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.
AUNTIE. Where is he now?
MARY. He said good-bye. He has gone away.
AUNTIE. For good?
MARY. Yes, I think so: I understood him to mean that.
VICAR. Was he—a rough-looking man?
MARY. Dreadfully; and he swore once—but afterwards he said he was sorry for that.
VICAR. Did he frighten you at all?
MARY. No, not exactly frighten: you see, I felt sorry for him.
VICAR [slowly]. And he wouldn't tell you his name? . . .
MARY. No: I asked him, but he wouldn't.
[The VICAR ponders this for a moment.]
AUNTIE. Now, is it God with you or with me, William?
[For a moment this unnerves him. Then setting his teeth together, he faces his task stubbornly.]
VICAR. Have you any idea about this man?
MARY. How do you mean—any idea?
VICAR. As to why he put this doubt into your head about your father.
MARY. He seemed to be thinking about himself, and how unworthy he was of his own little girl.
VICAR. Did he say—unworthy?
MARY. That's what I think he meant. What he said was that perhaps my father wasn't good enough to be your brother, uncle. That's not true, is it?
VICAR. No, by Heaven! That's not true!
MARY [rapturously]. Oh, I knew it, I knew it!
VICAR [in an agony]. Stop! You don't understand!
MARY. I understand quite enough! That's all I wanted to know!
VICAR. Listen, child! Listen! I mean that it is I who am not worthy to be called his brother.
AUNTIE. William, this is absurd!
MARY [snuggling up to him]. Isn't he a dear?
VICAR [freeing himself]. Listen to me, Mary: I have something awful to tell you: try and bear it bravely. You will hate me for it—never love me again! . . . No, listen! . . .
Supposing your father were—not what you imagine him to be? . . .
MARY. Uncle, didn't you just say . . .
VICAR. Supposing that wretched man you spoke with just now were right, after all! What would you say?
MARY. Uncle! . . .
VICAR. Supposing he were one upon whom a11 the curses of the world had been most cruelly visited—his poor body scarred and graven out of human semblance; his soul the prey of hate and bitterness; his immortal spirit tortured and twisted away from every memory of God! What would you say?
MARY. Uncle, it would be terrible—terrible!
VICAR. What will you say, then, to the man who has brought him to such ruin? What will you say to that man being God's priest? What word of loathing have you for the thief who has stolen the love of another man's child, for the murderer who has slain his brother's soul?
MARY. Uncle, do you mean . . . do you mean . . .
VICAR. I mean that I am the man!
MARY. You! . . .
AUNTIE [passionately]. It is not true! It is a lie! It's entirely your father's own fault!
MARY. I don't understand. Why should Uncle William lie to me?
AUNTIE. He is overwrought: he is ill. It is like your uncle
William to take upon himself another man's wickedness!
MARY. Then, that is true, at least: my father is a wicked man! . . .
AUNTIE. I don't want to speak about your father!
MARY. He is nothing that I have wished him to be: not brave . . .
VICAR. Yes—that at least!
MARY [turning towards him]. Beautiful? . . .
VICAR. What do you mean by beautiful?
MARY. You know what I mean: What you once said God was, when you called Him beautiful.
VICAR. I have no right to judge your father.
[She perceives the evasion.]
MARY. Not even—good? . . .
VICAR. He is what I have made him. I and no other!
[She stands looking at him piteously.]
AUNTIE. There is another—I! I kept them apart: I poisoned your uncle against him: I took you away from him: It was I who kept you in ignorance of your father!
MARY. Why? . . .
AUNTIE. Because he stands in the way of my husband's happiness! Because, even, he is your father! Because I hate him! I could almost wish him dead!
VICAR. Martha! . . .
[There is a long pause.]
MARY. Then I have nobody, now. It's no use wishing any more.
AUNTIE. Mary . . .
MARY. No! . . . I want to be alone.
[She goes out into the garden. They follow her out with their eyes.]
VICAR. So! God has revealed His partisanship!—He has beggared us both!
[AUNTIE considers this for a moment. Then, with sudden determination, she rises.]
AUNTIE. I am not going to be beggared without a struggle for it,
William!
[She moves briskly across to the bell.]
VICAR. What are you going to do, Martha?
AUNTIE, [flashing round passionately, before she can ring the bell]. Do you think I am going to stand by and see your life wrecked—yours and that child's?
VICAR. We are not the only persons concerned, Martha.
AUNTIE. As far as I care, you are!
VICAR. And what of Robert? . . .
AUNTIE. Robert! That's what I'm going to see to now!
[She rings the bell.]
There's only one way of dealing with a brute like that!
VICAR. What's that?
