ACT IIISCENE.—The Vicarage parlour, as in first act. Morning. EnterMICHAEL,haggard, troubled, with self-absorbed expression, the expression of a man trying to realize that he has committed a great and irrevocable sin; he stands for some moments helpless, dreamy, as if unconscious of his whereabouts; then looks round; his eyes fall upon his mother’s picture, he shudders a little, shows intense pain. At length he goes up the steps, takes the picture down, places it on the floor with its face against the wall, carefully avoiding all the while to look at it. He then moves to table in the same dreamy, helpless, self-absorbed state, sits, looks in front of him. EnterANDREW,comes up behind him.MICH. Oh, Andrew—— Well?ANDR. (coming up to him). I want to consult you on that passage in the Arabic—if you can spare the time.MICH. Bring the manuscripts here. (MICHAELunconsciously looks at his hands.) What are you looking at?ANDR. Nothing. Your hands are blistered?MICH. I did a little rowing—the other day. Bring the manuscripts.(ANDREWgoes to door.)MICH. Andrew—(ANDREWstops)—I was very restless—did you hear me stirring in the night?ANDR. Stirring?MICH. Yes, I couldn’t sleep. I got up about one and went out—walked about for some hours—it was nearly light when I came in again. Did you hear me?ANDR. (pauses, then answers). No.(Is about to go off at right door whenFANNYenters left. He stops.)FANNY. Mrs. Lesden wishes to see you for a minute or two about one of her cottagers.(ANDREWwatchesMICHAELkeenly, but unobtrusively.)MICH. (after a little start of surprise, in a tone of affected carelessness). Show her in.(ExitANDREW,right. ExitFANNY, left.MICHAELrises, shows great perturbation, walks about, watches the door for her entrance.)Re-enterFANNY,left, showing inAUDRIE.FANNY. Mrs. Lesden.(ExitFANNY. MICHAELandAUDRIEstand looking at each other for some seconds; then he goes to her, takes her hand, kisses it with great reverence, motions her to a chair; she sits. He holds out to her the palms of his hands with a rueful smile, shows they are much blistered as if with rowing.)AUDR. Poor hands!MICH. I’m not used to rowing.(Pause.)AUDR. I didn’t thank you.MICH. Thank me!AUDR. (pause). Wasn’t it a terrible voyage, terrible and delightful? But we ought to have been drowned together!MICH. Oh, don’t say that—in sin! To be lost in sin!AUDR. I’d rather be lost with you than saved with anyone else.MICH. You mustn’t speak like this——AUDR. It won’t be right, you know, unless we are lost or saved together, will it?MICH. Hush! Hush!(Pause.)AUDR. You’re sorry?MICH. No. And you?AUDR. No. Is all safe, do you think?MICH. Yes, I believe so.AUDR. Didn’t that strange secretary of yours think it curious that you came back on Thursday instead of Saturday?MICH. No. I explained that when Withycombe brought me your telegram I thought it better to return at once in case you had started to come, and had been somehow lost.AUDR. Let us go carefully through it all as it happened, to make sure. To-day is Friday. On Wednesday I telegraphed to Withycombe to be at the landing-place at Saint Decuman’s with a boat at six o’clock in the evening to bring me back home from there.MICH. Yes.AUDR. But being a strange creature and quite unaccountable for my actions, I changed my mind, and instead of coming to Saint Decuman’s I went up to London, stayed there all day yesterday, and returned by the night mail, reaching home at seven this morning.MICH. Yes.AUDR. Meantime Withycombe has gone to Saint Margaret’s with your uncle, stays there Wednesday night and does not get my telegram till his return home yesterday afternoon. He consults my servants, who know nothing of my whereabouts, consults Mr. Gibbard, who advises him to go to Saint Decuman’s and see if I am there. He reaches Saint Decuman’s last evening. You are surprised when he shows you the telegram—you explain that I am not there, that I have not been there, that you’ve seen nothing of me. (Very tenderly.) Dear, I felt so sorry for you when I heard you blundering and stammering through your tale to Withycombe.MICH. Why?AUDR. I knew the pain and shame it caused you to say what wasn’t true. I wished I could have told all the lies for you.MICH. No, no. Isn’t the truth dear to you?AUDR. Not in comparison with you. Besides, I shall be let off my fibs and little sins very cheaply, much more cheaply than you’ll be, great serious person.MICH. You grieve me to the heart when you speak like this——AUDR. (penitent). I won’t! I won’t! I’ll be very good and quite serious. Where were we? Well, you explain to Withycombe that I have never been to Saint Decuman’s, and at the same time you also change your mind and return with him last evening instead of staying till Saturday.MICH. You’ve seen Withycombe and told him you went to London?AUDR. Yes.MICH. He suspects nothing?AUDR. No, I made it all quite clear to him.MICH. And your servants?AUDR. They’re used to my absences. They think nothing of it.MICH. Then all is safe. The matter will never be heard of again—except——AUDR. Except?MICH. In our two hearts, and in the High Court where such cases are tried.