ACT IVSCENE.—The Chancel of the Minster church of Saint Decuman at Cleveheddon, a beautiful building of Decorated Gothic architecture with signs of recent restoration. The altar and reredos, approached by steps, face the audience, who take up the same position towards it as spectators in the nave would do. Behind the altar a long vista of columns, arches, roof, and stained glass windows. An organ is built in left wall of the chancel at a considerable height. On both sides of the chancel are handsome high carved oak stalls. A large open place in front of the altar steps is flanked on each side by the transepts, which run to right and left of spectators and are filled with chair seats so far as can be seen. A small door in the north wall of the left transept leads to the organ loft. The whole church is most lavishly decorated with banners, hangings, scrolls, and large frescoes, and is smothered with flowers as if in readiness for a church festival. Large brass candlesticks on altar with lighted candles. Time, about nine on an autumn night. An organ voluntary is being played as curtain rises. EnterMICHAELfrom transept. He has aged much, is very pale and emaciated. The voluntary ceases and the organ boy, a lad about fifteen, comes from small door in wall of left transept.WALTER(carelessly). Good-night, sir.MICH. (stopping him, puts his hand on the boy’s head). Good-bye, Walter. (Pause, still detaining him, with considerable feeling.) Good-bye, my dear lad.(Sighs, moves away from him. The boy shows slight respectful surprise and exit along transept. TheOrganistwith keys enters from the little door, looks round the church admiringly.)ORGANIST. Everything ready for the ceremony to-morrow?MICH. Yes, I think, everything.ORGANIST. I was just putting the finishing touches to my music. How beautiful the church looks! You must be very proud and happy now your work is complete.MICH. Not quite complete. I’ve to put the finishing touches to my part—to-morrow.ANDREWenters rather suddenly from transept.ANDR. Can I speak to you for a moment?ORGANIST. Good-night.(Going.)MICH. (detains him). Thank you for all you have done for me, and for the church, and for her services.(Shakes hands warmly. Exit theOrganistby transept.)MICH. Well?ANDR. I thought you’d like to know—Mrs. Lesden has come back to Cleveheddon, and she has brought a lady friend with her.MICH. I know.ANDR. You’ve seen her?(MICHAELlooks at him with great dignity.)ANDR. I beg your pardon.MICH. I’ve not seen her.ANDR. I beg your pardon. It’s no business of mine.(Going.)MICH. (quietly). Yes, it is business of yours.ANDR. What do you mean?MICH. Haven’t you made it the chief business of your life all this last year?ANDR. How? I’ve kept my word. I’ve never reminded you of it.MICH. You’ve never allowed me to forget it for a single moment. Every time you’ve spoken to me, or looked at me, or crossed the room, or passed the window, every time I’ve heard your step on the stairs, or your voice speaking to the servants, you’ve accused me. If you had been in my place I would have been very kind to you, Andrew.ANDR. How did you treat my girl?MICH. I did what I thought was best for her soul.ANDR. Then why don’t you do what is best for your own soul?MICH. I shall.(ANDREWlooks atMICHAELin startled inquiry.)Enter by transeptDOCWRAYandSIRLYOLF.SIRLYOLFis in evening dress under summer overcoat.DOCWRAYpoints out the decorations toSIRLYOLF.ANDR. Why have you sent for Rose to come back to Cleveheddon?MICH. I wish her to be present at the services to-morrow. She is almost due. Go to the station and meet her. Bring her to me here.(SIRLYOLFandDOCWRAYsaunter up towardsMICHAELandANDREW.ANDREWstands perplexed.)MICH. (firmly, toANDREW). Bring her to me here.(ANDREWgoes off through transept, turns to look atMICHAELbefore he goes off.)SIRLYOLF. You didn’t turn up at dinner?MICH. I was too busy.SIRLYOLF. All prepared for to-morrow?MICH. Yes, I think.SIRLYOLF. So it seems Mrs. Lesden has come down from town.MICH. So I understand.SIRLYOLF(MICHAELis listening intently). I thought we had seen the last of her when the long-losthusband returned and took her off to London. By the way, what has become of her husband?MARK. He has gone back to South America.(MICHAELis listening intently.)SIRLYOLF. Gone back to South America?MARK. He only stayed three weeks in England. It is said that she has pensioned him off—he is to keep to his hemisphere, and she is to keep to hers.SIRLYOLF. I don’t like it!MARK. Don’t like what?SIRLYOLF. I don’t like women who pension off their husbands to live in South America.MICH. Do you see much of her in town?MARK. Not much. About every two months she sweeps into church in a whirlwind of finery and perfume, gives me a ridiculously large sum for the offertory, makes some most irreverent joke, or else pretends to be deeply religious——MICH. Pretends?MARK. What can it be but pretence? Look at her life this last year.MICH. What of it?MARK. It has been one continual round of gaiety and excitement except when she was ill.MICH. She has been ill?MARK. Yes, and no wonder.MICH. Why?MARK. She goes everywhere, gives the most extravagant parties, mixes with the fastest, emptiest, Londonset. And she has taken for her companion a silly, flighty little woman, Mrs. Cantelo.SIRLYOLF. I don’t like it! Why has she come back to Cleveheddon just now?MARK. To be present at the dedication service to-morrow, I suppose.SIRLYOLF. Michael——MICH. Well?SIRLYOLF. You know that everybody is asking where all the money came from for these magnificent restorations?MICH. It was sent to me anonymously. The giver wishes to remain unknown.SIRLYOLF. Yes! Yes! That’s what you’ve told us. But of course you know who it is?MICH. I mustn’t speak of it.SIRLYOLF. Forgive me.MICH. Let’s say no more. I’m glad you came here to-night. I’ve been very much perplexed by a confession that has been made to me recently. A priest—you know him, Mark—he is to be present to-morrow—a priest some time ago discovered one of his people in a course of lying and deception, and insisted upon a very severe penalty from the man. And now the priest tells me, that in order to save one very dear to him, he himself has lately been practising exactly the same course of lying and deception. He came to me for advice. I said, “You must pay exactly the same penalty that you demanded from yourparishioner.” But he objects—he says it will bring disgrace on his family, and disgrace on our cloth. He urged all manner of excuses, but I wouldn’t listen to him. He wishes to be present at the dedication service to-morrow. I’ve refused him. Have I done right?SIRLYOLF. Yes, I should say so.MARK. Was it a just penalty?MICH. Yes, I believe so—the just, the only penalty, in my opinion. Have I done right?MARK. Yes, certainly.MICH. I’m glad you both think that. To-morrow before the dedication service begins, I shall stand where I’m standing now and confess that I have been guilty of deadly sin and deceit. Then I shall go out from this place and never return.