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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11999 ***
+
+THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE
+
+BY
+
+CHARLES RANN KENNEDY
+
+
+
+BOOKS BY CHARLES RANN KENNEDY
+
+SEVEN PLAYS FOR SEVEN PLAYERS
+  Volumes now ready:
+    THE WINTERFEAST
+    THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE
+    THE IDOL-BREAKER
+    THE RIB OF THE MAN
+
+SHORTER PLAYS FOR SMALL CASTS
+  Volumes now ready:
+    THE TERRIBLE MEEK
+    THE NECESSARY EVIL
+
+
+
+
+1908
+
+
+
+
+  TO WALTER HAMPDEN
+
+  "There's a lot o' brothers
+  knockin' abaht as people
+  don't know on, eh what?
+  See wot I mean?"
+
+
+
+
+"He that saith he is in the light, and hateth his brother, is
+in darkness even until now.  He that loveth his brother abideth
+in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him.
+But he that hateth his brother is in darkness, and walketh in
+darkness and knoweth not whither he goeth, because that darkness
+hath blinded his eyes. . . .  If a man say, I love God, and
+hateth his brother, he is a liar: for he that loveth not his
+brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath
+not seen?"
+
+  --I. JOHN, ii. 9-11, iv. 20.
+
+
+
+"The hunger for brotherhood is at the bottom of the unrest
+of the modern civilized world."
+
+  --GEORGE FREDERICK WATTS.
+
+
+
+
+ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS
+
+IN
+
+THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE
+
+BY
+
+CHARLES RANN KENNEDY
+
+
+
+AS PRESENTED BY
+
+THE HENRY MILLER ASSOCIATE PLAYERS
+
+AT
+
+THE SAVOY THEATRE.  NEW YORK
+
+ON MONDAY, MARCH 23, 1906
+
+
+A PLAY OF THE PRESENT DAY, IN FIVE ACTS, SCENE INDIVIDABLE
+SETTING FORTH THE STORY OF ONE MORNING IN THE EARLY SPRING
+
+
+
+PERSONS IN THE PLAY
+
+JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D., The Most Reverend,
+  The Lord Bishop of Lancashire
+    Mr. ARTHUR LEWIS
+
+THE REVEREND WILLIAM SMYTHE, Vicar,
+  Mr. CHARLES DALTON
+
+AUNTIE, the Vicar's Wife
+  Miss EDITH WYNNE MATTHISON
+
+MARY, their niece
+  Miss MABEL MOORE
+
+MR. ROBERT SMITH, a gentleman of necessary occupation,
+  Mr. TYRONE POWER
+
+ROGERS, a page-boy
+  Mr. GALWEY HERBERT
+
+MANSON, a butler
+  Mr. WALTER HAMPDEN
+
+
+Time--An early morning in Spring.
+Place--An English country vicarage.
+
+
+
+
+CHARACTERS REPRESENTED
+
+
+JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D.
+The Most Reverend the Lord Bishop of Lancashire
+
+THE REVEREND WILLIAM SMYTHE
+The Vicar
+
+AUNTIE
+The Vicar's Wife
+
+MARY
+Their niece
+
+MR. ROBERT SMITH
+A gentleman of necessary occupation
+
+ROGERS
+A page-boy
+
+MANSON
+A butler
+
+
+TIME: Now
+PLACE: Here
+
+
+
+
+THE SCENE
+
+The scene, which remains unchanged throughout the play, is a room
+in the vicarage.  Jacobean in character, its oak-panelling and
+beamed-ceiling, together with some fine pieces of antique
+furniture, lend it an air of historical interest, whilst in all
+other respects it speaks of solid comfort, refinement, and
+unostentatious elegance.  Evidently the room of a rich man, who
+has, however, apparently come to some compromise on the difficult
+question of his entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven; for the
+panelled walls possess, among other decorations, a richly
+ornamented crucifix, a Virgin and Child by an old master, certain
+saints in ecstasy, and a really remarkable modern oil-painting of
+the Divine Author of our religion.
+
+The main door of the room is at the back of the stage, somewhere
+towards the middle; it opens upon a hall, at the further side of
+which one may perceive, through the open door of another room, a
+goodly collection of well-bound and learned-looking volumes--the
+vicar's library.  At the present moment these tomes of wisdom are
+inaccessible, as the library door is blocked up with unsightly
+mounds of earth, sewer-pipes, and certain workmen's implements.
+The fact is, the vicarage has been greatly disturbed of late, owing
+to a defect in the drainage--an unsavory circumstance which
+receives further and regretful explication in the play itself.
+
+Returning, then, to the room, one may see, in addition to the main
+door described above, another door, to the right of stage, and near
+to the audience.  The curious may be glad to learn that this leads
+into a drawing-room, and incidentally affords one more means of
+communication with the house.  Another exit is provided on the
+opposite side of the stage [left], where a couple of lofty French
+windows lead out into the garden.  Above the drawing-room door is a
+fine old Jacobean mantel-piece: a fire burns brightly in the grate.
+To the left of the main door at the back is a long, low, mullioned
+window, through which one may see a blue sky, a thatched top or two
+of cottages, and the gray old tower of the church.  Through the
+French windows are seen a gravel-walk, a lawn, trees, and a
+sun-dial.
+
+Of the essential furniture of the scene, there may be mentioned;
+sideboard to right of main door; table, right-centre of stage, with
+chairs; arm-chair by fireplace; settee, left, towards front; and a
+long oak stool in the window.
+
+The various properties are described or implied in the text of the
+play.
+
+
+
+
+THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE
+
+THE FIRST ACT
+
+As the curtain ascends, Rogers and Manson are discovered laying the
+table for breakfast, the lad being at the upper end of the table,
+facing the audience, Manson, with his back to the audience, being
+at the lower end.  Rogers is an ordinary little cockney boy in
+buttons; Manson is dressed in his native Eastern costume.  His face
+is not seen until the point indicated lower down.
+
+ROGERS [glancing across curiously].  Arskin' your pardon, Mr.
+Manson. . . .
+
+MANSON.  Yes: what is it, Rogers?
+
+ROGERS.  Funny thing--cawn't get it out of my 'ead as I've knowed
+you somewhere before.  Don't scarcely seem possible, do it, Mr.
+Manson?
+
+MANSON.  Many things are possible in this world, Rogers.
+
+ROGERS.  That's all right; but 'ow long 'av' you been in England,
+Mr. Manson?
+
+MANSON.  I landed late last night, if that's what you mean.
+
+ROGERS.  Well, I never been in the continong of Asia, where you
+come from; and there you are!
+
+MANSON [quietly].  Yes: here I am.
+
+[He goes to the sideboard and busies himself with serviettes, mats,
+etc.]
+
+ROGERS.  Perhaps it's this reincarnytion the Daily Mail been
+writing about.  Ever see the Daily Mail out there, Mr. Manson?
+
+MANSON.  No: we had few advantages.
+
+ROGERS.  Rum idea, reincarnytion!  Think, Mr. Manson, perhaps we
+wos lords once in ancient Babylon, you an' me!
+
+MANSON.  And now butler and page-boy, eh?
+
+ROGERS [scratching his head].  Does seem a bit of a come-down,
+don't it?
+
+MANSON.  That's one way of looking at it.
+
+[ROGERS, enticed of Satan, has conveyed a furtive spoonful of jam
+towards his mouth.]
+
+[Without turning.] Isn't there jam in the kitchen, Rogers?
+
+ROGERS [scared].  Evings!  E've got eyes in 'is boots!  S'y, do you
+call it stealing, Mr. Manson?
+
+MANSON.  Do you? [Persisting.] Do you?
+
+[ROGERS drops the spoon and moves mournfully away from temptation.]
+
+ROGERS.  'Pon my word, Mr. Manson, you give me the fair creeps and
+no mistike!
+
+MANSON.  You will get over that when you knew me better.
+
+ROGERS.  Mr. Manson!  Do you mind if I arst you a question?
+
+MANSON.  No; what is it?
+
+ROGERS.  What d'you wear them togs for?  This ain't India.
+
+MANSON.  People don't always recognise me in anything else.
+
+[He turns for the first time.  His face is one of awful sweetness,
+dignity, and strength.  There is the calm of a great mastery about
+him, suited to his habit as a servant.]
+
+ROGERS.  Garn, Mr. Manson, that's a bit orf!  Clothes don't make
+all that difference, come now! . . .
+
+MANSON.  They are the only things the people of this world see.
+
+ROGERS [after a pause].  Excuse me, Mr. Manson, you mek me larf.
+
+MANSON.  That's all right, Rogers.  I have a sense of humour
+myself, or I shouldn't be here.
+
+ROGERS [suddenly sentimental].  Talking about clothes, Mr. Manson,
+I often thinks in my 'ead as I'd like to be a church clergyman,
+like master.  Them strite-up collars are very becoming.  Wouldn't
+you, Mr. Manson?
+
+MANSON.  Wouldn't that be rather presuming, Rogers?
+
+ROGERS.  Don't you mek no mistike about it!  'Ere! [He grows
+confidential.]  _You are_ a butler, ain't you?  Ain't you,
+now? . . .
+
+MANSON.  Something like that.
+
+ROGERS.  Well, perhaps master 'asn't allus been as 'igh--  See!  O'
+course, I don't know, but they _do_ s'y as 'e was once only a . . .
+Wot oh!  'Ere 'e is!
+
+[The VICAR'S voice is heard off.]
+
+VICAR.  I shall be in to breakfast at a quarter to nine.  Don't
+wait for me, dearest.
+
+[He enters hurriedly from door, right, watch in hand.  He has on
+his cassock and biretta.]
+
+So awkward--  Both my curates down with the whooping-cough!
+To-day, too!  Just when I was expecting . . .
+
+[As he goes up stage, left of table, MANSON comes down, right, with
+serviettes.  The VICAR wheels round slowly, facing him.  Observing
+his astonishment, ROGERS steps forward with explanation.]
+
+ROGERS.  It's the new butler, sir.  Mr. Manson, sir.
+
+VICAR.  Surely, I--I've seen you somewhere before.
+
+MANSON [looking at him].  Have you, sir?
+
+VICAR.  Hm!  No, I can't quite . . .
+
+ROGERS.  Beg pardon, sir: getting on for eight.
+
+[He hands him a small silver paten upon which there is a piece of
+bread.]
+
+VICAR [Taking it mechanically].  Hm!  These mysteries are not
+always helpful . . .   Anyway, I'm glad to see you, Manson.  When
+did you arrive?
+
+[He begins to break the bread into fragments whilst talking.]
+
+MANSON.  Early this morning, sir.  I should have come sooner; but I
+had a little trouble down at the Customs.
+
+VICAR.  Indeed!  How was that?
+
+MANSON.  They said something about the new Alien Act, sir.
+
+VICAR.  Of course, of course.  Er . . .  You speak English
+remarkably well.
+
+MANSON.  I have seen a good deal of the English, one time and
+another.
+
+VICAR.  That's good: it will save a lot of explanation.  By-the-bye
+. . .
+
+My old friend in Brindisi, who recommended you, writes that you
+bore a very excellent character with your late employer in India;
+but there was one matter he didn't mention--  No doubt you will
+recognise its importance in a clergyman's family--  He never
+mentioned your religion.
+
+MANSON.  I can soon remedy that, sir.  My religion is very simple.
+I love God and all my brothers.
+
+VICAR [after a pause].  God and your brothers . . .
+
+MANSON.  Yes, sir: _all_ of them.
+
+[The VICAR stands thoughtful for a moment.  He places the paten on
+the table, beside him.]
+
+VICAR [slowly].  That is not always so easy, Manson; but it is my
+creed, too.
+
+MANSON.  Then--  Brother!
+
+[Rapt in thought, the VICAR takes his profferred hand mechanically.]
+
+[MARY enters.  She is a slim young girl in her teens, the picture
+of rosy sweetness and health.]
+
+MARY.  Good-morning, Uncle William!  Oh! . . .  I suppose you're
+Manson?  I must say you look simply ripping!  How do you do?  My
+name's Mary.  [She offers her hand.]
+
+MANSON [kissing it].  A very dear name, too!
+
+MARY [embarrassed, blurting].  We were wondering last night about
+your religion.  I said . . .
+
+VICAR.  Mary, my child . . .
+
+MARY.  You don't _look_ like a cannibal.  After all, even the devil
+isn't as black as he's . . .  Oh, I beg your pardon: perhaps I'm
+rude.
+
+VICAR.  Yes, indeed you are.  Don't take any notice of our little
+feather-brain, Manson.
+
+MARY.  I say, has uncle told you who's coming to-day?
+
+MANSON.  No.
+
+MARY.  Not about Uncle Josh?
+
+VICAR.  T-t-t!  You mustn't call your uncle Joshua that!  It is
+irreverent.  He may resent it.
+
+MARY.  You know, _you'll_ make me positively dislike him!  Just
+fancy, Manson, meeting an uncle whom you've never so much as set
+eyes on before!  I don't even know what he looks like.
+
+[She is looking MANSON in the face.  He returns her gaze curiously.]
+
+MANSON.  Then--you have a surprise in store.
+
+MARY.  _You_ ought to be awfully interested!  You will, when you
+hear where he comes from!
+
+MANSON.  I _am_--interested.
+
+MARY.  Then guess who he is!
+
+MANSON.  Guess--when I know already?
+
+MARY.  Oh, Uncle Joshua isn't his only name--don't you think that!
+He's a very important person, I can tell you!  His name's on
+everybody's lips!
+
+MANSON [dryly].  Really!
+
+MARY.  Can't you guess? . . .  Think of the very biggest person you
+ever heard of in this world!
+
+MANSON.  In _this_ world: that sounds rather like . . .  Does he
+give free libraries?
+
+MARY.  I can't say I ever heard of that; but he does things quite
+as wonderful!  Listen!  What do you think of the BISHOP OF BENARES!!
+
+MANSON [unimpressed].  Oh, it's the--Bishop of Benares, is it?
+
+MARY.  I must say, you don't seem very surprised!  Surely you've
+heard of him?  He _comes_ from India.
+
+MANSON [quietly].  I happen to know him.
+
+VICAR.  No, really: this is most interesting!
+
+MANSON.  As a man might know _his own soul_, sir--As they say in
+India.  His work has been mine, so to speak.
+
+VICAR.  Bless me, you will know him better than I do.  I have never
+seen him since I was quite a little lad.
+
+MARY [with prodigious solemnity].  Just you think, Manson!  He's my
+uncle--my own father's brother!
+
+[MANSON is now up stage between the two.]
+
+MANSON.  _Your_ brother, sir?
+
+VICAR [fervently].  I am grateful to God for it, Manson: he is.
+
+[MANSON regards him calmly for a moment: then he turns inquiringly
+towards Mary.]
+
+MANSON.  Then--Miss Mary? . . .
+
+VICAR [quickly].  Oh, my niece is the daughter of--of my other
+brother.
+
+MANSON.  I see: _two_ brothers?
+
+VICAR [shortly].  Yes, yes, I have: I--I had.
+
+MANSON [resuming his work at the table].  Thank you, sir: it's
+always helpful, coming to a new place, to know who are--and who are
+not--the family connections.
+
+VICAR.  Come, Rogers!  My poor brethren in the church are waiting.
+I must see to their necessities at once.  [He starts for the door.]
+
+MANSON.  Pardon me, sir.
+
+[He hands him the bread which, among those necessities, he has
+forgotten.  The VICAR looks at him a moment in troubled thought,
+and then goes out, followed by ROGERS.]
+
+ROGERS [at door].  I'll be back to 'elp you in with the breakfast,
+Mr. Manson.  [Exit.]
+
+MARY.  Now, Manson: let's talk! You've got nothing more to do? . . .
+
+MANSON.  Not till breakfast.
+
+MARY.  Then come over here, and make ourselves comfy.
+
+[They go over to the settee: she plumps herself down, gathering her
+legs up into a little bunch.  He seats himself beside her.]
+
+Now!  Tell me everything you know about the Bishop of Benares!
+
+MANSON.  What--Uncle Josh?
+
+MARY.  Ssh--ssh--ssh!  That's naughty, you know!  You heard what
+Uncle William said! . . .  Do you think he'd very much mind if I
+called him Uncle Josh?
+
+MANSON.  You may take it from _me_, that you may call him whatever
+you like.
+
+MARY.  That's all very well; but you're not Uncle Joshua!
+
+MANSON.  No? . . .
+
+MARY [hotly].  No, you're not!
+
+MANSON.  Well, since you're so certain . . .
+
+MARY [with conviction].  I'm perfectly certain he'll never stand a
+kid like me cheeking him and calling him names! Uncle William's
+quite right! . . .  And that's why I've made up my mind that I
+sha'n't like him, after all!
+
+MANSON.  Indeed, I hope you will!
+
+MARY.  Do you believe in liking people simply because they're
+uncles?
+
+MANSON.  Perhaps I'm a prejudiced person.
+
+MARY.  I know exactly what he'll be--goody-goody, isn't he?  You
+know--religious, and all that!
+
+MANSON.  God forbid!
+
+MARY [fearfully].  Oh, perhaps he's the other sort--like auntie's
+brother!  He's a bishop--the Bishop of Lancashire.  You see, I've
+heard a lot about bishops in my time, and they're not always quite
+nice men.
+
+MANSON.  And what sort is the Bishop of Lancashire?
+
+MARY.  Well, I don't think I ought to tell you; but I once heard
+_Uncle William_ call him a devil!--And he's a clergyman!
+
+MANSON.  Your Uncle Joshua's reputation is exactly opposite.
+
+MARY.  There is that; everybody speaks awfully well of him.
+
+MANSON.  I don't think I would go so far as that: some people
+blackguard him abominably.
+
+MARY.  No!--Who?
+
+MANSON.  His clergy, chiefly.
+
+MARY.  His clergy! They must be dreadfully wicked men!
+
+MANSON.  No--only blind: perhaps, also, a little deaf.  But between
+the two they manage to make his work very difficult.
+
+MARY.  Why?  What do they do?
+
+MANSON.  It's partly what they do _not_ do.
+
+MARY.  Oh, I see--lazy.
+
+MANSON.  Not precisely--they work: they are not idle; but they
+serve other masters.
+
+MARY.  Such as whom?
+
+MANSON.  The Bishop of Lancashire.
+
+MARY [after a pause], I always thought he was such a great success
+out there.  The papers have been full of it--of the millions of
+people who follow him about: they say they almost worship him in
+some places.  What kind of people are they?
+
+MANSON.  Just common people.
+
+MARY.  And then, all that talk of die great churches he built out
+there! . . .
+
+MANSON.  Churches?
+
+MARY.  Yes; didn't he?
+
+MANSON.  He built one.
+
+MARY.  What's it like?
+
+MANSON.  Those who have seen it say there is nothing like it on
+earth.
+
+MARY [eagerly].  Have you seen it?
+
+MANSON.  I was there when he built it.
+
+MARY.  From the very beginning?
+
+MANSON [solemnly].  From the beginning.
+
+[MARY pauses before speaking: then she says, slowly.]
+
+MARY.  I hope I _shall_ like him.  Is he--is he anything like you?
+
+[MANSON regards her silently for a moment.]
+
+MANSON.  How is it that you know so little about him?
+
+MARY.  Well, you see, I only heard yesterday.
+
+MANSON.  I thought you said his name was on everybody's _lips_.
+
+MARY.  You don't understand.  I mean, I never knew that he had
+anything to do with _me_--that he was my father's brother.
+
+MANSON.  Didn't _he_ know?
+
+MARY.  Who--father?  Oh, you see, I. . .  _I don't know my father_
+. . . . . .  Uncle William didn't know anything about it until
+yesterday.
+
+MANSON.  Hm!  That is strange, too!
+
+MARY.  There's a bit of a mystery about it altogether.  Would you
+like to hear?  It is rather like a fairy-tale.
+
+MANSON.  It must be.  Yes, do go on.
+
+MARY.  It was all through Uncle William's Restoration Fund.  You
+see, our old church is in a perfectly rotten state of decay, and
+naturally it would take a lot to repair it: so uncle thought of
+starting a Fund--Yes!  Wasn't it clever of him?--I addressed all
+the envelopes.
+
+Would you believe it, we couldn't get a single halfpenny! Isn't it
+a shame?--Such a nice old church, too!
+
+MANSON.  How was that?
+
+MARY.  That's the question!  People have been most rude! Oh, the
+letters we have had!  The funny thing is, for all their
+fault-finding, they none of them agree with each other!--Some say
+the foundations are all wrong: some don't like the stained-glass
+windows; but if you ask me . . .
+
+MANSON.  Yes, what do you think?
+
+MARY.  Well, uncle won't hear of it; but I can't help thinking old
+Bletchley is right . . .
+
+MANSON.  Who's he?
+
+MARY.  Oh, he's a dreadfully wicked man, I know that--  He's the
+quack doctor in the village: he's--he's _an atheist_! . . .
+
+MANSON.  Well, what does he think is the matter?
+
+MARY.  He says it's the DRAIN!
+
+MANSON.  The--the drain? . . .
+
+MARY.  Um!  You know, in spite of what uncle says, there is a
+smell: I had it in my nose all last Sunday morning.  Up in the
+choir it's bad enough, and round by the pulpit-- Ugh!  I can't
+think how uncle stands it!
