SCENE.--_The Shrine on Saint Decuman's Island in the Bristol Channel.
A living room built round the shrine of the Saint, a fine piece of
decayed Decorated Gothic now in the back wall of the room. A large
fireplace down right. A door above fireplace. A door left; two
windows, one on each side of the shrine, show the sea with the horizon
line and the sky above. A bookcase; a table; old oaken panelling,
about seven feet high, all round the room, and above them white-washed
walls. Red brick floor. Everything very rude and simple, and yet
tasteful, as if it had been done by the village mason and carpenter
under MICHAEL'S direction. Time, a September evening. Discover ANDREW
GIBBARD packing a portmanteau, and EDWARD LASHMAR (FATHER HILARY), a
Catholic priest, about sixty, very dignified and refined. Enter
WITHYCOMBE, an old boatman._
WITHY. Now, gentlemen, if yu'me ready to start! If yu daunt come sune,
us shall lose the tide down.
FATHER H. I'm quite ready, Withycombe, as soon as I have said
"Good-bye" to Mr. Feversham.
WITHY. Mr. Feversham ain't coming along with us, then?
ANDR. No, he stays on the island all the week, and you are to fetch
him on Saturday morning.
WITHY. Saturday morning. To-day's Wednesday. Right you are. Well and
good. Saturday morning. Yu'me coming on to Saint Margaret's along with
us, Mr. Gibbard?
ANDR. Yes--we can find some accommodation there for the night, can't
we?
WITHY. Well, I warn ye 'tis rough.
FATHER H. Rougher than my Master had on his first coming here?
WITHY. Well, I waun't say that, but so fur as I can judge 'tis about
as rough.
FATHER H. Then it will do for me. Where is Mr. Feversham?
WITHY. A few minutes agone he wor watching the excursion steamer back
to Lowburnham.
FATHER H. Will you find him and tell him that I am waiting to start?
WITHY. Right you are, sir. Well and good.
(_Exit._)
FATHER H. Andrew--have you noticed any change in Mr. Feversham lately?
ANDR. Change, Father?
FATHER H. He seems so restless and disturbed, so unlike himself.
ANDR. Does he?
FATHER H. It's six years since I was in England. But he was always so
calm and concentrated. Has he any trouble, do you know?
ANDR. He hasn't spoken of any.
FATHER H. No. But you're with him constantly. Surely you must have
seen the difference in him?
ANDR. Yes. He has changed.
FATHER H. How long has he been like this?
ANDR. The last four months.
FATHER H. Do you know of any reason for it?
ANDR. He's coming!
_Enter MICHAEL._
MICH. You're ready to start, Uncle Ned?
FATHER H. Yes. You won't change your mind and come with us?
MICH. No, I must stay here. (_Glancing at books, restlessly._) I want
to be alone. I couldn't be of any service to you over at Saint
Margaret's?
FATHER H. There is the legend that connects her with Saint Decuman--I
suppose no more is to be learnt of that than we already know?
MICH. No. The fisher people only know what they have learnt from the
guide books.
ANDR. (_standing with portmanteau_). Have you anything more to take to
the boat, Father?
FATHER H. No, that's all, Andrew.
ANDR. Then I'll take it down and wait for you there.
(_Exit ANDREW with portmanteau._)
FATHER H. Then this is good-bye, Michael?
MICH. Unless you'll stay over the Sunday at Cleveheddon?
FATHER H. No, I've done my work in England, and I must be back among
my people. I wanted to see the shrines on these two sister islands
again before I died. I shall leave Saint Margaret's to-morrow morning,
get back to Cleveheddon, take the afternoon train up to London, and
leave for Italy on Friday morning. You'll come and see me at Majano?
MICH. When I can.
FATHER H. This winter?
MICH. No, not this winter. I shall be at work at once on the
restorations now I've got all the money.
FATHER H. Strange that it should all come so soon within two or three
months.
MICH. Yes, and from such different quarters of England--a thousand one
day from Manchester--five hundred the next from some unheard-of
village--and then the last great final gift last week.
FATHER H. It looks as if it all came from one giver?
MICH. Yes, I had thought that.
FATHER H. You don't know of any one?
MICH. I've one or two suspicions. However, the great fact is that I
have it all, and can set my architects to work.
FATHER H. Michael--I was asking Andrew just now, there is something
troubling you?
MICH. No--no. What makes you think that?
