ACT I

SCENE.--_The Vicarage parlour at Cleveheddon. An old-fashioned comfortable room in an old English house. A large window, with low broad sill, takes up nearly all the back of the stage, showing to the right a part of Cleveheddon Minster in ruins. To the left a stretch of West Country landscape. A door, right, leading to house. A fireplace, right. A door, left. Table with chairs, right. A portrait of MICHAEL'S mother hangs on wall at a height of about nine feet. It is a very striking painting of a lady about twenty-eight, very delicate and spirituelle. Time.--A fine spring morning. Discover at the window, looking off right, with face turned away from audience, and in an attitude of strained attention to something outside, ANDREW GIBBARD. Enter FANNY CLOVER, the vicarage servant, showing in the REVEREND MARK DOCWRAY, a middle-aged clergyman._

FANNY. Mr. Feversham is over to the church, sir, but he'll be back directly.

(_Exit._)

MARK. Andrew----

(_ANDREW turns round, an odd, rather seedy, carelessly-dressed man, a little over forty, rather gaunt, longish hair, an intelligent face with something slightly sinister about it. He shows signs of great recent sorrow and distress._)

MARK. Andrew, what is it?

ANDR. I'd rather not tell you, Mr. Docwray.

MARK. Nothing has happened to Mr. Feversham?

ANDR. No.

MARK. Come! Come! What's the matter?

ANDR. My daughter----

MARK. What ails her? Where is she?

ANDR. Over at the church.

MARK. What is she doing?

ANDR. Making a public confession.

MARK. Public confession--of what?

ANDR. You'll be sure to hear all about it, so I may as well tell you myself. Perhaps it was my fault, perhaps I neglected her. All my time is given to Mr. Feversham in the library here. While I was buried in my work, and sometimes staying here half the night with Mr. Feversham, a scoundrel ruined my girl. Of course my only thought was to hide it. Was I wrong?

MARK. Go on. Tell me all.

ANDR. Well, right or wrong, I sent her away to the other end of England. Her child only lived a few weeks. And I brought her back home thinking it was all hushed up.

MARK. But it became known?

ANDR. Yes. Little by little, things began to leak out. Well, you may blame me if you like--I lied about it; and the more lies I told, the more I had to tell to cover them. Mr. Feversham heard of it and questioned us. Like a fool I lied to him. It wasn't like lying, it was like murdering the truth to tell lies to him. And she had to lie, too. Of course he believed us and defended us against everybody. And then we daredn't tell him the truth.

MARK. Go on. What else?

ANDR. There's nothing else. It all had to come out at last.

MARK. What did Mr. Feversham do?

ANDR. He persuaded us that we could never be right with ourselves, or right with our neighbours, or right with our God, till we had unsaid all our lies, and undone our deceit. So we've confessed it this morning.

MARK. In church? In public?

ANDR. Yes. I wouldn't have minded it for myself. But was it necessary for her--for Rose? Was it bound to be in public before all her companions, before all who had watched her grow up from a child?

MARK. You may be sure Mr. Feversham wouldn't have urged it unless he had felt it to be right and necessary.

ANDR. I wouldn't have done it for anybody else in the world. I feel almost as if I were quits with him for all his favours to me.

MARK. You mustn't speak like this. Remember all he has done for you.

ANDR. Oh, I don't forget it. I don't forget that I was his scout's son, and that he educated me and made me his friend and companion and helper--there isn't a crumb I eat or a thread I wear that I don't owe to him. I don't forget it. But after this morning, I feel it isn't I who am in Mr. Feversham's debt--it's he who is in my debt.

(_A penitential hymn, with organ accompaniment, is sung in church outside._)

ANDR. (_looking off_). It's over. They're coming out.

MARK. Why aren't you there, in church, by her side?

