SCENE.--_The Chancel of the Minster church of Saint Decuman at
Cleveheddon, a beautiful building of Decorated Gothic architecture
with signs of recent restoration. The altar and reredos, approached by
steps, face the audience, who take up the same position towards it as
spectators in the nave would do. Behind the altar a long vista of
columns, arches, roof, and stained glass windows. An organ is built in
left wall of the chancel at a considerable height. On both sides of
the chancel are handsome high carved oak stalls. A large open place in
front of the altar steps is flanked on each side by the transepts,
which run to right and left of spectators and are filled with chair
seats so far as can be seen. A small door in the north wall of the
left transept leads to the organ loft. The whole church is most
lavishly decorated with banners, hangings, scrolls, and large
frescoes, and is smothered with flowers as if in readiness for a
church festival. Large brass candlesticks on altar with lighted
candles. Time, about nine on an autumn night. An organ voluntary is
being played as curtain rises. Enter MICHAEL from transept. He has
aged much, is very pale and emaciated. The voluntary ceases and the
organ boy, a lad about fifteen, comes from small door in wall of left
transept._
WALTER (_carelessly_). Good-night, sir.
MICH. (_stopping him, puts his hand on the boy's head_). Good-bye,
Walter. (_Pause, still detaining him, with considerable feeling._)
Good-bye, my dear lad.
(_Sighs, moves away from him. The boy shows slight respectful surprise
and exit along transept. The Organist with keys enters from the little
door, looks round the church admiringly._)
ORGANIST. Everything ready for the ceremony to-morrow?
MICH. Yes, I think, everything.
ORGANIST. I was just putting the finishing touches to my music. How
beautiful the church looks! You must be very proud and happy now your
work is complete.
MICH. Not quite complete. I've to put the finishing touches to my
part--to-morrow.
_ANDREW enters rather suddenly from transept._
ANDR. Can I speak to you for a moment?
ORGANIST. Good-night.
(_Going._)
MICH. (_detains him_). Thank you for all you have done for me, and for
the church, and for her services.
(_Shakes hands warmly. Exit the Organist by transept._)
MICH. Well?
ANDR. I thought you'd like to know--Mrs. Lesden has come back to
Cleveheddon, and she has brought a lady friend with her.
MICH. I know.
ANDR. You've seen her?
(_MICHAEL looks at him with great dignity._)
ANDR. I beg your pardon.
MICH. I've not seen her.
ANDR. I beg your pardon. It's no business of mine.
(_Going._)
MICH. (_quietly_). Yes, it is business of yours.
ANDR. What do you mean?
MICH. Haven't you made it the chief business of your life all this
last year?
ANDR. How? I've kept my word. I've never reminded you of it.
MICH. You've never allowed me to forget it for a single moment. Every
time you've spoken to me, or looked at me, or crossed the room, or
passed the window, every time I've heard your step on the stairs, or
your voice speaking to the servants, you've accused me. If you had
been in my place I would have been very kind to you, Andrew.
ANDR. How did you treat my girl?
MICH. I did what I thought was best for her soul.
ANDR. Then why don't you do what is best for your own soul?
MICH. I shall.
(_ANDREW looks at MICHAEL in startled inquiry._)
_Enter by transept DOCWRAY and SIR LYOLF. SIR LYOLF is in evening
dress under summer overcoat. DOCWRAY points out the decorations to SIR
LYOLF._
ANDR. Why have you sent for Rose to come back to Cleveheddon?
MICH. I wish her to be present at the services to-morrow. She is
almost due. Go to the station and meet her. Bring her to me here.
(_SIR LYOLF and DOCWRAY saunter up towards MICHAEL and ANDREW. ANDREW
stands perplexed._)
MICH. (_firmly, to ANDREW_). Bring her to me here.
(_ANDREW goes off through transept, turns to look at MICHAEL before he
goes off._)
SIR LYOLF. You didn't turn up at dinner?
MICH. I was too busy.
SIR LYOLF. All prepared for to-morrow?
MICH. Yes, I think.
SIR LYOLF. So it seems Mrs. Lesden has come down from town.
MICH. So I understand.
SIR LYOLF (_MICHAEL is listening intently_). I thought we had seen the
last of her when the long-lost husband returned and took her off to
London. By the way, what has become of her husband?