(They come away from him, staring at him in speechless surprise for some moments.)SIRLYOLF. But—Good Heaven!—what have you done?MICH. (after a long pause). Guess.SIRLYOLF. But you won’t proclaim yourself?MICH. Yes.SIRLYOLF. But your career—your reputation—your opportunities of doing good——MARK. Have you thought what this will mean to you, to us, to the church?MICH. I have thought of nothing else for many months past.SIRLYOLF. Surely there must be some way to avoid a public declaration. (MICHAELshakes his head.) You know I don’t speak for myself. My day is nearly done, but you’re in the full vigour of life, with a great reputation to sustain and increase. Don’t do this—for my sake, for your own sake, for the sake of Heaven, don’t do it!MICH. I must.MARK. What are the circumstances?MICH. I can’t tell you. I wouldn’t have told you so much except that I knew I might trust both of you never to hint or whisper anything against—against any but myself. If you should guess—as most likely you will—the name of my companion in sin, it will never cross your lips? I may ask that of you?SIRLYOLF. You know you may.MARK. Of course we shall say nothing.SIRLYOLF. But—but—— (Sits down overwhelmed.)MARK. Can’t we talk this over further? Have you considered everything?MICH. Everything. I have known for many months that this must come. I have tried to palter and spare myself, but each time the conviction has returned with greater and greater force, “You must do it there, and then, and in that way.”MARK. But you’ve repented?MICH. Most deeply. I have fasted and prayed. I have worn a hair shirt close to my skin. But mysin remains. It isn’t rooted out of my heart. I can’t get rid of its image.MARK. Its image?MICH. (same calm, tranquil, matter-of-fact tone). I believe that every sin has its exact physical image. That just as man is the expression of the thought of God, so our own thoughts and desires and aims, both good and bad, have somewhere or the other their exact material counterpart, their embodiment. The image of my sin is a reptile, a greyish-green reptile, with spikes, and cold eyes without lids. It’s more horrible than any creature that was ever seen. It comes and sits in my heart and watches me with those cold eyes that never shut, and never sleep, and never pity. At first it came only very seldom; these last few months it has scarcely left me day or night, only at night it’s deadlier and more distorted and weighs more upon me. It’s not fancy. Mark, I know, I know, that if I do not get rid of my sin, my hell will be to have that thing sitting beside me for ever and ever, watching me with its cold eyes. But (hopefully) I shall be rid of it after to-morrow.MARK. My poor fellow!SIRLYOLF(rising, coming back toMICHAEL). Michael, can’t you postpone this? Can’t it be at some other time? Not in the very hour which should be the proudest and happiest of your life?MICH. There is no other hour, no other way. (Looks at them both, takes both their hands affectionately.)Tell me (very piteously) that you neither of you love me the less,—or at least say that you love me a little still, after what I’ve told you.SIRLYOLF. Don’t you know?MARK. How can you ask that?ANDREWandROSEappear in the transept.MICH. (toANDREW). One moment, Andrew. (To his father.) I’ve a word or two to say to Andrew.SIRLYOLF. Come and stay the night with me and let us talk this over.MICH. No, I must be alone to-night. Good-night, dear Mark.(MARKwrings his hand.)SIRLYOLF. You are resolved to go through with this? It must be?(MICHAELbows his head.)SIRLYOLF. I can’t be here to-morrow. I couldn’t face it. But (with great affection) I shan’t be far away when you want me. (Very warm handshake.) Come, Mr. Docwray.(ExeuntSIRLYOLFandDOCWRAYby transept.)ANDR. (bringingROSEtoMICHAEL). I’ve brought her.(ROSEis in an Anglican sister’s dress; she is very pale and her manner is subdued. She comes slowly and reverently toMICHAEL,and is going to bend to him. He takes her hands and raises her.)MICH. No. You mustn’t bend to me. I’ve sent for you, Rose, to ask your pardon.ROSE. My pardon?MICH. I made you pass through a terrible ordeal last year. Will you forgive me?ROSE. What should I forgive? You were right. You said it would bring me great peace. And so it has—great peace.MICH. And you wouldn’t undo that morning’s work?ROSE. No. It seems I died that morning and left all my old life in a grave. This is quite a new life. I wouldn’t change it.MICH. Andrew, do you hear that?ANDR. Yes.MICH. I was right, then? I was right? You are happy?ROSE. Yes, I am happy—at least, I’m peaceful, and peace is better than happiness, isn’t it?MICH. Yes, peace is best! Peace is best! I shall find it too, some day. Andrew, she has forgiven me. Can’t you forgive me? We may never see each other again on this side the grave. Don’t let us part in anger!ANDR. Part?MICH. As soon as I can arrange my affairs I shall leave Cleveheddon.ANDR. But your work?MICH. My work is ended. I’ll see that you and Rose are sufficiently provided for.(Taking their hands, trying to join them;ANDREWholds aloof.)ANDR. No. I can’t take any favour from you.MICH. It’s no favour. I’ve trained you to a special work which has unfitted you for everything else. It is my duty to provide for your old age.ANDR. I can’t take any favour from you.MICH. Old comrade (leaning onANDREW’Sshoulder;ANDREWdraws away), old comrade (drawsANDREWto him), we had many happy days together in the summer of our life. Now the autumn has come, now the winter is coming, I’m setting out on a cold, dark journey. Won’t you light a little flame in our old lamp of friendship to cheer me on my way? You’ll take my gift—you’ll take it, and make a home for her?ANDR. (bursts out). You’ll break my heart with your kindness! I don’t deserve it! I was a half-bred, starving dog. You took me in, and, like the hound I am, I turned and bit the hand that fed me. Let me be! Let me be!MICH. Rose, speak to him.ROSE. Father, you are grieving Mr. Feversham.ANDR. I’ll do whatever you tell me. But don’t forgive me.MICH. Take him home, Rose. I parted you. Let me think I have restored you to each other.