+
+That's why the people won't come to church-- They _say_ so: they
+stand in the market-place listening to old Bletchley, instead of
+listening to uncle and trying to be good.
+
+The odd thing Is, it must be that very same drain that's causing
+the trouble in uncle's study--  That's his study out there, where
+they've been digging: it's where he writes his sermons.  You know,
+_I've_ noticed the smell for some time, but uncle got so cross
+whenever I mentioned it, that I learned to hold my tongue.  At
+last, auntie smelt it, too, and that soon brought the men in!  Ugh!
+Perhaps you've . . .
+
+MANSON.  I have!  But what has all this to do with . . .
+
+MARY.  Don't get impatient: it's all part of the story. . . .
+Well, we thought we should have poor dear Uncle William perfectly
+ill . . .
+
+MANSON.  Because of the drain? . . .
+
+MARY.  No, because of the Fund.  He tried everything: all his rich
+friends, bazaars, jumble-sales, special intercessions--everything!
+And nothing seemed to come of it!
+
+Then at last, yesterday morning, he was reading the newspaper, and
+there was a long piece about the Bishop of Benares.  Uncle read it
+aloud to us.  Suddenly, in the middle, he broke off and said: _Look
+at the power this chap seems to have at the back of him!  I wish to
+God I had some of it_!
+
+He had scarcely said it, when there was a rat-tat at the door: it
+was the postman; and what do you think?  IT WAS A LETTER FROM THE
+BISHOP OF BENARES?
+
+MANSON [anticipating the critics].  What a coincidence!
+
+MARY.  Isn't that wonderful?  _Isn't_ it just like a fairy-tale?
+Wait a bit.  There's more yet . . .  Here's the letter: uncle gave
+it me for my autographs . . .
+
+[She fishes it out from her pocket.  MANSON reads it aloud, slowly
+and clearly.]
+
+MANSON.  "_I shall be with you during to-morrow morning.  If any
+one will help me, I will restore your church.  Your brother,
+Joshua_."
+
+MARY [pointing].  And there, do you see, underneath, in brackets:
+_The Bishop of Benares_.
+
+MANSON.  Dear me, dear me, just those few words!
+
+MARY.  Wasn't it like an answer to prayer?  Auntie saw that at once!
+
+And the odd part about it is, that Uncle William did have a brother
+Joshua who went away and got lost in India years and years ago!
+And to think that he was who he was all the time!  To think of him
+never writing until yesterday!  To think that before the day is out
+he will be sitting down here, perhaps in this very place, just
+like . . .
+
+[She breaks off suddenly, gazing at him; for his eyes have taken a
+strange fire.]
+
+MANSON.  Just like I am now . . .
+
+MARY [falteringly].  Yes . . .
+
+MANSON.  Talking to you . . .
+
+MARY.  Oh! . . .  [She rises, afraid.]
+
+MANSON [softly], Mary . . .
+
+MARY [in a whisper].  Who are you? . . .
+
+MANSON.  I am . . .
+
+[He is interrupted by the great bell of the church, which tolls the
+Sanctus.  After the third stroke, he continues.]
+
+I am the servant in this house.  I have my work to do.  Would you
+like to help me?
+
+MARY.  What shall I do?
+
+MANSON.  Help to spin she fairy-tale.  Will you?
+
+MARY.  I will.
+
+MANSON.  Then keep the secret--Remember!  And wish hard.
+
+MARY.  Do you believe in wishing?
+
+MANSON.  Everything comes true, if you wish hard enough.
+
+MARY.  What shall I wish for?
+
+MANSON.  What have you needed most?  What have you not had?  Think
+it out.
+
+[Enter AUNTIE in a negligee morning gown.  She has a preoccupied
+air.  She carries her husband's coat over her arm.]
+
+AUNTIE.  Oh, I heard you had arrived.  I hope they gave you
+something to eat when you came in.
+
+MANSON.  Thank you, ma'am: it will do later.
+
+AUNTIE.  Mary . . .  Dearest . . .
+
+MARY.  Oh, I beg your pardon, auntie dear, I . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  Dreaming again!  [Putting her arm round her.]  Come, I
+want you to put your uncle's coat by the fire.  He will be cold,
+coming out of that draughty church.
+
+MARY [hugging her].  You darling!  I believe you think of nobody
+but uncle in the world!
+
+AUNTIE.  And you, sweetheart: you come next--a very near next!
+Now, run along.
+
+[MARY takes the coat to the fire.]
+
+[Surveying the table].  That's very nice, Manson, very nice indeed!
+Perhaps, just a little further this way. . . .  [Removes flowers.]
+My husband is so fond of them.  Ye-es; and I _wanted_ things
+_particularly_ nice this morning . . .
+
+MARY [at the fire, looking up].  I thought you said you--you didn't
+expect him till twelve-thirty! . . .
+
+AUNTIE [absorbed].  Whom?
+
+MARY [chuckling].  The--the Bishop of Benares.
+
+AUNTIE.  The--the . . .   Oh, it's your _uncle_ I am . . .  [To
+Manson].  By-the-bye, has the postman been yet?
+
+MANSON [at the window].  I can see him coming up the lane.  He's
+stopped at the next house.
+
+AUNTIE.  Oh, then, Mary: will you very much mind if you don't have
+breakfast with us this morning?  I want to have a private talk with
+your uncle.
+
+MARY.  Oh, auntie, dear! . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  Don't think of yourself, dear--  Remember, there are other
+people in the world besides you.  Go down into the village, and
+have breakfast with poor old Grannie Durden.  Take her some nice
+new-laid eggs and a pat of butter--  Poor soul, it would be a
+charity!
+
+MARY.  Oh, auntie, she's as deaf as a post!
+
+AUNTIE.  Dearest!--Remember what your uncle said last Sunday about
+_Pure religion and undefiled_!  He mentioned Mrs. Durden only a
+week ago; but I forgot.  Now, run along.
+
+MARY [reluctantly].  Very well, auntie.
+
+[She goes out by the main door.]
+
+AUNTIE [laughing].  Inconsiderate little monkey!
+
+I am glad you have not thought of changing your pretty, native
+costume, Manson.  It is very picturesque; and, besides, to-day
+there is a special reason why it may be considered complimentary.
+
+[A double knock is heard at the outer door.]
+
+Ah!  Quick, Manson! The postman!
+
+[MANSON goes out.  AUNTIE takes a look at the coat: rearranges the
+flowers, humming, meanwhile, "The Church's One Foundation"; and
+then stands impatiently awaiting MANSON'S reappearance.  Presently
+he returns with a letter on server.]
+
+MANSON.  A letter for you, ma'am.
+
+AUNTIE.  Ah!  What I expected!
+
+[She breaks open the letter and reads it eagerly.]
+
+Excellent!  [More dubiously].  Excellent . . .
+
+Manson, we shall have to be very busy to-day.  There will be quite
+a Church Congress to lunch--two bishops!
+
+MANSON.  Oh, not as bad as that, ma'am!
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson!
+
+MANSON.  Beg pardon, ma'am; but master mentioned only one--his
+brother, the Bishop of Benares.
+
+AUNTIE.  _My_ brother will join us also--the Bishop of Lancashire.
+This is his letter.
+
+And now let's have breakfast, at once.  The vicar is sure to be
+earlier than he said; and I'm hungry.
+
+[MANSON goes to the door.  As he opens it, the VICAR and ROGERS
+reappear.]
+
+MANSON.  Here is master.  I'll hurry up the breakfast, ma'am.
+
+VICAR [entering].  Do, Manson.  Let's get it over.
+
+[MANSON goes out.]
+
+Excuse me, my dear.
+
+[ROGERS helps him off with the cassock.]
+
+So tiresome!  Not a place in the house to do anything!  Confound
+the drains!  Just run up-stairs for my coat, Rogers.
+
+AUNTIE.  It's here, dear.  I have it warming for you.
+
+VICAR [more graciously].  Oh, thank you, Martha.  That will do,
+then, Rogers.  Tell Manson to hurry up.
+
+[ROGERS helps him on and goes out.  The cassock is left lying on
+the long stool by the window.]
+
+[The VICAR crosses moodily to the fireplace.  AUNTIE stands
+undecided, watching him, the letter in her hand.]
+
+AUNTIE.  You're back early, dear.
+
+VICAR.  What can you expect? Not a soul there, of course!
+
+AUNTIE.  My poor William!  I'm glad I thought to hurry up the
+breakfast.
+
+VICAR.  Thanks, dear.  You are always thoughtful.
+
+AUNTIE.  William . . .
+
+[He looks up.]
+
+I--I want to have a little talk with you.
+
+VICAR.  What is it?  Any more--worry?
+
+AUNTIE.  You needn't make it so.
+
+VICAR..  Ah!
+
+AUNTIE [moving over to him and stroking his hair].  My dearest is
+not well.
+
+VICAR.  I think you are right, Martha.  I am not well.
+
+AUNTIE [alarmed].  Not the trouble with your heart again?
+
+VICAR.  No; I fancy it goes deeper than that!
+
+AUNTIE.  William!  What do you mean?
+
+VICAR [suddenly facing her].  Martha!  Do you know the sort of man
+you have been living with all these years?  Do you see through me?
+Do you know me?--No: don't speak:  I see your answer already--Your
+own love blinds you!  Ha!  I am a good man!--I don't drink, I don't
+swear, I am respectable, I don't blaspheme like Bletchley!  Oh yes,
+and I am a scholar: I can cackle in Greek: I can wrangle about
+God's name: I know Latin and Hebrew and all the cursed little
+pedantries of my trade!  But do you know what I am? Do you know
+what your husband is in the sight of God?  He is a LIAR!
+
+AUNTIE.  William!
+
+VICAR.  A liar! I heard it in my ears as I stood up before Christ's
+altar in the church this morning, reciting my miserable creed!  I
+heard it in my prayers!  I heard it whilst I tasted . . .  whilst I
+drank . . .  whilst I . . .
+
+[He sinks into a chair, and buries his face in his hands.]
+
+AUNTIE.  Oh, you are ill!
+
+VICAR [breaking down].  O wretched man that I am!  Who shall
+deliver me out of the body of this death?
+
+[She stands above him, hesitating.  After a moment, she says,
+determinedly.]
+
+AUNTIE.  I know: it's this money trouble.  It's what Joshua said in
+his letter about your having to get somebody to help him.  Well,
+that's just what I wanted to speak to you about.  I have a way out
+of the difficulty.
+
+VICAR.  It's not the church.  I could wish every Stone of it were
+crumbled into dust!
+
+AUNTIE.  William, how wicked of you! . . .
+
+Is it--is it anything to do with your brother Joshua?  Why don't
+you answer?
+
+VICAR.  _It has to do with my brother--Robert_.
+
+AUNTIE.  Mary's fa . . .
+
+William, did you send him that telegram yesterday?
+
+VICAR.  Yes: that was a lie, too!
+
+AUNTIE.  Nonsense!  Don't be absurd!
+
+VICAR.  It was a lie!
+
+AUNTIE.  You told him we couldn't do with him because the house was
+upset: that's true!  You told him that the drains were up in the
+study: that's true!
+
+VICAR.  Was that the real reason why we refused to have him here?
+Was it?
+
+AUNTIE.  I can't think what possessed him to write and say he'd
+come.  We've not heard from him for fifteen years!
+
+VICAR.  Whose fault is that?
+
+AUNTIE.  Why, his own, of course!  He can't expect to be treated
+decently!  [She walks up and down with anger.]  It's perfectly
+absurd, it really is, dear, making all this fuss and trouble about
+a wretched--
+
+Have you told Mary?
+
+VICAR.  No: the _silent_ lie was comparatively easy!
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear, do try and be reasonable.  Think of what he is!
+
+VICAR.  Isn't he my brother?
+
+AUNTIE.  No, he's not your brother--at least, nothing that a
+brother ought to be!  Ridicules everything that you hold sacred!
+Hates everything you love!  Loves everything you hate! . . .
+
+VICAR.  _That's_ true!
+
+AUNTIE.  A scoffer, an atheist, a miserable drunkard!
+
+VICAR.  That was fifteen years ago, remember, after Mary's mother
+died! . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  A man like that never changes!  What would have become of
+that poor child if we hadn't stepped in?  Have you ever dared to
+tell her what her father's like?  Of course not!  To-day, too, of
+all days!  It's utterly preposterous!
+
+VICAR.  That is all the more reason why . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear, think of his _occupation_!
+
+VICAR.  I think the child ought to be told.
+
+AUNTIE.  Of his _occupation_?
+
+VICAR.  That, and everything.
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear, have you gone perfectly mad?  Do you know who's
+coming?  Do you want to advertise his _occupation_ to all the world?
+
+VICAR.  Do you think his brother Joshua would mind that?
+
+AUNTIE.  It isn't only your brother Joshua!  You think of nobody
+but your brother Joshua!  Some one else is coming.
+
+VICAR.  Who?
+
+AUNTIE.  _My brother James_!  [She throws down the letter.]  Now
+you've heard it all!
+
+[There is a long silence.  Then the VICAR speaks in a low, intense
+voice of bitter contempt.]
+
+VICAR.  Your brother James is coming here today?  You have brought
+him here to help my brother Joshua!  _Him_!
+
+AUNTIE.  Why not? He's rich! He can do it!
+
+VICAR.  So, he can recognise me at last!
+
+AUNTIE.  It was as much your fault as his, that you have never met!
+He naturally resented our marriage.
+
+VICAR [ironically].  But, of course, now that I'm related to the
+great and _wealthy_ Bishop of Benares ...
+
+AUNTIE [warmly].  He's as much a bishop as your brother is!
+
+VICAR.  He! That gaitered snob!
+
+AUNTIE.  William, how dare you!
+
+VICAR.  Yes, he's a bishop!  A bishop of stocks and shares!  A
+bishop of the counting-house!  A bishop of Mammon!
+
+AUNTIE.  William!
+
+VICAR.  The devil's own bishop!
+
+AUNTIE.  _At least, he isn't a WORKING-MAN_!
+
+VICAR [as though stung].  Ah! . . .
+
+[They stand below the table, one on either side, tense with
+passion.  They remain so.]
+
+[MANSON and ROGERS come in with the breakfast.  ROGERS goes out
+immediately.]
+
+MANSON.  Sorry to have delayed, sir; but you said a quarter to
+nine, didn't you, sir?
+
+VICAR.  Yes.
+
+MANSON.  Breakfasts served, ma'am.  It's served, sir.
+
+[They move to the table, absently, first one, then the other, as he
+goes to each separately.]
+
+[MANSON serves them in silence for a few moments.]
+
+Beg pardon, sir: what time did you expect the Bishop of Benares?
+
+VICAR.  Oh!--_During the morning_, he said.  That will mean the
+twelve-thirty, I suppose.  It's the only convenient service.
+
+MANSON.  And the Bishop of Lancashire, ma'am?
+
+AUNTIE.  He didn't say; but I think we may expect him by the same
+train.  He would scarcely think of catching the . . .
+
+[There is heard a loud Ringing of the Bell--a bishop at the very
+least.  All three heads turn automatically.]
+
+Good gracious! Already!
+
+MANSON.  It doesn't sound like the Bishop of Benares, ma'am.  He
+generally comes very quietly.
+
+AUNTIE.  Quick!
+
+MANSON.  Yes, ma'am.
+
+[He goes out by the main door.]
+
+AUNTIE [rapidly], William, I'm sorry!  Really, I didn't mean you: I
+never thought of you; I was only thinking of Robert.  I only think
+of you as a great scholar and a saint--yes, you are one!--and as
+the man I love!  I would sacrifice everything to your happiness.
+Robert's nothing to me; that's why I . . .  Think of what it might
+mean to Mary--we must think of others, William!--our own little
+child, as we try to imagine . . .
+
+[The VICAR makes a gesture of anguish.]
+
+As for James, God knows I did it for the best.  I love you, my
+dear, I love you: I wouldn't have vexed you for the world!  After
+all, he is my brother, William! . . . .  I thought of patching up
+the enmity between you: I thought of all your hopes of rebuilding
+the church, and James was the only rich man I thought might be
+induced--under the circumstances . . .
+
+VICAR.  I am in the darkness.  I don't know what to do.  God has
+left me stranded.
+
+[MANSON re-enters.  They look at him inquiringly.]
+
+MANSON.  It isn't the Bishop of Benares, ma'am.
+
+AUNTIE.  Well, who is it?
+
+MANSON.  I didn't ask his name, ma'am.
+
+AUNTIE.  T-t-t!  How is he dressed?
+
+MANSON.  Rather oddly, ma'am: I noticed that his legs . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  William, it's James!  I can't be seen like this.  Shew him
+in.  I can slip out this way.
+
+[MANSON goes out.]
+
+William, try and treat him like . . .
+
+VICAR.  How?  Like a brother?
+
+AUNTIE.  I was going to say, like a Priest and a Christian, William.
+
+VICAR.  Like a Christian, then.
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear!
+
+[She goes out by the door to the right, as MANSON begins to turn
+the handle of the other door.]
+
+MANSON [outside].  This way, if you please.
+
+[The VICAR, braces himself up and turns towards the door with an
+effort at cordiality.]
+
+VICAR.  Just in time for breakfast, my lord.
+
+[Enter ROBERT SMITH and MANSON.  ROBERT'S costume is a navvy's, the
+knees tied With string.]
+
+ROBERT [grimly].  Thanks, Bill Awlmighty, don't mind if I do.  My
+belly's fair aching.
+
+VICAR.  Robert!
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, it's me, my 'oly brother!
+
+VICAR.  Didn't you--didn't you get my wire?
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, I gorit-: _Drains wrong_, eh?  Thought I'd like to
+'av' a look at 'em--my job, yer know, _drains_!  So you'll excuse
+the togs: remind you of old days, eh what?
+
+VICAR.  Robert, what have you come here for?
+
+ROBERT.  You arsk me that?
+
+VICAR.  Yes, I do.  Bob . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Why, to see my little gel, o' course--Gawd curse you! . . .
+
+Now go an tell your ole woman.
+
+[The VICAR stands as though stricken.]
+
+Did you 'ear me speak? Tell 'er!
+
+[The VICAR wavers a moment, and then staggers out silently through
+the door, right.  ROBERT watches him off with a look of iron.  He
+pays no heed to MANSON, who stands quite close to him, on the left.]
+
+See that blighter?  That's the bloke as was born with no bowels!
+'E might a-made a man o' me once, if 'e'd tried; but 'e didn't--'im
+and 'is like.  Hm!  Dam foolish, I call it, don't you?
+
+MANSON.  Yes, both: foolish and--damned!
+
+[ROBERT turns and looks into his face for the first time as the
+curtain slowly falls on the First Act.]
+
+
+
+
+THE SECOND ACT
+
+As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged.
+Presently, Robert, having completed his inspection of the other's
+face and costume, moves away with a characteristic interjection.
+
+ROBERT.  Oh, Jeeroosalem! . . .
+
+'Ere, 'elp us orf, comride: I'm wet through.  Rainin' cats an'
+dorgs dahn at the Junction!  'Ere, I cawn't . . .  Wot oh!  The
+very identical! . . .
+
+[MANSON has helped him off with his coat, and now hands him the
+cassock.]
+
+[Getting into it.]  Don't know oo you are, ole pal, but you're a
+bit of orl right! . . .  Don't I look a corf-drop?  'Ere, where ye
+teking it to? . . .
+
+[He watches MANSON suspiciously as he places his coat before the
+fire to dry.]
+
+Bit 'andy, ain't yer? . . .
+
+So this is where 'e lives!  A bloomin' palace, as never I did
+see! . . .
+
+[MANSON prepares a place for him at the table, and pours out a cup
+of tea, etc.]
+
+Right you are, ole comride!  'E said breakfast, an' breakfast it
+shall be, I don't fink!  Blimey!  Sossingers!  Ain't 'ad the taste
+of sossingers in my gizzard for I don't know 'ow long!
+
+[He sits and devours whilst MANSON breaks and hands him bread,
+waiting upon him.]
+
+[Between bites.] Wouldn't think as I was 'is brother, would
+yer--not to look at me?  But strooth, _I am_; an' wot's more, 'e
+cawn't deny it! . . .  [He labours with a little joke.]  There's a
+lot o' brothers knockin' abaht as people don't know on, eh what?
+See wot I mean?  [Suddenly serious.]  Not as I'm one o' them sort,
+mind yer: my father married my mother honest, same as I married my
+little . . .
+
+[After a moment's reflection, he makes fresh onslaught upon the
+sausages.  Presently he looks up.]
+
+'Ere, ain't you goin' ter 'av' none? . . .  Cawn't yer speak?
+
+MANSON.  Yes.
+
+ROBERT.  Well, why cawn't yer arnser a bloke when 'e arsks yer
+civil?
+
+MANSON.  You didn't make it dear that you wanted to eat with me.
+
+ROBERT.  Want a bit of 'eart in it, eh?
+
+MANSON.  Yes, that's all.
+
+ROBERT [largely].  Sit dahn, ole pal!  Mek yourself at 'ome!
+
+[MANSON obeys.]
+
+See, wot was I tawkin' abaht.  Just afore you turned narsty?
+
+MANSON.  You were going to say something about--your little girl's
+mother.
+
+[ROBERT'S cutlery bristles up like bayonets.]