(With an inclination of the head and finger towards heaven.)AUDR. Don’t preach, and—don’t regret.MICH. I won’t—only how strange it all is!AUDR. What?MICH. (quiet, calm voice throughout, smiling a little). How men try to make their religion square with their practice! I was hard, cruelly hard, on that poor little girl of Andrew’s. I was sure it was for the good of her soul that she should stand up and confess in public. But now it comes to my own self, I make excuses; I hide, and cloak, and equivocate, and lie—what a hypocrite I am!AUDR. Ah, you’re sorry!MICH. No, I’m strangely happy and—dazed. I feel nothing, except my great joy, and a curious bitter amusement in tracing it all out.AUDR. Tracing what out?MICH. The hundred little chances, accidents as we call them, that gave us to each other. Everything I did to avoid you threw me at your feet. I felt myself beginning to love you. I wrote urgently to Uncle Ned in Italy, thinking I’d tell him and that he would save me. He came—I couldn’t tell him of you, but his coming kept Withycombe from getting your telegram. I went to Saint Decuman’s to escape from you. You were moved to come to me. I sent away my own boat to put the sea between us; and so I imprisoned you with me. Six years ago I used all my influence to have the new lighthouse built on Saint Margaret’s Isle instead of Saint Decuman’s, so that I might keep Saint Decuman’s lonely for myself and prayer. I keptit lonely for myself andyou.It was what we call a chance I didn’t go to Saint Margaret’s with Andrew and my uncle. It was what we call a chance that you telegraphed to my boatman instead of your own. If any one thing had gone differently——AUDR. (shaking her head). We couldn’t have missed each other in this world. It’s no use blaming chance or fate, or whatever it is.MICH. I blame nothing. I am too happy. Besides, Chance? Fate? I had the mastery of all these things. They couldn’t have conquered me if my own heart hadn’t first yielded. You mustn’t stay here. (Turning towards her with great tenderness.) Oh, I’m glad that no stain rests upon you through me——AUDR. Don’t trouble about me. I have been thinking of you. Your character?MICH. My character! My character! My character!AUDR. (glances up at the place where the portrait had hung). Where is she?(He points to the picture on the floor.)MICH. I daren’t look at her. I must hide it until——AUDR. Until?MICH. Until we have done what we can to atone for this.AUDR. What?MICH. Repent, confess, submit to any penancethat be enjoined us. And then if and when it shall be permitted us—marriage.AUDR. Marriage?MICH. Retirement from all who know us, and lifelong consecration of ourselves to poverty and good works, so that at the last we may perhaps win forgiveness for what we have done.AUDR. Marriage?Re-enterANDREWwith manuscripts.ANDR. I beg pardon. I thought Mrs. Lesden had gone. (Puts manuscripts on table and is going off.)AUDR. I am just going, Mr. Gibbard.ANDR. (turns and speaks to her). I met a stranger on the beach yesterday evening. He inquired for you and the way to your house.AUDR. Indeed.ANDR. He asked a great many questions about you.AUDR. What questions?ANDR. How you lived in this quiet place, and who were your friends, and where you were yesterday.AUDR. Did he give his name?ANDR. I didn’t ask for it. I suppose he’s staying in the place. I saw him at the door of the George later in the evening.AUDR. One of my London friends, I suppose. What did you reply to his questions?ANDR. I told him Mr. Feversham was one of yourfriends, but as I didn’t know where you were yesterday, of course I couldn’t tell him, could I?(Looks at her, exit.)AUDR. Did you notice that?MICH. Notice what?AUDR. The look that man gave me as he went out. Does he suspect us?MICH. Impossible.AUDR. I feel sure he does. Send for him and question him at once. I’ll go.EnterFANNYwith a letter.FANNY. For you, ma’am.(Giving letter toAUDRIE,who glances at it, shows a sharp, frightened surprise, instantly concealed, and then stands motionless.)FANNY. The gentleman’s waiting for an answer.AUDR. (very quiet, cold voice). I’ll come at once.(ExitFANNY.)MICH. What’s the matter?AUDR. Nothing. Question that man. Find out if he knows anything. I’ll come back as soon as I can.(Exit, without opening letter.)MICH. (follows her to door, closes it after her, then goes to right door, calls). Andrew.Re-enterANDREW.MICH. What is this passage you’re in difficulty about?ANDR. (comes to him with old manuscripts). What’s the matter?MICH. My head is dizzy this morning.ANDR. Didn’t you say you couldn’t sleep?MICH. What time did you get back from Saint Margaret’s yesterday?ANDR. About twelve.MICH. You saw my uncle off by the afternoon train?ANDR. Yes.MICH. And then? (ANDREWdoes not reply.) You were surprised to find me coming back with Withycombe instead of staying till Saturday?ANDR. No.MICH. Withycombe’s message about the telegram a little disturbed me. (A little pause, watchingANDREW.) I thought perhaps Mrs. Lesden might have started to come to Saint Decuman’s (pause, still watchingANDREW), and been lost on the way.ANDR. Did you?MICH. She is such a strange, flighty creature, that I should scarcely be surprised at anything she took it into her head to do.ANDR. (looking him full in the face). She went up to London, didn’t she?MICH. (wincing a little). Yes.ANDR. And came back through the night by the mail?MICH. Yes. Why do you look at me like that?ANDR. I beg your pardon. Is there any other question you’d like to ask me?MICH. Question? About what?ANDR. About Mrs. Lesden—or anything that’s troubling you.MICH. Troubling me? I’m not troubled about anything.ANDR. Oh! I thought perhaps you were. (Going.)MICH. Andrew. (ANDREWstops.) I’ve been thinking about—about Rose.ANDR. Have you?MICH. Perhaps I was wrong in urging her to confess.ANDR. It isn’t much good thinking that now, is it?MICH. No, except to ask you to forgive me, and to say that you don’t cherish any ill-feeling against me on that account.ANDR. I forgive you, and I don’t cherish any ill-feeling against you on that or any account.MICH. I may trust you entirely, Andrew?ANDR. If you doubt it—try me.MICH. Try you?ANDR. Didn’t I tell you to ask me any question you like?MICH. (alarmed). What do you mean? (Pause, looks atANDREW.) Enough. I trust you absolutely—(looks at him)—in everything.ANDR. You may.