AUNTIE. Pack him off to Australia, Africa—anywhere, so long as we are never pestered with him again!
VICAR, Do you think you'll get him to go?
AUNTIE. Oh, I'll find the money! A drunkard like that will do anything for money! Well, he shall have plenty: perhaps he'll drink himself to . . .
VICAR. By Heaven, but I say no!
AUNTIE. By Heaven, but I say yes! It's about time I took things in hand again! Do you think I'm going to risk that child learning everything? She knows more than enough already! Providentially, she does not know the worst!
VICAR. And what knowledge do you consider Providence has so kindly spared her?
AUNTIE. The knowledge who that man was! She shall never know, if I can have my way! [She rings the bell again, impatiently.] Why doesn't he come? Why doesn't he come?
VICAR. Who?
AUNTIE. Manson.
[Enter MANSON by the main door. There is a subtle change in the manner of him, a look in his eye, as of the servant merging in the master.]
MANSON. You rang.
AUNTIE. Yes, come in, Manson. I want to have a little confidential talk with you—confidential, you understand.
MANSON [eying her]. If you please. I expected this.
[He has the air of a judge. She hurries on, unheeding.]
AUNTIE. Manson, you saw everything. You were here when that dreadful creature arrived.
MANSON. Which?
AUNTIE. Why, my husband's brother, Robert. Didn't you tell me,
William, that Manson heard everything he said?
VICAR. Yes.
AUNTIE. Then you will know the wretched plight we are in. Manson, it's terrible. I want your help. By-the-way, you have not spoken about it to the other servants?
MANSON. I am always most discreet.
AUNTIE [touched]. Thank you, Manson, thank you: I felt that I could trust you. It's to prove my trust that I've sent for you now. Perhaps I'd better begin by explaining everything quite clearly, so that you . . .
MANSON. There is no need. I know everything already.
AUNTIE, Everything! How? . . .
MANSON. A certain gift of divination—mine by birth. And, besides, you forget that I had a long conversation with your brother-in-law after master left the room.
AUNTIE. What! Whilst my brother was here?
MANSON. Yes: we all three had breakfast together.
AUNTIE. Breakfast together! Then James has heard all!
MANSON. Not quite all. You may have observed that your brother is a little deaf.
AUNTIE. But surely— What did he think?
MANSON. He mistook him for your husband.
AUNTIE. My husband!
MANSON. Your brother is also a little blind, remember.
AUNTIE [delighted]. Then James never found out? . . .
MANSON. Oh yes: I took care to undeceive him on the point.
AUNTIE. Good gracious! How did he take it?
MANSON. At first, a little angrily; but, after a while, some few poor words of my own chanced to move him to more—profitable meditation.
AUNTIE. Manson, you're perfectly wonderful! I respect you very, very much!
MANSON. It is not enough. I shall require more.
AUNTIE [embarrassed]. Oh, of course, I shall be glad to do anything that . . .
Why, what do you mean? . . .
MANSON. I mean that service such as mine demands a greater recompense!
AUNTIE. You may be sure that anything in reason . . .
MANSON. It must go beyond that!
AUNTIE. Well, what do you ask?
MANSON. The uttermost obedience, loyalty, and love!
AUNTIE. Manson, how dare you! By what right . . .
MANSON. By my own right!
AUNTIE. This is insolence! What right do you mean?
MANSON. The right of understanding, the right of purpose, and the right of will!
AUNTIE. You force me to speak angrily to you! Do you forget that you are my servant?
MANSON. No! And, therefore, it is my office to command you now!
Sit down, and hear me speak!
VICAR. He has been sent to help us! Martha, this is God!
MANSON. Over here, please. [He points to the settee.]
AUNTIE. I . . . I . . .
[MANSON still points. She wavers as in a dream, and at length moves mechanically across the room, obeying him.]
MANSON. Now, let me tell you exactly why you have sent for me here. There is a strange and wretched turmoil in your soul: you have done wrong, and you know it—but you don't know all! You would keep what miserable little right you have by bolstering it up with further wrong. And you have sent for me to help you in that wrong!
AUNTIE. How dare you say that?
MANSON. Haven't you sent for me to help you in your plans about his brother, Robert?
AUNTIE [faintly]. What plans? . . .
MANSON. The plan of banishing him further from your lives than ever! The plan of providing for him! The plan of patching up his bitter wrongs with gold!
AUNTIE. How did you know that?
MANSON. I know you! What, do you think that God's eyes are like your brother's—blind? Or do you think these things can be done in darkness without crying aloud to Heaven for light?
AUNTIE. I am here to work my will, not yours!
MANSON. What gain do you hope to bring yourself by that?