MARK. He has gone back to South America.
(_MICHAEL is listening intently._)
SIR LYOLF. Gone back to South America?
MARK. He only stayed three weeks in England. It is said that she has
pensioned him off--he is to keep to his hemisphere, and she is to keep
to hers.
SIR LYOLF. I don't like it!
MARK. Don't like what?
SIR LYOLF. I don't like women who pension off their husbands to live
in South America.
MICH. Do you see much of her in town?
MARK. Not much. About every two months she sweeps into church in a
whirlwind of finery and perfume, gives me a ridiculously large sum for
the offertory, makes some most irreverent joke, or else pretends to be
deeply religious----
MICH. Pretends?
MARK. What can it be but pretence? Look at her life this last year.
MICH. What of it?
MARK. It has been one continual round of gaiety and excitement except
when she was ill.
MICH. She has been ill?
MARK. Yes, and no wonder.
MICH. Why?
MARK. She goes everywhere, gives the most extravagant parties, mixes
with the fastest, emptiest, London set. And she has taken for her
companion a silly, flighty little woman, Mrs. Cantelo.
SIR LYOLF. I don't like it! Why has she come back to Cleveheddon just
now?
MARK. To be present at the dedication service to-morrow, I suppose.
SIR LYOLF. Michael----
MICH. Well?
SIR LYOLF. You know that everybody is asking where all the money came
from for these magnificent restorations?
MICH. It was sent to me anonymously. The giver wishes to remain
unknown.
SIR LYOLF. Yes! Yes! That's what you've told us. But of course you
know who it is?
MICH. I mustn't speak of it.
SIR LYOLF. Forgive me.
MICH. Let's say no more. I'm glad you came here to-night. I've been
very much perplexed by a confession that has been made to me recently.
A priest--you know him, Mark--he is to be present to-morrow--a priest
some time ago discovered one of his people in a course of lying and
deception, and insisted upon a very severe penalty from the man. And
now the priest tells me, that in order to save one very dear to him,
he himself has lately been practising exactly the same course of lying
and deception. He came to me for advice. I said, "You must pay exactly
the same penalty that you demanded from your parishioner." But he
objects--he says it will bring disgrace on his family, and disgrace on
our cloth. He urged all manner of excuses, but I wouldn't listen to
him. He wishes to be present at the dedication service to-morrow. I've
refused him. Have I done right?
SIR LYOLF. Yes, I should say so.
MARK. Was it a just penalty?
MICH. Yes, I believe so--the just, the only penalty, in my opinion.
Have I done right?
MARK. Yes, certainly.
MICH. I'm glad you both think that. To-morrow before the dedication
service begins, I shall stand where I'm standing now and confess that
I have been guilty of deadly sin and deceit. Then I shall go out from
this place and never return.
(_They come away from him, staring at him in speechless surprise for
some moments._)
SIR LYOLF. But--Good Heaven!--what have you done?
MICH. (_after a long pause_). Guess.
SIR LYOLF. But you won't proclaim yourself?
MICH. Yes.
SIR LYOLF. But your career--your reputation--your opportunities of
doing good----
MARK. Have you thought what this will mean to you, to us, to the
church?
MICH. I have thought of nothing else for many months past.
SIR LYOLF. Surely there must be some way to avoid a public
declaration. (_MICHAEL shakes his head._) You know I don't speak for
myself. My day is nearly done, but you're in the full vigour of life,
with a great reputation to sustain and increase. Don't do this--for my
sake, for your own sake, for the sake of Heaven, don't do it!
MICH. I must.
MARK. What are the circumstances?
MICH. I can't tell you. I wouldn't have told you so much except that I
knew I might trust both of you never to hint or whisper anything
against--against any but myself. If you should guess--as most likely
you will--the name of my companion in sin, it will never cross your
lips? I may ask that of you?
SIR LYOLF. You know you may.
MARK. Of course we shall say nothing.
SIR LYOLF. But--but---- (_Sits down overwhelmed._)
MARK. Can't we talk this over further? Have you considered everything?
MICH. Everything. I have known for many months that this must come. I
have tried to palter and spare myself, but each time the conviction
has returned with greater and greater force, "You must do it there,
and then, and in that way."
MARK. But you've repented?