(Is again going.)MICH. No, Andrew, nothing has occurred—I wasafraid—it seemed so strange—this telegram business. What are you thinking about me?ANDR. Take care, sir. Don’t betray yourself to anybody but me.MICH. Betray myself?ANDR. You’re a worse bungler at lying than I was. Don’t look like that, or other people will guess. Don’t give way. You’re safe. Nobody but me suspects anything. Your character is quite safe—her character is quite safe. They’re both in my keeping.MICH. (stares helplessly at him). How did you know?ANDR. I’ve suspected for some time past——MICH. You were wrong. There was nothing to suspect. It was a chance, an accident—there was no intention to deceive. What made you guess?ANDR. When Withycombe brought the telegram to me I guessed something was wrong. I heard you go out in the middle of the night. I followed you down to the beach; I saw you put off; I waited for you to come back. I was on the top of the cliff just above you when you landed with her. I saw you come on here, and I watched her take the road to the station, and saw her come back to her home as if she had come in by the early morning train.MICH. What are you going to do?ANDR. Nothing. Don’t I owe everything I am and everything I have in this world to you? I shall never breathe a word of what I know to a living soul.MICH. Thank you, Andrew. Thank you. And you’ll be sure above all that she is safe——ANDR. As safe as if I were in the grave. You go your way, just the same as if I didn’t know.MICH. Andrew.ANDR. (comes back). Sir——MICH. (breaking down). I was harsh and cruel to Rose. I punished her more than she deserved. I was a hard, self-righteous priest! I hadn’t been tempted myself then. Send for her to come home again! Comfort her and give her the best place in your heart. Write at once. Let her come back to-morrow! Oh, what weak, wretched Pharisees we are! What masks of holiness we wear! What whited sepulchres we are! Send for her! Make up to her for all she has suffered! Let me ask her pardon! Oh, Andrew, have pity on me! Forgive me, forgive me!(Bending his head in tears.ANDREWsteals out of the room. A long pause.AUDRIEappears at window in the same place as in Act I., looks in, sees him, taps the window, he goes up to it.)AUDR. Let me in. Quickly. I want to speak to you.(He goes to door, opens it; a moment later she enters.)MICH. Well?AUDR. Why didn’t you take my warning? Why didn’t you beat me, drive me, hound me away from you as I told you?MICH. What now?AUDR. Say you’ll forgive me before I tell you! No, don’t forgive me!MICH. I don’t understand you. Is anything discovered?AUDR. What does that matter? Oh, don’t hate me. If you say one unkind word to me I shall kill myself. Read the letter which came here to me just now.(He takes the letter wonderingly.)MICH. Whom did it come from?AUDR. My husband.MICH. Your husband? (She nods.) Your husband! He is alive?(She nods.)AUDR. (with a laugh). Didn’t I tell you I should ruin you body and soul? (He stands overwhelmed.) Why do you stand there? Why don’t you do something? (Laughing at him.) I say, ghostly father, we make a pretty pair, you and I, don’t we? What shall we do? Confess in white sheets and candles together, you and I? Why don’t you do something—(Laughing at him.) And you stand there like a stone saint. (Comes up to him.) Kill me and have done with me!MICH. You said your husband died after two years.AUDR. I said I never saw him again—alive. I thought then that I never should.MICH. But—you believed he was dead. You believed he was dead—(She does not reply.) You didn’t know the night before last that your husband was living?AUDR. Don’t I tell you to kill me and have done with it.MICH. (horrified). You knew he was living?AUDR. (very imploringly). I love you, I love you. Say one word to me! Say one word to me! Say you forgive me.MICH. I forgive you. (Stands overwhelmed.) Take this letter——(Offering it.)AUDR. I didn’t mean to do this. Do make excuses for me. We lived unhappily together. When I came into all my money I bargained with him that we would never see each other again. It was a fair bargain—a contract. He went away to America—I gave out he was dead. From that time to this I have never had a thought of his return. He was dead to me. He has no right to come and spoil my life. Read that letter from him.MICH. No—take it.