ANDR. I was. I went to church with her. I stood up first and answered all his questions, and then I stood aside, and it was her turn. I saw her step forward, and I noticed a little twitch of her lip like her mother used to have, and then--I couldn't bear it any longer--I came away. I know it was cowardly, but I couldn't stay. (_Looking off._) Hark! They're coming! She's coming with the sister who is going to take her away.

MARK. Take her away?

ANDR. Mr. Feversham thinks it better for her to be away from the gossip of the village, so he has found a home for her with some sisters in London. She's going straight off there. Perhaps it's best. I don't know.

(_ROSE GIBBARD, sobbing, with her face in her hands, passes the window from right to left, supported by an Anglican sister. The REVEREND MICHAEL FEVERSHAM follows them and passes window. A crowd of villagers come up to the window and look in. A moment or two later, ROSE GIBBARD enters left, supported by the sister. ROSE is a pretty delicate girl of about twenty, with rather refined features and bearing._)

ANDR. (_holding out his arms to her_). Bear up, my dear. Don't cry! It breaks my heart to see you.

_Enter the REVEREND MICHAEL FEVERSHAM about forty; pale, strong, calm, ascetic, scholarly face, with much sweetness and spirituality of expression; very dignified, gentle manners, calm, strong, persuasive voice, rarely raised above an ordinary speaking tone. His whole presence and bearing denote great strength of character, great dignity, great gentleness, and great self-control._

_The villagers gather round the outside of the window and look in with mingled curiosity, rudeness, and respect. MICHAEL goes up to left window, opens it. The villagers draw back a little._

MICH. (_speaking in a very calm voice_). Those of you who are filled with idle foolish curiosity, come and look in. (_They fall back._) Those of you who have been moved by the awful lesson of this morning, go to your homes, ponder it in your hearts, so that all your actions and all your thoughts from this time forth may be as open as the day, as clear as crystal, as white as snow.

(_They all go away gradually. MICHAEL comes away from the window, leaving it open, goes to MARK._)

MICH. Mark! (_Cordial handshake._) You've come to stay, I hope?

MARK. A few days. You have a little business here?

(_Glancing at the group of ROSE, ANDREW, and Sister._)

MICH. It's nearly finished. Leave me with them for a few moments.

MARK. I'll get rid of the dust of my journey and come back to you.

(_Exit MARK. MICHAEL turns towards ROSE with great tenderness._)

MICH. Poor child!

(_She comes towards him with evident effort; the Sister brings a chair and she sinks into it, sobbing._)

MICH. (_bending over her with great tenderness_). I know what you have suffered this morning. I would willingly have borne it for you, but that would not have made reparation to those whom you have deceived, or given you peace in your own soul. (_She continues sobbing._) Hush! Hush! All the bitterness is past! Look only to the future! Think of the happy newness and whiteness of your life from this moment! Think of the delight of waking in the morning and knowing that you have nothing to hide! Be sure you have done right to own your sin. There won't be a softer pillow in England to-night than the one your head rests upon. (_She becomes quieter. MICHAEL turns to the Sister._) Watch over her very carefully. Keep her from brooding. Let her be occupied constantly with work. And write to me very often to tell me how she is. (_Turns to ROSE._) The carriage is ready. It's time to say good-bye.

ROSE. Good-bye, sir. Thank you for all your kindness. I've been very wicked----

MICH. Hush! That is all buried now.

ROSE. Good-bye, father.

(_Throws her arms round ANDREW'S neck, clings to him, sobs convulsively for some moments in a paroxysm of grief. MICHAEL watches them for some moments._)

MICH. (_intercepts, gently separates them_). It's more than she can bear. Say good-bye, and let her go.

ANDR. (_breaking down_). Good-bye, my dear! (_Kissing her._) Good-bye--I--I--I----

(_Tears himself away, goes up to window, stands back to audience._)

MICH. (_To ROSE._) No more tears! Tears are for evil and sin, and yours are all past! Write to me and tell me how you get on, and how you like the work. It will bring you great peace--great peace. Why, you are comforted already--I think I see one of your old happy smiles coming. What do you think, sister, isn't that the beginning of a smile?