+
+ROBERT.  Look 'ere, mate, don't you come tryin' it on with me!  I
+don't care _oo_ you are!
+
+MANSON.  I know that.
+
+ROBERT.  Then let me be, I tell yer!  You tek all the taste out o'
+my sossingers.
+
+MANSON.  I should like to hear about her, comrade.
+
+ROBERT.  _You_ cawn't bring 'er back.  She's dead.
+
+MANSON.  What was her name?
+
+ROBERT.  Mary--same as the little gel's.
+
+MANSON.  I wonder whether they are anything alike.
+
+ROBERT.  That's wot I come to see! . . .
+
+She 'ad 'er mother's nose when she was a biby--_and_ 'er eyes!
+Gorstrike, she was the very spit--far as a biby could be! . . .
+
+Swelp me Moses, if I find 'er anything like Bill's ole geezer, I'll
+cut 'er throat!
+
+MANSON.  And if she's like her mother?  What then?
+
+ROBERT.  Why, then . . .  there's allus my own.  I nearly did it
+once.
+
+MANSON [after a pause].  How did you come to lose her?
+
+ROBERT [roughly].  Never you mind!
+
+MANSON.  How did you come to lose her?
+
+ROBERT [sullenly].  Typhoid fever.
+
+[MANSON notes the evasion with a glance.  He helps ROBERT to more
+tea, and waits for him to speak.  ROBERT wriggles under his gaze,
+and at last he says, reluctantly.]
+
+Oh, it was my own fault, as I lost the kid!
+
+MANSON.  That was a sore loss, comrade.
+
+ROBERT.  _I_ know it!  Needn't rub it in! . . .  Look, 'ere,
+comride, I 'adn't a bad nature to begin with.  Didn't me an' my
+brother Joshua pinch an' slave the skin orf our bones to send that
+spotted swine to school?  Didn't we 'elp 'im out with 'is books an'
+'is mortar-boards an' 'is bits of clothes to try an' mek 'im look
+respectable?  That's wot we did, till 'e got 'is lousy scholyships,
+an' run away to get spliced with that she-male pup of a
+blood-'ound!  Cos why?  Cos we was proud of the little
+perisher!--proud of 'is 'ead-piece!  We 'adn't gone none
+ourselves--leastways, _I_ 'adn't: Joshua was different to me; and
+now . . .
+
+MANSON.  And your brother Joshua: what of him?  Where is _he_ now?
+
+ROBERT.  _I_ don't know--gone to pot, like me!  P'r'aps eatin' is
+bleedin' 'eart out, same as I am, at the base ingratitood of the
+world!
+
+MANSON.  Perhaps so!
+
+ROBERT.  Where was I?  You mek me lose my air, shoving in with your
+bit!
+
+MANSON.  You were saying that you hadn't a bad nature to begin with.
+
+ROBERT [truculently].  No more I 'adn't! . . .
+
+O' course, when she took an'--an' died, things was different: I
+couldn't 'old up the same-- Somehow, I don't know, I lost my 'eart,
+and . . .
+
+MANSON.  Yes? . . .
+
+ROBERT.  That's 'ow I come to lose my kid, my little kid . . .
+Mind you, that was fifteen years ago: I was a rotter then, same as
+you might be.  I wasn't 'arf the man I am now . . .
+
+_You_ can larf!  A man can change a lot in fifteen years!
+
+MANSON.  _I_ didn't laugh.
+
+ROBERT.  Do you want to know wot's come over me since then?  I
+_work_--and work well: that's more than some of 'em can say--  And
+I don't get much money for it, either!  That ought to mek 'em feel
+ashamed!  I'm not the drunkard I was--not by 'arf!  If I'm bitter,
+oo's made me bitter?  You cawn't be very sweet and perlite on
+eighteen bob a week--_when yer get it_! I'll tell yer summat else:
+I've eddicated myself since then--I'm not the gory fool I was--
+_And_ they know it!  They can't come playin' the 'anky with us,
+same as they used to!  It's _Nice Mister Working-man This and Nice
+Mister Working-man That, will yer be so 'ighly hobliging as to 'and
+over your dear little voting-paper_--you poor, sweet, muddy-nosed
+old Idiot, as can't spot your natural enemy when yer see 'im!  That
+orter mek some on 'em sit up!
+
+Fifteen years ago me an' my like 'adn't got a religion!  By Gawd,
+we 'av' one now!  Like to 'ear wot it is?
+
+MANSON.  Yes.
+
+ROBERT.  SOCIALISM!  Funny, ain't it?
+
+MANSON.  _I_ don't think so.  It's mine, too.
+
+ROBERT.  I believe in fighting with my clarss!
+
+MANSON.  Oh, against whom?
+
+ROBERT.  Why, agin all the other clarsses--curse 'em!
+
+MANSON.  Isn't that a bit of the old Robert left, comrade?
+
+ROBERT.  Oh, leave me alone.  I cawn't be allus pickin' an'
+choosin' my words!  I ain't no scholar--thank Gawd!
+
+MANSON.  All the same, I'm right, eh, comrade?  Comrade . . .
+
+ROBERT [grudgingly].  Well, yus!  [Savagely.] Yus, I tell yer!
+Cawn't a bloke speak 'otter than 'e means without _you_ scrapin' at
+'is innards?
+
+[Exploding again.]  Wait till I set eyes on that bleedin' brother
+of mine again, that's all!
+
+MANSON.  Which bleeding brother?
+
+ROBERT [with a thumb-jerk].  Why, '_im_, o' course!  [Sneering.]
+The Reverend William!  'Im as you said was damned! . . .  Allus did
+'ate parsons!  I 'ates the sight of their 'arf-baked, silly mugs!
+
+[There is a very loud Ringing of the Bell.]
+
+'Ello!  'Ello!  Did I mek a row like that?
+
+MANSON.  You tried, didn't you?
+
+ROBERT.  So I did, not 'arf!  Thought if I kicked up an 'ell of a
+shindy they'd think some big bug was comin'; and then when they'd
+be all smiles an' bowin' an' scrapin', in pops me, real low!
+
+[ROGERS enters.  On seeing them at the table, he is apparently
+troubled with his inside.]
+
+ROGERS.  Oh, my 'oly Evings!
+
+MANSON.  Who is it, Rogers?
+
+ROGERS [awed].  It's the Bishop of Lancashire!
+
+MANSON [imperturbably].  Shew him in, Rogers.
+
+ROGERS.  Beg pardon, Mr. Manson . . .
+
+MANSON.  I said, shew him in.
+
+Quick, Rogers.  Keep a bishop waiting!
+
+ROGERS.  Well, I'm jiggered!
+
+[He is; and goes out.]
+
+ROBERT.  'Ere!  Did 'e say _bishop_?
+
+MANSON.  Yes.
+
+ROBERT.  Comin' 'ere?  Now?
+
+[MANSON nods his head to each inquiry.]
+
+Well, I ain't agoin' ter leave my sossingers, not if 'e was a
+bloomin' archangel, see!
+
+[ROGERS, still jiggered, ushers in JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D.,
+the Most Reverend the Lord Bishop of Lancashire.  He looks his
+name, his goggles and ear-trumpet lending a beautiful perfection to
+the resemblance.]
+
+[MANSON has risen: ROBERT, imperturbable, discusses sossingers:
+ROGERS, with a last excruciation of his ailment, vanishes.]
+
+[The Most Reverend Father in God stands  blinking for recognition.
+Pained at the non-fulfilment of this worthy expectation, he
+moves--a little blindly--towards the table.  Here he encounters the
+oppugnant back of the voracious ROBERT, who grows quite annoyed.
+Indeed, be as good as says so.]
+
+'Ere, where ye comin' to?
+
+BISHOP [peering closely into his face, the other edging away].  Ah!
+Mr. Smythe, or I am mistaken.
+
+ROBERT.  Smith's my name!  Don't you call me Smythe!
+
+BISHOP.  My dear sir, don't mention it: my sister has explained
+everything.  I bear you no grudge--none whatever!
+
+ROBERT.  What's the silly ole josser jawin' abaht now?
+
+BISHOP.  But I perceive that I have--er--[sniffing] disturbed you
+at your morning meal . . .
+
+ROBERT [with conviction].  You 'av' that!
+
+BISHOP.  Eh? . . .
+
+ROBERT [louder].  I say, you 'av'!
+
+BISHOP [fixing his ear-trumpet].  Just once more . . .
+
+ROB ERT.  Oh, Moses! [Roaring, and indicating his breakfast.] You
+'av' blarst you!
+
+BISHOP [mistaking the gesticulation].  Thank you, you are very
+kind.  I think I will.  I could get nothing on the journey but a
+cup of coffee and a bun.
+
+[He sits at the table without ever having perceived MANSON, who has
+nevertheless been serving him.]
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, you look as if you fed on buns!
+
+[Throughout the play the audience will understand where the BISHOP
+does, and where he does not, hear by his use or non-use of the
+ear-trumpet.  Perhaps the reader will be good enough to imagine
+these occasions for himself, as he may have observed a reluctance
+on the part of the author to encumber the text with stage
+directions.]
+
+BISHOP [eating, and at the same time addressing the becassocked
+ROBERT].  And you must not think, on account of the little coolness
+between us, that I have not followed your career with great
+interest--very great interest!  Your scholastic achievements have
+been most praiseworthy--especially under the unfortunate
+circumstances. . . .  Although, by-the-way, I cannot at all agree
+with your gloss on Romans fourteen, twenty-three; _Katakekritai_
+either means _damned_ or nothing at all.
+
+ROBERT [gesticulating].  It was _'im_ as said _damned_!
+
+BISHOP.  No, no, sir: it is perfectly indefensible!
+
+ROBERT.  I'll use what langwidge I like!
+
+BISHOP [warming].  You said _katakekritai_ . . .
+
+ROBERT.  I never did, _I_ tek my oath!
+
+BISHOP.  My dear sir, I learned my Greek at Shrewsbury, before you
+were born!  Don't argue, sir!
+
+ROBERT.  Oo is argufying? . . .  Talking to me about yer
+Katama-what-d'you-call-it!
+
+BISHOP.  We had better drop the subject! . . .  Boeotian!  After
+all, it is not precisely the matter which has brought us together.
+And that reminds me . . .  [Trumpet.]  Has he come yet?
+
+ROBERT.  Oo?
+
+BISHOP.  Your brother, of course.
+
+ROBERT.  My brother!  Oh, you'll see _'im_ soon enough!
+
+BISHOP.  I gather from your remark that he has not arrived yet.
+Good!  The fact is, I should like a preliminary discussion with
+yourself before meeting your illustrious brother.
+
+ROBERT.  Then you'd better look slippy!
+
+BISHOP.  I beg your pardon? . . .
+
+ROBERT [with a flap at the trumpet].  Go on: you 'eard.
+
+BISHOP.  Of course, the _financial_ undertaking is considerable:
+it's not like an _investment_, where there is some reasonable hope
+of a return: it's merely a matter of charity!  The money's--gone,
+so to speak.
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, I've noticed that about money, myself.
+
+BISHOP.  At the same time, I should like my _name_ to be associated
+with your brother's, in so worthy an enterprise . . .
+
+ROBERT [mildly sarcastic].  You don't say!
+
+BISHOP.  And then again, I _trust_--I say I _trust_--I am not
+impervious to the more sacred obligations involved; but . . .
+
+[He gropes blindly for bread.]
+
+ROBERT.  I allus notice that sort of 'igh talk ends with a
+"but" . . .
+
+BISHOP.  Naturally, I should like to learn a little, beforehand, of
+your brother's _views_.  From what I gather, they are not
+altogether likely to coincide with my own.  Of course, he is an
+idealist, a dreamer.  Now, under these circumstances, perhaps . . .
+
+Eh, what--  Oh! Bless my soul!
+
+[MANSON has been offering him bread for some time.  He has just
+tumbled to the fact of his presence.  He rises.]
+
+My--my Brother from Benares, I presume?
+
+ROBERT.  What, _my_ pal, _'is_ brother!  Oh, Je'oshaphat!
+
+BISHOP.  Ten thousand pardons!  Really, my eyesight is deplorable!
+Delighted to meet you! . . .
+
+I was just observing to our charming host that--er--  Humph! . . .
+
+Bless me!  Now what _was_ I . . .
+
+MANSON.  Something about your sacred obligations, I believe.
+
+BISHOP.  May I trouble you again?
+
+[MANSON gravely fixes the ear-trumpet in his ear.]
+
+ROBERT.  That's right: stick the damned thing in 'is ear-'ole,
+comride!
+
+MANSON [through the trumpet].  Your sacred obligations.
+
+BISHOP.  Precisely, precisely!  Er--  Shall we sit?
+
+[They do so.  The BISHOP looks to MANSON to begin.  MANSON, failing
+him, the spirit begins to work within himself.]
+
+Well--er---speaking of that, of course, my dearly-beloved brother,
+I feel very seriously on the matter, very seriously--as I am sure
+you do.  The restoration of a church is a tremendous, an
+overwhelming responsibility.  To begin with, it--it costs quite a
+lot.  Doesn't it?
+
+MANSON.  It does: quite a lot.
+
+BISHOP.  Hm, yes--yes! . . .  You mentioned _Sacred obligations_
+just now, and I think that on the whole I am inclined to agree with
+you.  It is an admirable way of putting it.  We must awaken people
+to a sense of their _sacred obligations_.  This is a work in which
+everybody can do something: the rich man can give of the abundance
+with which it has pleased Providence specially to favour him: the
+poor man with his slender savings need have no fear for the poverty
+of his gift--  Let him give all: it will be accepted.  Those of us
+who, like yourself, my dear brother--and I say it in all modesty,
+perhaps _my_self--are in possession of the endowments of learning,
+of influence, of authority--we can lend our _names_ to the good
+work.  As you say so very beautifully: _sacred obligations_.
+
+By-the-way, I don't think I quite caught your views as to the
+probable cost.  Eh, what do you think?
+
+MANSON.  I think that should depend upon the obligations; and then,
+of course, the sacredness might count for something.
+
+BISHOP.  Yes, yes, we've discussed all that.  But bringing it down
+to a _practical_ basis: how much could we manage with?
+
+MANSON.  What do you say to--everything you have?
+
+BISHOP.  My dear sir, I'm not talking about myself!
+
+MANSON.  Well--everything the others have?
+
+BISHOP.  My dear sir, they're not fools!  Do discuss the matter
+like a man of the world!
+
+MANSON.  _God's not watching: let's give as little, and grab as
+much as we can_!
+
+BISHOP.  Ssh!  My dear brother!  Remember who's present!  [He
+glances toward Robert.] However . . .  [Coughs.]  We will return to
+this later.  I begin to understand you.
+
+ROBERT.  Yus: you think you do!
+
+BISHOP.  At the same time, I do think we ought to come to some
+general understanding; we must count the cost.  Now, from all
+accounts, you have had some experience of church-building out in
+India--not that I think the extravagance for which you are credited
+would be either possible or desirable in this country--oh, no!
+Thank God, we know how to worship in spirit and in truth, without
+the aid of expensive buildings!  However, I should like to hear
+your views.  How did you manage it?
+
+MANSON.  Sacrifice.
+
+BISHOP.  Of course, of course; but _practically_.  They say it's an
+enormous concern!
+
+MANSON.  So it is.
+
+BISHOP.  Well, what would such an establishment as that represent?
+In round numbers, now?
+
+MANSON [calmly].  Numberless millions.
+
+BISHOP.  Numberless mil . . . !  [He drops his fork.]  My dear sir,
+absurd! . . .  Why, the place must be a palace--fit for a king!
+
+MANSON.  It is!
+
+BISHOP.  Do you mean to tell me that one man alone, on his own
+naked credit, could obtain numberless millions for such an object
+as that?  How could you possibly get them together?
+
+MANSON.  They came freely from every quarter of the world.
+
+BISHOP.  On the security of your own name alone?
+
+MANSON.  No other, I assure you.
+
+BISHOP.  For Heaven's sake, tell me all about it!  What sort of a
+place is it?
+
+MANSON [seriously].  Are you quite sure you can hear?
+
+BISHOP.  Perhaps your voice is _not_ quite so clear as it was.
+However . . .
+
+[He wipes the inside of the ear-trumpet, and fixes it afresh.]
+
+Now! Tell me about your church.
+
+[During the following speech the BISHOP is occupied with his own
+thoughts: after the first few words he makes no attempt at
+listening: indeed, the trumpet goes down to the table again in no
+time.  On the other hand, ROBERT, at first apathetic, gradually
+awakens to the keenest interest in what MANSON says.]
+
+MANSON [very simply].  I am afraid you may not consider it an
+altogether substantial concern.  It has to be seen in a certain
+way, under certain conditions.  Some people never _see_ it at all.
+You must understand, this is no dead pile of stones and unmeaning
+timber.  _It is a living thing_.
+
+BISHOP [in a hoarse whisper, self-engrossed].  Numberless millions!
+
+MANSON.  When you enter it you hear a sound--a sound as of some
+mighty poem chanted.  Listen long enough, and you will learn that
+it is made up of the beating of human hearts, of the nameless music
+of men's souls--that is, if you have ears.  If you have eyes, you
+will presently see the church itself--a looming mystery of many
+shapes and shadows, leaping sheer from floor to dome.  The work of
+no ordinary builder!
+
+BISHOP [trumpet down].  On the security of one man's name!
+
+MANSON.  The pillars of it go up like the brawny trunks of heroes:
+the sweet human flesh of men and women is moulded about its
+bulwarks, strong, impregnable: the faces of little children laugh
+out from every corner-stone: the terrible spans and arches of it
+are the joined hands of comrades; and up in the heights and spaces
+there are inscribed the numberless musings of all the dreamers of
+the world.  It is yet building--building and built upon.  Sometimes
+the work goes forward in deep darkness: sometimes in blinding
+light: now beneath the burden of unutterable anguish: now to the
+tune of a great laughter and heroic shoutings like the cry of
+thunder.  [Softer.] Sometimes, in the silence of the night-time,
+one may hear the tiny hammerings of the comrades at work up in the
+dome--the comrades that have climbed ahead.
+
+[There is a short silence, broken only by the champing jaws of the
+BISHOP, who has resumed his sausages.  ROBERT speaks first.]
+
+ROBERT [slowly].  I think I begin to understand you, comride:
+especially that bit abaht . . .  [his eyes stray upwards] . . .
+the 'ammerins' an' the--the harches--an' . . .  Humph! I'm only an
+'og! . . .
+
+S'pose there's no drain 'ands wanted in that there church o' yours?
+
+MANSON.  Drains are a very important question there at present.
+
+ROBERT.  Why, I'd be cussin' over every stinkin' pipe I laid.
+
+MANSON.  I should make that a condition, comrade.
+
+ROBERT [rising, he pulls off the cassock; goes to fire for his
+coat: returns: drags it on].  I don't know!  Things 'av' got in a
+bit of a muck with me!  I'm rather like a drain-pipe myself.
+
+[With sudden inspiration].  There's one thing I _can_ do!
+
+MANSON.  What's that?
+
+ROBERT.  Renahnce ole Beelzebub an' all 'is bloomin' wirks!  'And
+us that brarss-band!
+
+[He alludes to the ear-trumpet.  MANSON obeying, ROBERT jabs it
+into the ear of the BISHOP, who seems quite surprised.]
+
+'Ere!  'Av' you ever 'eard of 'ell?
+
+BISHOP.  Of what?
+
+ROBERT.  'Ell.  [Spelling.]  H, E, double L, 'ell.
+
+BISHOP.  Well, my dear sir, I think I ought to!
+
+ROBERT.  Then, go there! Aymen . . .
+
+Now I'll go an' 'av' a look at our Bill's drains, damn 'is eyes!
+
+[He goes out through the main door, repentant.]
+
+BISHOP.  The scoundrel!  Did you hear what he said?  I shall
+certainly report him to his bishop!
+
+MANSON.  I don't think I should.  _His_ bishop doesn't mind a
+little plain speech now and again.
+
+BISHOP.  A little plain speech!  Do you think it's right for a
+clergyman to--to direct me to perdition?
+
+MANSON.  I think you are making a mistake: the man who gave you
+your--direction is not a clergyman.  He's a scavenger.
+
+BISHOP.  A scavenger!
+
+MANSON.  Yes--looks after drains.
+
+BISHOP.  Do you mean to tell me that I've been sitting down to
+breakfast with a common working-man?
+
+MANSON.  Yes; have you never done that before?
+
+BISHOP.  My dear sir, whatever do you take me for?
+
+MANSON.  A bishop of God's church.
+
+BISHOP.  Precisely!  Is it _your_ custom to breakfast with
+working-men?
+
+MANSON.  Every morning.  You see, I'm prejudiced: I was one myself,
+once.
+
+BISHOP.  You? . . .
+
+MANSON.  Yes--a long time ago, though: people have forgotten.
+
+BISHOP.  But, my dear brother, I am perfectly sure you never told
+people to go to . . .
+
+MANSON.  Oh yes, quite frequently: it would shock you to learn the
+language I really did use.  Perhaps, under the circumstances, it
+might be advisable to drop the subject at this point.
+
+BISHOP [emphatically].  I most certainly agree with you there!
+After all, it is a digression from the purpose for which we are
+here! . . .  Let me see, then: where were we? . . .  Oh yes, I
+remember--  Although, by the way, it was very ill-advised of you to
+speak your mind so openly in that man's presence! However . . .
