Chapter 4

ROGERS. Cos why? _That's_ why!--What you're doin' now! I likes people to keep their proper stytion! I was brought up middle-clarss myself, an' taught to be'ave myself before my betters!--No offence to you, Mr. Manson! [He says this with a jib, belying his words.]

MARY. Nonsense, Rogers! I like helping.

ROGERS. My poor farver taught me. 'E led a godly, righteous, an' sober life. 'E was a grocer.

MANSON. Come, Rogers. Take them to the kitchen.

[ROGERS obeys with some asperity of mien. At the door he delivers a Parthian shot.]

ROGERS. If my poor farver could see what I've seen to-day, 'e would roll over in 'is grave!

[MANSON opens the door for him. He goes.]

MARY [gayly]. Isn't he funny? Just because his silly old father . . .

MANSON. Ssh! His father's _dead_, Mary!

[There is a sudden pause. He comes down to her.]

Well, have you thought any more about . . .

MARY. About wishing?--Yes, lots.

MANSON. And have you? . . .

MARY. I don't know what to think. You see, I never believed properly in wishing before. Wishing is a dreadfully difficult thing, when you really set about it, isn't it?

MANSON. Yes.

MARY. You see, ordinary things won't do: they're all wrong, somehow. You'd feel a bit of a sneak to wish for them, wouldn't you?

MANSON. Yes.

MARY. Even if you got them, you wouldn't care, after all. They'd all turn to dust and ashes in your hand.

That last bit is what Grannie Durden said.

MANSON. Who's she?

MARY. She's the poor old woman I've been having breakfast with. Do you know, she said a funny thing about wishing. I must tell you first that she's quite blind and very deaf-- Well, she's been wishing ever so long to see and hear; and at last she says she can!

MANSON. What--see and hear? [He glances towards the drawing-room.]

MARY. Um! I must say, I didn't notice any difference myself; but that's what she said.

She agreed with you, that wishing was the only way; and if you didn't know how, then you had to keep on wishing to wish, until you could.

MANSON. And so . . .

MARY. Well, that's as far as I've got.

[ROGERS re-enters.]

MANSON. Yes, what is it, Rogers?

ROGERS. Cook's compliments, Mr. Manson, and might she make so bold as to request your presence in the kitchen, seein' as she's 'ad no orders for lunch yet. O' course, she says, it will do when you've _quite_ finished any private business you may 'av' in the upper part of the 'ouse!

[He delivers this with distinct hauteur. MANSON, smiling, goes up to him and takes his head in his hands.]

MANSON. Why do you dislike me so, Rogers?

ROGERS [taken aback]. Me? Me dislike you, Mr. Manson? _Oh no_!

MANSON. Come along, little comrade.

[They go out like brothers, MANSON'S arm round the lad's shoulders.]

[MARY is left seated on the table, chuckling at the situation. Suddenly her face becomes serious again: she is lost in thought. After a while she speaks softly to herself.]

MARY. What have I needed most? What have I not had? . . . Oh! I know! . . .

[Her face flames with the sudden inspiration.]

And I never dreamed of it till now!

[ROBERT enters by the main door. The child turns round, and, seeing him, gives a startled little cry. They stand facing each other, silent. Presently ROBERT falters.]

ROBERT. Beg pawdon, miss: I . . .

MARY. Who are you? What are you doing here?

ROBERT. I'm . . .

I was goin' ter see what's--what's in that room . . .

MARY. If you do, I'll . . .

[She moves swiftly to the bell.]

ROBERT. It's a mistake, miss. P'r'aps I'd--I'd better tek my 'ook.

MARY. Stop! . . .

How dare you! Don't you know you're a very wicked man?

ROBERT. Me, miss?

MARY. Yes, you.

ROBERT. Yus, I know it.

MARY [trying to save the sinner]. That isn't the way to be happy, you know. Thieves are never _really_ happy in their hearts.

ROBERT. Wot's that? . . .

Do you tike me for a thief, miss? You? . . .