(Gives the letter back.)AUDR. Tell me what to do.MICH. I’m not fit to advise you.AUDR. What can we do?MICH. I don’t know. We’re up a blind alley with our sin. There’s no way out of this.AUDR. I shall defy him.MICH. No.AUDR. Yes. A bargain’s a bargain. I shall go back and defy him. I’ll never see him again. But then—what then? What will you do?MICH. Don’t think of me.AUDR. Speak to me. Say one word. Oh, it has been on the tip of my tongue so many times to tell you all, but I couldn’t bear to lose your love, so I deceived you. (He walks about perplexed. She goes to him very gently and coaxingly.) Say you aren’t sorry—say that deep down in your inmost heart you aren’t sorry for what is past!MICH. Sorry? No. God forgive me. I’m not sorry. I can’t be sorry. I wish I could.AUDR. (coming to him). Ah, now I know you love me! If you only dare be as bold as I dare——MICH. Bold?AUDR. We love each other. Our loves and lives are in our own hands.MICH. (repulses her, braces himself to stern resolve, very coldly and commandingly). Listen! These are perhaps the last words I shall ever speak to you. The past is past. There’s no way out of that. But the future is in our power. Can’t you see, woman, that we are half-way down the precipice? We’ll go no further. From this moment we part; I toil back to repentance and peace one way, you toil back another. So far as God will give me grace I’ll never think of you from this moment—I’ll spend all my life in putting a gulf between you and me. You do the same—ask only one thing for yourself and me, that we may forget each other.AUDR. (looks at him, smiles, sighs, then as she is going off). I was right about man’s love. You areall cowards. There’s not one of you that doesn’t think first of his comfort, or his pocket, or his honour, or his skin, or his soul, and second of the woman he thinks he loves. Forget you? (A little laugh.) Do you think that possible? Do you think I was jesting with you when I gave myself to you? Forget you? (A little laugh.) My memory is good for such trifles. Forget you?MICH. (with a wild revulsion). Oh, take me where you will! I have no guide but you! Heaven, hell, wherever you go, I shall follow. Be sure of that. But won’t you be my better angel, now I’ve lost her: If you love me as you say, you can yet be the master influence of my life, you can yet save yourself through me, and me through you. Won’t you make our love a monument for good? Dearest of all, I’m at your feet—I think you come from heaven, and I’m all obedience to you. You are my angel. Lead me—Lead me, not back to sin—Lead me towards heaven—You can even now!AUDR. What do you wish me to do?MICH. Go back to your duty and to deep repentance. Have strength, dearest. These are not idle words—duty, purity, holiness. They mean something. Love is nothing without them. Have courage to tread the hard road. Leave me.AUDR. If I leave you now, shall we meet one day—hereafter?MICH. Yes.AUDR. You’re sure? You do believe it?MICH. With all my heart.AUDR. And you’ll stay here and carry on your work, restore the Minster, and let me think that I’m helping you.MICH. I can’t do that now.AUDR. Yes.MICH. No.AUDR. Yes.MICH. But with that money—your money!AUDR. Many churches are built with sinners’ money. Do this for me.MICH. If I dared—if it would come to good.—You know how dear a hope it has been to me all my life through.AUDR. Do it, because I ask it. You will?MICH. And you’ll leave me, leave this place, because I ask it. You will?AUDR. I love you. I obey you.(She comes to him.)MICH. No, I daren’t come near to you. You’ll go?(He opens the door; she passes out; re-enters.)AUDR. Listen to this. Whatever happens, I shall never belong to anybody but you. You understand? (MICHAELbows his head.) I shall never belong to anybody but you, Mike.(She goes out again. He closes door, goes up to window. She passes. He watches her off, stays there some moments.)Re-enterANDREW.MICHAELcomes from window; the two men stand looking at each other.ANDR. You won’t begin work this morning, I suppose?MICH. (firmly). Yes. (Goes to table, motionsANDREWto one chair, seats himself opposite. They take up the manuscripts.) Where is the place?ANDR. Fifty-first psalm, verse three. (MICHAELwinces, turns over the manuscript.) Have you found it? What are you looking at?MICH. (gets up suddenly). I can’t bear it.ANDR. Can’t bear what?(MICHAELstands looking at him with terror.)ANDR. (rises, comes to him). Don’t I tell you that all is safe. I shan’t blab. Nobody shall ever know.MICH. Butyouknow!ANDR. I shall never remind you of it.MICH. But you do, you do! Your presence reminds me.ANDR. Shall I leave you now and come again by-and-by?MICH. (with an effort). No, stay. (Points to seat.ANDREWseats himself.) You’ve sent for Rose to come home?ANDR. No.MICH. No?ANDR. I don’t want to have her in this place where everybody knows about her.MICH. Won’t you send for her, Andrew—to please me?ANDR. She’s well enough where she is. (Pointing to the manuscripts.) Shall we go on?MICH. What ought I to do, Andrew?ANDR. Don’t you know what you ought to do?MICH. What?ANDR. Mete out to yourself the same measure you meted to others.MICH. Confess—in public. I can’t! I can’t! I daren’t! I’m a coward, a weak miserable coward! Don’t judge me harshly, Andrew! Don’t be hard on me!(Covering his face with his hands.)ANDR. (cold, firm). Come, sir! shall we get on with our work? (Reading manuscript.) “For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.”(MICHAELuncovers his face and sits staring atANDREW,who sits cold and grim on the other side of the table.)Very slow curtain.(A year passes between Acts III. and IV.)