MICH. Most deeply. I have fasted and prayed. I have worn a hair shirt
close to my skin. But my sin remains. It isn't rooted out of my heart.
I can't get rid of its image.
MARK. Its image?
MICH. (_same calm, tranquil, matter-of-fact tone_). I believe that
every sin has its exact physical image. That just as man is the
expression of the thought of God, so our own thoughts and desires and
aims, both good and bad, have somewhere or the other their exact
material counterpart, their embodiment. The image of my sin is a
reptile, a greyish-green reptile, with spikes, and cold eyes without
lids. It's more horrible than any creature that was ever seen. It
comes and sits in my heart and watches me with those cold eyes that
never shut, and never sleep, and never pity. At first it came only
very seldom; these last few months it has scarcely left me day or
night, only at night it's deadlier and more distorted and weighs more
upon me. It's not fancy. Mark, I know, I know, that if I do not get
rid of my sin, my hell will be to have that thing sitting beside me
for ever and ever, watching me with its cold eyes. But (_hopefully_) I
shall be rid of it after to-morrow.
MARK. My poor fellow!
SIR LYOLF (_rising, coming back to MICHAEL_). Michael, can't you
postpone this? Can't it be at some other time? Not in the very hour
which should be the proudest and happiest of your life?
MICH. There is no other hour, no other way. (_Looks at them both,
takes both their hands affectionately._) Tell me (_very piteously_)
that you neither of you love me the less,--or at least say that you
love me a little still, after what I've told you.
SIR LYOLF. Don't you know?
MARK. How can you ask that?
_ANDREW and ROSE appear in the transept._
MICH. (_to ANDREW_). One moment, Andrew. (_To his father._) I've a
word or two to say to Andrew.
SIR LYOLF. Come and stay the night with me and let us talk this over.
MICH. No, I must be alone to-night. Good-night, dear Mark.
(_MARK wrings his hand._)
SIR LYOLF. You are resolved to go through with this? It must be?
(_MICHAEL bows his head._)
SIR LYOLF. I can't be here to-morrow. I couldn't face it. But (_with
great affection_) I shan't be far away when you want me. (_Very warm
handshake._) Come, Mr. Docwray.
(_Exeunt SIR LYOLF and DOCWRAY by transept._)
ANDR. (_bringing ROSE to MICHAEL_). I've brought her.
(_ROSE is in an Anglican sister's dress; she is very pale and her
manner is subdued. She comes slowly and reverently to MICHAEL, and is
going to bend to him. He takes her hands and raises her._)
MICH. No. You mustn't bend to me. I've sent for you, Rose, to ask your
pardon.
ROSE. My pardon?
MICH. I made you pass through a terrible ordeal last year. Will you
forgive me?
ROSE. What should I forgive? You were right. You said it would bring
me great peace. And so it has--great peace.
MICH. And you wouldn't undo that morning's work?
ROSE. No. It seems I died that morning and left all my old life in a
grave. This is quite a new life. I wouldn't change it.
MICH. Andrew, do you hear that?
ANDR. Yes.
MICH. I was right, then? I was right? You are happy?
ROSE. Yes, I am happy--at least, I'm peaceful, and peace is better
than happiness, isn't it?
MICH. Yes, peace is best! Peace is best! I shall find it too, some
day. Andrew, she has forgiven me. Can't you forgive me? We may never
see each other again on this side the grave. Don't let us part in
anger!
ANDR. Part?
MICH. As soon as I can arrange my affairs I shall leave Cleveheddon.
ANDR. But your work?
MICH. My work is ended. I'll see that you and Rose are sufficiently
provided for.
(_Taking their hands, trying to join them; ANDREW holds aloof._)
ANDR. No. I can't take any favour from you.
MICH. It's no favour. I've trained you to a special work which has
unfitted you for everything else. It is my duty to provide for your
old age.
ANDR. I can't take any favour from you.
MICH. Old comrade (_leaning on ANDREW'S shoulder; ANDREW draws away_),
old comrade (_draws ANDREW to him_), we had many happy days together
in the summer of our life. Now the autumn has come, now the winter is
coming, I'm setting out on a cold, dark journey. Won't you light a
little flame in our old lamp of friendship to cheer me on my way?
You'll take my gift--you'll take it, and make a home for her?