SISTER. Yes, sir. I think it is.

ROSE. Good-bye, sir--thank you for all your goodness. I--I---- (_Beginning to sob again._)

MICH. No, no, you are forgetting. I must see a little smile before you go. Look, Andrew. (_ANDREW turns round._) For your father's sake. When you have gone you will like him to remember that the last time he saw your face it wore a smile. That's brave! Good-bye! Good-bye!

(_ROSE with great effort forces a smile and goes off with the Sister. A moment or two later she is seen to pass the window sobbing in the Sister's arms._)

ANDR. Look! Oh, sir, was it bound to be in public, before everybody who knew her?

MICH. Believe me, Andrew, if my own sister, if my own child had been in your daughter's place, I would have counselled her to act as your daughter has done.

ANDR. She'll never hold up her head again.

MICH. Would you rather that she held up her head in deceit and defiance, or that she held it down in grief and penitence? Think what you and she have endured this last year, the deceit, the agony, the shame, the guilt!

ANDR. I can't think of anything except her standing up in the church. I shall never forget it.

MICH. Tell me you know I would willingly have spared you and her if it had been possible.

ANDR. Then it wasn't possible?

MICH. I have done to you this morning as I would wish to be done by if I had followed a course of continued deception.

ANDR. Ah, sir, it's easy for you to talk. You aren't likely to be tempted, so you aren't likely to fall.

MICH. I trust not! I pray God to keep me. But if ever I did, I should think him my true friend who made me confess and rid my soul of my guilt. And you think me your true friend, don't you, Andrew? (_Holding out hand._) Won't you shake hands with me?

(_ANDREW takes MICHAEL'S hand reluctantly, shakes it half-heartedly; is going off at door._)

MICH. (_calls_). Andrew, it will be very lonely in your own house now your daughter has gone. Come and live with me here. There is the large visitors' room. Take it for your own, and make this your home. You will be nearer to our work, and you will be nearer to me, my friend.

_MARK enters._

MARK (_at door_). Am I interrupting?

MICH. No. Come in. My little talk with Andrew is finished. (_To ANDREW._) Say you know I have done what is right and best for you and her.

ANDR. You've done what you thought was best for us, sir. I've never doubted that. I can't see anything straight or clear this morning.

(_Exit._)

MARK. You've had a painful business here?

MICH. Terrible! But I was bound to go through with it. The whole village was talking of it. I believed in her innocence and defended her to the last. So when the truth came out I daren't hush it up. I should have been accused of hiding sin in my own household. But that poor child! My heart bled for her! Don't let us speak any more of it. Tell me about yourself and the work in London.

MARK. You must come and join us there.

(_MICHAEL shakes his head._)

MICH. I couldn't live there. Every time I go up for a day or two I come back more and more sickened and frightened and disheartened. Besides, you forget my Eastern studies. They are my real work. I couldn't pursue them in the hurry and fever of London.

MARK. How are you getting on with the Arabic translations?

MICH. Slowly but surely. Andrew is invaluable to me. In spite of his bringing up, he has the true instincts of the scholar.

MARK. Well, you know best. But we want you in London. You'd soon raise the funds for restoring the Minster.

MICH. (_shakes his head_). I can't go round with the hat.

MARK. How's the work getting on?

MICH. Very slowly. I'm afraid I shall never live to finish it. By the bye, I received fifty pounds anonymously only yesterday.

MARK. Have you any idea where it came from?

MICH. No. The Bank advised me that it had been paid to my credit by a reader of my "Hidden Life," who desired to remain anonymous.

MARK. The book is having an enormous influence. Nothing else is talked about. And it has gained you one very rich proselyte--this Mrs. Lesden. She's living here, isn't she?

MICH. Yes. Curious woman----

MARK. Have you seen much of her?

MICH. I called, of course. I've met her once or twice at dinner. She has called here three or four times, and wasted several good hours for me.

MARK. How wasted?