(Joining them.)ANDR. (toMICHAEL). I can’t say anything to-night. I never was good enough to black your shoes. I can’t thank you. I can’t speak. Good-night. Come, Rose!(MICHAELshakesROSE’Shand very tenderly. ExeuntROSEandANDREWby transept.MICHAELwatches them off, goes to altar.)MICH. (alone). One thing more and all is done. (Looking round the church.) And I must give you up! Never enter your doors, never lead my people through you in chariots of fire, never make you the very presence-chamber of God to my soul and their souls who were committed to me! Oh, if I had been worthy!(A little pause. A woman’s laugh is heard in the transept opposite to that by whichANDREWandROSEhave gone off.MICHAELwithdraws to the side of chancel, where he is seen by the audience, during the following scene, but is hidden fromAUDRIEandMRS. CANTELO.)AUDRIEenters from transept in magnificent evening dress, cloak, and jewellery, and carrying a large basket of roses. Her features are much paler and sharpened, and she shows a constant restlessness and excitement.AUDR. (looks round, calls out). Somebody is here? (Pause, calls out.) Somebody is here? No? (Speaks down transept.) You may come in, Milly.MILLYCANTELO,a fashionable little woman, enters at transept, looking admiringly round the church.AUDR. There’s nobody here except (raising her voice) a stone saint (pointing up to carved figure), andhe can’t hear, because he has only stone ears, and he can’t feel, because he has only a stone heart.(MICHAELshows intense feeling.)MILLY(looking round). Isn’t it gorgeous?AUDR. H’m—yes—— (Raises her voice.) I can’t bear that stone saint. Look how hard and lifeless he is. In a well-regulated world there would be no room for angels or devils, or stone saints, or any such griffins.MILLY. Audrie, you are queer to-night. You’ll be ill again.AUDR. Yes, duckie, I hope so.MILLY. What’s the matter with you?AUDR. Life’s the matter with me, I think. I’ve got it badly, and I don’t know how to cure myself.MILLY. I wish you wouldn’t talk nonsense, and run about on silly errands in the dark.AUDR. I won’t for long. When my head is tightly bandaged in a white cloth, I can’t talk any more nonsense, can I? And when my feet are comfortably tucked up in my final night-gown I can’t run after stone saints in the dark, can I?MILLY. Oh, you give me the creeps. I can’t imagine why you wanted to come out to-night.AUDR. To decorate the church.MILLY. Don’t you think it’s decorated enough?AUDR. (looking). No, it wants a few more touches. I must just titivate a cherub’s nose, or hang a garland on an apostle’s toe, just to show my deep, deep devotion——MILLY. Your deep, deep devotion?AUDR. My deep, deep love, my deep, deep worship, my deep, deep remembrance.MILLY. Of what?AUDR. The church, of course.MILLY. What a heap of money all this must have cost! Who gave it all?AUDR. I gave two hundred pounds when I lived here last year.MILLY. I wonder who gave all the rest!AUDR. I wonder!MILLY. Mr. Feversham must have some very devoted friends.AUDR. So it seems.MILLY. Did you know him very well when you lived here?AUDR. Not very well.MILLY. What sort of a man is he?AUDR. Oh, a very cold, distant man—a good deal of the priest about him, and as much feeling as that stone figure up there.MILLY. You didn’t like him?AUDR. Oh, I liked him well enough. But I don’t think he cared much for me. I dare say he’s forgotten all about me by this time. Milly——(Bursts into tears.)MILLY. What is it?AUDR. I’m not well to-night. I oughtn’t to have come here. Milly—I never forget anybody. If Ihad once loved you I should love you for ever. If you were wicked, or unfortunate, or unfaithful, it would make no difference to me. Kiss me, Milly—say you believe me.MILLY. You know I do, darling.AUDR. (very passionately). I can be constant, Milly—I can! Constant in my friendship, constant in my love! Oh, Milly, I’m the most wretched woman in the world!MILLY. You’re hysterical, dear.AUDR. No, I’m forsaken. Nobody loves me!(Sobbing. Gesture fromMICHAEL.)MILLY. Poor Audrie!AUDR. Let me be a few minutes by myself. I want to be quite alone. Go home and wait for me there.MILLY. I don’t like leaving you.AUDR. (getting her off at transept). Yes—go, dear. I shall be better soon. Do leave me.MILLY. You won’t be long?AUDR. No—I’ll come soon.(Accompanying her along transept. ExitMILLYby transept.AUDRIEstands listening.MICHAELcomes forward a step or two.)AUDR. (in the transept). Are you there?(He comes forward; she goes towards him; they stand for a moment or two looking at each other.)AUDR. Are you deaf? I thought it was only your memory that was gone.MICH. Why have you come here?AUDR. Mayn’t I come into my own church? And such a sinner as I am?MICH. Forgive me. You know how welcome I would make you—if I dared.AUDR. Then you don’t dare? Then I’m not welcome?MICH. (troubled). Yes! Yes! Very welcome! The Church owes much to you.AUDR. I think she does, for she has robbed me of your love. Why have you sent back all my letters unopened?MICH. Can’t you guess what it cost me to return them? (Pause.) What have you been doing all this last year?AUDR. Doing? Eating my heart. Racing through my life to get to the end of it. Skipping and chattering from Hyde Park Corner to the Inferno by a new short cut. What have you been doing?MICH. Trying to repent and to forget.AUDR. Ah, well—I haven’t been wasting my time quite so foolishly as you after all.MICH. Will you never be serious?AUDR. Yes—soon.MICH. You’ve been ill?AUDR. Oh, my dear spiritual doctor, you don’t know how ill I’ve been. I get up every morning without hope, I drag through the day without hope, I go to this thing and that, to this party, to that reception,to the theatre, to church, to a pigeon-shooting match, to the park, to Ascot, to Henley—here, there, everywhere, all without hope.MICH. What is it you want?AUDR. I want to live again! I’ve never lived but those few months when we were learning to love