ANDR. (_bursts out_). You'll break my heart with your kindness! I
don't deserve it! I was a half-bred, starving dog. You took me in,
and, like the hound I am, I turned and bit the hand that fed me. Let
me be! Let me be!
MICH. Rose, speak to him.
ROSE. Father, you are grieving Mr. Feversham.
ANDR. I'll do whatever you tell me. But don't forgive me.
MICH. Take him home, Rose. I parted you. Let me think I have restored
you to each other.
(_Joining them._)
ANDR. (_to MICHAEL_). I can't say anything to-night. I never was good
enough to black your shoes. I can't thank you. I can't speak.
Good-night. Come, Rose!
(_MICHAEL shakes ROSE'S hand very tenderly. Exeunt ROSE and ANDREW by
transept. MICHAEL watches them off, goes to altar._)
MICH. (_alone_). One thing more and all is done. (_Looking round the
church._) And I must give you up! Never enter your doors, never lead
my people through you in chariots of fire, never make you the very
presence-chamber of God to my soul and their souls who were committed
to me! Oh, if I had been worthy!
(_A little pause. A woman's laugh is heard in the transept opposite to
that by which ANDREW and ROSE have gone off. MICHAEL withdraws to the
side of chancel, where he is seen by the audience, during the
following scene, but is hidden from AUDRIE and MRS. CANTELO._)
_AUDRIE enters from transept in magnificent evening dress, cloak, and
jewellery, and carrying a large basket of roses. Her features are much
paler and sharpened, and she shows a constant restlessness and
excitement._
AUDR. (_looks round, calls out_). Somebody is here? (_Pause, calls
out._) Somebody is here? No? (_Speaks down transept._) You may come
in, Milly.
_MILLY CANTELO, a fashionable little woman, enters at transept,
looking admiringly round the church._
AUDR. There's nobody here except (_raising her voice_) a stone saint
(_pointing up to carved figure_), and he can't hear, because he has
only stone ears, and he can't feel, because he has only a stone heart.
(_MICHAEL shows intense feeling._)
MILLY (_looking round_). Isn't it gorgeous?
AUDR. H'm--yes---- (_Raises her voice._) I can't bear that stone
saint. Look how hard and lifeless he is. In a well-regulated world
there would be no room for angels or devils, or stone saints, or any
such griffins.
MILLY. Audrie, you are queer to-night. You'll be ill again.
AUDR. Yes, duckie, I hope so.
MILLY. What's the matter with you?
AUDR. Life's the matter with me, I think. I've got it badly, and I
don't know how to cure myself.
MILLY. I wish you wouldn't talk nonsense, and run about on silly
errands in the dark.
AUDR. I won't for long. When my head is tightly bandaged in a white
cloth, I can't talk any more nonsense, can I? And when my feet are
comfortably tucked up in my final night-gown I can't run after stone
saints in the dark, can I?
MILLY. Oh, you give me the creeps. I can't imagine why you wanted to
come out to-night.
AUDR. To decorate the church.
MILLY. Don't you think it's decorated enough?
AUDR. (_looking_). No, it wants a few more touches. I must just
titivate a cherub's nose, or hang a garland on an apostle's toe, just
to show my deep, deep devotion----
MILLY. Your deep, deep devotion?
AUDR. My deep, deep love, my deep, deep worship, my deep, deep
remembrance.
MILLY. Of what?
AUDR. The church, of course.
MILLY. What a heap of money all this must have cost! Who gave it all?
AUDR. I gave two hundred pounds when I lived here last year.
MILLY. I wonder who gave all the rest!
AUDR. I wonder!
MILLY. Mr. Feversham must have some very devoted friends.
AUDR. So it seems.
MILLY. Did you know him very well when you lived here?
AUDR. Not very well.
MILLY. What sort of a man is he?
AUDR. Oh, a very cold, distant man--a good deal of the priest about
him, and as much feeling as that stone figure up there.
MILLY. You didn't like him?
AUDR. Oh, I liked him well enough. But I don't think he cared much for
me. I dare say he's forgotten all about me by this time. Milly----
(_Bursts into tears._)
MILLY. What is it?