SCENE.—The Vicarage parlour, as in first act. Morning. EnterMICHAEL,haggard, troubled, with self-absorbed expression, the expression of a man trying to realize that he has committed a great and irrevocable sin; he stands for some moments helpless, dreamy, as if unconscious of his whereabouts; then looks round; his eyes fall upon his mother’s picture, he shudders a little, shows intense pain. At length he goes up the steps, takes the picture down, places it on the floor with its face against the wall, carefully avoiding all the while to look at it. He then moves to table in the same dreamy, helpless, self-absorbed state, sits, looks in front of him. EnterANDREW,comes up behind him.
MICH. Oh, Andrew—— Well?
ANDR. (coming up to him). I want to consult you on that passage in the Arabic—if you can spare the time.
MICH. Bring the manuscripts here. (MICHAELunconsciously looks at his hands.) What are you looking at?
ANDR. Nothing. Your hands are blistered?
MICH. I did a little rowing—the other day. Bring the manuscripts.
(ANDREWgoes to door.)
MICH. Andrew—(ANDREWstops)—I was very restless—did you hear me stirring in the night?
ANDR. Stirring?
MICH. Yes, I couldn’t sleep. I got up about one and went out—walked about for some hours—it was nearly light when I came in again. Did you hear me?
ANDR. (pauses, then answers). No.
(Is about to go off at right door whenFANNYenters left. He stops.)
FANNY. Mrs. Lesden wishes to see you for a minute or two about one of her cottagers.
(ANDREWwatchesMICHAELkeenly, but unobtrusively.)
MICH. (after a little start of surprise, in a tone of affected carelessness). Show her in.
(ExitANDREW,right. ExitFANNY, left.MICHAELrises, shows great perturbation, walks about, watches the door for her entrance.)
Re-enterFANNY,left, showing inAUDRIE.
FANNY. Mrs. Lesden.
(ExitFANNY. MICHAELandAUDRIEstand looking at each other for some seconds; then he goes to her, takes her hand, kisses it with great reverence, motions her to a chair; she sits. He holds out to her the palms of his hands with a rueful smile, shows they are much blistered as if with rowing.)
AUDR. Poor hands!
MICH. I’m not used to rowing.
(Pause.)
AUDR. I didn’t thank you.
MICH. Thank me!
AUDR. (pause). Wasn’t it a terrible voyage, terrible and delightful? But we ought to have been drowned together!
MICH. Oh, don’t say that—in sin! To be lost in sin!
AUDR. I’d rather be lost with you than saved with anyone else.
MICH. You mustn’t speak like this——
AUDR. It won’t be right, you know, unless we are lost or saved together, will it?
MICH. Hush! Hush!
(Pause.)
AUDR. You’re sorry?
MICH. No. And you?
AUDR. No. Is all safe, do you think?
MICH. Yes, I believe so.
AUDR. Didn’t that strange secretary of yours think it curious that you came back on Thursday instead of Saturday?
MICH. No. I explained that when Withycombe brought me your telegram I thought it better to return at once in case you had started to come, and had been somehow lost.
AUDR. Let us go carefully through it all as it happened, to make sure. To-day is Friday. On Wednesday I telegraphed to Withycombe to be at the landing-place at Saint Decuman’s with a boat at six o’clock in the evening to bring me back home from there.
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. But being a strange creature and quite unaccountable for my actions, I changed my mind, and instead of coming to Saint Decuman’s I went up to London, stayed there all day yesterday, and returned by the night mail, reaching home at seven this morning.
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. Meantime Withycombe has gone to Saint Margaret’s with your uncle, stays there Wednesday night and does not get my telegram till his return home yesterday afternoon. He consults my servants, who know nothing of my whereabouts, consults Mr. Gibbard, who advises him to go to Saint Decuman’s and see if I am there. He reaches Saint Decuman’s last evening. You are surprised when he shows you the telegram—you explain that I am not there, that I have not been there, that you’ve seen nothing of me. (Very tenderly.) Dear, I felt so sorry for you when I heard you blundering and stammering through your tale to Withycombe.
MICH. Why?
AUDR. I knew the pain and shame it caused you to say what wasn’t true. I wished I could have told all the lies for you.
MICH. No, no. Isn’t the truth dear to you?
AUDR. Not in comparison with you. Besides, I shall be let off my fibs and little sins very cheaply, much more cheaply than you’ll be, great serious person.
MICH. You grieve me to the heart when you speak like this——
AUDR. (penitent). I won’t! I won’t! I’ll be very good and quite serious. Where were we? Well, you explain to Withycombe that I have never been to Saint Decuman’s, and at the same time you also change your mind and return with him last evening instead of staying till Saturday.
MICH. You’ve seen Withycombe and told him you went to London?
AUDR. Yes.
MICH. He suspects nothing?
AUDR. No, I made it all quite clear to him.
MICH. And your servants?
AUDR. They’re used to my absences. They think nothing of it.
MICH. Then all is safe. The matter will never be heard of again—except——
AUDR. Except?
MICH. In our two hearts, and in the High Court where such cases are tried.
(With an inclination of the head and finger towards heaven.)
AUDR. Don’t preach, and—don’t regret.
MICH. I won’t—only how strange it all is!
AUDR. What?
MICH. (quiet, calm voice throughout, smiling a little). How men try to make their religion square with their practice! I was hard, cruelly hard, on that poor little girl of Andrew’s. I was sure it was for the good of her soul that she should stand up and confess in public. But now it comes to my own self, I make excuses; I hide, and cloak, and equivocate, and lie—what a hypocrite I am!