[He advances to the table: she edges away.]

Why don't you arnser?

MARY. I had rather not say.

ROBERT. Cos why?

MARY. I don't want to be unkind.

[ROBERT sinks stricken into the chair behind him.]

ROBERT, Oh, my Gawd, my Gawd!

MARY [relenting]. Of course, if--if you're sorry, that makes a difference. Being sorry makes a lot of difference. Doesn't it?

ROBERT. Yus, a fat lot!

MARY. Only you must never give way to such a wicked temptation again. Oh, don't cry! [She goes to him.]

ROBERT. Oo is cryin'? I'm not cryin'--not a cryin' sort! On'y--you 'adn't no right to talk to me like that, miss.

MARY. Why, didn't you own . . .

ROBERT. No, I didn't. It was you as jumped down my throat, an' took up my words afore I got 'em out.

MARY. Oh: I'm sorry. Did I make a mistake?

ROBERT. Yus, miss--a whopper.

MARY. Then you're not a . . .

ROBERT. _No_, swelp me Gaw-- [He pulls himself up.] I assure you, no. I'm a bit of a low un; but I never come so stinkin' low as that.

You thought I looked like one, all the same. Didn't yer, now?

MARY. Well, you see, I thought you said so; and then there's your . . .

ROBERT. I know! You don't like my mug. It ain't much of a mug to look at, is it? Sort of a physog for a thief, eh? See them lines?--Want to know what them stand for? That's drink, an' starvation, an' 'ard work, an' a damned lonely life.

MARY. Oh, you poor man!

ROBERT. Yus, miss, I am.

MARY. You mustn't say "damned," you know.

ROBERT. No, miss.

MARY. _That's_ wicked, at any rate.

ROBERT. Yus, miss.

MARY. And you owned yourself that you drank. That's not very good, either.

ROBERT. No, miss.

MARY. So, you see, you _are_ a little bit naughty, after all, aren't you?

ROBERT. Yus, miss.

MARY. Now, isn't it much nicer for you to try and look at things in this way? I'm sure you feel a great deal better already.

Do you know-- Wait a moment . . .

[She resumes her seat, turning it towards him, the passion of salvation in her eyes.]

Do you know, I'd like to do you some good!

ROBERT. You, miss?

MARY. Yes, wouldn't you like me to?

ROBERT. You're the on'y person in the world I'd--I'd like to see try, miss.

MARY [glad in the consciousness of "being used"]. That's because you know I'm interested in you, that I mean it, that I'm not trying to think only of myself.

ROBERT [a little stupidly]. Aren't you, miss?

MARY. No: we must always remember that there are other people in the world besides ourselves.

[This coincides with his experience: he says so.]

ROBERT. Yus, miss, there are.

MARY. Very well: now I'll see what I can do to help you.

ROBERT. Thank you, miss.

MARY. Now, don't you think, if you were really _to wish_ very hard, it would make things better for you?

ROBERT. I don't know what you mean, miss.

MARY. Well, it's like this: if you only wish very very hard, everything comes true.

ROBERT. Wot _I_ want, ain't no use wishing for!

MARY. It doesn't matter what it is! Anything you like! It will all happen!

ROBERT. Blimey, wot's the good o' talkin'?

MARY. Oh, wouldn't you like to help to spin the fairy-tale?

ROBERT [roughly], I don't believe in no fairy-tales!

MARY. I do! I don't believe there's anything else in the world, if we only knew! And that's why I'm wishing! I'm wishing now! I'm wishing hard!

ROBERT [passionately]. So am I, Gawd 'elp me! But it's no use!

MARY. It is! It is! What are you wishing for?

ROBERT. Never you mind! Summat as impossible as--fairy-tales!

MARY. So's mine! That's what it has to be! Mine's the most impossible thing in the world!

ROBERT. Not more than mine!

MARY. What's yours?

ROBERT. What's yours?

MARY. _I want my father_!

ROBERT. I WANT MY LITTLE KID!