FATHER H. You are not yourself. (_Pause._) Is it anything where I can
be of help?
MICH. There is nothing. (_Pause._) There has been something. But it is
past. (_FATHER HILARY looks grave._) You need have no fear for me.
(_Holding out hand._)
FATHER H. (_takes his hand, holds it for a long while, looks gravely
at him_). If you should ever need a deeper peace than you can find
within or around you, come to me in Italy.
MICH. But I am at peace now. (_Restlessly, pushing his hand through
hair, then a little querulously._) I am at peace now. (_FATHER HILARY
shakes his head._) You think you can give me that deeper peace?
FATHER H. I know I can.
MICH. I may come to you some day.
(_WITHYCOMBE puts his head in at door._)
WITHY. Now, sir, if yu plaise, we'me losing the tide--us shan't get to
Margaret's avore supper-time.
FATHER H. I'm coming, Withycombe.
MICH. Withycombe, you'll come and fetch me on Saturday morning.
WITHY. Saturday morning, twelve o'clock sharp, I'm here. Right you
are, Mr. Feversham. Well and good.
(_Exit._)
FATHER H. Good-bye.
MICH. Good-bye, Uncle Ned.
(_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.
(_Sits himself resolutely at table, reads. A little tap at the door,
he shows surprise; the tap is repeated, he rises, goes to door, opens
it. At that moment AUDRIE'S face appears at the right-hand window for
a moment. He looks out, stays there a moment or two, closes door,
seats himself again at table, reads. The tap is repeated; he rises,
AUDRIE appears at door, he shows a moment of intense delight which he
quickly subdues._)
AUDR. May I come in? (_Pause._) You are busy--I'll go--
MICH. No--(_She stops on threshold._) Come in.
_She enters. He stands motionless at table. Sunset without. It
gradually grows darker._
MICH. What brings you here?
AUDR. You did not expect me. You aren't accustomed to entertain angels
unawares--even bad ones.
MICH. (_his voice thick and a little hoarse_). Your boat, your
companions?
AUDR. I have no boat, and no companions.
MICH. (_horrified, delighted_). You're alone?
AUDR. Quite alone.
MICH. How did you come here?
AUDR. By the simplest and most prosaic means in the world. This
morning I took the train to Lowburnham to do some shopping. As I was
coming back to the station, a boy put this little handbill into my
hand. (_Showing a little yellow handbill._) Afternoon excursion to
Saint Decuman's and Saint Margaret's Isles. I had an impulse--I obeyed
it. I telegraphed to Cleveheddon for a boat to meet me here at
six--(_takes out watch_)--it only wants ten minutes--and took the
excursion steamer. They all landed here for half-an-hour. I hid myself
till after the steamer had gone. Then I came up here to your cottage.
I heard some voices, so I hid again--who was here?
MICH. Only my secretary and my uncle Ned.
AUDR. The Catholic priest. I saw a boat leaving--it was they?
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. They're not coming back?
MICH. No.
AUDR. You're annoyed with me for coming?
MICH. No, but wasn't it a little--imprudent?
AUDR. Oh, I must do mad things sometimes, just to preserve my general
balance of sanity. Besides, my boat will be here in ten minutes.
(_Pause._)
AUDR. How strange we should be here alone!
MICH. The only two beings on this island--we two!
AUDR. And our two souls.
MICH. I wish you wouldn't jest with sacred things.
AUDR. I won't. (_Suddenly, impulsively._) I want to be good! Help me
to be good! You think I'm foolish and light and frivolous! Well,
perhaps I am, but when I'm with you I'm capable of anything,
anything--except being an ordinary, average, good woman.
MICH. But isn't that all that is required of a woman?
AUDR. Perhaps. It's rather a damnable heritage, isn't it? And I'm not
a barn-door fowl.
MICH. What are you?
AUDR. Just what you like to make of me. Don't think I'm flattering
you. Don't think I'm bold and unwomanly. I'm only speaking the truth.
You have changed me. I'm ready to do anything, believe anything,
suffer anything that you bid me! To-night I'm on a pinnacle! I shall
either be snatched up to the skies, or tumble into the abyss. Which
will it be, I wonder?
MICH. (_after a struggle, in a calm voice_). Neither, I trust. I hope
you will take your boat back in ten minutes, have a good passage
across, a comfortable dinner from your pretty blue china, and a sound
night's rest. And to-morrow you will wake and forget this rather
imprudent freak.