MICH. Kept me from my work. I wish the woman would take herself back to London.

MARK. Why?

MICH. Her frivolity and insincerity repel me. No--not insincerity. I recall that. For she said one or two things that seemed to show a vein of true, deep feeling. But on the whole I dislike her--I think I dislike her very much.

MARK. Why?

MICH. She comes regularly to church----

MARK. Surely there's no very great harm in that----

MICH. No; but I don't know whether she's mocking, or criticising, or worshipping; or whether she's merely bored, and thinking that my surplice is not enough starched, or starched too much.

MARK. She's very rich, and would be an immense help to our movement. I should try and cultivate her.

MICH. I can't cultivate people. What do you think of her?

MARK. A very clever society woman, all the more clever that she was not born in society.

MICH. What do you know of her?

MARK. Merely what I wrote you in my letter. That she was the only daughter of an Australian millionaire. Her great-grandfather, I believe, was an Australian convict. She was sent to England to be educated, went back to Australia, married, lost her husband and father, came back to England a widow, took a house in Mayfair, entertained largely, gave largely to charities, read your book, "The Hidden Life," came down to see the country round here, made up her mind to live here, and wanted an introduction to you--which I gave her.

_Enter FANNY, announcing SIR LYOLF FEVERSHAM, an English country gentleman, about sixty-five, a little old-fashioned in manners and dress. Exit FANNY._

SIR LYOLF. Michael--Mr. Docwray! Glad to see you. You're talking business, or rather religion, which is your business. Am I in the way?

MICH. No, we're not talking business. We're discussing a woman.

SIR LYOLF. Aren't women nine-tenths of a parson's business? (_MICHAEL looks a little shocked._) Excuse me, my dear boy. (_To MARK._) I quite believe in all Michael is doing. I accept all his new doctrines, I'm prepared to go all lengths with him, on condition that I indulge the latent old Adam in me with an occasional mild joke at his expense. But (_with great feeling_) he knows how proud I am of him, and how thankful I am to God for having given me a son who is shaping religious thought throughout England to-day, and who (_with a change to sly humour_) will never be a bishop--not even an archdeacon--I don't believe he'll be so much as a rural dean. What about this woman you were discussing? I'll bet--(_coughs himself up_)--I should say, I'll wager--(_MICHAEL looks shocked, SIR LYOLF shrugs his shoulders at MARK, proceeds in a firm voice_)--without staking anything, I will wager I know who the lady is--Mrs. Lesden? Am I right?

MICH. Yes.

SIR LYOLF. Well, I haven't heard your opinion of her. But I'll give you mine--without prejudice--(_with emphasis_) very queer lot.

MARK. Michael had just said she was a curious creature.

MICH. I don't understand her.

SIR LYOLF. When you don't understand a woman, depend upon it there's something not quite right about her.

MICH. She seems to have immense possibilities of good and evil.

SIR LYOLF. Nonsense. There are all sorts of men, but, believe me, there are only two sorts of women--good and bad.

MICH. You can't divide women into two classes like that.

SIR LYOLF. But I do--sheep and goats. Sheep on the right hand--goats on the left.

MICH. (_shaking his head_). Women's characters have greater subtlety than you suppose.

SIR LYOLF. Subtlety is the big cant word of our age. Depend upon it, there's nothing in subtlety. It either means hair-splitting or it means downright evil. The devil was the first subtle character we meet with in history.

MICH. And he has still something to do with the shaping of character in this world.

SIR LYOLF. I don't doubt it. And I think he has very likely something to do with the shaping of Mrs. Lesden's.

MICH. Hasn't he something to do with the shaping of all our characters? Don't all our souls swing continually between heaven and hell?

SIR LYOLF. Well, the woman whose soul swings continually between heaven and hell is not the woman whom I would choose to sit at my fireside or take the head of my table. Though I don't say I wouldn't ask her to dinner occasionally. That reminds me, how long are you staying, Mr. Docwray?