[There is a second's pause.]

MARY. Your--what? . . .

ROBERT [brokenly]. My--daughter.

MARY. Oh! . . .

[She goes towards him: they face each other.]

[Softly.] Is she dead?

[He stands looking at her.]

Is she?

[He turns away from her.]

ROBERT. Fur as I am concerned--yus.

MARY. What do you mean? _Isn't_ she dead?

ROBERT. She's alive, right enough.

MARY. Perhaps--perhaps she ran away? . . .

ROBERT. She got took.

MARY. How do you mean--gypsies?

ROBERT. I _give_ 'er up. 'Ad to.

MARY. Why?

ROBERT. Look at me! . . .

_That_--an' the drink, an' the low wages, an' my ole woman dyin'! That's why I give 'er up.

MARY. Where is she now?

ROBERT. Never you mind. She's bein' looked arfter.

MARY. By whom?

ROBERT. By people as I've allus 'ated like poison!

MARY. Why, aren't they kind to her?

ROBERT. Yus: they've made 'er summat, as I couldn't 'a' done.

MARY. Then why do you hate them ?

ROBERT. I don't any longer. I 'ates myself, I 'ates the world I live in, I 'ates the bloomin' muck 'ole I've landed into!

MARY. Your wife's dead, you say?

ROBERT. Yus.

MARY. What would she think about it all?

ROBERT [hollowly, without variation]. I don't know: I don't know: I don't know.

[MARY sits down beside him.]

MARY [thoughtfully]. Isn't it strange--both our wishes alike! You want your little girl; and I, my father!

ROBERT. What sort of a . . .

MARY. Yes?

ROBERT. What sort of a bloke might your father be, miss?

MARY. I don't know. I have never seen him.

ROBERT. Got no idea? Never--'eard _tell_ of 'im?

MARY. Never.

ROBERT. 'Aven't thought of 'im yourself, I s'pose? Wasn't particular worth while, eh?

MARY. It's not that. I've been selfish. I never thought anything about him until to-day.

ROBERT. What made you think of 'im--to-day?

MARY. I can't quite say. At least . . .

ROBERT. Mebbe 'e wrote--sent a telingram or summat, eh?--t' say as 'e was comin'?

MARY [quickly]. Oh no: he never writes: we never hear from him. That's perhaps a bit selfish of him, too, isn't it?

ROBERT [after a moment]. Looks like it, don't it?

MARY. But I don't think he can be really selfish, after all.

ROBERT [with a ray of brightness]. Cos why?

MARY. Because he must be rather like my Uncle William and Uncle Joshua.

[He looks at her curiously.]

ROBERT. Like your . . .

MARY. Yes--they're his brothers, you know.

This is Uncle William's house.

ROBERT. Yes, but what do you know about. . .

MARY. About Uncle Joshua? Well, I happen to know a good deal more than I can say. It's a secret.

ROBERT. S'pose your _Uncle William_ spoke to you about 'im?

MARY. Well, yes. Uncle William spoke about him, too.

ROBERT. But never about your father?

MARY. Oh no, never.

ROBERT. Why, miss?

MARY [slowly]. I--don't--know.

ROBERT. P'r'aps 'e ain't--good enough--to be--to be the brother of your Uncle William--and-- Uncle--Joshua--eh, miss?

MARY. Oh, I can't think that!

ROBERT. Why not, miss? Three good brothers in a family don't scarcely seem possible--not as families go--do they, miss?

MARY. You mustn't talk like that! A father must be much--much better than anybody else!

ROBERT. But s'pose, miss--s'pose 'e ain't . . .

MARY. He is! I know it! Why, that's what I'm wishing! . . .

ROBERT. P'r'aps it ain't altogether 'is fault, miss! . . .

MARY. Oh, don't! Don't. . .

ROBERT. Things may 'a' bin agin 'im, miss! . . .

MARY. Oh, you make me so unhappy! . . .