AUDR. I'm not well to-night. I oughtn't to have come here. Milly--I
never forget anybody. If I had once loved you I should love you for
ever. If you were wicked, or unfortunate, or unfaithful, it would make
no difference to me. Kiss me, Milly--say you believe me.
MILLY. You know I do, darling.
AUDR. (_very passionately_). I can be constant, Milly--I can! Constant
in my friendship, constant in my love! Oh, Milly, I'm the most
wretched woman in the world!
MILLY. You're hysterical, dear.
AUDR. No, I'm forsaken. Nobody loves me!
(_Sobbing. Gesture from MICHAEL._)
MILLY. Poor Audrie!
AUDR. Let me be a few minutes by myself. I want to be quite alone. Go
home and wait for me there.
MILLY. I don't like leaving you.
AUDR. (_getting her off at transept_). Yes--go, dear. I shall be
better soon. Do leave me.
MILLY. You won't be long?
AUDR. No--I'll come soon.
(_Accompanying her along transept. Exit MILLY by transept. AUDRIE
stands listening. MICHAEL comes forward a step or two._)
AUDR. (_in the transept_). Are you there?
(_He comes forward; she goes towards him; they stand for a moment or
two looking at each other._)
AUDR. Are you deaf? I thought it was only your memory that was gone.
MICH. Why have you come here?
AUDR. Mayn't I come into my own church? And such a sinner as I am?
MICH. Forgive me. You know how welcome I would make you--if I dared.
AUDR. Then you don't dare? Then I'm not welcome?
MICH. (_troubled_). Yes! Yes! Very welcome! The Church owes much to
you.
AUDR. I think she does, for she has robbed me of your love. Why have
you sent back all my letters unopened?
MICH. Can't you guess what it cost me to return them? (_Pause._) What
have you been doing all this last year?
AUDR. Doing? Eating my heart. Racing through my life to get to the end
of it. Skipping and chattering from Hyde Park Corner to the Inferno by
a new short cut. What have you been doing?
MICH. Trying to repent and to forget.
AUDR. Ah, well--I haven't been wasting my time quite so foolishly as
you after all.
MICH. Will you never be serious?
AUDR. Yes--soon.
MICH. You've been ill?
AUDR. Oh, my dear spiritual doctor, you don't know how ill I've been.
I get up every morning without hope, I drag through the day without
hope, I go to this thing and that, to this party, to that reception,
to the theatre, to church, to a pigeon-shooting match, to the park, to
Ascot, to Henley--here, there, everywhere, all without hope.
MICH. What is it you want?
AUDR. I want to live again! I've never lived but those few months when
we were learning to love each other! I want to feel that fierce breeze
on my cheek that blew us together! Do you remember when we stood on
the cliff hand in hand? And we shrieked and laughed down the wind like
mad children? Do you remember?
MICH. No.
AUDR. No? Nor the wonderful pale sunrise, with the lemon and green
lakes of light, and then the path of diamonds all across the sea?
Don't you remember?
MICH. No.
AUDR. How strange you don't remember! Oh, my God, if I could forget!
MICH. (_apart from her_). Oh, my God, if I could forget! (_A long
pause. He comes to her._) I have one awful thought--I am bound to
you--There is but one of us--I never felt it more than at this
moment--And yet the awful thought comes to me--if by any decree we
should be put asunder hereafter--if we should be parted then!
AUDR. Don't you dread being parted now--now this moment? Don't you
dread being unhappy here--here on this earth?
MICH. I will not think of that. I have vowed!
AUDR. You don't love me! You don't love me! You don't love me!
MICH. If I had ten thousand worlds I'd sell them all and buy your
soul. But I will keep the vow I have vowed. You are the holiest thing
on earth to me. I will keep you white and stainless from me.
AUDR. You'll never forget me.
MICH. I have forgotten you.
AUDR. You'll never forget me.
MICH. (_same cold tone, going up the altar steps_). I have forgotten
you.
(_Stands with his back to her for a few moments._)
AUDR. (_with a gesture of resignation_). You'll let me put a bunch or
two of flowers about the church before I go?
MICH. If I asked you not----
AUDR. I should obey you.
MICH. I do ask you not----
AUDR. Very well. It's hard lines that I mayn't decorate my own church.
MICH. I have another request to make--a favour to beg of you.