+
+To resume our--how shall I call it ?--our--little understanding, eh?
+
+MANSON.  That describes it most accurately.
+
+BISHOP.  Now, you said, _Let's give as little, and grab as much as
+we can_.  Of course, that is a playful way of putting it; but
+between ourselves, it expresses my sentiments exactly.
+
+MANSON.  I knew that when I said it.
+
+BISHOP [delighted].  My dear brother, your comprehension makes my
+heart warm.  I trust our relations may always remain as warm.
+
+MANSON.  Oh, warmer, warmer!
+
+BISHOP.  Very well then, to business!  I tell you, candidly, I
+agree with you, that there is no necessity for sinking anything of
+our own in the concern: nothing ever comes of that sort of reckless
+generosity!  If people want a church, let them make some sacrifice
+for it!  Why should _we_ do anything?
+
+I am sure you will appreciate my candour?
+
+MANSON.  At its full value.  Go on.
+
+BISHOP.  At the same time, there is no reason why we should throw
+cold water upon the project.  On the contrary, we might promote it,
+encourage it, even lend it the influence of our patronage and our
+names.  _But on one understanding_!
+
+MANSON.  And that?
+
+BISHOP.  That it is extended--imperialised, so to speak: that it is
+made the vehicle of a much vaster, of a much more momentous project
+behind it!
+
+MANSON.  You interest me intensely.  Explain.
+
+BISHOP.  I will.
+
+[He looks around to assure himself that they are alone.]
+
+There is in existence a society, a very influential society, in
+which I happen to have an interest--very great interest.  Hm!  I am
+one of the directors.
+
+I may say that it is already very well established, financially;
+but it is always open to consider the--extension of its influence
+in that way.
+
+MANSON.  And the name of the society?
+
+BISHOP.  Rather long, but I trust explicit.  It is called "_The
+Society for the Promotion and Preservation of Emoluments for the
+Higher Clergy_."
+
+MANSON.  I do not seem to have heard it _named_ before.
+
+BISHOP.  Well, no: its movements have always been characterised by
+a certain modesty.  It is an invisible society, so to speak; but I
+can assure you its principles are very clearly understood--among
+the parties most concerned.
+
+MANSON.  And your project?
+
+BISHOP.  Affiliate the subsidiary question of the building of the
+Church, with the larger interests of the Society.
+
+MANSON.  Yes, but since people have already refused to subscribe to
+the more trivial project . . .
+
+BISHOP.  They have not been properly approached.  My dear sir, in
+order to awaken public generosity, It is necessary to act like men
+of the world: _we must have names_.  People will subscribe to any
+amount, if you can only get the right names.
+
+That Is where _you_ come in.
+
+MANSON.  I!  Do you propose to place my name at the head of
+your--prospectus?
+
+BISHOP.  My dear sir, invaluable!  Didn't you say yourself that you
+brought in numberless millions, on your own credit, out there in
+India?  Why shouldn't you do the same in England?  Think of your
+reputation, your achievements, your name for sanctity--  Not a
+word, sir: I _mean_ it! . . .  Why, there's no end to the amount it
+would bring in: it would mean billions!
+
+Well, what do you say?
+
+MAMSON [slowly].  Let us clearly understand one another.  I am to
+lend you my name--just my name--and you are to do all the rest.
+
+BISHOP [quickly].  Oh yes: I'd _rather_ you kept out of the
+business negotiations!
+
+MANSON.  It is rather a dangerous name to play with!
+
+BISHOP, I take that responsibility entirely upon myself!
+
+MANSON.  And when all's over and done with, what are we going to
+gain out of the transaction?
+
+BISHOP.  We shall have to come to some private settlement between
+ourselves.
+
+MANSON.  When?
+
+BISHOP.  Oh, hereafter.
+
+MANSON.  Hereafter, then.
+
+[Enter AUNTIE and VICAR by door to right.]
+
+AUNTIE [off].  Leave him to me, William!  I'll soon settle the
+matter!  [Entering.]  The man must be possessed of some evil
+spirit! . . .
+
+Why--it's my brother James! . . .
+
+[MANSON has risen, and is now the butler once more.  He speaks into
+the ear-trumpet.]
+
+MANSON.  Your sister and the vicar, my lord.
+
+BISHOP [behind table, rising].  Ah!  Well, Martha!--No, no, no, if
+you please!  [He restrains her approach.] Observe the retribution
+of an unchastened will.  You have never seen my face for sixteen
+years!  However, like a cloud, I blot out your transgressions from
+this hour!
+
+And so this is your husband ?--Not a word, sir; not a single
+word!--the sausages were delicious, and your place has been most
+agreeably occupied by your brother!
+
+VICAR.  My brother!  Then you . . . What do you mean?
+
+BISHOP [testily].  I mean what I say, sir!  Your brother, _my_
+brother, _our_ brother here, of course, our Oriental brother!
+
+AUNTIE.  James, you are making a mistake: this is our new
+butler--our _Indian_ butler.
+
+BISHOP.  Your Indian--WHAT?
+
+[He stands cogitating horribly until the end of the act, facing
+towards MANSON.]
+
+AUNTIE.  What has made him like this?  He seems possessed!
+
+MANSON.  He is! . . .
+
+I have just been having some trouble with _another_ devil, ma'am.
+
+AUNTIE.  Meaning, of course . . .  What has become of him?
+
+MANSON [with his eye].  _He_ is cast out forever.
+
+AUNTIE.  Where is he now?
+
+MANSON.  He walks through dry places seeking--[he probes her
+soul]--_other_ habitations.
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson! This is your doing! Oh, you have saved us!
+
+MANSON.  I am trying to, ma'am; but, God knows, you make it rather
+difficult!
+
+[A change comes over her face, as the curtain slowly falls.]
+
+
+
+
+THE THIRD ACT
+
+As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged; but
+attention now centres in the Bishop, who appears to be struggling
+apoplectically for speech.
+
+BISHOP [bursting].  Before we proceed a step further, I have a most
+extraordinary request to make!  The fact is, you interrupted me in
+the middle of a most engrossing spiritual discussion with my . . .
+that is to say, with your . . .  in short, with that person
+standing over there!  My request is, that I be permitted a few
+minutes further conversation with him--alone, and at once!
+
+ALL.     ) With Manson! . . .
+MANSON.  ) With me! . . .
+
+BISHOP.  Not a word!  I know my request will appear singular--most
+singular!  But I assure you it is most necessary.  The peace, the
+security of a human soul depends upon it!  Come, sir!  Where shall
+we go?
+
+MANSON.  Have I your permission, ma'am
+
+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?
+
+ROGERS [with reservation].  Nuthin', miss.  [He fetches the tray.]
+
+MARY.  Then why look so solemn?
+
+ROGERS [lugubriously].  Ain't lookin' solemn, miss.
+
+MANSON.  Hold up the tray, Rogers.
+
+ROGERS.  _Am_ 'oldin' it up, Mr. Manson.  MARY [loading him up].
+I'm sure there is something the matter!
+
+ROGERS.  Well, since you arsk me, miss, it's the goin's on in this
+'ouse!  I never see such a complicyted mass of mysteries and
+improbabilities in my life!  I shall 'av' to give in my notice!
+
+MARY.  Oh, Rogers, that would be dreadful!  Why?
+
+MANSON.  Now the cloth, Mary . . .
+
+ROGERS.  Cos why?  _That's_ why!--What you're doin' now!  I likes
+people to keep their proper stytion!  I was brought up
+middle-clarss myself, an' taught to be'ave myself before my
+betters!--No offence to you, Mr. Manson!  [He says this with a jib,
+belying his words.]
+
+MARY.  Nonsense, Rogers!  I like helping.
+
+ROGERS.  My poor farver taught me.  'E led a godly, righteous, an'
+sober life.  'E was a grocer.
+
+MANSON.  Come, Rogers.  Take them to the kitchen.
+
+[ROGERS obeys with some asperity of mien.  At the door he delivers
+a Parthian shot.]
+
+ROGERS.  If my poor farver could see what I've seen to-day, 'e
+would roll over in 'is grave!
+
+[MANSON opens the door for him.  He goes.]
+
+MARY [gayly].  Isn't he funny?  Just because his silly old
+father . . .
+
+MANSON.  Ssh!  His father's _dead_, Mary!
+
+[There is a sudden pause.  He comes down to her.]
+
+Well, have you thought any more about . . .
+
+MARY.  About wishing?--Yes, lots.
+
+MANSON.  And have you? . . .
+
+MARY.  I don't know what to think.  You see, I never believed
+properly in wishing before.  Wishing is a dreadfully difficult
+thing, when you really set about it, isn't it?
+
+MANSON.  Yes.
+
+MARY.  You see, ordinary things won't do: they're all wrong,
+somehow.  You'd feel a bit of a sneak to wish for them, wouldn't
+you?
+
+MANSON.  Yes.
+
+MARY.  Even if you got them, you wouldn't care, after all.  They'd
+all turn to dust and ashes in your hand.
+
+That last bit is what Grannie Durden said.
+
+MANSON.  Who's she?
+
+MARY.  She's the poor old woman I've been having breakfast with.
+Do you know, she said a funny thing about wishing.  I must tell you
+first that she's quite blind and very deaf--  Well, she's been
+wishing ever so long to see and hear; and at last she says she can!
+
+MANSON.  What--see and hear?  [He glances towards the drawing-room.]
+
+MARY.  Um! I must say, I didn't notice any difference myself; but
+that's what she said.
+
+She agreed with you, that wishing was the only way; and if you
+didn't know how, then you had to keep on wishing to wish, until you
+could.
+
+MANSON.  And so . . .
+
+MARY.  Well, that's as far as I've got.
+
+[ROGERS re-enters.]
+
+MANSON.  Yes, what is it, Rogers?
+
+ROGERS.  Cook's compliments, Mr. Manson, and might she make so bold
+as to request your presence in the kitchen, seein' as she's 'ad no
+orders for lunch yet.  O' course, she says, it will do when you've
+_quite_ finished any private business you may 'av' in the upper
+part of the 'ouse!
+
+[He delivers this with distinct hauteur.  MANSON, smiling, goes up
+to him and takes his head in his hands.]
+
+MANSON.  Why do you dislike me so, Rogers?
+
+ROGERS [taken aback].  Me?  Me dislike you, Mr. Manson?  _Oh no_!
+
+MANSON.  Come along, little comrade.
+
+[They go out like brothers, MANSON'S arm round the lad's shoulders.]
+
+[MARY is left seated on the table, chuckling at the situation.
+Suddenly her face becomes serious again: she is lost in thought.
+After a while she speaks softly to herself.]
+
+MARY.  What have I needed most?  What have I not had? . . .  Oh!  I
+know! . . .
+
+[Her face flames with the sudden inspiration.]
+
+And I never dreamed of it till now!
+
+[ROBERT enters by the main door.  The child turns round, and,
+seeing him, gives a startled little cry.  They stand facing each
+other, silent.  Presently ROBERT falters.]
+
+ROBERT.  Beg pawdon, miss: I . . .
+
+MARY.  Who are you?  What are you doing here?
+
+ROBERT.  I'm . . .
+
+I was goin' ter see what's--what's in that room . . .
+
+MARY.  If you do, I'll . . .
+
+[She moves swiftly to the bell.]
+
+ROBERT.  It's a mistake, miss.  P'r'aps I'd--I'd better tek my 'ook.
+
+MARY.  Stop! . . .
+
+How dare you!  Don't you know you're a very wicked man?
+
+ROBERT.  Me, miss?
+
+MARY.  Yes, you.
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, I know it.
+
+MARY [trying to save the sinner].  That isn't the way to be happy,
+you know.  Thieves are never _really_ happy in their hearts.
+
+ROBERT.  Wot's that? . . .
+
+Do you tike me for a thief, miss?  You? . . .
+
+[He advances to the table: she edges away.]
+
+Why don't you arnser?
+
+MARY.  I had rather not say.
+
+ROBERT.  Cos why?
+
+MARY.  I don't want to be unkind.
+
+[ROBERT sinks stricken into the chair behind him.]
+
+ROBERT, Oh, my Gawd, my Gawd!
+
+MARY [relenting].  Of course, if--if you're sorry, that makes a
+difference.  Being sorry makes a lot of difference.  Doesn't it?
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, a fat lot!
+
+MARY.  Only you must never give way to such a wicked temptation
+again.  Oh, don't cry!  [She goes to him.]
+
+ROBERT.  Oo is cryin'?  I'm not cryin'--not a cryin' sort!
+On'y--you 'adn't no right to talk to me like that, miss.
+
+MARY.  Why, didn't you own . . .
+
+ROBERT.  No, I didn't.  It was you as jumped down my throat, an'
+took up my words afore I got 'em out.
+
+MARY.  Oh: I'm sorry.  Did I make a mistake?
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, miss--a whopper.
+
+MARY.  Then you're not a . . .
+
+ROBERT.  _No_, swelp me Gaw--  [He pulls himself up.]  I assure
+you, no.  I'm a bit of a low un; but I never come so stinkin' low
+as that.
+
+You thought I looked like one, all the same.  Didn't yer, now?
+
+MARY.  Well, you see, I thought you said so; and then there's your
+. . .
+
+ROBERT.  I know!  You don't like my mug.  It ain't much of a mug to
+look at, is it?  Sort of a physog for a thief, eh?  See them
+lines?--Want to know what them stand for?  That's drink, an'
+starvation, an' 'ard work, an' a damned lonely life.
+
+MARY.  Oh, you poor man!
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, miss, I am.
+
+MARY.  You mustn't say "damned," you know.
+
+ROBERT.  No, miss.
+
+MARY.  _That's_ wicked, at any rate.
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, miss.
+
+MARY.  And you owned yourself that you drank.  That's not very
+good, either.
+
+ROBERT.  No, miss.
+
+MARY.  So, you see, you _are_ a little bit naughty, after all,
+aren't you?
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, miss.
+
+MARY.  Now, isn't it much nicer for you to try and look at things
+in this way?  I'm sure you feel a great deal better already.
+
+Do you know--  Wait a moment . . .
+
+[She resumes her seat, turning it towards him, the passion of
+salvation in her eyes.]
+
+Do you know, I'd like to do you some good!
+
+ROBERT.  You, miss?
+
+MARY.  Yes, wouldn't you like me to?
+
+ROBERT.  You're the on'y person in the world I'd--I'd like to see
+try, miss.
+
+MARY [glad in the consciousness of "being used"].  That's because
+you know I'm interested in you, that I mean it, that I'm not trying
+to think only of myself.
+
+ROBERT [a little stupidly].  Aren't you, miss?
+
+MARY.  No: we must always remember that there are other people in
+the world besides ourselves.
+
+[This coincides with his experience: he says so.]
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, miss, there are.
+
+MARY.  Very well: now I'll see what I can do to help you.
+
+ROBERT.  Thank you, miss.
+
+MARY.  Now, don't you think, if you were really _to wish_ very
+hard, it would make things better for you?
+
+ROBERT.  I don't know what you mean, miss.
+
+MARY.  Well, it's like this: if you only wish very very hard,
+everything comes true.
+
+ROBERT.  Wot _I_ want, ain't no use wishing for!
+
+MARY.  It doesn't matter what it is!  Anything you like!  It will
+all happen!
+
+ROBERT.  Blimey, wot's the good o' talkin'?
+
+MARY.  Oh, wouldn't you like to help to spin the fairy-tale?
+
+ROBERT [roughly], I don't believe in no fairy-tales!
+
+MARY.  I do!  I don't believe there's anything else in the world,
+if we only knew!  And that's why I'm wishing!  I'm wishing now!
+I'm wishing hard!
+
+ROBERT [passionately].  So am I, Gawd 'elp me!  But it's no use!
+
+MARY.  It is!  It is!  What are you wishing for?
+
+ROBERT.  Never you mind!  Summat as impossible as--fairy-tales!
+
+MARY.  So's mine!  That's what it has to be!  Mine's the most
+impossible thing in the world!
+
+ROBERT.  Not more than mine!
+
+MARY.  What's yours?
+
+ROBERT.  What's yours?
+
+MARY.  _I want my father_!
+
+ROBERT.  I WANT MY LITTLE KID!
+
+[There is a second's pause.]
+
+MARY.  Your--what? . . .
+
+ROBERT [brokenly].  My--daughter.
+
+MARY.  Oh! . . .
+
+[She goes towards him: they face each other.]
+
+[Softly.] Is she dead?
+
+[He stands looking at her.]
+
+Is she?
+
+[He turns away from her.]
+
+ROBERT.  Fur as I am concerned--yus.
+
+MARY.  What do you mean?  _Isn't_ she dead?
+
+ROBERT.  She's alive, right enough.
+
+MARY.  Perhaps--perhaps she ran away? . . .
+
+ROBERT.  She got took.
+
+MARY.  How do you mean--gypsies?
+
+ROBERT.  I _give_ 'er up.  'Ad to.
+
+MARY.  Why?
+
+ROBERT.  Look at me! . . .
+
+_That_--an' the drink, an' the low wages, an' my ole woman dyin'!
+That's why I give 'er up.
+
+MARY.  Where is she now?
+
+ROBERT.  Never you mind.  She's bein' looked arfter.
+
+MARY.  By whom?
+
+ROBERT.  By people as I've allus 'ated like poison!
+
+MARY.  Why, aren't they kind to her?
+
+ROBERT.  Yus: they've made 'er summat, as I couldn't 'a' done.
+
+MARY.  Then why do you hate them ?
+
+ROBERT.  I don't any longer.  I 'ates myself, I 'ates the world I
+live in, I 'ates the bloomin' muck 'ole I've landed into!
+
+MARY.  Your wife's dead, you say?
+
+ROBERT.  Yus.
+
+MARY.  What would she think about it all?
+
+ROBERT [hollowly, without variation].  I don't know: I don't know:
+I don't know.
+
+[MARY sits down beside him.]
+
+MARY [thoughtfully].  Isn't it strange--both our wishes alike!  You
+want your little girl; and I, my father!
+
+ROBERT.  What sort of a . . .
+
+MARY.  Yes?
+
+ROBERT.  What sort of a bloke might your father be, miss?
+
+MARY.  I don't know.  I have never seen him.
+
+ROBERT.  Got no idea?  Never--'eard _tell_ of 'im?
+
+MARY.  Never.
+
+ROBERT.  'Aven't thought of 'im yourself, I s'pose?  Wasn't
+particular worth while, eh?
+
+MARY.  It's not that.  I've been selfish.  I never thought anything
+about him until to-day.
+
+ROBERT.  What made you think of 'im--to-day?
+
+MARY.  I can't quite say.  At least . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Mebbe 'e wrote--sent a telingram or summat, eh?--t' say as
+'e was comin'?
+
+MARY [quickly].  Oh no: he never writes: we never hear from him.
+That's perhaps a bit selfish of him, too, isn't it?
+
+ROBERT [after a moment].  Looks like it, don't it?
+
+MARY.  But I don't think he can be really selfish, after all.
+
+ROBERT [with a ray of brightness].  Cos why?
+
+MARY.  Because he must be rather like my Uncle William and Uncle
+Joshua.
+
+[He looks at her curiously.]
+
+ROBERT.  Like your . . .
+
+MARY.  Yes--they're his brothers, you know.
+
+This is Uncle William's house.
+
+ROBERT.  Yes, but what do you know about. . .
+
+MARY.  About Uncle Joshua?  Well, I happen to know a good deal more
+than I can say.  It's a secret.
+
+ROBERT.  S'pose your _Uncle William_ spoke to you about 'im?
+
+MARY.  Well, yes.  Uncle William spoke about him, too.
+
+ROBERT.  But never about your father?
+
+MARY.  Oh no, never.
+
+ROBERT.  Why, miss?
+
+MARY [slowly].  I--don't--know.
+
+ROBERT.  P'r'aps 'e ain't--good enough--to be--to be the brother of
+your Uncle William--and--  Uncle--Joshua--eh, miss?
+
+MARY.  Oh, I can't think that!
+
+ROBERT.  Why not, miss?  Three good brothers in a family don't
+scarcely seem possible--not as families go--do they, miss?
+
+MARY.  You mustn't talk like that! A father must be much--much
+better than anybody else!
+
+ROBERT.  But s'pose, miss--s'pose 'e ain't . . .
+
+MARY.  He is!  I know it!  Why, that's what I'm wishing! . . .
+
+ROBERT.  P'r'aps it ain't altogether 'is fault, miss! . . .
+
+MARY.  Oh, don't!  Don't. . .
+
+ROBERT.  Things may 'a' bin agin 'im, miss! . . .
+
+MARY.  Oh, you make me so unhappy! . . .
+
+ROBERT.  P'r'aps 'e's 'ad a 'ard life--a bitter 'ard life--same as
+I 'av', miss . . .  [He breaks down.]
+
+MARY.  Ssh!  Please!  Please! . . .
+
+I can quite understand: indeed, indeed, I can!  I'm sorry--oh, so
+sorry for you.  You are thinking of yourself and of your own little
+girl--the little girl who doesn't know what you have been telling
+me.  Don't be miserable!  I'm sure it will all turn out right in
+the end--things always do; far better than you dream!  Only . . .
+don't take away _my_ little dream!
+
+[She turns away her face.  ROBERT rises heavily.]