ROBERT. P'r'aps 'e's 'ad a 'ard life--a bitter 'ard life--same as I 'av', miss . . . [He breaks down.]

MARY. Ssh! Please! Please! . . .

I can quite understand: indeed, indeed, I can! I'm sorry--oh, so sorry for you. You are thinking of yourself and of your own little girl--the little girl who doesn't know what you have been telling me. Don't be miserable! I'm sure it will all turn out right in the end--things always do; far better than you dream! Only . . . don't take away _my_ little dream!

[She turns away her face. ROBERT rises heavily.]

ROBERT. All right, miss--I won't: swelp me Gawd, I won't. Don't cry, miss. Don't, miss! Breaks my 'eart--after all you've done for me. I ort never to 'a' bin born--mekin' you cry! Thank you kindly, miss: thank you very kindly. I'll--I'll tek my 'ook.

MARY. Oh, but I'm so sorry for _you_!

ROBERT. Thank you, miss.

MARY. I did so want to help you.

ROBERT. You 'av', miss.

MARY. Before you go, won't you tell me your name? Who are you?

ROBERT. I . . .

I got no name worth speakin' of, miss: I'm--just the bloke wot's a-lookin' arter the drains.

Good-bye, miss.

[At the door, he turns.]

Sorry I used bad words, miss.

[She runs to him and offers her hand. He takes it.]

MARY. Good-bye,

ROBERT. Good-bye, miss.

[He goes out.]

[She shuts the door after him, and turns a wretched little face towards the audience as the curtain falls.]

THE FOURTH ACT

As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged. After a moment, Mary comes down to the settee, left, and buries her face in the cushions, weeping. Shortly, the handle of the drawing-room door is turned, and from within there emerges a murmur of voices, the Vicar's uppermost.

VICAR [within]. Very well, then, after you have finished your letters! . . .

[The voices continue confusedly: MARY rises quickly and goes into the garden.]

[The VICAR enters and goes to the mantel-piece weariedly: a moment later, AUNTIE.]

BISHOP [within], I shall only be about twenty minutes.

AUNTIE [entering]. All right, don't hurry, James: you have all the morning.

[She closes the door upon the BISHOP'S grunts, and comes, to the middle of the room.]

VICAR. Hm! When he has finished his letters!

AUNTIE. Yes, things seem to be shaping better than we thought, William. Perhaps we have a little misjudged him.

[He looks at her curiously.]

To think, my dear, that the rebuilding of the church is becoming possible at last! All your hopes, all your enthusiasms, about to be realised! Now, it only remains to gain your brother Joshua's approval and help, and the scheme is complete!

VICAR. Supposing he--doesn't approve of the scheme?

AUNTIE. My dear, he must approve: he will see the advantages at once. I think James made that perfectly clear! . . .

And then, look at the opportunities it creates for _you_! Not only the church, William, the beautiful big church of your dreams, with the great spires and flashing crosses and glorious windows; but a much larger sphere of usefulness than you ever dared to dream! Think of your work, William, of your great gifts--even James had to acknowledge them, didn't he?--Think of the influence for good you will be able to wield! Ah! And then I shall see my beloved, _himself_ again--No more worry, no more feverish nights and days, none of the wretched frets and fancies that have been troubling him all this morning; but the great Scholar and Saint again, the master of men's souls, the priest in the congregation!

VICAR. Suppose you try and forget me for a moment. Do you think you can?

AUNTIE. William, that's unkind! Of course I can't.

VICAR. It might mean the salvation of my soul.

AUNTIE. Oh, William! Now you're going to begin to worry again!

VICAR. Oh no: I'm quite calm. Your brother's powers of reasoning have left me philosophical. . . .

Tell me, are you quite sure that you have grasped the full meaning of his project?

AUNTIE. Of course! You think no one can understand a simple business dealing but men! Women are every bit as clever!

VICAR. Well, then, this project: what was it?

AUNTIE. James explained clearly enough: the affiliation of your brother's scheme with that of the society he mentioned.