AUDR. Oh, you won't tread the clouds with me! Very well! Down to the
earth we come. I can be as earthly as the very clay itself. But I
thought you wanted me to be spiritual.
MICH. I want you to be sincere, to be yourself.
AUDR. Very well. Tell me how. You are my ghostly father.
MICH. No, you've never allowed me to be a priest to you.
AUDR. I've never allowed you?
MICH. And I've never dared.
AUDR. Why not?
MICH. Because you've never allowed me to forget that I am a man.
AUDR. Very well. Don't be a priest to me--at least not now. Tell me
some one thing that you would wish me to do, and I'll do it!
MICH. In that letter you wrote me----
AUDR. Did you keep it?
MICH. No, I destroyed it.
AUDR. Destroyed it!
MICH. In that letter you said it would be better for us if we did not
meet again----
AUDR. No. I said it would be better for _you_ if we did not meet
again.
MICH. Better for me?
AUDR. Yes, and worse for me. I came here tonight to warn you----
MICH. Against what?
AUDR. Myself. I've done something that may endanger your peace for
ever.
MICH. What do you mean?
AUDR. Sometimes I laugh at it, sometimes I'm frightened. I daren't
tell you what I've done. I'll go.
(_Goes to door, opens it._)
MICH. No. (_Stops her._) Mrs. Lesden, what have you done against me?
You don't mean your gifts to the Minster?
AUDR. My gifts--what gifts?
MICH. During the last four months I've constantly received large sums
for the restoration of the Minster, and last week a very large sum was
sent me, enough to carry out all the work just as I wished.
AUDR. Well?
MICH. It was you who sent it all.
AUDR. I must see if my boatman has come.
MICH. (_stopping her_). No. Why did you send the money--so many
different sums from so many different places?
AUDR. Because that gave me dozens of pleasures instead of one, in
sending it. And I thought it would give you dozens of pleasures
instead of one, in receiving it.
MICH. I knew it was you! How glad I am to owe it all to you! Words
couldn't tell you how grateful I am.
AUDR. And yet you wouldn't walk the clouds with me for a few minutes?
MICH. You know that I would do anything in my power for your best,
your heavenly welfare.
AUDR. I don't think I care much for my heavenly welfare just at this
moment. You tumbled me off my pinnacle, and here I am stuck in the
mud. (_Looking off at the open door._) Look! That boat is half-way to
Saint Margaret's.
MICH. Yes, they sleep there to-night.
AUDR. What a queer-looking man your secretary is. Is he quite
trustworthy?
MICH. Quite. Why?
AUDR. I caught him looking at you in a very strange way a week or two
back.
MICH. He's devoted to me.
AUDR. I'm glad of that. How far is it to Saint Margaret's?
MICH. Three miles.
AUDR. Do you believe the legend about Saint Decuman and Saint
Margaret?
MICH. That they loved each other?
AUDR. Yes, on separate islands, and never met.
MICH. They denied themselves love here that they might gain heavenly
happiness hereafter.
AUDR. Now that their hearts have been dust all these hundreds of
years, what good is it to them that they denied themselves love?
MICH. You think----
AUDR. I think a little love on this earth is worth a good many
paradises hereafter. It's a cold world, hereafter. It chills me to the
bone when I think of it! (_Shivers a little and comes away from the
door._) I'm getting a little cold.
MICH. (_placing chair_). Sit by the fire.
(_She sits near fire, which is blazing up; he goes and closes door._)
AUDR. (_putting on some logs_). Do I know you well enough to make your
fire for you?
MICH. I hope so.
(_She sits; he stands above her for some seconds, watching her keenly;
a long pause._)
AUDR. You were looking at me. What were you thinking of?
MICH. I was wondering what memories are stored in that white forehead.
AUDR. Memories? (_Long sigh._) A few bright ones, and many sad ones.
MICH. Your past life was not happy?
AUDR. (_a little shudder of recollection_). No. And yours? Tell me----
MICH. What?
AUDR. Something about your past life, something you've never told to a
living creature.
MICH. When I was twenty----
AUDR. Stay--what were you like when you were twenty? (_Shuts her eyes,
puts her hand over them._) Now I can see you when you were twenty.
MICH. Is there anyone with me?
AUDR. No, I can't see her. What was she like? Fair or dark?