AUNTIE. I am not thinking of myself! I am thinking only of my husband's happiness!
MANSON. Behold the happiness you have already brought him!
AUNTIE. There is the child! It would break her heart!
MANSON. What is her heart but broken now—by you?
AUNTIE, Robert himself would be the first to repudiate any other plan.
MANSON. Have you tried him?
AUNTIE. Of course not; but he must see the impossibility.
MANSON. What impossibility?
AUNTIE. The impossibility of having him here: the impossibility of letting him see the child: the impossibility of him and his brother ever meeting again!
MANSON. Is that your only difficulty?
AUNTIE. Only difficulty! What, would you have me welcome him with open arms?
MANSON. Yes, and heart, too!
AUNTIE. Have him here, entertain him, treat him as a guest?
MANSON. As an honoured guest!
AUNTIE. In this house?
MANSON. This house.
AUNTIE. Good Heavens! what else?
MANSON. Sweep and garnish it throughout, seek out and cleanse its hidden corners, make it fair and ready to lodge him royally as a brother!
AUNTIE [desperately]. I won't do it! I can't! I can't!
MANSON. With my assistance, you can!
VICAR. Manson, how can we bring it about?
AUNTIE, I daren't! I daren't!
VICAR. I dare! I will!
AUNTIE. In God's name, how is it possible?
MANSON. Make me the lord and master of this house for one little hour!
VICAR. By Heaven, yes!
MANSON. And you? You? . . .
[She falters a few moments: then, utterly broken down, she whispers, feebly.]
AUNTIE. Yes.
MANSON. Then first TO CLEANSE IT OF ITS ABOMINATIONS!
[The BISHOP enters from the drawing-room. He carries a letter in his hand.]
BISHOP. Well, here is the letter I have written to the secretary of our Society: I have explained everything quite nicely; and have warned him, of course, against doing anything definite in the matter until we have consulted your dear brother. Now . . . Eh, what? Oh! . . .
[MANSON has tapped his ear, peremptorily: he fixes his ear-trumpet.]
MANSON. I bear you a message from the master of this house. Leave it.
BISHOP. Really, I . . . . . . . Most extraordinary! Hm!
[He blows down the ear-trumpet, and afterwards wipes it very carefully with his handkerchief. MANSON stands, as though carven in marble, waiting for him to fix it again.]
Now: again, please.
MANSON. You are no longer necessary. Leave this house.
BISHOP. You scoundrel! You impudent scoundrel! You . . .
You . . .
Give me back my five-pound note!
MANSON [pointing to the fire]. It is invested for you.
BISHOP. I will have it back at once!
MANSON. Hereafter, was the arrangement.
BISHOP. Mr. Smythe! Where are you? Do you hear what this blackguard says?
VICAR. I endorse it, every word.
BISHOP. Martha! . . .
[She turns away from him as from some horror of sin. The BISHOP stands dumfounded for a moment or two: then he boils over.]
Now I see it all! I've been trapped, I've been tricked! Martha, this is all your doing! Brought me here on a trumped-up story of relationship with the Bishop of Benares, to insult me! Oh, what would that godly man say if he heard of it!—And he shall hear of it, believe me! Your infamy shall be spread abroad! So this is your revenge, sir—[he turns to the VICAR]—your revenge for the contumely with which I have very properly treated you, sir! Now I understand why I was made to sit down and eat sausages with a butler—yes, sir, with a butler and a common working-man! Oh! I could die with shame! You have bereft me of all words! You . . . You . . . You are no scholar, sir! And your Greek is contemptible! . . .
[He crosses to AUNTIE.] Martha! You are no sister of mine henceforward! [Going, he returns to her.] Anathema maranatha!
[He bounces up to the door, but turns back again for a last word with MANSON.]
And I have one word for you, sir! You are a scoundrel, sir—a cheat, an impostor! And if I could have my way with you, I would have you publicly whipped: I would visit you with the utmost rigour of the law: I would nail you up, sir, for an example!
MANSON. I have encountered similar hostility before, my lord—from gentlemen very like your lordship. Allow me . . .
[He opens the door, his eyes flashing.]
BISHOP. Don't trouble, sir. I can get my hat and my stick and my portmanteau for myself! I can do very well without your assistance—thank God!
[He stumps out. MANSON closes the door after him, barring it, as it were, with his great left arm. He lifts the other arm slowly, as commanding silence. After a moment the front door is heard slamming noisily.]
[AUNTIE sinks, weeping, upon the settee. The VICAR goes over to comfort her. The uplifted hand of MANSON assumes the BISHOP'S sign of blessing as the curtain slowly falls.]