As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged.
[There is heard a Ring of the Bell. All three turn their heads,
alert.]
VICAR. If it's my brother . . .
MANSON. Which?
VICAR. I meant--the Bishop of Benares; but . . .
AUNTIE [hand on his arm, apprehensively]. William . . .
MANSON. It wants ten minutes of the time you said you expected
him. [Goes to door: turns.] Only ten minutes.
[He goes out, closing the door softly.]
VICAR. Ten minutes! . . .
AUNTIE. We shall never be able to do it, William! How can we
possibly undo the work of all these years in ten minutes? It wants
a miracle.
VICAR. We must make the attempt, somehow.
AUNTIE. Yes--yes: how? Oh, I have been blind--blind! [She walks
across the room in agitation.] Where has he gone, I wonder? We
don't even know that--where he is!
VICAR [making a movement]. Perhaps Manson . . .
AUNTIE. No, no, no: it must be ourselves . . .
Ten minutest--And no assistance on _his_ side: we can't expect it,
after our treatment of him. He will hate me most of all: there's
the chief difficulty! . . .
VICAR. You would say me, if you had seen his face and heard his
voice this morning!
AUNTIE. God help us. God pity us!
VICAR. Amen . . .
Then, there's the child, too! That difficulty must be faced.
AUNTIE. Yes--no escape! We shall have to pay the whole debt,
William: I see that.
VICAR. Who knows! Perhaps the child will have to pay most, when
all is done.
AUNTIE. The innocent for the guilty--yes . . . Oh, William,
William, can you ever forgive me?
VICAR. There is much to forgive, both sides, Martha. My sin has
been greater than yours. You have only loved unworthily in
blindness: I have seen clearly and been a coward.
[Enter MARY from the garden.]
Mary! . . .
MARY. Let me speak, uncle. I have been thinking, out there in the
garden--thinking very hard: I've been trying to put things together
again and make them straight; but it's still very difficult. Only
there's one thing--I'm sorry I was unkind just now: I didn't mean
it: you are everything I have--everything I have ever had; and as
for what uncle said--about himself, I mean--I can't believe it.
No, I'm sure there's a mistake somewhere; and mistakes can always
be put right, if we only help one another and mean it. Shall we
try, uncle? Shall we, auntie?
AUNTIE. If it's not too late! . . .
MARY. It can't be too late, auntie dear, if we all wish very hard.
I was a coward to give up wishing. That was _my_ sin, too!
AUNTIE. God knows, I wish, Mary! . . .
VICAR. And I! . . .
MARY. And, indeed, I do! . . .
Now, I've been thinking: I've been trying to look the worst in the
face. Supposing my father is the wicked man you say--the very,
very wickedest man that ever lived, don't you think if we tried to
love him very much it might make a difference?
VICAR. What made you think of that, Mary? . . .
MARY [simply]. It's what you taught me, uncle, in your sermons.
VICAR. _I_ taught you? . . .
MARY. Yes: and, besides, there's another reason. . . I've been
thinking of the poor man I met this morning.
AUNTIE. ) Yes . . .
VICAR. ) What of him? . . .
MARY. _He_ said he was a wicked man, and at first he looked so
dreadfully wicked, I believed him; but when I began to look at him
closely, and heard him talk about his little girl, everything
seemed different! I could no more believe him, than I can believe
you, uncle, when you say such awful things about yourself! I
believe he was a much better man than he ever dreamed! And so I
think we might find my father just the same, if he was properly
loved and looked after!
VICAR [with determination]. Then listen to me, Mary: I have
something to tell you: that very man you spoke to . . .
[ROGERS enters, his face betraying signs of his morning's
affliction.]
ROGERS. Beg your pardon, sir; but . . .
VICAR. Yes, Rogers: what is it?
ROGERS. Mr. Manson sent me, sir; it ain't my fault! . . .
VICAR. Do explain yourself, Rogers!
ROGERS. Well, sir, it's a bit orkard: it's . . . I really don't
know what you'll say, sir, I don't really . . .
VICAR [impatiently]. Come, come, come, what is it?
ROGERS. _It's a man, sir_!
VICAR. Well, there's nothing very extraordinary in that. Wants to
see me, eh?
ROGERS. Yes, sir; and what's more, Mr. Manson told me to _bring
'im in_!
VICAR. Well, why don't you?
ROGERS. 'E's mucked up to the eyes, sir! Bin down the drains!
_It's the same chap as come an' made so free 'ere this mornin'_!
[There is a general rapturous excitement.]
VICAR. Praise God! Shew him in at once!
ROGERS [flabbergasted]. What! In '_ere_, sir? . . .
VICAR. Come, come, come!
[ROGERS'S cosmos is fast slipping away: he crawls abjectly to the
door: his hand on the knob, he turns once more a face of bewildered
inquiry upon the VICAR, who snaps his fingers impatiently.]
ROGERS [with a sickly smile]. 'E's just outside, sir.
[Opening the door, he whines.]
Oh, do come in.
[ROBERT enters, amply fulfilling the lad's description. The latter
lags out, nauseated with the world.]
[ROBERT stands up stage, in the middle: AUNTIE and VICAR, down
stage, one on either side. MARY with her aunt.]
ROBERT. Can I be 'eard civil in this 'ouse, if I speak a few words?
[They make a movement as towards him.]
'Old back! Don't you come near me! Don't you so much as speak
till I've done! . . .
[To Auntie and Vicar respectively]. You don't know me: you don't
know me . . . Understand?