VICAR. Yes--_what_ society?

AUNTIE. _The Society for the Extension of Greater Usefulness among the Clergy_. . . . It was an admirable suggestion--one that ought to appeal particularly to you. Haven't you always said, yourself, that if only you had enough money to . . .

VICAR. Did you happen to realise his explanation as to the constitution of the society?

AUNTIE. To tell the truth, I wasn't listening just then: I was thinking of you.

VICAR. The _financial_ possibilities of the scheme--Did his eloquence on that point escape you?

AUNTIE. Figures always bore me, and James uses dreadfully long words.

VICAR. Did you hear nothing of _profits_?

AUNTIE. I only heard him say that you were to . . .

VICAR. Well, didn't it strike you that throughout the entire discussion he spoke rather like a _tradesman_?

AUNTIE. My dear, you can't expect everybody to be an idealist! Remember, he's a practical man: he's a bishop.

VICAR. Didn't it strike you that there are some things in this world which are not to be bought at _any_ price?

AUNTIE. My dear William, bricks and mortar require money: you can't run a society without funds!

VICAR. Yes, but what of flesh and blood? What of reputation? What of a man's name?

AUNTIE. Whatever do you mean now?

VICAR. Didn't his proposal practically amount to this: that we should turn my brother Joshua's name and reputation into a bogus Building Society, of which the funds were to be scraped together from all the naked bodies and the starving bellies of the world, whilst _we_ and our thieving co-directors should collar all the swag?

AUNTIE. Now, that's exactly where I think you are so unjust! Didn't you yourself refuse, before he spoke a word, to let him put a penny of his own into the concern? I must say, you were unnecessarily rude to him about that, William!

VICAR. Yes, and didn't he jump at the suggestion!

AUNTIE. He offers to give his patronage, his influence, his time. All he asks of your brother is his bare name.

VICAR. Yes, and all he asks of me is simply my eloquence, my gift of words, my power of lying plausibly!

AUNTIE. William, he is offering you the opportunity of your life!

VICAR. Damnation take my life!

AUNTIE. William, why are you so violent?

VICAR. Because violence is the only way of coming to the truth between you and me!

AUNTIE [now thoroughly afraid]. What do you mean by the truth, William?

VICAR. I mean this: What is the building of this church to you? Are you so mightily interested in architecture, in clerical _usefulness_, in the furtherance of God's work?

AUNTIE. I am interested in your work, William. Do you take me for an atheist?

VICAR. No: far worse--for an idolater!

AUNTIE. William . . .

VICAR. What else but idolatry is this precious husband-worship you have set up in your heart--you and all the women of your kind? You barter away your own souls in the service of it: you build up your idols in the fashion of your own respectable desires: you struggle silently amongst yourselves, one against another, to push your own god foremost in the miserable little pantheon of prigs and hypocrites you have created!

AUNTIE [roused]. It is for your own good we do it!

VICAR. Our own good! What have you made of me? You have plucked me down from whatever native godhead I had by gift of heaven, and hewed and hacked me into the semblance of your own idolatrous imagination! By God, it shall go on no longer! If you have made me less than a man, at least I will prove myself to be a priest!

AUNTIE. Do you call it a priest's work to . . .

VICAR. It is _my_ work to deliver you and me from the bondage of lies! Can't you see, woman, that God and Mammon are about us, fighting for our souls?

AUNTIE [determinedly]. Listen to me, William, listen to me . . .

VICAR. I have listened to you too long!

AUNTIE. You would always take my counsel before . . .

VICAR. All that is done with! I am resolved to be a free man from this hour--free of lies, free of love if needs be, free even of you, free of everything that clogs and hinders me in the work I have to do! I will do my own deed, not yours!

AUNTIE [with deadly quietness]. If I were not certain of one thing, I could never forgive you for those cruel words: William, this is some madness of sin that has seized you: it is the temptation of the devil!

VICAR. It is the call of God!