+
+ROBERT.  All right, miss--I won't: swelp me Gawd, I won't.  Don't
+cry, miss.  Don't, miss!  Breaks my 'eart--after all you've done
+for me.  I ort never to 'a' bin born--mekin' you cry!  Thank you
+kindly, miss: thank you very kindly.  I'll--I'll tek my 'ook.
+
+MARY.  Oh, but I'm so sorry for _you_!
+
+ROBERT.  Thank you, miss.
+
+MARY.  I did so want to help you.
+
+ROBERT.  You 'av', miss.
+
+MARY.  Before you go, won't you tell me your name?  Who are you?
+
+ROBERT.  I . . .
+
+I got no name worth speakin' of, miss: I'm--just the bloke wot's
+a-lookin' arter the drains.
+
+Good-bye, miss.
+
+[At the door, he turns.]
+
+Sorry I used bad words, miss.
+
+[She runs to him and offers her hand.  He takes it.]
+
+MARY.  Good-bye,
+
+ROBERT.  Good-bye, miss.
+
+[He goes out.]
+
+[She shuts the door after him, and turns a wretched little face
+towards the audience as the curtain falls.]
+
+
+
+
+THE FOURTH ACT
+
+As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged.
+After a moment, Mary comes down to the settee, left, and buries her
+face in the cushions, weeping.  Shortly, the handle of the
+drawing-room door is turned, and from within there emerges a murmur
+of voices, the Vicar's uppermost.
+
+VICAR [within].  Very well, then, after you have finished your
+letters! . . .
+
+[The voices continue confusedly: MARY rises quickly and goes into
+the garden.]
+
+[The VICAR enters and goes to the mantel-piece weariedly: a moment
+later, AUNTIE.]
+
+BISHOP [within], I shall only be about twenty minutes.
+
+AUNTIE [entering].  All right, don't hurry, James: you have all the
+morning.
+
+[She closes the door upon the BISHOP'S grunts, and comes, to the
+middle of the room.]
+
+VICAR.  Hm!  When he has finished his letters!
+
+AUNTIE.  Yes, things seem to be shaping better than we thought,
+William.  Perhaps we have a little misjudged him.
+
+[He looks at her curiously.]
+
+To think, my dear, that the rebuilding of the church is becoming
+possible at last!  All your hopes, all your enthusiasms, about to
+be realised!  Now, it only remains to gain your brother Joshua's
+approval and help, and the scheme is complete!
+
+VICAR.  Supposing he--doesn't approve of the scheme?
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear, he must approve: he will see the advantages at
+once.  I think James made that perfectly clear! . . .
+
+And then, look at the opportunities it creates for _you_!  Not only
+the church, William, the beautiful big church of your dreams, with
+the great spires and flashing crosses and glorious windows; but a
+much larger sphere of usefulness than you ever dared to dream!
+Think of your work, William, of your great gifts--even James had to
+acknowledge them, didn't he?--Think of the influence for good you
+will be able to wield!  Ah!  And then I shall see my beloved,
+_himself_ again--No more worry, no more feverish nights and days,
+none of the wretched frets and fancies that have been troubling him
+all this morning; but the great Scholar and Saint again, the master
+of men's souls, the priest in the congregation!
+
+VICAR.  Suppose you try and forget me for a moment.  Do you think
+you can?
+
+AUNTIE.  William, that's unkind!  Of course I can't.
+
+VICAR.  It might mean the salvation of my soul.
+
+AUNTIE.  Oh, William!  Now you're going to begin to worry again!
+
+VICAR.  Oh no: I'm quite calm.  Your brother's powers of reasoning
+have left me philosophical. . . .
+
+Tell me, are you quite sure that you have grasped the full meaning
+of his project?
+
+AUNTIE.  Of course!  You think no one can understand a simple
+business dealing but men!  Women are every bit as clever!
+
+VICAR.  Well, then, this project: what was it?
+
+AUNTIE.  James explained clearly enough: the affiliation of your
+brother's scheme with that of the society he mentioned.
+
+VICAR.  Yes--_what_ society?
+
+AUNTIE.  _The Society for the Extension of Greater Usefulness among
+the Clergy_. . . .  It was an admirable suggestion--one that ought
+to appeal particularly to you.  Haven't you always said, yourself,
+that if only you had enough money to . . .
+
+VICAR.  Did you happen to realise his explanation as to the
+constitution of the society?
+
+AUNTIE.  To tell the truth, I wasn't listening just then: I was
+thinking of you.
+
+VICAR.  The _financial_ possibilities of the scheme--Did his
+eloquence on that point escape you?
+
+AUNTIE.  Figures always bore me, and James uses dreadfully long
+words.
+
+VICAR.  Did you hear nothing of _profits_?
+
+AUNTIE.  I only heard him say that you were to . . .
+
+VICAR.  Well, didn't it strike you that throughout the entire
+discussion he spoke rather like a _tradesman_?
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear, you can't expect everybody to be an idealist!
+Remember, he's a practical man: he's a bishop.
+
+VICAR.  Didn't it strike you that there are some things in this
+world which are not to be bought at _any_ price?
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear William, bricks and mortar require money: you
+can't run a society without funds!
+
+VICAR.  Yes, but what of flesh and blood?  What of reputation?
+What of a man's name?
+
+AUNTIE.  Whatever do you mean now?
+
+VICAR.  Didn't his proposal practically amount to this: that we
+should turn my brother Joshua's name and reputation into a bogus
+Building Society, of which the funds were to be scraped together
+from all the naked bodies and the starving bellies of the world,
+whilst _we_ and our thieving co-directors should collar all the
+swag?
+
+AUNTIE.  Now, that's exactly where I think you are so unjust!
+Didn't you yourself refuse, before he spoke a word, to let him put
+a penny of his own into the concern?  I must say, you were
+unnecessarily rude to him about that, William!
+
+VICAR.  Yes, and didn't he jump at the suggestion!
+
+AUNTIE.  He offers to give his patronage, his influence, his time.
+All he asks of your brother is his bare name.
+
+VICAR.  Yes, and all he asks of me is simply my eloquence, my gift
+of words, my power of lying plausibly!
+
+AUNTIE.  William, he is offering you the opportunity of your life!
+
+VICAR.  Damnation take my life!
+
+AUNTIE.  William, why are you so violent?
+
+VICAR.  Because violence is the only way of coming to the truth
+between you and me!
+
+AUNTIE [now thoroughly afraid].  What do you mean by the truth,
+William?
+
+VICAR.  I mean this: What is the building of this church to you?
+Are you so mightily interested in architecture, in clerical
+_usefulness_, in the furtherance of God's work?
+
+AUNTIE.  I am interested in your work, William.  Do you take me for
+an atheist?
+
+VICAR.  No: far worse--for an idolater!
+
+AUNTIE.  William . . .
+
+VICAR.  What else but idolatry is this precious husband-worship you
+have set up in your heart--you and all the women of your kind?  You
+barter away your own souls in the service of it: you build up your
+idols in the fashion of your own respectable desires: you struggle
+silently amongst yourselves, one against another, to push your own
+god foremost in the miserable little pantheon of prigs and
+hypocrites you have created!
+
+AUNTIE [roused].  It is for your own good we do it!
+
+VICAR.  Our own good!  What have you made of me?  You have plucked
+me down from whatever native godhead I had by gift of heaven, and
+hewed and hacked me into the semblance of your own idolatrous
+imagination!  By God, it shall go on no longer!  If you have made
+me less than a man, at least I will prove myself to be a priest!
+
+AUNTIE.  Do you call it a priest's work to . . .
+
+VICAR.  It is _my_ work to deliver you and me from the bondage of
+lies!  Can't you see, woman, that God and Mammon are about us,
+fighting for our souls?
+
+AUNTIE [determinedly].  Listen to me, William, listen to me . . .
+
+VICAR.  I have listened to you too long!
+
+AUNTIE.  You would always take my counsel before . . .
+
+VICAR.  All that is done with!  I am resolved to be a free man from
+this hour--free of lies, free of love if needs be, free even of
+you, free of everything that clogs and hinders me in the work I
+have to do!  I will do my own deed, not yours!
+
+AUNTIE [with deadly quietness].  If I were not certain of one
+thing, I could never forgive you for those cruel words: William,
+this is some madness of sin that has seized you: it is the
+temptation of the devil!
+
+VICAR.  It is the call of God!
+
+AUNTIE [still calmly].  That's blasphemy, William!  But I will save
+you--yes, I will--in spite of yourself.  I am stronger than you.
+
+[They look at each other steadily for a moment, neither yielding,]
+
+VICAR.  Then I accept the challenge!  It is God and I against you,
+Martha!
+
+AUNTIE.  God and I against _you_, William.
+
+VICAR.  So now--for my work!
+
+AUNTIE [quietly].  Yes: what are you going to do?
+
+VICAR.  Three things.
+
+AUNTIE.  Yes--and they? . . .
+
+VICAR.  Tell Mary everything: send for my brother, Robert: and
+then--answer that monster in there.
+
+AUNTIE [fearfully].  William, you would never dare! . . .
+
+VICAR.  Look! . . .
+
+[MARY re-enters from the garden.]
+
+MARY.  Auntie!  Uncle!  I want to speak to you at once--both of you!
+
+VICAR.  You are just in time: I wanted to speak to _you_ at once.
+
+MARY.  Is it important, uncle?  Mine's dreadfully important.
+
+VICAR.  So is mine.
+
+AUNTIE [quickly].  Let the child speak, William.  Perhaps . . .
+
+MARY.  I hardly know how to begin.  Perhaps it's only my cowardice.
+Perhaps it isn't really dreadful, after all . . .
+
+AUNTIE [troubled].  Why, what are you thinking of, Mary?
+
+MARY.  It's about something we have never spoken of before;
+something I've never been told.
+
+VICAR [searchingly].  Yes?  . . .
+
+AUNTIE [falteringly].  Yes?  . . .
+
+MARY.  I want to know about my father.
+
+[There is a short silence.  The VICAR looks at AUNTIE.]
+
+VICAR.  Now: is God with you or me, Martha?
+
+MARY.  What do you mean by that?  Is it very terrible, uncle?
+
+[He stands silent, troubled.  MARY crosses him, going to AUNTIE.]
+
+Auntie . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  Don't ask me, child: I have nothing to tell you about your
+father.
+
+MARY.  Why, isn't he . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  I have nothing to tell you.
+
+VICAR.  I have.
+
+AUNTIE.  William! . . .
+
+VICAR.  I have, I say!  Come, sit here, Mary.
+
+[She sits to left of him, on the settee.  AUNTIE is down stage on
+the other side of him.]
+
+Now!  What do you want to know about your father?
+
+MARY [passionately].  Everything there is to know!
+
+AUNTIE.  William, this is brutal! . . .
+
+VICAR.  It is _my work_, Martha!--God's work!  Haven't I babbled in
+the pulpit long enough about fatherhood and brotherhood, that I
+should shirk His irony when He takes me at my word!
+
+Now: what put this thought into your head to-day?
+
+MARY.  I don't know.  I've been puzzling about something all the
+morning; but there was nothing clear.  It only came clear a few
+minutes ago--just before I went into the garden.  But I think it
+must have begun quite early--before breakfast, when I was talking
+to my--to Manson,
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson! . . .
+
+MARY.  And then, all of a sudden, as I was sitting there by the
+fireplace, _it came_--all in a flash, you understand!  I found
+myself wishing for my father: wondering why I had never seen him:
+despising myself that I had never thought of him before.
+
+VICAR.  Well, what then?
+
+MARY.  I tried to picture him to myself.  I imagined all that he
+must be.  I thought of you.  Uncle William, and Uncle Joshua, and
+of all the good and noble men I had ever seen or heard of in my
+life; but still--that wasn't quite like a father, was it?  I
+thought a father must be much, much better than anything else in
+the world!  He must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be
+good!  I kept on saying it over and over to myself like a little
+song: he must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be good!
+[Anxiously.] That's true of fathers, isn't it, uncle?  Isn't it?
+
+VICAR.  A father ought to be all these things.
+
+MARY.  And then . . .  then . . .
+
+VICAR.  Yes? . . .
+
+MARY.  I met a man, a poor miserable man--it still seems like a
+dream, the way I met him--and he said something dreadful to me,
+something that hurt me terribly.  He seemed to think that my
+father--that perhaps my father--might be nothing of the sort!
+
+AUNTIE.  Why, who was he--the man?
+
+MARY.  He wouldn't tell me his name: I mistook him for a thief at
+first; but afterwards I felt very, very sorry for him.  You see,
+his case was rather like my own.  _He was wishing for his little
+girl_.
+
+[There is a short silence.]
+
+VICAR.  Where did you meet with him?
+
+MARY.  Here, in this room.
+
+AUNTIE.  When was this?
+
+MARY.  A few minutes ago--just before you came in.
+
+AUNTIE.  Where is he now?
+
+MARY.  He said good-bye.  He has gone away.
+
+AUNTIE.  For good?
+
+MARY.  Yes, I think so: I understood him to mean that.
+
+VICAR.  Was he--a rough-looking man?
+
+MARY.  Dreadfully; and he swore once--but afterwards he said he was
+sorry for that.
+
+VICAR.  Did he frighten you at all?
+
+MARY.  No, not exactly frighten: you see, I felt sorry for him.
+
+VICAR [slowly].  _And he wouldn't tell you his name_? . . .
+
+MARY.  No: I asked him, but he wouldn't.
+
+[The VICAR ponders this for a moment.]
+
+AUNTIE.  Now, is it God with you or with me, William?
+
+[For a moment this unnerves him.  Then setting his teeth together,
+he faces his task stubbornly.]
+
+VICAR.  Have you any idea about this man?
+
+MARY.  How do you mean--any idea?
+
+VICAR.  As to why he put this doubt into your head about your
+father.
+
+MARY.  He seemed to be thinking about himself, and how unworthy he
+was of his own little girl.
+
+VICAR.  Did he say--unworthy?
+
+MARY.  That's what I think he meant.  What he said was that perhaps
+my father wasn't good enough to be your brother, uncle.  That's not
+true, is it?
+
+VICAR.  No, by Heaven!  That's not true!
+
+MARY [rapturously].  Oh, I knew it, I knew it!
+
+VICAR [in an agony].  Stop!  You don't understand!
+
+MARY.  I understand quite enough!  That's all I wanted to know!
+
+VICAR.  Listen, child!  Listen!  I mean that it is I who am not
+worthy to be called his brother.
+
+AUNTIE.  William, this is absurd!
+
+MARY [snuggling up to him].  Isn't he a dear?
+
+VICAR [freeing himself].  Listen to me, Mary: I have something
+awful to tell you: try and bear it bravely.  You will hate me for
+it--never love me again! . . .  No, listen! . . .
+
+Supposing your father were--not what you imagine him to be? . . .
+
+MARY.  Uncle, didn't you just say . . .
+
+VICAR.  Supposing that wretched man you spoke with just now were
+right, after all!  What would you say?
+
+MARY.  Uncle! . . .
+
+VICAR.  Supposing he were one upon whom a11 the curses of the world
+had been most cruelly visited--his poor body scarred and graven out
+of human semblance; his soul the prey of hate and bitterness; his
+immortal spirit tortured and twisted away from every memory of God!
+What would you say?
+
+MARY.  Uncle, it would be terrible--terrible!
+
+VICAR.  What will you say, then, to the man who has brought him to
+such ruin?  What will you say to that man being God's priest?  What
+word of loathing have you for the thief who has stolen the love of
+another man's child, for the murderer who has slain his brother's
+soul?
+
+MARY.  Uncle, do you mean . . .  do you mean . . .
+
+VICAR.  I mean that I am the man!
+
+MARY.  You! . . .
+
+AUNTIE [passionately].  It is not true!  It is a lie!  It's
+entirely your father's own fault!
+
+MARY.  I don't understand.  Why should Uncle William lie to me?
+
+AUNTIE.  He is overwrought: he is ill.  It is like your uncle
+William to take upon himself another man's wickedness!
+
+MARY.  Then, _that_ is true, at least: my father is a wicked
+man! . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  I don't want to speak about your father!
+
+MARY.  He is nothing that I have wished him to be: not _brave_ . . .
+
+VICAR.  Yes--_that_ at least!
+
+MARY [turning towards him].  _Beautiful_? . . .
+
+VICAR.  What do you mean by beautiful?
+
+MARY.  You know what I mean: What you once said God was, when you
+called _Him_ beautiful.
+
+VICAR.  I have no right to judge your father.
+
+[She perceives the evasion.]
+
+MARY.  Not even--_good_?  . . .
+
+VICAR.  He is what I have made him.  I and no other!
+
+[She stands looking at him piteously.]
+
+AUNTIE.  There is another--I!  I kept them apart: I poisoned your
+uncle against him: I took you away from him: It was I who kept you
+in ignorance of your father!
+
+MARY.  Why?  . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  Because he stands in the way of my husband's happiness!
+Because, even, he is your father!  Because I hate him!  I could
+almost _wish him dead_!
+
+VICAR.  Martha! . . .
+
+[There is a long pause.]
+
+MARY.  Then I have nobody, now.  It's no use wishing any more.
+
+AUNTIE.  Mary . . .
+
+MARY.  No! . . .  I want to be alone.
+
+[She goes out into the garden.  They follow her out with their
+eyes.]
+
+VICAR.  So! God has revealed His partisanship!--He has beggared us
+both!
+
+[AUNTIE considers this for a moment.  Then, with sudden
+determination, she rises.]
+
+AUNTIE.  I am not going to be beggared without a struggle for it,
+William!
+
+[She moves briskly across to the bell.]
+
+VICAR.  What are you going to do, Martha?
+
+AUNTIE, [flashing round passionately, before she can ring the
+bell].  Do you think I am going to stand by and see your life
+wrecked--yours and that child's?
+
+VICAR.  We are not the only persons concerned, Martha.
+
+AUNTIE.  As far as I care, you are!
+
+VICAR.  And what of Robert? . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  Robert!  That's what I'm going to see to now!
+
+[She rings the bell.]
+
+There's only one way of dealing with a brute like that!
+
+VICAR.  What's that?
+
+AUNTIE.  Pack him off to Australia, Africa--anywhere, so long as we
+are never pestered with him again!
+
+VICAR, Do you think you'll get him to go?
+
+AUNTIE.  Oh, I'll find the money!  A drunkard like that will do
+anything for money!  Well, he shall have plenty: perhaps he'll
+drink himself to . . .
+
+VICAR.  By Heaven, but I say no!
+
+AUNTIE.  By Heaven, but I say yes!  It's about time I took things
+in hand again!  Do you think I'm going to risk that child learning
+everything?  She knows more than enough already!  Providentially,
+she does not know the worst!
+
+VICAR.  And what knowledge do you consider Providence has so kindly
+spared her?
+
+AUNTIE.  The knowledge who that man was!  She shall never know, if
+I can have my way!  [She rings the bell again, impatiently.]  Why
+doesn't he come?  Why doesn't he come?
+
+VICAR.  Who?
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson.
+
+[Enter MANSON by the main door.  There is a subtle change in the
+manner of him, a look in his eye, as of the servant merging in the
+master.]
+
+MANSON.  You rang.
+
+AUNTIE.  Yes, come in, Manson.  I want to have a little
+confidential talk with you--confidential, you understand.
+
+MANSON [eying her].  If you please.  I expected this.
+
+[He has the air of a judge.  She hurries on, unheeding.]
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson, you saw everything.  You were here when that
+dreadful creature arrived.
+
+MANSON.  Which?
+
+AUNTIE.  Why, my husband's brother, Robert.  Didn't you tell me,
+William, that Manson heard everything he said?
+
+VICAR.  Yes.
+
+AUNTIE.  Then you will know the wretched plight we are in.  Manson,
+it's terrible.  I want your help.  By-the-way, you have not spoken
+about it to the other servants?
+
+MANSON.  I am always most discreet.
+
+AUNTIE [touched].  Thank you, Manson, thank you: I felt that I
+could trust you.  It's to prove my trust that I've sent for you
+now.  Perhaps I'd better begin by explaining everything quite
+clearly, so that you . . .
+
+MANSON.  There is no need.  I know everything already.
+
+AUNTIE, Everything!  How? . . .
+
+MANSON.  A certain gift of divination--mine by birth.  And,
+besides, you forget that I had a long conversation with your
+brother-in-law after master left the room.
+
+AUNTIE.  What!  Whilst my brother was here?
+
+MANSON.  Yes: we all three had breakfast together.
+
+AUNTIE.  Breakfast together!  Then James has heard all!
+
+MANSON.  Not quite all.  You may have observed that your brother is
+a little deaf.
+
+AUNTIE.  But surely--  What did he think?
+
+MANSON.  He mistook him for your husband.
+
+AUNTIE.  My husband!
+
+MANSON.  Your brother is also a little blind, remember.
+
+AUNTIE [delighted].  Then James never found out? . . .
+
+MANSON.  Oh yes: I took care to undeceive him on the point.
+
+AUNTIE.  Good gracious! How did he take it?
+
+MANSON.  At first, a little angrily; but, after a while, some few
+poor words of my own chanced to move him to more--_profitable_
+meditation.
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson, you're perfectly wonderful!  I respect you very,
+very much!
+
+MANSON.  It is not enough.  I shall require more.
+
+AUNTIE [embarrassed].  Oh, of course, I shall be glad to do
+anything that . . .