MICH. Fair, with changing grey eyes that could be serious or merry as
she pleased, and fine clear features, and the sweetest provoking
mouth----
AUDR. I hate her. Who was she?
MICH. Miss Standerwick's niece. She stayed there all the summer that
year.
AUDR. Was that a happy summer?
MICH. The happiest I have ever known--till this.
AUDR. Ah!
MICH. I used to go to evening church and follow them home, and wait
outside till I could see the candle in her window. When it went out I
used to walk home.
AUDR. Across those fields where we walked the other night?
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. I'll never walk that way again. Go on.
MICH. One night as I was waiting, she came out suddenly. I couldn't
speak for trembling. At last I found my tongue, and we talked about
silly common-place things. When she was going in I dared to breathe,
"Give me one kiss." She didn't answer. I just touched her cheek with
my lips, and I whispered, "Good-night, Nelly." She said, "Good-night,
Mike."
AUDR. She called you Mike?
MICH. I was called Mike when I was a boy.
AUDR. And your next meeting?
MICH. She was called away early the next morning to her father's
deathbed. Her mother went abroad. I never saw her again. Tell me
something about your past life.
AUDR. Can you see me when I was eight? I was a pretty little brown
maid, and I set all aflame the heart of a cherub aged ten, with strong
fat legs and curly red hair. His sister was my dearest friend. He
spent all his pocket-money in buying sugar-plums for me, and gave them
to her to give to me. She ate them herself, and slandered me to him,
for she said I was false. He kicked her on the nose, and was sent
far--far away to school. This was the first tragedy of my life. Now
tell me some more of your life. You have had other romances, darker,
deeper ones?
MICH. Nothing that I dare show. I have told you of the one love of my
youth. And you---- Have you had darker, deeper romances?
AUDR. I was unhappy without romance. I would show you all my heart,
all my thoughts, all my life, if I could do it as one shows a picture,
and let it speak for itself. I wonder if you'd condemn me----
MICH. Condemn you!
AUDR. I don't think you would. You have never guessed----
MICH. Guessed----
AUDR. What a world there is within oneself that one never dares speak
of! I wish to hide nothing from you. I would have you know me through
and through for just the woman that I am, just that and no other,
because, don't you see--I don't want to cheat you of a
farthing's-worth of esteem on false pretences--I want you to like me,
Audrie Lesden, and not some myth of your imagination. But if you were
armed with all the tortures of hell for plucking the truth about
myself from my lips, I should still hide myself from you. So, guess,
guess, guess, grand inquisitor--what is here (_tapping her forehead_)
and here! (_Putting her hand on her heart._) You'll never guess one
thousandth part of the truth!
MICH. But tell me something in your past life that you have never told
to another creature.
AUDR. I have two great secrets--one is about yourself, one is about
another man.
MICH. Myself? Another man?
AUDR. My husband.
MICH. You said you had been unhappy.
AUDR. I married as thousands of girls do, carelessly, thoughtlessly. I
was married for my money. No one had ever told me that love was
sacred.
MICH. Nobody ever does tell us that, till we hear it from our own
hearts.
AUDR. I suppose it was my own fault. I was very well punished.
MICH. How long were you married?
AUDR. Two years.
MICH. And then your husband died?
AUDR. He went away from me. I never saw him again--alive.
(_Passionately._) And there's an end of him!
MICH. I won't ask you what that secret is. I would wish you to keep it
sacred. But your secret about myself? Surely I may ask that?
AUDR. I have sold you to the devil.
MICH. What?
AUDR. I have sold myself, too.
MICH. Still jesting?
AUDR. No, I did it in real, deep earnest.
MICH. I don't understand you.
AUDR. Six months ago I was tired, gnawn to the very heart with ennui,
and one hot restless night I happened to take up your book, "The
Hidden Life." It came to me--oh, like a breath of the purest, freshest
air in a fevered room. I thought I should like to know you. I got up
early, took the first morning train down here, looked about the place,
saw the Island House was to let, and rented it for three years.
MICH. Well?
AUDR. I got Mr. Docwray to give me an introduction to you. You annoyed
me, you were so cold and priestlike. Each time I saw you, you piqued
and angered me more and more. I longed to get some power over you. At
last one day after you had been so frozen and distant a little black
imp jumped into my brain and whispered to me. I said to the devil,
"Give this sculptured saint to me, and I'll give both our souls to
you."