each other! I want to feel that fierce breeze on my cheek that blew us together! Do you remember when we stood on the cliff hand in hand? And we shrieked and laughed down the wind like mad children? Do you remember?MICH. No.AUDR. No? Nor the wonderful pale sunrise, with the lemon and green lakes of light, and then the path of diamonds all across the sea? Don’t you remember?MICH. No.AUDR. How strange you don’t remember! Oh, my God, if I could forget!MICH. (apart from her). Oh, my God, if I could forget! (A long pause. He comes to her.) I have one awful thought—I am bound to you—There is but one of us—I never felt it more than at this moment—And yet the awful thought comes to me—if by any decree we should be put asunder hereafter—if we should be parted then!AUDR. Don’t you dread being parted now—now this moment? Don’t you dread being unhappy here—here on this earth?MICH. I will not think of that. I have vowed!AUDR. You don’t love me! You don’t love me! You don’t love me!MICH. If I had ten thousand worlds I’d sell them all and buy your soul. But I will keep the vow I have vowed. You are the holiest thing on earth to me. I will keep you white and stainless from me.AUDR. You’ll never forget me.MICH. I have forgotten you.AUDR. You’ll never forget me.MICH. (same cold tone, going up the altar steps). I have forgotten you.(Stands with his back to her for a few moments.)AUDR. (with a gesture of resignation). You’ll let me put a bunch or two of flowers about the church before I go?MICH. If I asked you not——AUDR. I should obey you.MICH. I do ask you not——AUDR. Very well. It’s hard lines that I mayn’t decorate my own church.MICH. I have another request to make—a favour to beg of you.AUDR. It’s done, whatever it is. But make it some great thing—something very hard and desperate, that I may show you there’s nothing I would not do if you ask it.MICH. It’s something very simple. I’m going to ask you not to be present at the dedication service to-morrow.AUDR. But I came on purpose——MICH. I beg you not. I have a strong reason. You won’t come?AUDR. Not if you wish me to stay away. Shall I see you after to-morrow?MICH. After to-morrow I leave Cleveheddon for ever.AUDR. Where are you going?MICH. I don’t know.AUDR. It doesn’t matter, I shall find you out.MICH. You’ll follow me?AUDR. Yes—all over this world, and the ten thousand others. I shall follow you. You’ll find me always with you, clawing at your heart. Au revoir. (Takes up her basket of roses, going out with them by transept, stops.) Do let me put some flowers on the altar—just to remind you. Your memory is so bad, you know.(He raises his hand very quietly and turns his back on her. She stands very quiet and hopeless for a few seconds, then takes up the basket of flowers, goes a step or two towards transept, turns.)AUDR. I’m going to be very ill after this. (He stands at altar in an attitude of prayer, his back to her.) Do you hear, I’m going to be very ill? There’s a little string in my heart—I’ve just heard it snap. (Pause.) If I were dying and I sent for you, would you come?MICH. (after a long pause, very quietly). Yes.(Pause.)AUDR. And that’s all? And that’s all? (He stands unmoved at altar, his back to her. She takes a large red rose out of the basket, throws it towards him; it falls on the white marble altar steps.) There’s a flower for to-morrow! Do put it on the altar for me! You won’t? You won’t? (No answer.) It is hard to be turned out of my own church—It is hard——(ExitAUDRIEby transept with the basket of flowers. A sob is heard,MICHAELturns round. A door is heard to close. He puts out the altar lights, throws himself on altar steps. The curtains fall.The falling of the curtains signifies the passing of the night.A peal of joyous church bells followed by organ music and singing. The curtain rises and discovers the church in broad daylight and filled with worshippers.ANDREWandROSEare at the corner in prominent positions.AUDRIE’Sflower is lying on the altar steps. A processional hymn is being sung. A procession of surpliced priests file up the aisle and take their places in the chancel, walking overAUDRIE’Srose.MICHAELfollows at the end of the procession; as he reaches the altar steps, he turns, very pale and cold, and speaks in a low, calm voice.)MICH. Before this service begins and this church is re-consecrated I have a duty to perform to my people. (Great attention of all.) I have often insisted in this place on the necessity of a life of perfect openness before God and man. I have taught you that your lives should be crystal clear, that your hearts should be filled with sunlight, so that no foul thing may hide therein. I have enforced that with others, because I believe with my heart and soul that it is the foundation of all wholesome and happy human life. I stand here to affirm it to-day in the presence of God and you all. I stand here to affirm it against myself as I formerly affirmed it against another. I stand here to own to you that while I have been vainly preaching to you, my own life has been polluted with deceit and with deadly sin. I can find no repentance and no peace till I have freely acknowledged to you all that I am not worthy to continue my sacred office, not worthy to be the channel of grace to you. It was the dearest wish of my life to restore this beautiful temple, and to be Heaven’s vicar here. I have raised it again, but I may not enter. I dare not enter. I have sinned—as David sinned. I have broken the sanctity of the marriage vow. It is my just sentence to go forth from you, not as your guide, your leader, your priest; but as a broken sinner, humbled in the dust before the Heaven he has offended. I bid you all farewell. I ask your pardon for having dared to continue in my office knowing I had profanedand desecrated it. It now remains for me to seek the pardon of Heaven. Let the service continue without me. Let no one leave his place. Pray for me all of you! I have need of your prayers! Pray for me!(He comes down from the altar steps amidst the hushed and respectful surprise of the congregation, who all turn to look at him as he passes.ROSEmakes a very slight gesture of sympathy as he passes her.ANDREWstands with hands over his eyes.MICHAELpasses out by transept, his head bowed, his lips moving in prayer as he goes off.)Curtain.(Ten months pass between Acts IV. and V.)