AUDR. It's done, whatever it is. But make it some great
thing--something very hard and desperate, that I may show you there's
nothing I would not do if you ask it.
MICH. It's something very simple. I'm going to ask you not to be
present at the dedication service to-morrow.
AUDR. But I came on purpose----
MICH. I beg you not. I have a strong reason. You won't come?
AUDR. Not if you wish me to stay away. Shall I see you after
to-morrow?
MICH. After to-morrow I leave Cleveheddon for ever.
AUDR. Where are you going?
MICH. I don't know.
AUDR. It doesn't matter, I shall find you out.
MICH. You'll follow me?
AUDR. Yes--all over this world, and the ten thousand others. I shall
follow you. You'll find me always with you, clawing at your heart. Au
revoir. (_Takes up her basket of roses, going out with them by
transept, stops._) Do let me put some flowers on the altar--just to
remind you. Your memory is so bad, you know.
(_He raises his hand very quietly and turns his back on her. She
stands very quiet and hopeless for a few seconds, then takes up the
basket of flowers, goes a step or two towards transept, turns._)
AUDR. I'm going to be very ill after this. (_He stands at altar in an
attitude of prayer, his back to her._) Do you hear, I'm going to be
very ill? There's a little string in my heart--I've just heard it
snap. (_Pause._) If I were dying and I sent for you, would you come?
MICH. (_after a long pause, very quietly_). Yes.
(_Pause._)
AUDR. And that's all? And that's all? (_He stands unmoved at altar,
his back to her. She takes a large red rose out of the basket, throws
it towards him; it falls on the white marble altar steps._) There's a
flower for to-morrow! Do put it on the altar for me! You won't? You
won't? (_No answer._) It is hard to be turned out of my own church--It
is hard----
(_Exit AUDRIE by transept with the basket of flowers. A sob is heard,
MICHAEL turns round. A door is heard to close. He puts out the altar
lights, throws himself on altar steps. The curtains fall._
_The falling of the curtains signifies the passing of the night_.
_A peal of joyous church bells followed by organ music and singing.
The curtain rises and discovers the church in broad daylight and
filled with worshippers. ANDREW and ROSE are at the corner in
prominent positions. AUDRIE'S flower is lying on the altar steps. A
processional hymn is being sung. A procession of surpliced priests
file up the aisle and take their places in the chancel, walking over
AUDRIE'S rose. MICHAEL follows at the end of the procession; as he
reaches the altar steps, he turns, very pale and cold, and speaks in a
low, calm voice._)
MICH. Before this service begins and this church is re-consecrated I
have a duty to perform to my people. (_Great attention of all._) I
have often insisted in this place on the necessity of a life of
perfect openness before God and man. I have taught you that your lives
should be crystal clear, that your hearts should be filled with
sunlight, so that no foul thing may hide therein. I have enforced that
with others, because I believe with my heart and soul that it is the
foundation of all wholesome and happy human life. I stand here to
affirm it to-day in the presence of God and you all. I stand here to
affirm it against myself as I formerly affirmed it against another. I
stand here to own to you that while I have been vainly preaching to
you, my own life has been polluted with deceit and with deadly sin. I
can find no repentance and no peace till I have freely acknowledged to
you all that I am not worthy to continue my sacred office, not worthy
to be the channel of grace to you. It was the dearest wish of my life
to restore this beautiful temple, and to be Heaven's vicar here. I
have raised it again, but I may not enter. I dare not enter. I have
sinned--as David sinned. I have broken the sanctity of the marriage
vow. It is my just sentence to go forth from you, not as your guide,
your leader, your priest; but as a broken sinner, humbled in the dust
before the Heaven he has offended. I bid you all farewell. I ask your
pardon for having dared to continue in my office knowing I had
profaned and desecrated it. It now remains for me to seek the pardon
of Heaven. Let the service continue without me. Let no one leave his
place. Pray for me all of you! I have need of your prayers! Pray for
me!
(_He comes down from the altar steps amidst the hushed and respectful
surprise of the congregation, who all turn to look at him as he
passes. ROSE makes a very slight gesture of sympathy as he passes her.
ANDREW stands with hands over his eyes. MICHAEL passes out by
transept, his head bowed, his lips moving in prayer as he goes off._)
_Curtain._
(_Ten months pass between Acts IV. and V._)