MARK. Only till Friday.

SIR LYOLF. You'll dine with me to-morrow evening?

MARK. Delighted.

SIR LYOLF. You too, Michael. I'll ask the Standerwicks, and (_suddenly_) suppose I ask this lady?

MICH. Mrs. Lesden? I would rather you didn't.

SIR LYOLF. Why not? If her soul is swinging between heaven and hell, it would only be kind of you to give it a jog towards heaven.

MICH. Very well--ask her. But I would rather you didn't speak lightly of----

SIR LYOLF. Of her soul?

MICH. Of anyone's soul?

SIR LYOLF. I won't--even of a woman's. But I wish they wouldn't swing about. Women's souls oughtn't to swing anywhere, except towards heaven. Ah, Michael, you must let me have my fling. Remember when I was a boy, religion was a very simple, easy-going affair. Parson--clerk--old three-decker pulpit--village choir. What a village choir! I suppose it was all wrong--but they were very comfortable old days.

MICH. Religion is not simple--or easy-going.

SIR LYOLF. No. Subtlety again. I want a plain "yes" or "no," a plain black or white, a plain right or wrong, and none of our teachers or preachers is prepared to give it to me. Oh dear! This world has grown too subtle for me! I'll step over to Island House and ask Mrs. Lesden to dinner to-morrow.

MARK. I'll come with you and pay my respects to her. You don't mind, Michael?

MICH. Not at all. I want to set Andrew to work at once to keep him from dwelling on his trouble.

SIR LYOLF. I didn't come to the church this morning. I felt it would be too painful. (_Glancing up at portrait._) What would she have said about it?

MICH. I think she approves what I have done.

SIR LYOLF (_looks at portrait, sighs, turns away_). Come, Mr. Docwray. I can't say I like this Mrs. Lesden of yours--I wonder why I'm going to ask her to dinner.

(_Exit._)

MARK (_who has been looking intently at portrait_). What a wonderful portrait that is of your mother! It seems as if she were alive!

MICH. She is.

(_Exit MARK after SIR LYOLF._)

MICH. (_goes up steps, takes portrait into his hand_). Yes, I have acted faithfully to my people, have I not? Whisper to me that I have done right to restore to this wandering father and child the blessing of a transparent life, a life without secrecy and without guile! Whisper to me that in this morning's work I have done what is well pleasing to my God and to you.

_AUDRIE LESDEN, about thirty, in a very fashionable morning dress, enters at back of window in the opposite direction to that in which SIR LYOLF and MARK have gone off. At first she seems to be watching them off. When she gets to the open window, she turns and sees MICHAEL with the portrait in his hand. MICHAEL very reverently kisses the portrait and places it on table; as he does so he sees her._

MICH. Mrs. Lesden!

AUDR. Wasn't that Sir Lyolf who just went out?

MICH. Yes. I'll call him back----

AUDR. Please don't.

MICH. But he wishes to speak to you.

AUDR. I don't wish to speak to him.

MICH. Why not?

AUDR. I wish to speak to you.

MICH. About what?

AUDR. About my soul, about your soul, and about other people's souls. (_Leaning a little in at the window. He remains silent, and reserved. All through the early part of the scene his demeanour is cold, constrained, and a little impatient. A pause._) I know you make it a rule always to see people about their souls.

MICH. (_very coldly_). If they are really in need of spiritual advice.

AUDR. I think I'm in need of spiritual advice. (_A pause. He stands cold, irresponsive._) Did you see me in church?

MICH. Yes.

AUDR. The whole thing was delightfully novel. (_He frowns._) Do you mean to repeat this morning's scene?

MICH. Scene?

AUDR. It was a "scene," you know. I felt terribly distressed for the poor girl. And yet I envied her.

MICH. Envied her?