AUNTIE [still calmly]. That's blasphemy, William! But I will save you--yes, I will--in spite of yourself. I am stronger than you.

[They look at each other steadily for a moment, neither yielding,]

VICAR. Then I accept the challenge! It is God and I against you, Martha!

AUNTIE. God and I against _you_, William.

VICAR. So now--for my work!

AUNTIE [quietly]. Yes: what are you going to do?

VICAR. Three things.

AUNTIE. Yes--and they? . . .

VICAR. Tell Mary everything: send for my brother, Robert: and then--answer that monster in there.

AUNTIE [fearfully]. William, you would never dare! . . .

VICAR. Look! . . .

[MARY re-enters from the garden.]

MARY. Auntie! Uncle! I want to speak to you at once--both of you!

VICAR. You are just in time: I wanted to speak to _you_ at once.

MARY. Is it important, uncle? Mine's dreadfully important.

VICAR. So is mine.

AUNTIE [quickly]. Let the child speak, William. Perhaps . . .

MARY. I hardly know how to begin. Perhaps it's only my cowardice. Perhaps it isn't really dreadful, after all . . .

AUNTIE [troubled]. Why, what are you thinking of, Mary?

MARY. It's about something we have never spoken of before; something I've never been told.

VICAR [searchingly]. Yes? . . .

AUNTIE [falteringly]. Yes? . . .

MARY. I want to know about my father.

[There is a short silence. The VICAR looks at AUNTIE.]

VICAR. Now: is God with you or me, Martha?

MARY. What do you mean by that? Is it very terrible, uncle?

[He stands silent, troubled. MARY crosses him, going to AUNTIE.]

Auntie . . .

AUNTIE. Don't ask me, child: I have nothing to tell you about your father.

MARY. Why, isn't he . . .

AUNTIE. I have nothing to tell you.

VICAR. I have.

AUNTIE. William! . . .

VICAR. I have, I say! Come, sit here, Mary.

[She sits to left of him, on the settee. AUNTIE is down stage on the other side of him.]

Now! What do you want to know about your father?

MARY [passionately]. Everything there is to know!

AUNTIE. William, this is brutal! . . .

VICAR. It is _my work_, Martha!--God's work! Haven't I babbled in the pulpit long enough about fatherhood and brotherhood, that I should shirk His irony when He takes me at my word!

Now: what put this thought into your head to-day?

MARY. I don't know. I've been puzzling about something all the morning; but there was nothing clear. It only came clear a few minutes ago--just before I went into the garden. But I think it must have begun quite early--before breakfast, when I was talking to my--to Manson,

AUNTIE. Manson! . . .

MARY. And then, all of a sudden, as I was sitting there by the fireplace, _it came_--all in a flash, you understand! I found myself wishing for my father: wondering why I had never seen him: despising myself that I had never thought of him before.

VICAR. Well, what then?

MARY. I tried to picture him to myself. I imagined all that he must be. I thought of you. Uncle William, and Uncle Joshua, and of all the good and noble men I had ever seen or heard of in my life; but still--that wasn't quite like a father, was it? I thought a father must be much, much better than anything else in the world! He must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be good! I kept on saying it over and over to myself like a little song: he must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be good! [Anxiously.] That's true of fathers, isn't it, uncle? Isn't it?

VICAR. A father ought to be all these things.

MARY. And then . . . then . . .

VICAR. Yes? . . .

MARY. I met a man, a poor miserable man--it still seems like a dream, the way I met him--and he said something dreadful to me, something that hurt me terribly. He seemed to think that my father--that perhaps my father--might be nothing of the sort!

AUNTIE. Why, who was he--the man?

MARY. He wouldn't tell me his name: I mistook him for a thief at first; but afterwards I felt very, very sorry for him. You see, his case was rather like my own. _He was wishing for his little girl_.

[There is a short silence.]

VICAR. Where did you meet with him?

MARY. Here, in this room.

AUNTIE. When was this?

MARY. A few minutes ago--just before you came in.