SCENE.—The Chancel of the Minster church of Saint Decuman at Cleveheddon, a beautiful building of Decorated Gothic architecture with signs of recent restoration. The altar and reredos, approached by steps, face the audience, who take up the same position towards it as spectators in the nave would do. Behind the altar a long vista of columns, arches, roof, and stained glass windows. An organ is built in left wall of the chancel at a considerable height. On both sides of the chancel are handsome high carved oak stalls. A large open place in front of the altar steps is flanked on each side by the transepts, which run to right and left of spectators and are filled with chair seats so far as can be seen. A small door in the north wall of the left transept leads to the organ loft. The whole church is most lavishly decorated with banners, hangings, scrolls, and large frescoes, and is smothered with flowers as if in readiness for a church festival. Large brass candlesticks on altar with lighted candles. Time, about nine on an autumn night. An organ voluntary is being played as curtain rises. EnterMICHAELfrom transept. He has aged much, is very pale and emaciated. The voluntary ceases and the organ boy, a lad about fifteen, comes from small door in wall of left transept.
WALTER(carelessly). Good-night, sir.
MICH. (stopping him, puts his hand on the boy’s head). Good-bye, Walter. (Pause, still detaining him, with considerable feeling.) Good-bye, my dear lad.
(Sighs, moves away from him. The boy shows slight respectful surprise and exit along transept. TheOrganistwith keys enters from the little door, looks round the church admiringly.)
ORGANIST. Everything ready for the ceremony to-morrow?
MICH. Yes, I think, everything.
ORGANIST. I was just putting the finishing touches to my music. How beautiful the church looks! You must be very proud and happy now your work is complete.
MICH. Not quite complete. I’ve to put the finishing touches to my part—to-morrow.
ANDREWenters rather suddenly from transept.
ANDR. Can I speak to you for a moment?
ORGANIST. Good-night.
(Going.)
MICH. (detains him). Thank you for all you have done for me, and for the church, and for her services.
(Shakes hands warmly. Exit theOrganistby transept.)
MICH. Well?
ANDR. I thought you’d like to know—Mrs. Lesden has come back to Cleveheddon, and she has brought a lady friend with her.
MICH. I know.
ANDR. You’ve seen her?
(MICHAELlooks at him with great dignity.)
ANDR. I beg your pardon.
MICH. I’ve not seen her.
ANDR. I beg your pardon. It’s no business of mine.
(Going.)
MICH. (quietly). Yes, it is business of yours.
ANDR. What do you mean?
MICH. Haven’t you made it the chief business of your life all this last year?
ANDR. How? I’ve kept my word. I’ve never reminded you of it.
MICH. You’ve never allowed me to forget it for a single moment. Every time you’ve spoken to me, or looked at me, or crossed the room, or passed the window, every time I’ve heard your step on the stairs, or your voice speaking to the servants, you’ve accused me. If you had been in my place I would have been very kind to you, Andrew.
ANDR. How did you treat my girl?
MICH. I did what I thought was best for her soul.
ANDR. Then why don’t you do what is best for your own soul?
MICH. I shall.
(ANDREWlooks atMICHAELin startled inquiry.)
Enter by transeptDOCWRAYandSIRLYOLF.SIRLYOLFis in evening dress under summer overcoat.DOCWRAYpoints out the decorations toSIRLYOLF.
ANDR. Why have you sent for Rose to come back to Cleveheddon?
MICH. I wish her to be present at the services to-morrow. She is almost due. Go to the station and meet her. Bring her to me here.
(SIRLYOLFandDOCWRAYsaunter up towardsMICHAELandANDREW.ANDREWstands perplexed.)
MICH. (firmly, toANDREW). Bring her to me here.
(ANDREWgoes off through transept, turns to look atMICHAELbefore he goes off.)
SIRLYOLF. You didn’t turn up at dinner?
MICH. I was too busy.
SIRLYOLF. All prepared for to-morrow?
MICH. Yes, I think.
SIRLYOLF. So it seems Mrs. Lesden has come down from town.
MICH. So I understand.
SIRLYOLF(MICHAELis listening intently). I thought we had seen the last of her when the long-losthusband returned and took her off to London. By the way, what has become of her husband?
MARK. He has gone back to South America.
(MICHAELis listening intently.)
SIRLYOLF. Gone back to South America?
MARK. He only stayed three weeks in England. It is said that she has pensioned him off—he is to keep to his hemisphere, and she is to keep to hers.
SIRLYOLF. I don’t like it!
MARK. Don’t like what?
SIRLYOLF. I don’t like women who pension off their husbands to live in South America.
MICH. Do you see much of her in town?
MARK. Not much. About every two months she sweeps into church in a whirlwind of finery and perfume, gives me a ridiculously large sum for the offertory, makes some most irreverent joke, or else pretends to be deeply religious——
MICH. Pretends?
MARK. What can it be but pretence? Look at her life this last year.
MICH. What of it?
MARK. It has been one continual round of gaiety and excitement except when she was ill.
MICH. She has been ill?
MARK. Yes, and no wonder.
MICH. Why?
MARK. She goes everywhere, gives the most extravagant parties, mixes with the fastest, emptiest, Londonset. And she has taken for her companion a silly, flighty little woman, Mrs. Cantelo.
SIRLYOLF. I don’t like it! Why has she come back to Cleveheddon just now?
MARK. To be present at the dedication service to-morrow, I suppose.
SIRLYOLF. Michael——
MICH. Well?
SIRLYOLF. You know that everybody is asking where all the money came from for these magnificent restorations?
MICH. It was sent to me anonymously. The giver wishes to remain unknown.
SIRLYOLF. Yes! Yes! That’s what you’ve told us. But of course you know who it is?
MICH. I mustn’t speak of it.
SIRLYOLF. Forgive me.
MICH. Let’s say no more. I’m glad you came here to-night. I’ve been very much perplexed by a confession that has been made to me recently. A priest—you know him, Mark—he is to be present to-morrow—a priest some time ago discovered one of his people in a course of lying and deception, and insisted upon a very severe penalty from the man. And now the priest tells me, that in order to save one very dear to him, he himself has lately been practising exactly the same course of lying and deception. He came to me for advice. I said, “You must pay exactly the same penalty that you demanded from yourparishioner.” But he objects—he says it will bring disgrace on his family, and disgrace on our cloth. He urged all manner of excuses, but I wouldn’t listen to him. He wishes to be present at the dedication service to-morrow. I’ve refused him. Have I done right?