AUDR. (_leaning a little more in at the window_). You must allow she was the heroine of the occasion, though you were certainly very impressive yourself, and did your part very well. Still, after all, it's the man who is to be hanged who is the central figure in the proceedings. And the poor little creature looked exquisitely pathetic and graceful, and so sweetly innocent--quite good enough to go to heaven right away, I thought. A Sunday-school teacher told me once that it is nearly always the good girls who are betrayed. Is that so?

MICH. (_coldly_). You came to speak to me about yourself.

AUDR. So I did. Do you know when I saw that girl standing there and looking so interesting, I felt I wouldn't mind making a public confession myself--if you thought it would benefit the parish--and if you would allow me to wear a special dress for the occasion?

(_MICHAEL turns round quickly as if about to speak angrily to her, stops, remains silent._)

AUDR. (_musingly_). I suppose one couldn't confess in anything except black or white. It couldn't be done in red or yellow--or blue. Pale grey might do. (_Pause._) What do you think?

(_MICHAEL does not reply._)

AUDR. (_leaning a little more in at the window, in a much lower and subtler tone_). Don't you find it an exquisite pleasure to feel your sense of power over your people, especially over us poor women?

MICH. When you come to me you are neither man nor woman--you are only a soul in sin and distress.

AUDR. Oh, no! I won't be an "it." I insist on being a woman, though I don't mind _having_ a soul--and in sin and distress, too. And I would save it--only I always think it's such a selfish piece of business, saving one's soul,--don't you?--so unkind to all one's neighbours? (_He stands half-bored, half-angry. A little pause._) Do you know what I was thinking in church this morning?

MICH. No.

AUDR. I was comparing the delights of three different professions,--the soldier's, the doctor's, and the priest's. What a glorious joy it must be to ride to meet a man who is riding to kill you--_and to kill him!_ But I'd rather be a doctor, and play with life and death. To have a man in your power, to see him lying tossing on his bed, and to think, "This may cure him, or it may kill him. Shall I risk it? At any rate, if he dies, I shall have learnt so much. I will risk it! And--he dies--No, he lives! I've saved him." Wouldn't you like to be a doctor?

MICH. No.

AUDR. That's because you know what far greater joy it is to be a priest. (_He turns very angrily._) To play with people's souls----

MICH. Play!

AUDR. You do play with our souls, don't you? They're in your hands. To think, "This man, or, say, this woman, has an immortal soul. She is vain, silly, deceitful, foolish, perhaps wicked, perhaps horribly wicked. She'll lose her soul and be eternally lost. But if I were to struggle with her for it, rebuke her, teach her, plead with her, entreat her, guide her--who knows--she's not wholly bad--I might save her? Is she worth saving? The worse she is, the greater will be my reward and honour for having saved her. Shall I do it? This woman's soul is in my keeping! I can choose for her eternal life or eternal death. What shall I do? Shall I save her, or let her be lost?"

MICH. (_comes eagerly to the window_). Do you mean that?

AUDR. Mean what?

MICH. That your soul is in my keeping?

AUDR. Not at all. I meant nothing except that thoughts like these must constantly stray through a priest's mind. Don't they? (_Long pause._) Why don't you speak?

MICH. (_cold, stern_). I have nothing to say.

(_Pause._)

AUDR. (_taking out purse, taking out two notes_). Oh! I was forgetting--I've brought you a little contribution for the restoration of your Minster.

(_Putting notes on window-sill. MICHAEL stands cold, angry._)

AUDR. Won't you take it?

MICH. Thank you. No.

AUDR. I think you're a little rude to me. I came as a heart-stricken penitent; you wouldn't accept me in that character. Then I came as a pious donor. You wouldn't accept me in that. You've kept me outside here--you haven't even asked me in.

MICH. (_very sternly_). Come in! (_She looks up, uncertain as to his intentions._) (_Same cold, stern voice._) Please to come in. That way--the outer door is open.

