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?