SIRLYOLF. Yes, I should say so.
MARK. Was it a just penalty?
MICH. Yes, I believe so—the just, the only penalty, in my opinion. Have I done right?
MARK. Yes, certainly.
MICH. I’m glad you both think that. To-morrow before the dedication service begins, I shall stand where I’m standing now and confess that I have been guilty of deadly sin and deceit. Then I shall go out from this place and never return.
(They come away from him, staring at him in speechless surprise for some moments.)
SIRLYOLF. But—Good Heaven!—what have you done?
MICH. (after a long pause). Guess.
SIRLYOLF. But you won’t proclaim yourself?
MICH. Yes.
SIRLYOLF. But your career—your reputation—your opportunities of doing good——
MARK. Have you thought what this will mean to you, to us, to the church?
MICH. I have thought of nothing else for many months past.
SIRLYOLF. Surely there must be some way to avoid a public declaration. (MICHAELshakes his head.) You know I don’t speak for myself. My day is nearly done, but you’re in the full vigour of life, with a great reputation to sustain and increase. Don’t do this—for my sake, for your own sake, for the sake of Heaven, don’t do it!
MICH. I must.
MARK. What are the circumstances?
MICH. I can’t tell you. I wouldn’t have told you so much except that I knew I might trust both of you never to hint or whisper anything against—against any but myself. If you should guess—as most likely you will—the name of my companion in sin, it will never cross your lips? I may ask that of you?
SIRLYOLF. You know you may.
MARK. Of course we shall say nothing.
SIRLYOLF. But—but—— (Sits down overwhelmed.)
MARK. Can’t we talk this over further? Have you considered everything?
MICH. Everything. I have known for many months that this must come. I have tried to palter and spare myself, but each time the conviction has returned with greater and greater force, “You must do it there, and then, and in that way.”
MARK. But you’ve repented?
MICH. Most deeply. I have fasted and prayed. I have worn a hair shirt close to my skin. But mysin remains. It isn’t rooted out of my heart. I can’t get rid of its image.
MARK. Its image?
MICH. (same calm, tranquil, matter-of-fact tone). I believe that every sin has its exact physical image. That just as man is the expression of the thought of God, so our own thoughts and desires and aims, both good and bad, have somewhere or the other their exact material counterpart, their embodiment. The image of my sin is a reptile, a greyish-green reptile, with spikes, and cold eyes without lids. It’s more horrible than any creature that was ever seen. It comes and sits in my heart and watches me with those cold eyes that never shut, and never sleep, and never pity. At first it came only very seldom; these last few months it has scarcely left me day or night, only at night it’s deadlier and more distorted and weighs more upon me. It’s not fancy. Mark, I know, I know, that if I do not get rid of my sin, my hell will be to have that thing sitting beside me for ever and ever, watching me with its cold eyes. But (hopefully) I shall be rid of it after to-morrow.
MARK. My poor fellow!
SIRLYOLF(rising, coming back toMICHAEL). Michael, can’t you postpone this? Can’t it be at some other time? Not in the very hour which should be the proudest and happiest of your life?
MICH. There is no other hour, no other way. (Looks at them both, takes both their hands affectionately.)Tell me (very piteously) that you neither of you love me the less,—or at least say that you love me a little still, after what I’ve told you.
SIRLYOLF. Don’t you know?
MARK. How can you ask that?
ANDREWandROSEappear in the transept.
MICH. (toANDREW). One moment, Andrew. (To his father.) I’ve a word or two to say to Andrew.
SIRLYOLF. Come and stay the night with me and let us talk this over.
MICH. No, I must be alone to-night. Good-night, dear Mark.
(MARKwrings his hand.)
SIRLYOLF. You are resolved to go through with this? It must be?
(MICHAELbows his head.)
SIRLYOLF. I can’t be here to-morrow. I couldn’t face it. But (with great affection) I shan’t be far away when you want me. (Very warm handshake.) Come, Mr. Docwray.
(ExeuntSIRLYOLFandDOCWRAYby transept.)
ANDR. (bringingROSEtoMICHAEL). I’ve brought her.
(ROSEis in an Anglican sister’s dress; she is very pale and her manner is subdued. She comes slowly and reverently toMICHAEL,and is going to bend to him. He takes her hands and raises her.)
MICH. No. You mustn’t bend to me. I’ve sent for you, Rose, to ask your pardon.
ROSE. My pardon?
MICH. I made you pass through a terrible ordeal last year. Will you forgive me?
ROSE. What should I forgive? You were right. You said it would bring me great peace. And so it has—great peace.
MICH. And you wouldn’t undo that morning’s work?
ROSE. No. It seems I died that morning and left all my old life in a grave. This is quite a new life. I wouldn’t change it.
MICH. Andrew, do you hear that?
ANDR. Yes.
MICH. I was right, then? I was right? You are happy?
ROSE. Yes, I am happy—at least, I’m peaceful, and peace is better than happiness, isn’t it?
MICH. Yes, peace is best! Peace is best! I shall find it too, some day. Andrew, she has forgiven me. Can’t you forgive me? We may never see each other again on this side the grave. Don’t let us part in anger!
ANDR. Part?
MICH. As soon as I can arrange my affairs I shall leave Cleveheddon.
ANDR. But your work?
MICH. My work is ended. I’ll see that you and Rose are sufficiently provided for.
(Taking their hands, trying to join them;ANDREWholds aloof.)
ANDR. No. I can’t take any favour from you.
MICH. It’s no favour. I’ve trained you to a special work which has unfitted you for everything else. It is my duty to provide for your old age.
ANDR. I can’t take any favour from you.
MICH. Old comrade (leaning onANDREW’Sshoulder;ANDREWdraws away), old comrade (drawsANDREWto him), we had many happy days together in the summer of our life. Now the autumn has come, now the winter is coming, I’m setting out on a cold, dark journey. Won’t you light a little flame in our old lamp of friendship to cheer me on my way? You’ll take my gift—you’ll take it, and make a home for her?