+
+Why, what do you mean? . . .
+
+MANSON.  I mean that service such as mine demands a greater
+recompense!
+
+AUNTIE.  You may be sure that anything in reason . . .
+
+MANSON.  It must go beyond that!
+
+AUNTIE.  Well, what do you ask?
+
+MANSON.  The uttermost obedience, loyalty, and love!
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson, how dare you!  By what right . . .
+
+MANSON.  By my own right!
+
+AUNTIE.  This is insolence!  What right do you mean?
+
+MANSON.  The right of understanding, the right of purpose, and the
+right of will!
+
+AUNTIE.  You force me to speak angrily to you!  Do you forget that
+you are my servant?
+
+MANSON.  No!  And, therefore, it is my office to command you now!
+
+Sit down, and hear me speak!
+
+VICAR.  He has been sent to help us!  Martha, this is God!
+
+MANSON.  Over here, please.  [He points to the settee.]
+
+AUNTIE.  I . . .  I . . .
+
+[MANSON still points.  She wavers as in a dream, and at length
+moves mechanically across the room, obeying him.]
+
+MANSON.  Now, let me tell you exactly why you have sent for me
+here.  There is a strange and wretched turmoil in your soul: you
+have done wrong, and you know it--but you don't know all!  You
+would keep what miserable little right you have by bolstering it up
+with further wrong.  And you have sent for me to help you in that
+wrong!
+
+AUNTIE.  How dare you say that?
+
+MANSON.  Haven't you sent for me to help you in your plans about
+his brother, Robert?
+
+AUNTIE [faintly].  What plans? . . .
+
+MANSON.  The plan of banishing him further from your lives than
+ever!  The plan of _providing_ for him!  The plan of patching up
+his bitter wrongs with gold!
+
+AUNTIE.  How did you know that?
+
+MANSON.  I know _you_!  What, do you think that God's eyes are like
+your brother's--blind?  Or do you think these things can be done in
+darkness without crying aloud to Heaven for light?
+
+AUNTIE.  I am here to work my will, not yours!
+
+MANSON.  What gain do you hope to bring yourself by that?
+
+AUNTIE.  I am not thinking of myself!  I am thinking only of my
+husband's happiness!
+
+MANSON.  Behold the happiness you have already brought him!
+
+AUNTIE.  There is the child!  It would break her heart!
+
+MANSON.  What is her heart but broken now--by you?
+
+AUNTIE, Robert himself would be the first to repudiate any other
+plan.
+
+MANSON.  Have you tried him?
+
+AUNTIE.  Of course not; but he must see the impossibility.
+
+MANSON.  What impossibility?
+
+AUNTIE.  The impossibility of having him here: the impossibility of
+letting him see the child: the impossibility of him and his brother
+ever meeting again!
+
+MANSON.  Is that your only difficulty?
+
+AUNTIE.  Only difficulty!  What, would you have me welcome him with
+open arms?
+
+MANSON.  Yes, and heart, too!
+
+AUNTIE.  Have him here, entertain him, treat him as a guest?
+
+MANSON.  As an honoured guest!
+
+AUNTIE.  In this house?
+
+MANSON.  This house.
+
+AUNTIE.  Good Heavens! what else?
+
+MANSON.  Sweep and garnish it throughout, seek out and cleanse its
+hidden corners, make it fair and ready to lodge him royally as a
+brother!
+
+AUNTIE [desperately].  I won't do it!  I can't!  I can't!
+
+MANSON.  With my assistance, you can!
+
+VICAR.  Manson, how can we bring it about?
+
+AUNTIE, I daren't!  I daren't!
+
+VICAR.  I dare!  I will!
+
+AUNTIE.  In God's name, how is it possible?
+
+MANSON.  _Make me the lord and master of this house for one little
+hour_!
+
+VICAR.  By Heaven, yes!
+
+MANSON.  And you?  You? . . .
+
+[She falters a few moments: then, utterly broken down, she
+whispers, feebly.]
+
+AUNTIE.  Yes.
+
+MANSON.  Then first TO CLEANSE IT OF ITS ABOMINATIONS!
+
+[The BISHOP enters from the drawing-room.  He carries a letter in
+his hand.]
+
+BISHOP.  Well, here is the letter I have written to the secretary
+of our Society: I have explained everything quite nicely; and have
+warned him, of course, against doing anything definite in the
+matter until we have consulted your dear brother.  Now . . .  Eh,
+what?  Oh! . . .
+
+[MANSON has tapped his ear, peremptorily: he fixes his ear-trumpet.]
+
+MANSON.  I bear you a message from the master of this house.  Leave
+it.
+
+BISHOP.  Really, I . . . . . . .  Most extraordinary!  Hm!
+
+[He blows down the ear-trumpet, and afterwards wipes it very
+carefully with his handkerchief.  MANSON stands, as though carven
+in marble, waiting for him to fix it again.]
+
+Now: again, please.
+
+MANSON.  You are no longer necessary.  Leave this house.
+
+BISHOP.  You scoundrel!  You impudent scoundrel!  You . . .
+You . . .
+
+Give me back my five-pound note!
+
+MANSON [pointing to the fire].  It is invested for you.
+
+BISHOP.  I will have it back at once!
+
+MANSON.  Hereafter, was the arrangement.
+
+BISHOP.  Mr. Smythe!  Where are you?  Do you hear what this
+blackguard says?
+
+VICAR.  I endorse it, every word.
+
+BISHOP.  Martha! . . .
+
+[She turns away from him as from some horror of sin.  The BISHOP
+stands dumfounded for a moment or two: then he boils over.]
+
+Now I see it all! I've been trapped, I've been tricked!  Martha,
+this is all your doing!  Brought me here on a trumped-up story of
+relationship with the Bishop of Benares, to insult me!  Oh, what
+would that godly man say if he heard of it!--And he shall hear of
+it, believe me!  Your infamy shall be spread abroad!  So this is
+your revenge, sir--[he turns to the VICAR]--your revenge for the
+contumely with which I have very properly treated you, sir!  Now I
+understand why I was made to sit down and eat sausages with a
+butler--yes, sir, with a butler and a common working-man!  Oh!  I
+could die with shame!  You have bereft me of all words!  You . . .
+You . . .  You are no scholar, sir!  And your Greek is
+contemptible! . . .
+
+[He crosses to AUNTIE.] Martha!  You are no sister of mine
+henceforward!  [Going, he returns to her.]  Anathema maranatha!
+
+[He bounces up to the door, but turns back again for a last word
+with MANSON.]
+
+And I have one word for you, sir!  You are a scoundrel, sir--a
+cheat, an impostor!  And if I could have my way with you, I would
+have you publicly whipped: I would visit you with the utmost rigour
+of the law: I would nail you up, sir, for an example!
+
+MANSON.  I have encountered similar hostility before, my lord--from
+gentlemen very like your lordship.  Allow me . . .
+
+[He opens the door, his eyes flashing.]
+
+BISHOP.  Don't trouble, sir.  I can get my hat and my stick and my
+portmanteau for myself!  I can do very well without your
+assistance--thank God!
+
+[He stumps out.  MANSON closes the door after him, barring it, as
+it were, with his great left arm.  He lifts the other arm slowly,
+as commanding silence.  After a moment the front door is heard
+slamming noisily.]
+
+[AUNTIE sinks, weeping, upon the settee.  The VICAR goes over to
+comfort her.  The uplifted hand of MANSON assumes the BISHOP'S sign
+of blessing as the curtain slowly falls.]
+
+
+
+
+THE FIFTH ACT
+
+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.]
+
+IT AIN'T NO DRAIN AT ALL!
+
+ALL [breathlessly].  Why, what is it, then? . . .
+
+ROBERT.  IT'S A GRIVE!
+
+ALL.  A grave! . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, one o' them whoppin' great beer-vaults as you shove
+big bugses' corpses inter!  What d'yer think o' that now?
+
+MARY.    ) Oh! . . .
+AUNTIE.  ) Horrible! . . .
+
+VICAR.  I seem to remember some tradition . . .
+
+ROBERT, You'd 'a' said so if you'd seen wot I seen!  Talk abaht
+corfins an' shrouds an' bones an' dead men gone to rot, they wasn't
+in it, wot I saw dahn there!  Madame Twosoes is a flea-bite to it!
+Lord!--I never thought there could be such a lot o' muck an' dead
+things all in one place before!  It was a fair treat, it was, I tek
+my oath! . . .
+
+[Rapturously].  Why--why, it may cost a man 'is LIFE to deal with
+that little job!
+
+VICAR.  My God!  The thing's impossible!
+
+ROBERT.  Impossible!  Means a bit of work, that's all!
+
+VICAR.  Why, no one would ever dare . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Dare!  Why, wot d'you think I come 'ere for? . . .
+
+VICAR.  _You_! . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Yus--makin' myself unpleasant . . .
+
+VICAR.  Do you mean . . .  Do I understand . . .
+
+ROBERT.  I mean as I've found _my place_, or I don't know a good
+thing when I see it!
+
+AUNTIE.  What! To go into that dreadful vault, and . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Why not: ain't it my job?
+
+AUNTIE.  But you said--perhaps--_death_ . . .
+
+ROBERT.  It's worth it, it's a lovely bit of work!
+
+VICAR.  No, ten thousand times, no!  The sacrifice is too much!
+
+ROBERT.  You call that sacrifice?--It's fun: not 'arf!
+
+VICAR.  I had rather see the church itself . . .
+
+ROBERT.  What, you call yourself a clergyman!
+
+VICAR.  I call myself nothing: I _am_ nothing--less than nothing in
+all this living world!
+
+ROBERT.  By God, but I call myself summat--I'M THE _DRAIN-MAN_,
+THAT'S WOT I AM!
+
+VICAR [feverishly].  You shall not go! . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Why, wot is there to fear? Ain't it worth while, to move
+away that load o' muck!
+
+VICAR.  The stench--the horror--the darkness . . .
+
+ROBERT.  What's it matter, if the comrides up above 'av' light an'
+joy an' a breath of 'olesome air to sing by? . . .
+
+VICAR.  Hour by hour--dying--alone . . .
+
+ROBERT.  The comrides up in the spans an arches, joinin' 'ands . . .
+
+VICAR.  Fainter and fainter, below there, and at last--an endless
+silence! . . .
+
+ROBERT.  'Igh in the dome, the 'ammerin's of the comrides as 'av'
+climbed aloft!
+
+AUNTIE.  William, there is yet one other way! . . .
+
+VICAR.  Yes, yes, I see: I see! . . .  [To ROBERT].  Then--you mean
+to go?
+
+ROBERT.  By 'Eaven, yus!
+
+VICAR.  Then, by God and all the powers of grace, you shall not go
+alone!  Off with these lies and make-believes!  Off with these
+prisoner's shackles!  They cramp, they stifle me!  Freedom!
+Freedom!  This is no priest's work--it calls for a man! . . .
+
+[He tears off his parson's coat and collar, casting them furiously
+aside.  He rolls up his sleeves.]
+
+Now, if you're ready, Comrade: you and I together!
+
+AUNTIE.  God's might go with you, William!  Accept him, Christ!
+
+[There is a silence.  Then ROBERT speaks with slow consideration.]
+
+ROBERT.  I--don't--know.  It's dangerous, you understand!
+
+VICAR.  I go with you.
+
+ROBERT.  This ain't psalms an 'ymns an' ole maids' tea-parties,
+mind you!  It may mean typhoid!
+
+VICAR.  I understand.
+
+ROBERT.  Rats.
+
+VICAR.  Yes.
+
+ROBERT.  They don't leave you alone: they got teeth,
+remember--poison in 'em!
+
+VICAR.  I will go with you.
+
+[A slight pause.  Then ROBERT, dropping into a quite ordinary tone,
+says.]
+
+ROBERT.  Then let's 'av' summat so eat, an' get along.  There's
+nuthin' more to say.
+
+MARY [inspired].  Yes, there is!
+
+ROBERT.  What do you mean, miss?
+
+MARY.  I mean that I understand: that I know who you are.
+
+ROBERT.  Me? . . .
+
+MARY [simply].  Yes, you are my father.
+
+ROBERT.  'Ow the everlastin' did you know that?
+
+MARY [going up to him].  Because you are my wish come true: because
+you are brave, because you are very beautiful, because you are good!
+
+ROBERT.  My little kid! My little kid!
+
+[They embrace each other.]
+
+VICAR.  Robert!  [Taking his left hand].
+
+AUNTIE.  Brother!  [Taking his other hand.]
+
+[They form a kind of cross.]
+
+[MANSON and ROGERS re-enter with table-cloth, etc., for lunch.]
+
+MANSON.  Come along, Rogers.  Take that end.
+
+[They lay the cloth, as it were with ceremonial gravity, MANSON
+being at the upper end of the table.  They pay no heed to the
+others, who watch them interestedly.]
+
+ROBERT.  I could just do with a good, square feed.  My work meks me
+'ungry.
+
+MANSON.  Flowers, Rogers.
+
+[ROGERS brings vase from side-board and places it on the VICAR'S
+side of the table.   MANSON removes it to a more communal position.
+Presently looking up, he sees the group to his left watching him.]
+
+Oh, beg pardon, sir: perhaps you'd like to know--the Bishop of
+Benares is here.
+
+VICAR.  What, already!  Let's have him in at once!
+
+[MANSON deliberates with the flowers before he speaks.]
+
+MANSON.  He is here.
+
+[The VICAR crosses towards him.]
+
+VICAR.  What do you mean?  Where is he?
+
+[MANSON looks at him over the flowers.]
+
+MANSON.  Here.
+
+[The VICAR steps back, gazing at him.  After a moment he gasps.]
+
+VICAR.  In God's name, who are you?
+
+MANSON.  In God's Name--your brother.
+
+[He holds out his hand.  The VICAR takes it, sinking to his knees
+and sobbing as one broken yet healed.]
+
+[The curtain descends slowly.]
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Servant in the House, by Charles Rann Kennedy
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11999 ***
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #11999 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11999)
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+Project Gutenberg's The Servant in the House, by Charles Rann Kennedy
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Servant in the House
+
+Author: Charles Rann Kennedy
+
+Release Date: April 11, 2004 [EBook #11999]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE
+
+BY
+
+CHARLES RANN KENNEDY
+
+
+
+BOOKS BY CHARLES RANN KENNEDY
+
+SEVEN PLAYS FOR SEVEN PLAYERS
+  Volumes now ready:
+    THE WINTERFEAST
+    THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE
+    THE IDOL-BREAKER
+    THE RIB OF THE MAN
+
+SHORTER PLAYS FOR SMALL CASTS
+  Volumes now ready:
+    THE TERRIBLE MEEK
+    THE NECESSARY EVIL
+
+
+
+
+1908
+
+
+
+
+  TO WALTER HAMPDEN
+
+  "There's a lot o' brothers
+  knockin' abaht as people
+  don't know on, eh what?
+  See wot I mean?"
+
+
+
+
+"He that saith he is in the light, and hateth his brother, is
+in darkness even until now.  He that loveth his brother abideth
+in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him.
+But he that hateth his brother is in darkness, and walketh in
+darkness and knoweth not whither he goeth, because that darkness
+hath blinded his eyes. . . .  If a man say, I love God, and
+hateth his brother, he is a liar: for he that loveth not his
+brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath
+not seen?"
+
+  --I. JOHN, ii. 9-11, iv. 20.
+
+
+
+"The hunger for brotherhood is at the bottom of the unrest
+of the modern civilized world."
+
+  --GEORGE FREDERICK WATTS.
+
+
+
+
+ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS
+
+IN
+
+THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE
+
+BY
+
+CHARLES RANN KENNEDY
+
+
+
+AS PRESENTED BY
+
+THE HENRY MILLER ASSOCIATE PLAYERS
+
+AT
+
+THE SAVOY THEATRE.  NEW YORK
+
+ON MONDAY, MARCH 23, 1906
+
+
+A PLAY OF THE PRESENT DAY, IN FIVE ACTS, SCENE INDIVIDABLE
+SETTING FORTH THE STORY OF ONE MORNING IN THE EARLY SPRING
+
+
+
+PERSONS IN THE PLAY
+
+JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D., The Most Reverend,
+  The Lord Bishop of Lancashire
+    Mr. ARTHUR LEWIS
+
+THE REVEREND WILLIAM SMYTHE, Vicar,
+  Mr. CHARLES DALTON
+
+AUNTIE, the Vicar's Wife
+  Miss EDITH WYNNE MATTHISON
+
+MARY, their niece
+  Miss MABEL MOORE
+
+MR. ROBERT SMITH, a gentleman of necessary occupation,
+  Mr. TYRONE POWER
+
+ROGERS, a page-boy
+  Mr. GALWEY HERBERT
+
+MANSON, a butler
+  Mr. WALTER HAMPDEN
+
+
+Time--An early morning in Spring.
+Place--An English country vicarage.
+
+
+
+
+CHARACTERS REPRESENTED
+
+
+JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D.
+The Most Reverend the Lord Bishop of Lancashire
+
+THE REVEREND WILLIAM SMYTHE
+The Vicar
+
+AUNTIE
+The Vicar's Wife
+
+MARY
+Their niece
+
+MR. ROBERT SMITH
+A gentleman of necessary occupation
+
+ROGERS
+A page-boy
+
+MANSON
+A butler
+
+
+TIME: Now
+PLACE: Here
+
+
+
+
+THE SCENE
+
+The scene, which remains unchanged throughout the play, is a room
+in the vicarage.  Jacobean in character, its oak-panelling and
+beamed-ceiling, together with some fine pieces of antique
+furniture, lend it an air of historical interest, whilst in all
+other respects it speaks of solid comfort, refinement, and
+unostentatious elegance.  Evidently the room of a rich man, who
+has, however, apparently come to some compromise on the difficult
+question of his entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven; for the
+panelled walls possess, among other decorations, a richly
+ornamented crucifix, a Virgin and Child by an old master, certain
+saints in ecstasy, and a really remarkable modern oil-painting of
+the Divine Author of our religion.
+
+The main door of the room is at the back of the stage, somewhere
+towards the middle; it opens upon a hall, at the further side of
+which one may perceive, through the open door of another room, a
+goodly collection of well-bound and learned-looking volumes--the
+vicar's library.  At the present moment these tomes of wisdom are
+inaccessible, as the library door is blocked up with unsightly
+mounds of earth, sewer-pipes, and certain workmen's implements.
+The fact is, the vicarage has been greatly disturbed of late, owing
+to a defect in the drainage--an unsavory circumstance which
+receives further and regretful explication in the play itself.
+
+Returning, then, to the room, one may see, in addition to the main
+door described above, another door, to the right of stage, and near
+to the audience.  The curious may be glad to learn that this leads
+into a drawing-room, and incidentally affords one more means of
+communication with the house.  Another exit is provided on the
+opposite side of the stage [left], where a couple of lofty French
+windows lead out into the garden.  Above the drawing-room door is a
+fine old Jacobean mantel-piece: a fire burns brightly in the grate.
+To the left of the main door at the back is a long, low, mullioned
+window, through which one may see a blue sky, a thatched top or two
+of cottages, and the gray old tower of the church.  Through the
+French windows are seen a gravel-walk, a lawn, trees, and a
+sun-dial.
+
+Of the essential furniture of the scene, there may be mentioned;
+sideboard to right of main door; table, right-centre of stage, with
+chairs; arm-chair by fireplace; settee, left, towards front; and a
+long oak stool in the window.
+
+The various properties are described or implied in the text of the
+play.
+
+
+
+
+THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE
+
+THE FIRST ACT
+
+As the curtain ascends, Rogers and Manson are discovered laying the
+table for breakfast, the lad being at the upper end of the table,
+facing the audience, Manson, with his back to the audience, being
+at the lower end.  Rogers is an ordinary little cockney boy in
+buttons; Manson is dressed in his native Eastern costume.  His face
+is not seen until the point indicated lower down.
+
+ROGERS [glancing across curiously].  Arskin' your pardon, Mr.
+Manson. . . .
+
+MANSON.  Yes: what is it, Rogers?
+
+ROGERS.  Funny thing--cawn't get it out of my 'ead as I've knowed
+you somewhere before.  Don't scarcely seem possible, do it, Mr.
+Manson?
+
+MANSON.  Many things are possible in this world, Rogers.
+
+ROGERS.  That's all right; but 'ow long 'av' you been in England,
+Mr. Manson?
+
+MANSON.  I landed late last night, if that's what you mean.
+
+ROGERS.  Well, I never been in the continong of Asia, where you
+come from; and there you are!
+
+MANSON [quietly].  Yes: here I am.
+
+[He goes to the sideboard and busies himself with serviettes, mats,
+etc.]
+
+ROGERS.  Perhaps it's this reincarnytion the Daily Mail been
+writing about.  Ever see the Daily Mail out there, Mr. Manson?
+
+MANSON.  No: we had few advantages.
+
+ROGERS.  Rum idea, reincarnytion!  Think, Mr. Manson, perhaps we
+wos lords once in ancient Babylon, you an' me!
+
+MANSON.  And now butler and page-boy, eh?
+
+ROGERS [scratching his head].  Does seem a bit of a come-down,
+don't it?
+
+MANSON.  That's one way of looking at it.
+
+[ROGERS, enticed of Satan, has conveyed a furtive spoonful of jam
+towards his mouth.]
