Passionately.) And there’s an end of him!
MICH. I won’t ask you what that secret is. I would wish you to keep it sacred. But your secret about myself? Surely I may ask that?
AUDR. I have sold you to the devil.
MICH. What?
AUDR. I have sold myself, too.
MICH. Still jesting?
AUDR. No, I did it in real, deep earnest.
MICH. I don’t understand you.
AUDR. Six months ago I was tired, gnawn to the very heart with ennui, and one hot restless night I happened to take up your book, “The Hidden Life.” It came to me—oh, like a breath of the purest, freshest air in a fevered room. I thought I should like to know you. I got up early, took the first morning train down here, looked about the place, saw the Island House was to let, and rented it for three years.
MICH. Well?
AUDR. I got Mr. Docwray to give me an introductionto you. You annoyed me, you were so cold and priestlike. Each time I saw you, you piqued and angered me more and more. I longed to get some power over you. At last one day after you had been so frozen and distant a little black imp jumped into my brain and whispered to me. I said to the devil, “Give this sculptured saint to me, and I’ll give both our souls to you.”
MICH. But you didn’t mean it?
AUDR. Yes. I said it with all my heart, and I bit my arm—look—(Showing her arm.) I made the teeth meet. There’s the mark. If there is a devil, he heard me.
MICH. And you think he has given me to you?
AUDR. The next time I saw you, you let me kiss your mother’s portrait.
MICH. Ah!
AUDR. But you don’t really believe there is a devil? Why don’t you speak? Why don’t you laugh at me and tell me it’s all nonsense? I haven’t really given the devil power over your soul?
MICH. No devil has any power over any soul of man until the man himself first gives him entrance and consent.
AUDR. And you haven’t! Say you don’t care for me.
MICH. How can I say that?
AUDR. You must! I’m not strong enough to leave you of my own free will. I shall hang about you,worry you, tease you, tempt you, and at last, destroy you. Don’t let me do it! Beat me away from you, insult me, do something to make me hate you! Make me leave you!
MICH. When I love you with all my being?
AUDR. (shows great delight). And you dare go on? It’s an awful delight to think that a man would dare to risk hell for one! There aren’t many men who would dare lose this world for the woman they love—how many men are there that would dare to lose the other?
MICH. We must lose this world, for I am vowed away from all earthly things. But why should we lose the other? Why should we not make our love the lever to raise our souls? You do love me?
AUDR. Love is hardly the word. It is more like—if a man could create a dog, and be her master, friend, father, and God, I think she would feel towards him something of what I feel towards you. You have first made me know what love is, what life is. You have changed me thoroughly—no, you have changed half of me thoroughly—one half is still worthless, silly, capricious, hollow, worldly, and bad—that’s my old self. She is gradually withering up under your influence, that old Audrie Lesden. The other half is looking out of my eyes at you now! Look! do you see the new Audrie Lesden that is your daughter and your creature? Aren’t you proud of her?
MICH. I shall be proud of her when she is fullgrown and dares to leave me of her own free will, because she loves me, and because I am vowed to Heaven!
AUDR. Do I tempt you? I’ll go. You love me. That’s enough, or it should be enough. I’ll get back to London to-morrow, and strangle the new Audrie. Then the old Audrie will come back again, and live the old weary, dry, empty life—and grow old and wrinkled and heartless and perhaps—rouged——
MICH. Why do you tear me so? What do you want of me here or hereafter? Take it! It’s yours——
AUDR. You dare go on—now you know?
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. Ah! I thought it was only women who dared hell for love. I won’t take your sacrifice—I will leave you.
MICH. You will? Yes, it must be so! My work, my vows—I cannot, may not taste of earthly love. Oh, it’s cruel to dash the cup from my lips! (Pause; then very calmly.) You are right! I feel that we are choosing heaven or hell for both our souls this night! Help me to choose heaven for you, and I’ll help you to choose heaven for me.
AUDR. Good-bye, my love, for ever. Be brave—and very cold to me, now. Be like marble—and death.
MICH. (takes her hand; a very long pause; then speaks very calmly). It is victory, isn’t it? We haveconquered? I’ll go down to the bay and see if your boat has come.
(By this time it is dark outside.)
AUDR. Half-past six. I shall have a cold, dark voyage.
MICH. And it is just a little rough. But Hannaford is a careful boatman.
AUDR. It’s not Hannaford who is coming for me. I telegraphed for Withycombe.
MICH. (pause—very pale and cold). Withycombe? But you always employ Hannaford?
AUDR. Yes; and I did write out one telegram to him, and then I thought I should like to go back in the boat that always takes you. So I tore up the telegram to Hannaford, and telegraphed to Withycombe.
MICH. Withycombe?
AUDR. Yes, what’s the matter?
MICH. He lives alone. When he goes out, he locks up his cottage. Your telegram will wait at the post office.
AUDR. Why?
MICH. Withycombe has gone over to Saint Margaret’s with Gibbard and my uncle. They stay there the night.
AUDR. Your own boat?
MICH. I had it towed back last week, so that I couldn’t be tempted to come to you.
AUDR. Then——?
MICH. (looks at her). No boat will come to-night.(Looks at her more intently.) No boat will come to-night!
(They stand looking at each other.)
VERYSLOWCURTAIN.
(Two nights and a day—from Wednesday evening to Friday morning—pass between Acts II. and III.)