There's no one 'ere as knows oo I am, excep' one little gel--'er
over there. Now, keep quiet! 'Ere! . . .
[MARY goes up to him.]
Tell 'em oo I am.
MARY. Why, it's my friend--the man I was telling you about! The
man who looks after the drains!
ROBERT. That's about it: I'm the drain-man, _see_? Thought you
might be mistakin' me for--summat else, if you wasn't told. Now
you know.
[MARY'S face, as she returns, bears the first dawn of an idea. The
VICAR lifts a hand of warning to AUNTIE.]
VICAR. Go on.
ROBERT. That's what I come 'ere to talk abaht--my job. P'r'aps
you'll think as it ain't a tasty subjic, before a lot o' nice,
clean, respectable people as never 'ad anythin' worse on their
fingers than a bit of lawn-dirt, playin' crokey; but _some one_ 'as
to see to the drains, _some one_ 'as to clear up the muck of the
world! I'm the one.
An' I'm 'ere to tell you about it.
AUNTIE [involuntarily]. Oh! . . .
ROBERT. You don't like that, ma'am? 'Urts your feelin's, eh?
AUNTIE. Yes; but not in the way you mean,
MARY. But you know, you really are a little unpleasant!
ROBERT. I'm not 'ere to be pleasant, young leddy: I'm 'ere to
edicate you.
VICAR. Yes, I think I see!
AUNTIE [breathlessly]. Go on: go on!
ROBERT. Well, I come to this 'ouse this mornin', I don't mind
ownin' it, in a rotten bad frame of mind: I 'ad a little job on
'and--a job a bit above my 'ead, an' it got me dahn an' worried me:
yus it did--worried me. That young leddy 'll tell you wot I was
like when _she_ fust saw me: I looked that bad, she thought I come
to steal summat! Well, p'r'aps I did, arter al!--summat as I 'ad
no right to, summat as don't properly belong to a streaky swine
like me. That was when _she_ fust saw me; but I was wuss before
that, I tell you strite!
MARY [self-consciously]. What changed you?
ROBERT. A bloke I met, miss, as knowed me better than I knowed
myself. 'E changed me.
AUNTIE. ) Manson! . . .
VICAR. ) Manson! . . .
MARY. ) Oh, I thought, perhaps . . .
ROBERT. Don't know 'is name; 'e was a fair knock-aht-- Got togs
on 'im like an Earl's Court Exhibition . . . '_E_ changed me: 'e
taught me my own mind; 'e brought me back to my own job--_drains_.
AUNTIE. Yes . . .
ROBERT. Funny thing, ma'am, peopled born different: some's born
without noses in their 'eads, worth speakin' of. I wasn't--I can
smell out a stink anywhere.
AUNTIE [fascinated]. I am sure you can. This is most interesting!
ROBERT [warming]. Moment I stuck my 'ead in this 'ouse, I knowed
as summat was wrong in my line, and I ses to myself: _Wot oh, 'e
ain't such an awl-mighty liar, arter all--that's drains_! An'
drains it was, strike me dead--arskin' your pawdon!
MARY, Now, didn't I always say . . .
ROBERT. Yus, miss, you're one o' the nosey uns, I can see! Well,
soon as ole Togs got done with 'is talk, I got my smeller dahn,
follered up the scent, an' afore I knowed where I was, I was in it,
up to my eyes!--Out there in the room with the blood-red 'eap o'
books! Blimey, you never did see! Muck, ma'am!--Just look at my
'ands! Ain't that pretty?
'Owever, I got there, right enough, I don't fink! Fancy I put that
little bit strite afore I done!
AUNTIE. Oh, this is too beautiful of you! . . .
ROBERT [burning with enthusiasm, and manifestly affected by her
appreciation]. Wait a bit: I got more yet! Talk abaht
bee-utiful!--That bit was on'y an ash-pan! Look 'ere, ma'am, I got
the loveliest little job on as ever yer soiled yer 'ands in! . . .
MARY. Oh, do tell us! . . .
AUNTIE. ) Yes, do! . . .
VICAR. ) Yes, yes! . . .
[A splendid rapture infects them all.]
ROBERT. I followed up that drain--_I_ wasn't goin' to stick till
kingdom come inside your little mouse-'ole out there: No, I said,
_Where's this leadin to? What's the 'ell-an-glory use o' flushin'
out this blarsted bit of a sink, with devil-know-wot stinkin'
cess-pool at the end of it_! That's wot I said, ma'am! . . .
AUNTIE. Very rightly! I see! I see! . . .
ROBERT. So up I go through the sludge, puffin' an' blowin' like a
bally ole cart-'orse--strooth, it seemed miles! Talk abaht
bee-utiful, ma'am, it ud 'a' done your 'eart good, it would really!
_Rats_!--'Undreds on em, ma'am: I'm bitten clean through in places!
'Owever, I pushed my way through, somehow, 'oldin' my nose an
fightin' for my breath, till at last I got to the end--_and then I
soon saw wot was the matter_! . . .
It's under the church--that's where it is! I know it's the church,
cos I 'eard "The Church's One Foundation" on the orgin, rumblin' up
over my 'ead! Well, I . . .
ALL. Yes . . . yes . . .
AUNTIE. Why don't you go on? . . .
ROBERT. You'd never guess wot I saw there, not if you was to try
from now till glory 'allelooyer! . . .
The biggest back-'ander, I ever did 'av', swelp me! . . .
[They hang on his words expectantly.]