AUDR. Ah, you’re sorry!
MICH. No, I’m strangely happy and—dazed. I feel nothing, except my great joy, and a curious bitter amusement in tracing it all out.
AUDR. Tracing what out?
MICH. The hundred little chances, accidents as we call them, that gave us to each other. Everything I did to avoid you threw me at your feet. I felt myself beginning to love you. I wrote urgently to Uncle Ned in Italy, thinking I’d tell him and that he would save me. He came—I couldn’t tell him of you, but his coming kept Withycombe from getting your telegram. I went to Saint Decuman’s to escape from you. You were moved to come to me. I sent away my own boat to put the sea between us; and so I imprisoned you with me. Six years ago I used all my influence to have the new lighthouse built on Saint Margaret’s Isle instead of Saint Decuman’s, so that I might keep Saint Decuman’s lonely for myself and prayer. I keptit lonely for myself andyou.It was what we call a chance I didn’t go to Saint Margaret’s with Andrew and my uncle. It was what we call a chance that you telegraphed to my boatman instead of your own. If any one thing had gone differently——
AUDR. (shaking her head). We couldn’t have missed each other in this world. It’s no use blaming chance or fate, or whatever it is.
MICH. I blame nothing. I am too happy. Besides, Chance? Fate? I had the mastery of all these things. They couldn’t have conquered me if my own heart hadn’t first yielded. You mustn’t stay here. (Turning towards her with great tenderness.) Oh, I’m glad that no stain rests upon you through me——
AUDR. Don’t trouble about me. I have been thinking of you. Your character?
MICH. My character! My character! My character!
AUDR. (glances up at the place where the portrait had hung). Where is she?
(He points to the picture on the floor.)
MICH. I daren’t look at her. I must hide it until——
AUDR. Until?
MICH. Until we have done what we can to atone for this.
AUDR. What?
MICH. Repent, confess, submit to any penancethat be enjoined us. And then if and when it shall be permitted us—marriage.
AUDR. Marriage?
MICH. Retirement from all who know us, and lifelong consecration of ourselves to poverty and good works, so that at the last we may perhaps win forgiveness for what we have done.
AUDR. Marriage?
Re-enterANDREWwith manuscripts.
ANDR. I beg pardon. I thought Mrs. Lesden had gone. (Puts manuscripts on table and is going off.)
AUDR. I am just going, Mr. Gibbard.
ANDR. (turns and speaks to her). I met a stranger on the beach yesterday evening. He inquired for you and the way to your house.
AUDR. Indeed.
ANDR. He asked a great many questions about you.
AUDR. What questions?
ANDR. How you lived in this quiet place, and who were your friends, and where you were yesterday.
AUDR. Did he give his name?
ANDR. I didn’t ask for it. I suppose he’s staying in the place. I saw him at the door of the George later in the evening.
AUDR. One of my London friends, I suppose. What did you reply to his questions?
ANDR. I told him Mr. Feversham was one of yourfriends, but as I didn’t know where you were yesterday, of course I couldn’t tell him, could I?
(Looks at her, exit.)
AUDR. Did you notice that?
MICH. Notice what?
AUDR. The look that man gave me as he went out. Does he suspect us?
MICH. Impossible.
AUDR. I feel sure he does. Send for him and question him at once. I’ll go.
EnterFANNYwith a letter.
FANNY. For you, ma’am.
(Giving letter toAUDRIE,who glances at it, shows a sharp, frightened surprise, instantly concealed, and then stands motionless.)
FANNY. The gentleman’s waiting for an answer.
AUDR. (very quiet, cold voice). I’ll come at once.
(ExitFANNY.)
MICH. What’s the matter?
AUDR. Nothing. Question that man. Find out if he knows anything. I’ll come back as soon as I can.
(Exit, without opening letter.)
MICH. (follows her to door, closes it after her, then goes to right door, calls). Andrew.
Re-enterANDREW.
MICH. What is this passage you’re in difficulty about?
ANDR. (comes to him with old manuscripts). What’s the matter?
MICH. My head is dizzy this morning.
ANDR. Didn’t you say you couldn’t sleep?
MICH. What time did you get back from Saint Margaret’s yesterday?
ANDR. About twelve.
MICH. You saw my uncle off by the afternoon train?
ANDR. Yes.
MICH. And then? (ANDREWdoes not reply.) You were surprised to find me coming back with Withycombe instead of staying till Saturday?
ANDR. No.
MICH. Withycombe’s message about the telegram a little disturbed me. (A little pause, watchingANDREW.) I thought perhaps Mrs. Lesden might have started to come to Saint Decuman’s (pause, still watchingANDREW), and been lost on the way.
ANDR. Did you?
MICH. She is such a strange, flighty creature, that I should scarcely be surprised at anything she took it into her head to do.
ANDR. (looking him full in the face). She went up to London, didn’t she?
MICH. (wincing a little). Yes.
ANDR. And came back through the night by the mail?
MICH. Yes. Why do you look at me like that?
ANDR. I beg your pardon. Is there any other question you’d like to ask me?
MICH. Question? About what?
ANDR. About Mrs. Lesden—or anything that’s troubling you.
MICH. Troubling me? I’m not troubled about anything.
