THE THIRD ACT
As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged; but attention now centres in the Bishop, who appears to be struggling apoplectically for speech.
BISHOP [bursting]. Before we proceed a step further, I have a most extraordinary request to make! The fact is, you interrupted me in the middle of a most engrossing spiritual discussion with my . . . that is to say, with your . . . in short, with that person standing over there! My request is, that I be permitted a few minutes further conversation with him—alone, and at once!
ALL. ) With Manson! . . .
MANSON. ) With me! . . .
BISHOP. Not a word! I know my request will appear singular—most singular! But I assure you it is most necessary. The peace, the security of a human soul depends upon it! Come, sir! Where shall we go?
MANSON. Have I your permission, ma'am
AUNTIE. Certainly; but it is most extraordinary!
MANSON [crossing]. Then I think this way, my lord, in the drawing-room . . . [He leads the way.]
BISHOP [following]. And you may be sure, my good fellow, I will give anything—I say, anything—to remedy your misapprehensions! Hm!
[They go into the drawing-room, right, MANSON holding the door for the other to pass.]
VICAR. Martha! It's no use! I can't do it!
AUNTIE [preoccupied]. Can't do what, William?
VICAR. Behave towards that man like a Christian! He stirs some nameless devil like murder in my heart! I want to clutch him by the throat, as I would some noisome beast, and strangle him!
AUNTIE [slowly]. He is greatly changed!
VICAR. It is you who have changed, Martha. You see him now with different eyes.
AUNTIE. Do I? I wonder! . . .
VICAR. After all, why should we invite him here? Why should we be civil to him? What possible kinship can there be between us? As for his filthy money—how did he scrape it together? How did he come by it? . . .
AUNTIE. Yes, William, that's true, but the opportunity of turning it to God's service . . .
VICAR. Do you think any blessing is going to fall upon a church whose every stone is reeking with the bloody sweat and anguish of the human creatures whom the wealth of men like that has driven to despair? Shall we base God's altar in the bones of harlots, plaster it up with the slime of sweating-dens and slums, give it over for a gaming-table to the dice of gamblers and of thieves?
AUNTIE. Why will you exaggerate, my dear?—It is not as bad as that. Why don't you compose yourself and try and be contented and—and happy?
VICAR. How can I be happy, and that man poisoning the air I breathe?
AUNTIE. You are not always like this, dear! . . .
VICAR. Happy! How can I be happy, and my brother Robert what I have made him!
AUNTIE. We are not talking of Robert: we are talking of you! Think of our love, William—our great and beautiful love! Isn't that something to make you happy?
VICAR. Our love? It's well you mention it. That question had better be faced, too! Our love! Well, what of it? What is love?
AUNTIE. Oh, William, you know . . .
VICAR. Is love a murderer? Does love go roaming about the world like Satan, to slay men's souls?
AUNTIE. Oh, now you're exaggerating again! What do you mean?
VICAR. I mean my brother Robert! What has love done for him?
AUNTIE. Oh, Robert, Robert—I'm sick to death of Robert! Why can't you think of yourself?
VICAR. Well, I will! What has love done for me?
AUNTIE. William! . . .
[The slightest pause. The scene takes on another complexion.]
VICAR. Do you remember that day when I first came to you and told you of my love? Did I lie to you? Did I try to hide things? Did I despise my birth? Did you?
AUNTIE. No, no, William, I loved you: I told you so.
VICAR. Did you mind the severance from your family because of me?
AUNTIE. Didn't I always say that I was proud to be able to give up so much for you, William? . . .
VICAR. Yes, and then what followed? Having given up so much for me, what followed?
AUNTIE. My dear, circumstances were too strong for us! Can't you see? You were not made to live out your life in any little odd hole and corner of the world! There was your reputation, your fame: you began to be known as an author, a scholar, a wonderful preacher— All this required position, influence, social prestige. You don't think I was ambitious for myself: it was for you.
VICAR. For me—yes! And how do you imagine I have benefited by all your scheming, your contriving, your compromising, your . . .
AUNTIE. In the way I willed! I am glad of it! I worked for that—and I won! . . .
Well, what are you troubling about now?
VICAR [slowly]. I am thinking of the fact that there has been no child to bless our marriage, Martha—that is, no child of our very own, no child whose love we have not stolen.
AUNTIE. My dear . . .