ANDR. (bursts out). You’ll break my heart with your kindness! I don’t deserve it! I was a half-bred, starving dog. You took me in, and, like the hound I am, I turned and bit the hand that fed me. Let me be! Let me be!
MICH. Rose, speak to him.
ROSE. Father, you are grieving Mr. Feversham.
ANDR. I’ll do whatever you tell me. But don’t forgive me.
MICH. Take him home, Rose. I parted you. Let me think I have restored you to each other.
(Joining them.)
ANDR. (toMICHAEL). I can’t say anything to-night. I never was good enough to black your shoes. I can’t thank you. I can’t speak. Good-night. Come, Rose!
(MICHAELshakesROSE’Shand very tenderly. ExeuntROSEandANDREWby transept.MICHAELwatches them off, goes to altar.)
MICH. (alone). One thing more and all is done. (Looking round the church.) And I must give you up! Never enter your doors, never lead my people through you in chariots of fire, never make you the very presence-chamber of God to my soul and their souls who were committed to me! Oh, if I had been worthy!
(A little pause. A woman’s laugh is heard in the transept opposite to that by whichANDREWandROSEhave gone off.MICHAELwithdraws to the side of chancel, where he is seen by the audience, during the following scene, but is hidden fromAUDRIEandMRS. CANTELO.)
AUDRIEenters from transept in magnificent evening dress, cloak, and jewellery, and carrying a large basket of roses. Her features are much paler and sharpened, and she shows a constant restlessness and excitement.
AUDR. (looks round, calls out). Somebody is here? (Pause, calls out.) Somebody is here? No? (Speaks down transept.) You may come in, Milly.
MILLYCANTELO,a fashionable little woman, enters at transept, looking admiringly round the church.
AUDR. There’s nobody here except (raising her voice) a stone saint (pointing up to carved figure), andhe can’t hear, because he has only stone ears, and he can’t feel, because he has only a stone heart.
(MICHAELshows intense feeling.)
MILLY(looking round). Isn’t it gorgeous?
AUDR. H’m—yes—— (Raises her voice.) I can’t bear that stone saint. Look how hard and lifeless he is. In a well-regulated world there would be no room for angels or devils, or stone saints, or any such griffins.
MILLY. Audrie, you are queer to-night. You’ll be ill again.
AUDR. Yes, duckie, I hope so.
MILLY. What’s the matter with you?
AUDR. Life’s the matter with me, I think. I’ve got it badly, and I don’t know how to cure myself.
MILLY. I wish you wouldn’t talk nonsense, and run about on silly errands in the dark.
AUDR. I won’t for long. When my head is tightly bandaged in a white cloth, I can’t talk any more nonsense, can I? And when my feet are comfortably tucked up in my final night-gown I can’t run after stone saints in the dark, can I?
MILLY. Oh, you give me the creeps. I can’t imagine why you wanted to come out to-night.
AUDR. To decorate the church.
MILLY. Don’t you think it’s decorated enough?
AUDR. (looking). No, it wants a few more touches. I must just titivate a cherub’s nose, or hang a garland on an apostle’s toe, just to show my deep, deep devotion——
MILLY. Your deep, deep devotion?
AUDR. My deep, deep love, my deep, deep worship, my deep, deep remembrance.
MILLY. Of what?
AUDR. The church, of course.
MILLY. What a heap of money all this must have cost! Who gave it all?
AUDR. I gave two hundred pounds when I lived here last year.
MILLY. I wonder who gave all the rest!
AUDR. I wonder!
MILLY. Mr. Feversham must have some very devoted friends.
AUDR. So it seems.
MILLY. Did you know him very well when you lived here?
AUDR. Not very well.
MILLY. What sort of a man is he?
AUDR. Oh, a very cold, distant man—a good deal of the priest about him, and as much feeling as that stone figure up there.
MILLY. You didn’t like him?
AUDR. Oh, I liked him well enough. But I don’t think he cared much for me. I dare say he’s forgotten all about me by this time. Milly——
(Bursts into tears.)
MILLY. What is it?
AUDR. I’m not well to-night. I oughtn’t to have come here. Milly—I never forget anybody. If Ihad once loved you I should love you for ever. If you were wicked, or unfortunate, or unfaithful, it would make no difference to me. Kiss me, Milly—say you believe me.
MILLY. You know I do, darling.
AUDR. (very passionately). I can be constant, Milly—I can! Constant in my friendship, constant in my love! Oh, Milly, I’m the most wretched woman in the world!
MILLY. You’re hysterical, dear.
AUDR. No, I’m forsaken. Nobody loves me!
(Sobbing. Gesture fromMICHAEL.)
MILLY. Poor Audrie!
AUDR. Let me be a few minutes by myself. I want to be quite alone. Go home and wait for me there.
MILLY. I don’t like leaving you.
AUDR. (getting her off at transept). Yes—go, dear. I shall be better soon. Do leave me.
MILLY. You won’t be long?
AUDR. No—I’ll come soon.
(Accompanying her along transept. ExitMILLYby transept.AUDRIEstands listening.MICHAELcomes forward a step or two.)
AUDR. (in the transept). Are you there?
(He comes forward; she goes towards him; they stand for a moment or two looking at each other.)
AUDR. Are you deaf? I thought it was only your memory that was gone.
MICH. Why have you come here?
AUDR. Mayn’t I come into my own church? And such a sinner as I am?
MICH. Forgive me. You know how welcome I would make you—if I dared.
AUDR. Then you don’t dare? Then I’m not welcome?
MICH. (troubled). Yes! Yes! Very welcome! The Church owes much to you.
AUDR. I think she does, for she has robbed me of your love. Why have you sent back all my letters unopened?
MICH. Can’t you guess what it cost me to return them? (Pause.) What have you been doing all this last year?
AUDR. Doing? Eating my heart. Racing through my life to get to the end of it. Skipping and chattering from Hyde Park Corner to the Inferno by a new short cut. What have you been doing?
MICH. Trying to repent and to forget.
AUDR. Ah, well—I haven’t been wasting my time quite so foolishly as you after all.
MICH. Will you never be serious?
AUDR. Yes—soon.
MICH. You’ve been ill?