(_She goes off, he goes to door left, opens it, she comes in._)

MICH. (_the moment she has entered closes door decisively, then turns round on her very sternly_). What brings you to this village, to my church, to my house? Why are you here? Come to me as a penitent, and I will try to give you peace! Come to me as a woman of the world, and I will tell you "The friendship of the world is enmity with God. It always has been so, it always will be. The Church has no need of you, of your pretended devotions, of your gifts, of your presence at her services. Go your way back to the world, and leave her alone." But you come neither as a penitent, nor as a woman of the world. You come like--like some bad angel, to mock, and hint, and question, and suggest. How dare you play with sacred things? How dare you?!

AUDR. (_very low, quiet, amused voice_). I do not think it seemly or becoming in a clergyman to give way to temper. If anyone had asked me I should have said it was impossible in you.

(_He stands stern, cold, repellent._)

_Enter ANDREW._

MICH. What is it, Andrew?

ANDR. I thought you were disengaged. (_Going._)

MICH. So I am. I'll come to you at once.

(_Exit ANDREW._)

MICH. (_to AUDRIE_). You are right. It is unseemly to give way to temper, and perhaps you won't think me rude if I guard myself against it in future by asking you not to call upon me until I can be of real service to you. Good morning.

AUDR. Mr. Feversham, Mr. Feversham. (_MICHAEL turns._) I've been very rude and troublesome. I beg your pardon. Please forgive me.

MICH. Certainly. Pray say no more.

AUDR. I saw you kissing that portrait as I stood at the window. It is your mother?

MICH. Yes.

AUDR. What a good woman she must have been! Don't think because I am bad----

MICH. Are you bad?

AUDR. Didn't you say I was? I don't know whether I'm bad or good, but I know that no woman longs to be good more than I do--sometimes.

MICH. Do you indeed?

AUDR. (_impulsively_). Let me kiss that portrait!

(_Leaning forward to do it._)

MICH. (_peremptorily_). No.

(_Intercepts and stops her._)

AUDR. Why not?

MICH. I'd rather you didn't.

AUDR. You don't think I'm good enough.

MICH. I cannot allow you.

AUDR. Who painted it?

MICH. A young Italian. My mother's brother is a Catholic priest, and at that time he was living at Rome. My mother went there for her health when I was three years old. This young Italian saw her and asked permission to paint her. She came home and died of consumption. Then my uncle sent this portrait to my father with the news that the young painter had also died of consumption.

AUDR. How strange! And you've had it ever since?

MICH. I was only a child when it came. I fell into the habit of saying my prayers before it. So when I first left home my father gave it to me; it has been with me ever since, at Eton, and Oxford, and in my different curacies.

AUDR. Won't you let me kiss it before I go?

(_Leaning towards it._)

MICH. (_preventing her_). I'd rather you did not.

AUDR. Why not?

MICH. I have a strange belief about that picture. I'll hang it up.

AUDR. (_a little intercepting him_). No. Let me look at it. Let me hold it in my hands. I won't kiss it without your permission. (_She takes it and looks at it intently._) Tell me--what is your strange belief about it?

MICH. My mother was a deeply religious woman, and before my birth she consecrated me to this service as Hannah consecrated Samuel. When she was dying she said to me, "I'm not leaving you. I shall watch over you every moment of your life. There's not a word, or a deed, or a thought of yours but I shall know it. You won't see me, but I shall be very near you. Sometimes my hands will be upon your head, but you won't know it; sometimes my arms will be round you, but you won't feel them; sometimes my lips will be on your face, but you won't know that I have kissed you. Remember you are watched by the dead."

AUDR. And you believe that you are watched by the dead?

MICH. Yes.

AUDR. And that she is with us now--in this room?

MICH. Yes.

AUDR. She is your good angel.

MICH. She is my good angel.

AUDR. I can understand why you did not wish me to kiss her.

(_MICHAEL makes a movement to take the picture._)

AUDR. (_retains it_). No. Yes, I feel she must be in this room.

MICH. Why?

AUDR. I was full of silly wicked thoughts when I came--she has taken them away.

MICH. Ah, if I dared hope that you would really change!

