Michael and His Lost Angel: A Play in Five Acts

by Henry Arthur Jones

(Very hearty hand-shake. Exit FATHER HILARY. MICHAEL goes to door, stands looking a few seconds, comes in, turns to his books.)

Re-enter FATHER HILARY.

MICH. What is it?

FATHER H. I don’t like leaving you. Come with me to-night to Margaret’s.

MICH. Shall I? Perhaps it would be best—Wait a minute.

WITHY. (voice heard of). Now, Mr. Lashmar, if you plaise, sir—we’me losing the tide.

MICH. Don’t wait, I’m safe here. Good-bye.

FATHER H. (slowly and regretfully). Good-bye.

(Exit slowly. MICHAEL watches FATHER HILARY off; stays at door for some time, waves his hand, then closes door.)

MICH. Now I shall be at peace! (Takes out letter from his pocket.) Her letter! I will not read it! (Puts it back in pocket, kneels and lights the fire.) Why did you come into my life? I did not seek you! You came unbidden, and before I was aware of it you had unlocked the holiest places of my heart. Your skirts have swept through all the gateways of my being. There is a fragrance of you in every cranny of me. You possess me! (Rises.) No! No! No! I will not yield to you! (Takes up book, seats himself at fire, reads a moment or two.) You are there in the fire! Your image plays in the shadows—Oh, my light and my fire, will you burn me up with love for you? (Rises, sighs.) I’m mad! (Pause, very resolutely.) I will be master of myself—I will be servant to none save my work and my God! (Seats himself resolutely, reads a moment or two, then drops book on knees.) The wind that blows round here may perhaps play round her brow, the very breath that met my lips as I stood at the door may meet hers on the shore yonder. (Rises, flings book on table, goes to window; takes out letter again, holds it undecidedly.) Why shouldn’t I read it? Every stroke of it is graven on my heart.—(Opens it.) “Dear keeper of souls in this parish, I have thought so much of our talk last night. I’m inclined to think that I have a soul after all, but it is a most uncomfortable possession. I believe if someone gave me an enormous impulse I might make a saint or a martyr, or anything that’s divine. And I believe there is one man living who could give me that impulse.” “One man living who could give me that impulse—” “But I hope he won’t. Frankly, you may save me at too great cost to yourself. So trouble yourself no further about me. But if after this, you still think my wandering, dangling soul worth a moment of your ghostly care, come and lunch with me to-morrow, and I will give you the sweet plain butter-cakes that you love, on the old blue china. And that our salvation may not be too easy, I will tempt you with one sip of the ancient Johannisburg.” And I went—yes, I went. “But for your own sake—I speak with all a woman’s care for your earthly and heavenly welfare—I would rather you did not come. Let it be so. Let this be farewell. Perhaps our souls may salute each other in aimless vacancy hereafter, and I will smile as sweet a smile as I can without lips or cheeks to smile with, when I remember as I pass you in the shades that I saved you from your bad angel, Audrie Lesden. P.S. Be wise and let me go.” I cannot! I cannot! Yet if I do not—what remains for me? Torture, hopeless love, neglected duty, work cast aside and spoilt, all my life disordered and wrecked. Oh, if I could be wise—I will! I will tear out this last one dear sweet thought of her. (Goes to fire, tears up the letter in little pieces, watches them burn.) It’s done! I’ve conquered! Now I shall be at peace.