AUDR. Oh, my dear spiritual doctor, you don’t know how ill I’ve been. I get up every morning without hope, I drag through the day without hope, I go to this thing and that, to this party, to that reception,to the theatre, to church, to a pigeon-shooting match, to the park, to Ascot, to Henley—here, there, everywhere, all without hope.
MICH. What is it you want?
AUDR. I want to live again! I’ve never lived but those few months when we were learning to love each other! I want to feel that fierce breeze on my cheek that blew us together! Do you remember when we stood on the cliff hand in hand? And we shrieked and laughed down the wind like mad children? Do you remember?
MICH. No.
AUDR. No? Nor the wonderful pale sunrise, with the lemon and green lakes of light, and then the path of diamonds all across the sea? Don’t you remember?
MICH. No.
AUDR. How strange you don’t remember! Oh, my God, if I could forget!
MICH. (apart from her). Oh, my God, if I could forget! (A long pause. He comes to her.) I have one awful thought—I am bound to you—There is but one of us—I never felt it more than at this moment—And yet the awful thought comes to me—if by any decree we should be put asunder hereafter—if we should be parted then!
AUDR. Don’t you dread being parted now—now this moment? Don’t you dread being unhappy here—here on this earth?
MICH. I will not think of that. I have vowed!
AUDR. You don’t love me! You don’t love me! You don’t love me!
MICH. If I had ten thousand worlds I’d sell them all and buy your soul. But I will keep the vow I have vowed. You are the holiest thing on earth to me. I will keep you white and stainless from me.
AUDR. You’ll never forget me.
MICH. I have forgotten you.
AUDR. You’ll never forget me.
MICH. (same cold tone, going up the altar steps). I have forgotten you.
(Stands with his back to her for a few moments.)
AUDR. (with a gesture of resignation). You’ll let me put a bunch or two of flowers about the church before I go?
MICH. If I asked you not——
AUDR. I should obey you.
MICH. I do ask you not——
AUDR. Very well. It’s hard lines that I mayn’t decorate my own church.
MICH. I have another request to make—a favour to beg of you.
AUDR. It’s done, whatever it is. But make it some great thing—something very hard and desperate, that I may show you there’s nothing I would not do if you ask it.
MICH. It’s something very simple. I’m going to ask you not to be present at the dedication service to-morrow.
AUDR. But I came on purpose——
MICH. I beg you not. I have a strong reason. You won’t come?
AUDR. Not if you wish me to stay away. Shall I see you after to-morrow?
MICH. After to-morrow I leave Cleveheddon for ever.
AUDR. Where are you going?
MICH. I don’t know.
AUDR. It doesn’t matter, I shall find you out.
MICH. You’ll follow me?
AUDR. Yes—all over this world, and the ten thousand others. I shall follow you. You’ll find me always with you, clawing at your heart. Au revoir. (Takes up her basket of roses, going out with them by transept, stops.) Do let me put some flowers on the altar—just to remind you. Your memory is so bad, you know.
(He raises his hand very quietly and turns his back on her. She stands very quiet and hopeless for a few seconds, then takes up the basket of flowers, goes a step or two towards transept, turns.)
AUDR. I’m going to be very ill after this. (He stands at altar in an attitude of prayer, his back to her.) Do you hear, I’m going to be very ill? There’s a little string in my heart—I’ve just heard it snap. (Pause.) If I were dying and I sent for you, would you come?
MICH. (after a long pause, very quietly). Yes.
(Pause.)
AUDR. And that’s all? And that’s all? (He stands unmoved at altar, his back to her. She takes a large red rose out of the basket, throws it towards him; it falls on the white marble altar steps.) There’s a flower for to-morrow! Do put it on the altar for me! You won’t? You won’t? (No answer.) It is hard to be turned out of my own church—It is hard——
(ExitAUDRIEby transept with the basket of flowers. A sob is heard,MICHAELturns round. A door is heard to close. He puts out the altar lights, throws himself on altar steps. The curtains fall.
The falling of the curtains signifies the passing of the night.
A peal of joyous church bells followed by organ music and singing. The curtain rises and discovers the church in broad daylight and filled with worshippers.ANDREWandROSEare at the corner in prominent positions.AUDRIE’Sflower is lying on the altar steps. A processional hymn is being sung. A procession of surpliced priests file up the aisle and take their places in the chancel, walking overAUDRIE’Srose.MICHAELfollows at the end of the procession; as he reaches the altar steps, he turns, very pale and cold, and speaks in a low, calm voice.)
MICH. Before this service begins and this church is re-consecrated I have a duty to perform to my people. (Great attention of all.) I have often insisted in this place on the necessity of a life of perfect openness before God and man. I have taught you that your lives should be crystal clear, that your hearts should be filled with sunlight, so that no foul thing may hide therein. I have enforced that with others, because I believe with my heart and soul that it is the foundation of all wholesome and happy human life. I stand here to affirm it to-day in the presence of God and you all. I stand here to affirm it against myself as I formerly affirmed it against another. I stand here to own to you that while I have been vainly preaching to you, my own life has been polluted with deceit and with deadly sin. I can find no repentance and no peace till I have freely acknowledged to you all that I am not worthy to continue my sacred office, not worthy to be the channel of grace to you. It was the dearest wish of my life to restore this beautiful temple, and to be Heaven’s vicar here. I have raised it again, but I may not enter. I dare not enter. I have sinned—as David sinned. I have broken the sanctity of the marriage vow. It is my just sentence to go forth from you, not as your guide, your leader, your priest; but as a broken sinner, humbled in the dust before the Heaven he has offended. I bid you all farewell. I ask your pardon for having dared to continue in my office knowing I had profanedand desecrated it. It now remains for me to seek the pardon of Heaven. Let the service continue without me. Let no one leave his place. Pray for me all of you! I have need of your prayers! Pray for me!
(He comes down from the altar steps amidst the hushed and respectful surprise of the congregation, who all turn to look at him as he passes.ROSEmakes a very slight gesture of sympathy as he passes her.ANDREWstands with hands over his eyes.MICHAELpasses out by transept, his head bowed, his lips moving in prayer as he goes off.)
Curtain.
(Ten months pass between Acts IV. and V.)