+
+[Without turning.] Isn't there jam in the kitchen, Rogers?
+
+ROGERS [scared].  Evings!  E've got eyes in 'is boots!  S'y, do you
+call it stealing, Mr. Manson?
+
+MANSON.  Do you? [Persisting.] Do you?
+
+[ROGERS drops the spoon and moves mournfully away from temptation.]
+
+ROGERS.  'Pon my word, Mr. Manson, you give me the fair creeps and
+no mistike!
+
+MANSON.  You will get over that when you knew me better.
+
+ROGERS.  Mr. Manson!  Do you mind if I arst you a question?
+
+MANSON.  No; what is it?
+
+ROGERS.  What d'you wear them togs for?  This ain't India.
+
+MANSON.  People don't always recognise me in anything else.
+
+[He turns for the first time.  His face is one of awful sweetness,
+dignity, and strength.  There is the calm of a great mastery about
+him, suited to his habit as a servant.]
+
+ROGERS.  Garn, Mr. Manson, that's a bit orf!  Clothes don't make
+all that difference, come now! . . .
+
+MANSON.  They are the only things the people of this world see.
+
+ROGERS [after a pause].  Excuse me, Mr. Manson, you mek me larf.
+
+MANSON.  That's all right, Rogers.  I have a sense of humour
+myself, or I shouldn't be here.
+
+ROGERS [suddenly sentimental].  Talking about clothes, Mr. Manson,
+I often thinks in my 'ead as I'd like to be a church clergyman,
+like master.  Them strite-up collars are very becoming.  Wouldn't
+you, Mr. Manson?
+
+MANSON.  Wouldn't that be rather presuming, Rogers?
+
+ROGERS.  Don't you mek no mistike about it!  'Ere! [He grows
+confidential.]  _You are_ a butler, ain't you?  Ain't you,
+now? . . .
+
+MANSON.  Something like that.
+
+ROGERS.  Well, perhaps master 'asn't allus been as 'igh--  See!  O'
+course, I don't know, but they _do_ s'y as 'e was once only a . . .
+Wot oh!  'Ere 'e is!
+
+[The VICAR'S voice is heard off.]
+
+VICAR.  I shall be in to breakfast at a quarter to nine.  Don't
+wait for me, dearest.
+
+[He enters hurriedly from door, right, watch in hand.  He has on
+his cassock and biretta.]
+
+So awkward--  Both my curates down with the whooping-cough!
+To-day, too!  Just when I was expecting . . .
+
+[As he goes up stage, left of table, MANSON comes down, right, with
+serviettes.  The VICAR wheels round slowly, facing him.  Observing
+his astonishment, ROGERS steps forward with explanation.]
+
+ROGERS.  It's the new butler, sir.  Mr. Manson, sir.
+
+VICAR.  Surely, I--I've seen you somewhere before.
+
+MANSON [looking at him].  Have you, sir?
+
+VICAR.  Hm!  No, I can't quite . . .
+
+ROGERS.  Beg pardon, sir: getting on for eight.
+
+[He hands him a small silver paten upon which there is a piece of
+bread.]
+
+VICAR [Taking it mechanically].  Hm!  These mysteries are not
+always helpful . . .   Anyway, I'm glad to see you, Manson.  When
+did you arrive?
+
+[He begins to break the bread into fragments whilst talking.]
+
+MANSON.  Early this morning, sir.  I should have come sooner; but I
+had a little trouble down at the Customs.
+
+VICAR.  Indeed!  How was that?
+
+MANSON.  They said something about the new Alien Act, sir.
+
+VICAR.  Of course, of course.  Er . . .  You speak English
+remarkably well.
+
+MANSON.  I have seen a good deal of the English, one time and
+another.
+
+VICAR.  That's good: it will save a lot of explanation.  By-the-bye
+. . .
+
+My old friend in Brindisi, who recommended you, writes that you
+bore a very excellent character with your late employer in India;
+but there was one matter he didn't mention--  No doubt you will
+recognise its importance in a clergyman's family--  He never
+mentioned your religion.
+
+MANSON.  I can soon remedy that, sir.  My religion is very simple.
+I love God and all my brothers.
+
+VICAR [after a pause].  God and your brothers . . .
+
+MANSON.  Yes, sir: _all_ of them.
+
+[The VICAR stands thoughtful for a moment.  He places the paten on
+the table, beside him.]
+
+VICAR [slowly].  That is not always so easy, Manson; but it is my
+creed, too.
+
+MANSON.  Then--  Brother!
+
+[Rapt in thought, the VICAR takes his profferred hand mechanically.]
+
+[MARY enters.  She is a slim young girl in her teens, the picture
+of rosy sweetness and health.]
+
+MARY.  Good-morning, Uncle William!  Oh! . . .  I suppose you're
+Manson?  I must say you look simply ripping!  How do you do?  My
+name's Mary.  [She offers her hand.]
+
+MANSON [kissing it].  A very dear name, too!
+
+MARY [embarrassed, blurting].  We were wondering last night about
+your religion.  I said . . .
+
+VICAR.  Mary, my child . . .
+
+MARY.  You don't _look_ like a cannibal.  After all, even the devil
+isn't as black as he's . . .  Oh, I beg your pardon: perhaps I'm
+rude.
+
+VICAR.  Yes, indeed you are.  Don't take any notice of our little
+feather-brain, Manson.
+
+MARY.  I say, has uncle told you who's coming to-day?
+
+MANSON.  No.
+
+MARY.  Not about Uncle Josh?
+
+VICAR.  T-t-t!  You mustn't call your uncle Joshua that!  It is
+irreverent.  He may resent it.
+
+MARY.  You know, _you'll_ make me positively dislike him!  Just
+fancy, Manson, meeting an uncle whom you've never so much as set
+eyes on before!  I don't even know what he looks like.
+
+[She is looking MANSON in the face.  He returns her gaze curiously.]
+
+MANSON.  Then--you have a surprise in store.
+
+MARY.  _You_ ought to be awfully interested!  You will, when you
+hear where he comes from!
+
+MANSON.  I _am_--interested.
+
+MARY.  Then guess who he is!
+
+MANSON.  Guess--when I know already?
+
+MARY.  Oh, Uncle Joshua isn't his only name--don't you think that!
+He's a very important person, I can tell you!  His name's on
+everybody's lips!
+
+MANSON [dryly].  Really!
+
+MARY.  Can't you guess? . . .  Think of the very biggest person you
+ever heard of in this world!
+
+MANSON.  In _this_ world: that sounds rather like . . .  Does he
+give free libraries?
+
+MARY.  I can't say I ever heard of that; but he does things quite
+as wonderful!  Listen!  What do you think of the BISHOP OF BENARES!!
+
+MANSON [unimpressed].  Oh, it's the--Bishop of Benares, is it?
+
+MARY.  I must say, you don't seem very surprised!  Surely you've
+heard of him?  He _comes_ from India.
+
+MANSON [quietly].  I happen to know him.
+
+VICAR.  No, really: this is most interesting!
+
+MANSON.  As a man might know _his own soul_, sir--As they say in
+India.  His work has been mine, so to speak.
+
+VICAR.  Bless me, you will know him better than I do.  I have never
+seen him since I was quite a little lad.
+
+MARY [with prodigious solemnity].  Just you think, Manson!  He's my
+uncle--my own father's brother!
+
+[MANSON is now up stage between the two.]
+
+MANSON.  _Your_ brother, sir?
+
+VICAR [fervently].  I am grateful to God for it, Manson: he is.
+
+[MANSON regards him calmly for a moment: then he turns inquiringly
+towards Mary.]
+
+MANSON.  Then--Miss Mary? . . .
+
+VICAR [quickly].  Oh, my niece is the daughter of--of my other
+brother.
+
+MANSON.  I see: _two_ brothers?
+
+VICAR [shortly].  Yes, yes, I have: I--I had.
+
+MANSON [resuming his work at the table].  Thank you, sir: it's
+always helpful, coming to a new place, to know who are--and who are
+not--the family connections.
+
+VICAR.  Come, Rogers!  My poor brethren in the church are waiting.
+I must see to their necessities at once.  [He starts for the door.]
+
+MANSON.  Pardon me, sir.
+
+[He hands him the bread which, among those necessities, he has
+forgotten.  The VICAR looks at him a moment in troubled thought,
+and then goes out, followed by ROGERS.]
+
+ROGERS [at door].  I'll be back to 'elp you in with the breakfast,
+Mr. Manson.  [Exit.]
+
+MARY.  Now, Manson: let's talk! You've got nothing more to do? . . .
+
+MANSON.  Not till breakfast.
+
+MARY.  Then come over here, and make ourselves comfy.
+
+[They go over to the settee: she plumps herself down, gathering her
+legs up into a little bunch.  He seats himself beside her.]
+
+Now!  Tell me everything you know about the Bishop of Benares!
+
+MANSON.  What--Uncle Josh?
+
+MARY.  Ssh--ssh--ssh!  That's naughty, you know!  You heard what
+Uncle William said! . . .  Do you think he'd very much mind if I
+called him Uncle Josh?
+
+MANSON.  You may take it from _me_, that you may call him whatever
+you like.
+
+MARY.  That's all very well; but you're not Uncle Joshua!
+
+MANSON.  No? . . .
+
+MARY [hotly].  No, you're not!
+
+MANSON.  Well, since you're so certain . . .
+
+MARY [with conviction].  I'm perfectly certain he'll never stand a
+kid like me cheeking him and calling him names! Uncle William's
+quite right! . . .  And that's why I've made up my mind that I
+sha'n't like him, after all!
+
+MANSON.  Indeed, I hope you will!
+
+MARY.  Do you believe in liking people simply because they're
+uncles?
+
+MANSON.  Perhaps I'm a prejudiced person.
+
+MARY.  I know exactly what he'll be--goody-goody, isn't he?  You
+know--religious, and all that!
+
+MANSON.  God forbid!
+
+MARY [fearfully].  Oh, perhaps he's the other sort--like auntie's
+brother!  He's a bishop--the Bishop of Lancashire.  You see, I've
+heard a lot about bishops in my time, and they're not always quite
+nice men.
+
+MANSON.  And what sort is the Bishop of Lancashire?
+
+MARY.  Well, I don't think I ought to tell you; but I once heard
+_Uncle William_ call him a devil!--And he's a clergyman!
+
+MANSON.  Your Uncle Joshua's reputation is exactly opposite.
+
+MARY.  There is that; everybody speaks awfully well of him.
+
+MANSON.  I don't think I would go so far as that: some people
+blackguard him abominably.
+
+MARY.  No!--Who?
+
+MANSON.  His clergy, chiefly.
+
+MARY.  His clergy! They must be dreadfully wicked men!
+
+MANSON.  No--only blind: perhaps, also, a little deaf.  But between
+the two they manage to make his work very difficult.
+
+MARY.  Why?  What do they do?
+
+MANSON.  It's partly what they do _not_ do.
+
+MARY.  Oh, I see--lazy.
+
+MANSON.  Not precisely--they work: they are not idle; but they
+serve other masters.
+
+MARY.  Such as whom?
+
+MANSON.  The Bishop of Lancashire.
+
+MARY [after a pause], I always thought he was such a great success
+out there.  The papers have been full of it--of the millions of
+people who follow him about: they say they almost worship him in
+some places.  What kind of people are they?
+
+MANSON.  Just common people.
+
+MARY.  And then, all that talk of die great churches he built out
+there! . . .
+
+MANSON.  Churches?
+
+MARY.  Yes; didn't he?
+
+MANSON.  He built one.
+
+MARY.  What's it like?
+
+MANSON.  Those who have seen it say there is nothing like it on
+earth.
+
+MARY [eagerly].  Have you seen it?
+
+MANSON.  I was there when he built it.
+
+MARY.  From the very beginning?
+
+MANSON [solemnly].  From the beginning.
+
+[MARY pauses before speaking: then she says, slowly.]
+
+MARY.  I hope I _shall_ like him.  Is he--is he anything like you?
+
+[MANSON regards her silently for a moment.]
+
+MANSON.  How is it that you know so little about him?
+
+MARY.  Well, you see, I only heard yesterday.
+
+MANSON.  I thought you said his name was on everybody's _lips_.
+
+MARY.  You don't understand.  I mean, I never knew that he had
+anything to do with _me_--that he was my father's brother.
+
+MANSON.  Didn't _he_ know?
+
+MARY.  Who--father?  Oh, you see, I. . .  _I don't know my father_
+. . . . . .  Uncle William didn't know anything about it until
+yesterday.
+
+MANSON.  Hm!  That is strange, too!
+
+MARY.  There's a bit of a mystery about it altogether.  Would you
+like to hear?  It is rather like a fairy-tale.
+
+MANSON.  It must be.  Yes, do go on.
+
+MARY.  It was all through Uncle William's Restoration Fund.  You
+see, our old church is in a perfectly rotten state of decay, and
+naturally it would take a lot to repair it: so uncle thought of
+starting a Fund--Yes!  Wasn't it clever of him?--I addressed all
+the envelopes.
+
+Would you believe it, we couldn't get a single halfpenny! Isn't it
+a shame?--Such a nice old church, too!
+
+MANSON.  How was that?
+
+MARY.  That's the question!  People have been most rude! Oh, the
+letters we have had!  The funny thing is, for all their
+fault-finding, they none of them agree with each other!--Some say
+the foundations are all wrong: some don't like the stained-glass
+windows; but if you ask me . . .
+
+MANSON.  Yes, what do you think?
+
+MARY.  Well, uncle won't hear of it; but I can't help thinking old
+Bletchley is right . . .
+
+MANSON.  Who's he?
+
+MARY.  Oh, he's a dreadfully wicked man, I know that--  He's the
+quack doctor in the village: he's--he's _an atheist_! . . .
+
+MANSON.  Well, what does he think is the matter?
+
+MARY.  He says it's the DRAIN!
+
+MANSON.  The--the drain? . . .
+
+MARY.  Um!  You know, in spite of what uncle says, there is a
+smell: I had it in my nose all last Sunday morning.  Up in the
+choir it's bad enough, and round by the pulpit-- Ugh!  I can't
+think how uncle stands it!
+
+That's why the people won't come to church-- They _say_ so: they
+stand in the market-place listening to old Bletchley, instead of
+listening to uncle and trying to be good.
+
+The odd thing Is, it must be that very same drain that's causing
+the trouble in uncle's study--  That's his study out there, where
+they've been digging: it's where he writes his sermons.  You know,
+_I've_ noticed the smell for some time, but uncle got so cross
+whenever I mentioned it, that I learned to hold my tongue.  At
+last, auntie smelt it, too, and that soon brought the men in!  Ugh!
+Perhaps you've . . .
+
+MANSON.  I have!  But what has all this to do with . . .
+
+MARY.  Don't get impatient: it's all part of the story. . . .
+Well, we thought we should have poor dear Uncle William perfectly
+ill . . .
+
+MANSON.  Because of the drain? . . .
+
+MARY.  No, because of the Fund.  He tried everything: all his rich
+friends, bazaars, jumble-sales, special intercessions--everything!
+And nothing seemed to come of it!
+
+Then at last, yesterday morning, he was reading the newspaper, and
+there was a long piece about the Bishop of Benares.  Uncle read it
+aloud to us.  Suddenly, in the middle, he broke off and said: _Look
+at the power this chap seems to have at the back of him!  I wish to
+God I had some of it_!
+
+He had scarcely said it, when there was a rat-tat at the door: it
+was the postman; and what do you think?  IT WAS A LETTER FROM THE
+BISHOP OF BENARES?
+
+MANSON [anticipating the critics].  What a coincidence!
+
+MARY.  Isn't that wonderful?  _Isn't_ it just like a fairy-tale?
+Wait a bit.  There's more yet . . .  Here's the letter: uncle gave
+it me for my autographs . . .
+
+[She fishes it out from her pocket.  MANSON reads it aloud, slowly
+and clearly.]
+
+MANSON.  "_I shall be with you during to-morrow morning.  If any
+one will help me, I will restore your church.  Your brother,
+Joshua_."
+
+MARY [pointing].  And there, do you see, underneath, in brackets:
+_The Bishop of Benares_.
+
+MANSON.  Dear me, dear me, just those few words!
+
+MARY.  Wasn't it like an answer to prayer?  Auntie saw that at once!
+
+And the odd part about it is, that Uncle William did have a brother
+Joshua who went away and got lost in India years and years ago!
+And to think that he was who he was all the time!  To think of him
+never writing until yesterday!  To think that before the day is out
+he will be sitting down here, perhaps in this very place, just
+like . . .
+
+[She breaks off suddenly, gazing at him; for his eyes have taken a
+strange fire.]
+
+MANSON.  Just like I am now . . .
+
+MARY [falteringly].  Yes . . .
+
+MANSON.  Talking to you . . .
+
+MARY.  Oh! . . .  [She rises, afraid.]
+
+MANSON [softly], Mary . . .
+
+MARY [in a whisper].  Who are you? . . .
+
+MANSON.  I am . . .
+
+[He is interrupted by the great bell of the church, which tolls the
+Sanctus.  After the third stroke, he continues.]
+
+I am the servant in this house.  I have my work to do.  Would you
+like to help me?
+
+MARY.  What shall I do?
+
+MANSON.  Help to spin she fairy-tale.  Will you?
+
+MARY.  I will.
+
+MANSON.  Then keep the secret--Remember!  And wish hard.
+
+MARY.  Do you believe in wishing?
+
+MANSON.  Everything comes true, if you wish hard enough.
+
+MARY.  What shall I wish for?
+
+MANSON.  What have you needed most?  What have you not had?  Think
+it out.
+
+[Enter AUNTIE in a negligee morning gown.  She has a preoccupied
+air.  She carries her husband's coat over her arm.]
+
+AUNTIE.  Oh, I heard you had arrived.  I hope they gave you
+something to eat when you came in.
+
+MANSON.  Thank you, ma'am: it will do later.
+
+AUNTIE.  Mary . . .  Dearest . . .
+
+MARY.  Oh, I beg your pardon, auntie dear, I . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  Dreaming again!  [Putting her arm round her.]  Come, I
+want you to put your uncle's coat by the fire.  He will be cold,
+coming out of that draughty church.
+
+MARY [hugging her].  You darling!  I believe you think of nobody
+but uncle in the world!
+
+AUNTIE.  And you, sweetheart: you come next--a very near next!
+Now, run along.
+
+[MARY takes the coat to the fire.]
+
+[Surveying the table].  That's very nice, Manson, very nice indeed!
+Perhaps, just a little further this way. . . .  [Removes flowers.]
+My husband is so fond of them.  Ye-es; and I _wanted_ things
+_particularly_ nice this morning . . .
+
+MARY [at the fire, looking up].  I thought you said you--you didn't
+expect him till twelve-thirty! . . .
+
+AUNTIE [absorbed].  Whom?
+
+MARY [chuckling].  The--the Bishop of Benares.
+
+AUNTIE.  The--the . . .   Oh, it's your _uncle_ I am . . .  [To
+Manson].  By-the-bye, has the postman been yet?
+
+MANSON [at the window].  I can see him coming up the lane.  He's
+stopped at the next house.
+
+AUNTIE.  Oh, then, Mary: will you very much mind if you don't have
+breakfast with us this morning?  I want to have a private talk with
+your uncle.
+
+MARY.  Oh, auntie, dear! . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  Don't think of yourself, dear--  Remember, there are other
+people in the world besides you.  Go down into the village, and
+have breakfast with poor old Grannie Durden.  Take her some nice
+new-laid eggs and a pat of butter--  Poor soul, it would be a
+charity!
+
+MARY.  Oh, auntie, she's as deaf as a post!
+
+AUNTIE.  Dearest!--Remember what your uncle said last Sunday about
+_Pure religion and undefiled_!  He mentioned Mrs. Durden only a
+week ago; but I forgot.  Now, run along.
+
+MARY [reluctantly].  Very well, auntie.
+
+[She goes out by the main door.]
+
+AUNTIE [laughing].  Inconsiderate little monkey!
+
+I am glad you have not thought of changing your pretty, native
+costume, Manson.  It is very picturesque; and, besides, to-day
+there is a special reason why it may be considered complimentary.
+
+[A double knock is heard at the outer door.]
+
+Ah!  Quick, Manson! The postman!
+
+[MANSON goes out.  AUNTIE takes a look at the coat: rearranges the
+flowers, humming, meanwhile, "The Church's One Foundation"; and
+then stands impatiently awaiting MANSON'S reappearance.  Presently
+he returns with a letter on server.]
+
+MANSON.  A letter for you, ma'am.
+
+AUNTIE.  Ah!  What I expected!
+
+[She breaks open the letter and reads it eagerly.]
+
+Excellent!  [More dubiously].  Excellent . . .
+
+Manson, we shall have to be very busy to-day.  There will be quite
+a Church Congress to lunch--two bishops!
+
+MANSON.  Oh, not as bad as that, ma'am!
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson!
+
+MANSON.  Beg pardon, ma'am; but master mentioned only one--his
+brother, the Bishop of Benares.
+
+AUNTIE.  _My_ brother will join us also--the Bishop of Lancashire.
+This is his letter.
+
+And now let's have breakfast, at once.  The vicar is sure to be
+earlier than he said; and I'm hungry.
+
+[MANSON goes to the door.  As he opens it, the VICAR and ROGERS
+reappear.]