AUDR. Perhaps I will. (_Very imploringly._) Do let me kiss this sweet face.

(_Pause._)

MICH. No--at least not now, not yet. Please give it back to me. (_He takes it._) I'll hang it up. (_He takes it to steps._) Will you hold it for a moment?

(_She comes to steps, holds it while he mounts, gives it to him._)

AUDR. What a wonderful thought that is, that we are watched by the dead. It never occurred to me before. I wonder what a spirit is like? (_He hangs up the picture._) Now she is quite out of my reach. (_He comes down steps._) Won't you take that money for rebuilding the Minster! It's there on the window-sill. (_He goes and takes it._) Thank you.

MICH. Thank you.

AUDR. Then I'm not to call again? Not even about my soul?

MICH. I'm going over to the Island for some time, and shall only be back on Sundays.

AUDR. Saint Decuman's Island. You've built yourself a house over there, haven't you?

MICH. The shrine was neglected and decayed. I restored it and built myself a couple of rooms round it. I've a few books, and just food and drink. I go over there sometimes for work and meditation.

AUDR. And yours is the only house on the island?

MICH. Yes.

AUDR. Isn't it awfully lonely there?

MICH. (_glancing at picture_). I'm never alone.

AUDR. No, you have your millions and millions of good and bad angels, besides hundreds of cheap excursionists.

MICH. Yes, in the summer, but they only stay a few hours.

AUDR. I can see the smoke from your chimney quite plainly in the evening from my drawing-room windows. How far is it across?

MICH. About four miles.

AUDR. I shall get Hannaford to row me over some day. Don't look alarmed. I won't come when you are there. I should frighten all your good angels away. (_MICHAEL shows a little impatience._) You want to get rid of me. (_Going, suddenly turns._) If I come to you as a penitent, you won't send me away?

MICH. Not if I can be of service to you.

AUDR. I seem to have changed my nature since I came into this room.

MICH. How?

AUDR. I don't know. I wonder how many natures I have and how often I can change them.

MICH. I wish you wouldn't speak like that.

AUDR. I won't. (_Very seriously._) You said just now that I was playing with sacred things. I am, or I was until you spoke about her. (_With warning._) Don't let me play with your soul.

MICH. I don't understand you.

AUDR. You may do me good, but I am far more likely to do you harm.

MICH. How?

AUDR. I'm not nearly so good a woman as you are a man.

MICH. But perhaps I may influence you for good.

AUDR. Do you think that you can have any influence on my soul without my having an equal influence on yours?

MICH. Action and re-action are equal and opposite. You think that law prevails in the spiritual world as well as in the material world?

AUDR. I'm sure it does. So let me go.

MICH. (_suddenly, with great feeling_). Oh, if I could save you!

AUDR. You can if you will. I would try so hard if you would only help me. But you don't believe that I can.

MICH. What makes you say that?

AUDR. You called me a bad angel--and you don't think me good enough to kiss her. (_Sidling up to the steps; he makes a deprecating movement to prevent her, but she takes no notice._) If you knew it would give me a splendid impulse to goodness, would you refuse me? (_She watches him very closely; he watches her, half deprecating, half consenting; she goes up a step or two; he again makes a deprecating gesture, but does not stop her._) Can't you see what an awful effect it would have on me if you thought me worthy to be in the company of your good angel? It would be almost a sacrament! (_Going up steps. He makes a stronger gesture of deprecation._) Ah, you think I'm not worthy----

MICH. No, no----

AUDR. (_on top of steps, very seductively_). Do save me. I'm worth saving. (_Whispers._) I may kiss her? I may? I may? (_He does not reply. She very reverently takes the picture from the wall, turns round, kisses it reverently, hangs it up again, comes down slowly to him._) Your bad angel has kissed your good angel. (_A mock curtsey to him._)

(_Exit softly. MICHAEL stands troubled._)

CURTAIN.

(_Four months pass between Acts I. and II._)