ANDR. Oh! I thought perhaps you were. (Going.)
MICH. Andrew. (ANDREWstops.) I’ve been thinking about—about Rose.
ANDR. Have you?
MICH. Perhaps I was wrong in urging her to confess.
ANDR. It isn’t much good thinking that now, is it?
MICH. No, except to ask you to forgive me, and to say that you don’t cherish any ill-feeling against me on that account.
ANDR. I forgive you, and I don’t cherish any ill-feeling against you on that or any account.
MICH. I may trust you entirely, Andrew?
ANDR. If you doubt it—try me.
MICH. Try you?
ANDR. Didn’t I tell you to ask me any question you like?
MICH. (alarmed). What do you mean? (Pause, looks atANDREW.) Enough. I trust you absolutely—(looks at him)—in everything.
ANDR. You may.
(Is again going.)
MICH. No, Andrew, nothing has occurred—I wasafraid—it seemed so strange—this telegram business. What are you thinking about me?
ANDR. Take care, sir. Don’t betray yourself to anybody but me.
MICH. Betray myself?
ANDR. You’re a worse bungler at lying than I was. Don’t look like that, or other people will guess. Don’t give way. You’re safe. Nobody but me suspects anything. Your character is quite safe—her character is quite safe. They’re both in my keeping.
MICH. (stares helplessly at him). How did you know?
ANDR. I’ve suspected for some time past——
MICH. You were wrong. There was nothing to suspect. It was a chance, an accident—there was no intention to deceive. What made you guess?
ANDR. When Withycombe brought the telegram to me I guessed something was wrong. I heard you go out in the middle of the night. I followed you down to the beach; I saw you put off; I waited for you to come back. I was on the top of the cliff just above you when you landed with her. I saw you come on here, and I watched her take the road to the station, and saw her come back to her home as if she had come in by the early morning train.
MICH. What are you going to do?
ANDR. Nothing. Don’t I owe everything I am and everything I have in this world to you? I shall never breathe a word of what I know to a living soul.
MICH. Thank you, Andrew. Thank you. And you’ll be sure above all that she is safe——
ANDR. As safe as if I were in the grave. You go your way, just the same as if I didn’t know.
MICH. Andrew.
ANDR. (comes back). Sir——
MICH. (breaking down). I was harsh and cruel to Rose. I punished her more than she deserved. I was a hard, self-righteous priest! I hadn’t been tempted myself then. Send for her to come home again! Comfort her and give her the best place in your heart. Write at once. Let her come back to-morrow! Oh, what weak, wretched Pharisees we are! What masks of holiness we wear! What whited sepulchres we are! Send for her! Make up to her for all she has suffered! Let me ask her pardon! Oh, Andrew, have pity on me! Forgive me, forgive me!
(Bending his head in tears.ANDREWsteals out of the room. A long pause.AUDRIEappears at window in the same place as in Act I., looks in, sees him, taps the window, he goes up to it.)
AUDR. Let me in. Quickly. I want to speak to you.
(He goes to door, opens it; a moment later she enters.)
MICH. Well?
AUDR. Why didn’t you take my warning? Why didn’t you beat me, drive me, hound me away from you as I told you?
MICH. What now?
AUDR. Say you’ll forgive me before I tell you! No, don’t forgive me!
MICH. I don’t understand you. Is anything discovered?
AUDR. What does that matter? Oh, don’t hate me. If you say one unkind word to me I shall kill myself. Read the letter which came here to me just now.
(He takes the letter wonderingly.)
MICH. Whom did it come from?
AUDR. My husband.
MICH. Your husband? (She nods.) Your husband! He is alive?
(She nods.)
AUDR. (with a laugh). Didn’t I tell you I should ruin you body and soul? (He stands overwhelmed.) Why do you stand there? Why don’t you do something? (Laughing at him.) I say, ghostly father, we make a pretty pair, you and I, don’t we? What shall we do? Confess in white sheets and candles together, you and I? Why don’t you do something—(Laughing at him.) And you stand there like a stone saint. (Comes up to him.) Kill me and have done with me!
MICH. You said your husband died after two years.
AUDR. I said I never saw him again—alive. I thought then that I never should.
MICH. But—you believed he was dead. You believed he was dead—(She does not reply.) You didn’t know the night before last that your husband was living?
AUDR. Don’t I tell you to kill me and have done with it.
MICH. (horrified). You knew he was living?
AUDR. (very imploringly). I love you, I love you. Say one word to me! Say one word to me! Say you forgive me.
MICH. I forgive you. (Stands overwhelmed.) Take this letter——
(Offering it.)
AUDR. I didn’t mean to do this. Do make excuses for me. We lived unhappily together. When I came into all my money I bargained with him that we would never see each other again. It was a fair bargain—a contract. He went away to America—I gave out he was dead. From that time to this I have never had a thought of his return. He was dead to me. He has no right to come and spoil my life. Read that letter from him.
MICH. No—take it.
(Gives the letter back.)
AUDR. Tell me what to do.
MICH. I’m not fit to advise you.
AUDR. What can we do?
MICH. I don’t know. We’re up a blind alley with our sin. There’s no way out of this.
AUDR. I shall defy him.
MICH. No.
AUDR. Yes. A bargain’s a bargain. I shall go back and defy him. I’ll never see him again. But then—what then? What will you do?