MICH. But you didn't mean it?
AUDR. Yes. I said it with all my heart, and I bit my
arm--look--(_Showing her arm._) I made the teeth meet. There's the
mark. If there is a devil, he heard me.
MICH. And you think he has given me to you?
AUDR. The next time I saw you, you let me kiss your mother's portrait.
MICH. Ah!
AUDR. But you don't really believe there is a devil? Why don't you
speak? Why don't you laugh at me and tell me it's all nonsense? I
haven't really given the devil power over your soul?
MICH. No devil has any power over any soul of man until the man
himself first gives him entrance and consent.
AUDR. And you haven't! Say you don't care for me.
MICH. How can I say that?
AUDR. You must! I'm not strong enough to leave you of my own free
will. I shall hang about you, worry you, tease you, tempt you, and at
last, destroy you. Don't let me do it! Beat me away from you, insult
me, do something to make me hate you! Make me leave you!
MICH. When I love you with all my being?
AUDR. (_shows great delight_). And you dare go on? It's an awful
delight to think that a man would dare to risk hell for one! There
aren't many men who would dare lose this world for the woman they
love--how many men are there that would dare to lose the other?
MICH. We must lose this world, for I am vowed away from all earthly
things. But why should we lose the other? Why should we not make our
love the lever to raise our souls? You do love me?
AUDR. Love is hardly the word. It is more like--if a man could create
a dog, and be her master, friend, father, and God, I think she would
feel towards him something of what I feel towards you. You have first
made me know what love is, what life is. You have changed me
thoroughly--no, you have changed half of me thoroughly--one half is
still worthless, silly, capricious, hollow, worldly, and bad--that's
my old self. She is gradually withering up under your influence, that
old Audrie Lesden. The other half is looking out of my eyes at you
now! Look! do you see the new Audrie Lesden that is your daughter and
your creature? Aren't you proud of her?
MICH. I shall be proud of her when she is full grown and dares to
leave me of her own free will, because she loves me, and because I am
vowed to Heaven!
AUDR. Do I tempt you? I'll go. You love me. That's enough, or it
should be enough. I'll get back to London to-morrow, and strangle the
new Audrie. Then the old Audrie will come back again, and live the old
weary, dry, empty life--and grow old and wrinkled and heartless and
perhaps--rouged----
MICH. Why do you tear me so? What do you want of me here or hereafter?
Take it! It's yours----
AUDR. You dare go on--now you know?
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. Ah! I thought it was only women who dared hell for love. I won't
take your sacrifice--I will leave you.
MICH. You will? Yes, it must be so! My work, my vows--I cannot, may
not taste of earthly love. Oh, it's cruel to dash the cup from my
lips! (_Pause; then very calmly._) You are right! I feel that we are
choosing heaven or hell for both our souls this night! Help me to
choose heaven for you, and I'll help you to choose heaven for me.
AUDR. Good-bye, my love, for ever. Be brave--and very cold to me, now.
Be like marble--and death.
MICH. (_takes her hand; a very long pause; then speaks very calmly_).
It is victory, isn't it? We have conquered? I'll go down to the bay
and see if your boat has come.
(_By this time it is dark outside._)
AUDR. Half-past six. I shall have a cold, dark voyage.
MICH. And it is just a little rough. But Hannaford is a careful
boatman.
AUDR. It's not Hannaford who is coming for me. I telegraphed for
Withycombe.
MICH. (_pause--very pale and cold_). Withycombe? But you always employ
Hannaford?
AUDR. Yes; and I did write out one telegram to him, and then I thought
I should like to go back in the boat that always takes you. So I tore
up the telegram to Hannaford, and telegraphed to Withycombe.
MICH. Withycombe?
AUDR. Yes, what's the matter?
MICH. He lives alone. When he goes out, he locks up his cottage. Your
telegram will wait at the post office.
AUDR. Why?
MICH. Withycombe has gone over to Saint Margaret's with Gibbard and my
uncle. They stay there the night.
AUDR. Your own boat?
MICH. I had it towed back last week, so that I couldn't be tempted to
come to you.
AUDR. Then----?
MICH. (_looks at her_). No boat will come to-night. (_Looks at her
more intently._) No boat will come to-night!
(_They stand looking at each other._)
VERY SLOW CURTAIN.
(_Two nights and a day--from Wednesday evening to Friday morning--pass
between Acts II. and III._)