VICAR. We have spoken about it sometimes, haven't we? Or, rather—not spoken!
AUNTIE. William, why will you think of these things?
VICAR. In those first days, dearest, I brought you two children of our own to cherish, little unborn souls crying for you to mother them— You have fostered only the one. That one is called the Scholar. Shall I tell you the name of the other?
AUNTIE [after a moment]. Yes . . .
VICAR. I hardly know: I hardly dare to name him, but perhaps it was—the Saint.
AUNTIE. What I have done, William, has been done for love of you—you only—you only in the world!
VICAR. Yes: that's what I mean!
[The thought troubles her for a moment; then she paces up and down in agitated rebellion.]
AUNTIE. No! I can't believe it! I can't think that love is as wrong as you say!
VICAR. Love is a spirit of many shapes and shadows: a spirit of fire and darkness—a minister of heaven and hell: Sometimes I think the very damned know love—in a way. It can inform men's souls with the gladness of high archangels, or possess them with the despair of devils!
[She suddenly stands still, struck by the echo in his last phrase.]
Yes?
AUNTIE. I was wondering . . .
Wondering what Manson meant just now.
VICAR. When?
AUNTIE. When he spoke about your brother Robert.
VICAR. I think he made it clear. He said we were—rid of him forever!
AUNTIE [thoughtfully]. Ye-es . . .
William, I begin to fear that man.
VICAR. Whom—Robert?
AUNTIE. No, Manson.
[Re-enter MANSON from door, right. He carries a five-pound note in his hand.]
MANSON. His lordship will be glad to see you.
AUNTIE. Very well, Manson. Why, what have you there?
MANSON. A remedy for misapprehension, ma'am.
AUNTIE. It's a five-pound note.
MANSON. Yes.
AUNTIE. Come, William.
[She goes to the drawing-room door, her head anxiously turned towards MANSON.]
VICAR [at the door]. What are we going to do, Martha?
AUNTIE. I don't know: God help me, I can't see the way!
[They both go out, MANSON watching them. He then moves up to the fire, and burns the five-pound note. He watches the flames leap up as he speaks.]
MANSON. Thou givest thy mouth to evil, and thy tongue frameth deceit. Thou sittest and speakest against thy brother: thou slanderest thine own mother's son. These things hast thou done, and I kept silence: thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself: but I will reprove thee, and set them in order before thine eyes. [Footnote: Psalms 1. 19-21]
[He comes down to the middle of the room. MARY enters eagerly.
Seeing him alone, she gives a little cry of gladness.]
MARY. Oh, how jolly! Where are they?
MANSON. In the next room.
MARY. Ah! AH!
[She comes to his out-stretched arms. He folds her to his heart, facing the audience.]
[Looking up into his face.] Isn't it a great secret? What shall I call you, now we are alone?
MANSON. Ssh! They may hear you!
MARY. If I whisper . . .
MANSON. They are very near! . . .
[Disengaging himself.] I must be about my business. Is this the bell to the kitchen?
MARY. Yes. Let me help you.
[MANSON having rung the bell, they begin to remove the breakfast things. MARY employs herself with the crumb-scoop.]
If auntie and uncle could see me now! If they only knew! I've kept the secret: I've told nobody! . . .
These will do for the birds. Look, I'll take them now. [She throws the crumbs out of the French windows.] Poor little mites! [She returns to the table.]
MANSON. You are fond of the birds?
MARY. Just love them! Don't you?
MANSON, They are my very good friends. Now, take the cassock.
Fold it up and put it on the chair.
[ROGERS enters whilst he gives this command.]
ROGERS. Well, I'm . . .
'Owever, it's no business of mine!
MARY [brightly]. What's up with you, Rogers?
ROGERS [with reservation]. Nuthin', miss. [He fetches the tray.]
MARY. Then why look so solemn?
ROGERS [lugubriously]. Ain't lookin' solemn, miss.
MANSON. Hold up the tray, Rogers.
ROGERS. Am 'oldin' it up, Mr. Manson. MARY [loading him up].
I'm sure there is something the matter!
ROGERS. Well, since you arsk me, miss, it's the goin's on in this 'ouse! I never see such a complicyted mass of mysteries and improbabilities in my life! I shall 'av' to give in my notice!
MARY. Oh, Rogers, that would be dreadful! Why?
MANSON. Now the cloth, Mary . . .
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.