MICH. Don’t think of me.
AUDR. Speak to me. Say one word. Oh, it has been on the tip of my tongue so many times to tell you all, but I couldn’t bear to lose your love, so I deceived you. (He walks about perplexed. She goes to him very gently and coaxingly.) Say you aren’t sorry—say that deep down in your inmost heart you aren’t sorry for what is past!
MICH. Sorry? No. God forgive me. I’m not sorry. I can’t be sorry. I wish I could.
AUDR. (coming to him). Ah, now I know you love me! If you only dare be as bold as I dare——
MICH. Bold?
AUDR. We love each other. Our loves and lives are in our own hands.
MICH. (repulses her, braces himself to stern resolve, very coldly and commandingly). Listen! These are perhaps the last words I shall ever speak to you. The past is past. There’s no way out of that. But the future is in our power. Can’t you see, woman, that we are half-way down the precipice? We’ll go no further. From this moment we part; I toil back to repentance and peace one way, you toil back another. So far as God will give me grace I’ll never think of you from this moment—I’ll spend all my life in putting a gulf between you and me. You do the same—ask only one thing for yourself and me, that we may forget each other.
AUDR. (looks at him, smiles, sighs, then as she is going off). I was right about man’s love. You areall cowards. There’s not one of you that doesn’t think first of his comfort, or his pocket, or his honour, or his skin, or his soul, and second of the woman he thinks he loves. Forget you? (A little laugh.) Do you think that possible? Do you think I was jesting with you when I gave myself to you? Forget you? (A little laugh.) My memory is good for such trifles. Forget you?
MICH. (with a wild revulsion). Oh, take me where you will! I have no guide but you! Heaven, hell, wherever you go, I shall follow. Be sure of that. But won’t you be my better angel, now I’ve lost her: If you love me as you say, you can yet be the master influence of my life, you can yet save yourself through me, and me through you. Won’t you make our love a monument for good? Dearest of all, I’m at your feet—I think you come from heaven, and I’m all obedience to you. You are my angel. Lead me—Lead me, not back to sin—Lead me towards heaven—You can even now!
AUDR. What do you wish me to do?
MICH. Go back to your duty and to deep repentance. Have strength, dearest. These are not idle words—duty, purity, holiness. They mean something. Love is nothing without them. Have courage to tread the hard road. Leave me.
AUDR. If I leave you now, shall we meet one day—hereafter?
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. You’re sure? You do believe it?
MICH. With all my heart.
AUDR. And you’ll stay here and carry on your work, restore the Minster, and let me think that I’m helping you.
MICH. I can’t do that now.
AUDR. Yes.
MICH. No.
AUDR. Yes.
MICH. But with that money—your money!
AUDR. Many churches are built with sinners’ money. Do this for me.
MICH. If I dared—if it would come to good.—You know how dear a hope it has been to me all my life through.
AUDR. Do it, because I ask it. You will?
MICH. And you’ll leave me, leave this place, because I ask it. You will?
AUDR. I love you. I obey you.
(She comes to him.)
MICH. No, I daren’t come near to you. You’ll go?
(He opens the door; she passes out; re-enters.)
AUDR. Listen to this. Whatever happens, I shall never belong to anybody but you. You understand? (MICHAELbows his head.) I shall never belong to anybody but you, Mike.
(She goes out again. He closes door, goes up to window. She passes. He watches her off, stays there some moments.)
Re-enterANDREW.MICHAELcomes from window; the two men stand looking at each other.
ANDR. You won’t begin work this morning, I suppose?
MICH. (firmly). Yes. (Goes to table, motionsANDREWto one chair, seats himself opposite. They take up the manuscripts.) Where is the place?
ANDR. Fifty-first psalm, verse three. (MICHAELwinces, turns over the manuscript.) Have you found it? What are you looking at?
MICH. (gets up suddenly). I can’t bear it.
ANDR. Can’t bear what?
(MICHAELstands looking at him with terror.)
ANDR. (rises, comes to him). Don’t I tell you that all is safe. I shan’t blab. Nobody shall ever know.
MICH. Butyouknow!
ANDR. I shall never remind you of it.
MICH. But you do, you do! Your presence reminds me.
ANDR. Shall I leave you now and come again by-and-by?
MICH. (with an effort). No, stay. (Points to seat.ANDREWseats himself.) You’ve sent for Rose to come home?
ANDR. No.
MICH. No?
ANDR. I don’t want to have her in this place where everybody knows about her.
MICH. Won’t you send for her, Andrew—to please me?
ANDR. She’s well enough where she is. (Pointing to the manuscripts.) Shall we go on?
MICH. What ought I to do, Andrew?
ANDR. Don’t you know what you ought to do?
MICH. What?
ANDR. Mete out to yourself the same measure you meted to others.
MICH. Confess—in public. I can’t! I can’t! I daren’t! I’m a coward, a weak miserable coward! Don’t judge me harshly, Andrew! Don’t be hard on me!
(Covering his face with his hands.)
ANDR. (cold, firm). Come, sir! shall we get on with our work? (Reading manuscript.) “For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.”
(MICHAELuncovers his face and sits staring atANDREW,who sits cold and grim on the other side of the table.)
Very slow curtain.
(A year passes between Acts III. and IV.)