+
+MANSON.  Here is master.  I'll hurry up the breakfast, ma'am.
+
+VICAR [entering].  Do, Manson.  Let's get it over.
+
+[MANSON goes out.]
+
+Excuse me, my dear.
+
+[ROGERS helps him off with the cassock.]
+
+So tiresome!  Not a place in the house to do anything!  Confound
+the drains!  Just run up-stairs for my coat, Rogers.
+
+AUNTIE.  It's here, dear.  I have it warming for you.
+
+VICAR [more graciously].  Oh, thank you, Martha.  That will do,
+then, Rogers.  Tell Manson to hurry up.
+
+[ROGERS helps him on and goes out.  The cassock is left lying on
+the long stool by the window.]
+
+[The VICAR crosses moodily to the fireplace.  AUNTIE stands
+undecided, watching him, the letter in her hand.]
+
+AUNTIE.  You're back early, dear.
+
+VICAR.  What can you expect? Not a soul there, of course!
+
+AUNTIE.  My poor William!  I'm glad I thought to hurry up the
+breakfast.
+
+VICAR.  Thanks, dear.  You are always thoughtful.
+
+AUNTIE.  William . . .
+
+[He looks up.]
+
+I--I want to have a little talk with you.
+
+VICAR.  What is it?  Any more--worry?
+
+AUNTIE.  You needn't make it so.
+
+VICAR..  Ah!
+
+AUNTIE [moving over to him and stroking his hair].  My dearest is
+not well.
+
+VICAR.  I think you are right, Martha.  I am not well.
+
+AUNTIE [alarmed].  Not the trouble with your heart again?
+
+VICAR.  No; I fancy it goes deeper than that!
+
+AUNTIE.  William!  What do you mean?
+
+VICAR [suddenly facing her].  Martha!  Do you know the sort of man
+you have been living with all these years?  Do you see through me?
+Do you know me?--No: don't speak:  I see your answer already--Your
+own love blinds you!  Ha!  I am a good man!--I don't drink, I don't
+swear, I am respectable, I don't blaspheme like Bletchley!  Oh yes,
+and I am a scholar: I can cackle in Greek: I can wrangle about
+God's name: I know Latin and Hebrew and all the cursed little
+pedantries of my trade!  But do you know what I am? Do you know
+what your husband is in the sight of God?  He is a LIAR!
+
+AUNTIE.  William!
+
+VICAR.  A liar! I heard it in my ears as I stood up before Christ's
+altar in the church this morning, reciting my miserable creed!  I
+heard it in my prayers!  I heard it whilst I tasted . . .  whilst I
+drank . . .  whilst I . . .
+
+[He sinks into a chair, and buries his face in his hands.]
+
+AUNTIE.  Oh, you are ill!
+
+VICAR [breaking down].  O wretched man that I am!  Who shall
+deliver me out of the body of this death?
+
+[She stands above him, hesitating.  After a moment, she says,
+determinedly.]
+
+AUNTIE.  I know: it's this money trouble.  It's what Joshua said in
+his letter about your having to get somebody to help him.  Well,
+that's just what I wanted to speak to you about.  I have a way out
+of the difficulty.
+
+VICAR.  It's not the church.  I could wish every Stone of it were
+crumbled into dust!
+
+AUNTIE.  William, how wicked of you! . . .
+
+Is it--is it anything to do with your brother Joshua?  Why don't
+you answer?
+
+VICAR.  _It has to do with my brother--Robert_.
+
+AUNTIE.  Mary's fa . . .
+
+William, did you send him that telegram yesterday?
+
+VICAR.  Yes: that was a lie, too!
+
+AUNTIE.  Nonsense!  Don't be absurd!
+
+VICAR.  It was a lie!
+
+AUNTIE.  You told him we couldn't do with him because the house was
+upset: that's true!  You told him that the drains were up in the
+study: that's true!
+
+VICAR.  Was that the real reason why we refused to have him here?
+Was it?
+
+AUNTIE.  I can't think what possessed him to write and say he'd
+come.  We've not heard from him for fifteen years!
+
+VICAR.  Whose fault is that?
+
+AUNTIE.  Why, his own, of course!  He can't expect to be treated
+decently!  [She walks up and down with anger.]  It's perfectly
+absurd, it really is, dear, making all this fuss and trouble about
+a wretched--
+
+Have you told Mary?
+
+VICAR.  No: the _silent_ lie was comparatively easy!
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear, do try and be reasonable.  Think of what he is!
+
+VICAR.  Isn't he my brother?
+
+AUNTIE.  No, he's not your brother--at least, nothing that a
+brother ought to be!  Ridicules everything that you hold sacred!
+Hates everything you love!  Loves everything you hate! . . .
+
+VICAR.  _That's_ true!
+
+AUNTIE.  A scoffer, an atheist, a miserable drunkard!
+
+VICAR.  That was fifteen years ago, remember, after Mary's mother
+died! . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  A man like that never changes!  What would have become of
+that poor child if we hadn't stepped in?  Have you ever dared to
+tell her what her father's like?  Of course not!  To-day, too, of
+all days!  It's utterly preposterous!
+
+VICAR.  That is all the more reason why . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear, think of his _occupation_!
+
+VICAR.  I think the child ought to be told.
+
+AUNTIE.  Of his _occupation_?
+
+VICAR.  That, and everything.
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear, have you gone perfectly mad?  Do you know who's
+coming?  Do you want to advertise his _occupation_ to all the world?
+
+VICAR.  Do you think his brother Joshua would mind that?
+
+AUNTIE.  It isn't only your brother Joshua!  You think of nobody
+but your brother Joshua!  Some one else is coming.
+
+VICAR.  Who?
+
+AUNTIE.  _My brother James_!  [She throws down the letter.]  Now
+you've heard it all!
+
+[There is a long silence.  Then the VICAR speaks in a low, intense
+voice of bitter contempt.]
+
+VICAR.  Your brother James is coming here today?  You have brought
+him here to help my brother Joshua!  _Him_!
+
+AUNTIE.  Why not? He's rich! He can do it!
+
+VICAR.  So, he can recognise me at last!
+
+AUNTIE.  It was as much your fault as his, that you have never met!
+He naturally resented our marriage.
+
+VICAR [ironically].  But, of course, now that I'm related to the
+great and _wealthy_ Bishop of Benares ...
+
+AUNTIE [warmly].  He's as much a bishop as your brother is!
+
+VICAR.  He! That gaitered snob!
+
+AUNTIE.  William, how dare you!
+
+VICAR.  Yes, he's a bishop!  A bishop of stocks and shares!  A
+bishop of the counting-house!  A bishop of Mammon!
+
+AUNTIE.  William!
+
+VICAR.  The devil's own bishop!
+
+AUNTIE.  _At least, he isn't a WORKING-MAN_!
+
+VICAR [as though stung].  Ah! . . .
+
+[They stand below the table, one on either side, tense with
+passion.  They remain so.]
+
+[MANSON and ROGERS come in with the breakfast.  ROGERS goes out
+immediately.]
+
+MANSON.  Sorry to have delayed, sir; but you said a quarter to
+nine, didn't you, sir?
+
+VICAR.  Yes.
+
+MANSON.  Breakfasts served, ma'am.  It's served, sir.
+
+[They move to the table, absently, first one, then the other, as he
+goes to each separately.]
+
+[MANSON serves them in silence for a few moments.]
+
+Beg pardon, sir: what time did you expect the Bishop of Benares?
+
+VICAR.  Oh!--_During the morning_, he said.  That will mean the
+twelve-thirty, I suppose.  It's the only convenient service.
+
+MANSON.  And the Bishop of Lancashire, ma'am?
+
+AUNTIE.  He didn't say; but I think we may expect him by the same
+train.  He would scarcely think of catching the . . .
+
+[There is heard a loud Ringing of the Bell--a bishop at the very
+least.  All three heads turn automatically.]
+
+Good gracious! Already!
+
+MANSON.  It doesn't sound like the Bishop of Benares, ma'am.  He
+generally comes very quietly.
+
+AUNTIE.  Quick!
+
+MANSON.  Yes, ma'am.
+
+[He goes out by the main door.]
+
+AUNTIE [rapidly], William, I'm sorry!  Really, I didn't mean you: I
+never thought of you; I was only thinking of Robert.  I only think
+of you as a great scholar and a saint--yes, you are one!--and as
+the man I love!  I would sacrifice everything to your happiness.
+Robert's nothing to me; that's why I . . .  Think of what it might
+mean to Mary--we must think of others, William!--our own little
+child, as we try to imagine . . .
+
+[The VICAR makes a gesture of anguish.]
+
+As for James, God knows I did it for the best.  I love you, my
+dear, I love you: I wouldn't have vexed you for the world!  After
+all, he is my brother, William! . . . .  I thought of patching up
+the enmity between you: I thought of all your hopes of rebuilding
+the church, and James was the only rich man I thought might be
+induced--under the circumstances . . .
+
+VICAR.  I am in the darkness.  I don't know what to do.  God has
+left me stranded.
+
+[MANSON re-enters.  They look at him inquiringly.]
+
+MANSON.  It isn't the Bishop of Benares, ma'am.
+
+AUNTIE.  Well, who is it?
+
+MANSON.  I didn't ask his name, ma'am.
+
+AUNTIE.  T-t-t!  How is he dressed?
+
+MANSON.  Rather oddly, ma'am: I noticed that his legs . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  William, it's James!  I can't be seen like this.  Shew him
+in.  I can slip out this way.
+
+[MANSON goes out.]
+
+William, try and treat him like . . .
+
+VICAR.  How?  Like a brother?
+
+AUNTIE.  I was going to say, like a Priest and a Christian, William.
+
+VICAR.  Like a Christian, then.
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear!
+
+[She goes out by the door to the right, as MANSON begins to turn
+the handle of the other door.]
+
+MANSON [outside].  This way, if you please.
+
+[The VICAR, braces himself up and turns towards the door with an
+effort at cordiality.]
+
+VICAR.  Just in time for breakfast, my lord.
+
+[Enter ROBERT SMITH and MANSON.  ROBERT'S costume is a navvy's, the
+knees tied With string.]
+
+ROBERT [grimly].  Thanks, Bill Awlmighty, don't mind if I do.  My
+belly's fair aching.
+
+VICAR.  Robert!
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, it's me, my 'oly brother!
+
+VICAR.  Didn't you--didn't you get my wire?
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, I gorit-: _Drains wrong_, eh?  Thought I'd like to
+'av' a look at 'em--my job, yer know, _drains_!  So you'll excuse
+the togs: remind you of old days, eh what?
+
+VICAR.  Robert, what have you come here for?
+
+ROBERT.  You arsk me that?
+
+VICAR.  Yes, I do.  Bob . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Why, to see my little gel, o' course--Gawd curse you! . . .
+
+Now go an tell your ole woman.
+
+[The VICAR stands as though stricken.]
+
+Did you 'ear me speak? Tell 'er!
+
+[The VICAR wavers a moment, and then staggers out silently through
+the door, right.  ROBERT watches him off with a look of iron.  He
+pays no heed to MANSON, who stands quite close to him, on the left.]
+
+See that blighter?  That's the bloke as was born with no bowels!
+'E might a-made a man o' me once, if 'e'd tried; but 'e didn't--'im
+and 'is like.  Hm!  Dam foolish, I call it, don't you?
+
+MANSON.  Yes, both: foolish and--damned!
+
+[ROBERT turns and looks into his face for the first time as the
+curtain slowly falls on the First Act.]
+
+
+
+
+THE SECOND ACT
+
+As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged.
+Presently, Robert, having completed his inspection of the other's
+face and costume, moves away with a characteristic interjection.
+
+ROBERT.  Oh, Jeeroosalem! . . .
+
+'Ere, 'elp us orf, comride: I'm wet through.  Rainin' cats an'
+dorgs dahn at the Junction!  'Ere, I cawn't . . .  Wot oh!  The
+very identical! . . .
+
+[MANSON has helped him off with his coat, and now hands him the
+cassock.]
+
+[Getting into it.]  Don't know oo you are, ole pal, but you're a
+bit of orl right! . . .  Don't I look a corf-drop?  'Ere, where ye
+teking it to? . . .
+
+[He watches MANSON suspiciously as he places his coat before the
+fire to dry.]
+
+Bit 'andy, ain't yer? . . .
+
+So this is where 'e lives!  A bloomin' palace, as never I did
+see! . . .
+
+[MANSON prepares a place for him at the table, and pours out a cup
+of tea, etc.]
+
+Right you are, ole comride!  'E said breakfast, an' breakfast it
+shall be, I don't fink!  Blimey!  Sossingers!  Ain't 'ad the taste
+of sossingers in my gizzard for I don't know 'ow long!
+
+[He sits and devours whilst MANSON breaks and hands him bread,
+waiting upon him.]
+
+[Between bites.] Wouldn't think as I was 'is brother, would
+yer--not to look at me?  But strooth, _I am_; an' wot's more, 'e
+cawn't deny it! . . .  [He labours with a little joke.]  There's a
+lot o' brothers knockin' abaht as people don't know on, eh what?
+See wot I mean?  [Suddenly serious.]  Not as I'm one o' them sort,
+mind yer: my father married my mother honest, same as I married my
+little . . .
+
+[After a moment's reflection, he makes fresh onslaught upon the
+sausages.  Presently he looks up.]
+
+'Ere, ain't you goin' ter 'av' none? . . .  Cawn't yer speak?
+
+MANSON.  Yes.
+
+ROBERT.  Well, why cawn't yer arnser a bloke when 'e arsks yer
+civil?
+
+MANSON.  You didn't make it dear that you wanted to eat with me.
+
+ROBERT.  Want a bit of 'eart in it, eh?
+
+MANSON.  Yes, that's all.
+
+ROBERT [largely].  Sit dahn, ole pal!  Mek yourself at 'ome!
+
+[MANSON obeys.]
+
+See, wot was I tawkin' abaht.  Just afore you turned narsty?
+
+MANSON.  You were going to say something about--your little girl's
+mother.
+
+[ROBERT'S cutlery bristles up like bayonets.]
+
+ROBERT.  Look 'ere, mate, don't you come tryin' it on with me!  I
+don't care _oo_ you are!
+
+MANSON.  I know that.
+
+ROBERT.  Then let me be, I tell yer!  You tek all the taste out o'
+my sossingers.
+
+MANSON.  I should like to hear about her, comrade.
+
+ROBERT.  _You_ cawn't bring 'er back.  She's dead.
+
+MANSON.  What was her name?
+
+ROBERT.  Mary--same as the little gel's.
+
+MANSON.  I wonder whether they are anything alike.
+
+ROBERT.  That's wot I come to see! . . .
+
+She 'ad 'er mother's nose when she was a biby--_and_ 'er eyes!
+Gorstrike, she was the very spit--far as a biby could be! . . .
+
+Swelp me Moses, if I find 'er anything like Bill's ole geezer, I'll
+cut 'er throat!
+
+MANSON.  And if she's like her mother?  What then?
+
+ROBERT.  Why, then . . .  there's allus my own.  I nearly did it
+once.
+
+MANSON [after a pause].  How did you come to lose her?
+
+ROBERT [roughly].  Never you mind!
+
+MANSON.  How did you come to lose her?
+
+ROBERT [sullenly].  Typhoid fever.
+
+[MANSON notes the evasion with a glance.  He helps ROBERT to more
+tea, and waits for him to speak.  ROBERT wriggles under his gaze,
+and at last he says, reluctantly.]
+
+Oh, it was my own fault, as I lost the kid!
+
+MANSON.  That was a sore loss, comrade.
+
+ROBERT.  _I_ know it!  Needn't rub it in! . . .  Look, 'ere,
+comride, I 'adn't a bad nature to begin with.  Didn't me an' my
+brother Joshua pinch an' slave the skin orf our bones to send that
+spotted swine to school?  Didn't we 'elp 'im out with 'is books an'
+'is mortar-boards an' 'is bits of clothes to try an' mek 'im look
+respectable?  That's wot we did, till 'e got 'is lousy scholyships,
+an' run away to get spliced with that she-male pup of a
+blood-'ound!  Cos why?  Cos we was proud of the little
+perisher!--proud of 'is 'ead-piece!  We 'adn't gone none
+ourselves--leastways, _I_ 'adn't: Joshua was different to me; and
+now . . .
+
+MANSON.  And your brother Joshua: what of him?  Where is _he_ now?
+
+ROBERT.  _I_ don't know--gone to pot, like me!  P'r'aps eatin' is
+bleedin' 'eart out, same as I am, at the base ingratitood of the
+world!
+
+MANSON.  Perhaps so!
+
+ROBERT.  Where was I?  You mek me lose my air, shoving in with your
+bit!
+
+MANSON.  You were saying that you hadn't a bad nature to begin with.
+
+ROBERT [truculently].  No more I 'adn't! . . .
+
+O' course, when she took an'--an' died, things was different: I
+couldn't 'old up the same-- Somehow, I don't know, I lost my 'eart,
+and . . .
+
+MANSON.  Yes? . . .
+
+ROBERT.  That's 'ow I come to lose my kid, my little kid . . .
+Mind you, that was fifteen years ago: I was a rotter then, same as
+you might be.  I wasn't 'arf the man I am now . . .
+
+_You_ can larf!  A man can change a lot in fifteen years!
+
+MANSON.  _I_ didn't laugh.
+
+ROBERT.  Do you want to know wot's come over me since then?  I
+_work_--and work well: that's more than some of 'em can say--  And
+I don't get much money for it, either!  That ought to mek 'em feel
+ashamed!  I'm not the drunkard I was--not by 'arf!  If I'm bitter,
+oo's made me bitter?  You cawn't be very sweet and perlite on
+eighteen bob a week--_when yer get it_! I'll tell yer summat else:
+I've eddicated myself since then--I'm not the gory fool I was--
+_And_ they know it!  They can't come playin' the 'anky with us,
+same as they used to!  It's _Nice Mister Working-man This and Nice
+Mister Working-man That, will yer be so 'ighly hobliging as to 'and
+over your dear little voting-paper_--you poor, sweet, muddy-nosed
+old Idiot, as can't spot your natural enemy when yer see 'im!  That
+orter mek some on 'em sit up!
+
+Fifteen years ago me an' my like 'adn't got a religion!  By Gawd,
+we 'av' one now!  Like to 'ear wot it is?
+
+MANSON.  Yes.
+
+ROBERT.  SOCIALISM!  Funny, ain't it?
+
+MANSON.  _I_ don't think so.  It's mine, too.
+
+ROBERT.  I believe in fighting with my clarss!
+
+MANSON.  Oh, against whom?
+
+ROBERT.  Why, agin all the other clarsses--curse 'em!
+
+MANSON.  Isn't that a bit of the old Robert left, comrade?
+
+ROBERT.  Oh, leave me alone.  I cawn't be allus pickin' an'
+choosin' my words!  I ain't no scholar--thank Gawd!
+
+MANSON.  All the same, I'm right, eh, comrade?  Comrade . . .
+
+ROBERT [grudgingly].  Well, yus!  [Savagely.] Yus, I tell yer!
+Cawn't a bloke speak 'otter than 'e means without _you_ scrapin' at
+'is innards?
+
+[Exploding again.]  Wait till I set eyes on that bleedin' brother
+of mine again, that's all!
+
+MANSON.  Which bleeding brother?
+
+ROBERT [with a thumb-jerk].  Why, '_im_, o' course!  [Sneering.]
+The Reverend William!  'Im as you said was damned! . . .  Allus did
+'ate parsons!  I 'ates the sight of their 'arf-baked, silly mugs!
+
+[There is a very loud Ringing of the Bell.]
+
+'Ello!  'Ello!  Did I mek a row like that?
+
+MANSON.  You tried, didn't you?
+
+ROBERT.  So I did, not 'arf!  Thought if I kicked up an 'ell of a
+shindy they'd think some big bug was comin'; and then when they'd
+be all smiles an' bowin' an' scrapin', in pops me, real low!
+
+[ROGERS enters.  On seeing them at the table, he is apparently
+troubled with his inside.]
+
+ROGERS.  Oh, my 'oly Evings!
+
+MANSON.  Who is it, Rogers?
+
+ROGERS [awed].  It's the Bishop of Lancashire!
+
+MANSON [imperturbably].  Shew him in, Rogers.
+
+ROGERS.  Beg pardon, Mr. Manson . . .
+
+MANSON.  I said, shew him in.
+
+Quick, Rogers.  Keep a bishop waiting!
+
+ROGERS.  Well, I'm jiggered!
+
+[He is; and goes out.]
+
+ROBERT.  'Ere!  Did 'e say _bishop_?
+
+MANSON.  Yes.
+
+ROBERT.  Comin' 'ere?  Now?
+
+[MANSON nods his head to each inquiry.]
+
+Well, I ain't agoin' ter leave my sossingers, not if 'e was a
+bloomin' archangel, see!
+
+[ROGERS, still jiggered, ushers in JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D.,
+the Most Reverend the Lord Bishop of Lancashire.  He looks his
+name, his goggles and ear-trumpet lending a beautiful perfection to
+the resemblance.]
+
+[MANSON has risen: ROBERT, imperturbable, discusses sossingers:
+ROGERS, with a last excruciation of his ailment, vanishes.]
+
+[The Most Reverend Father in God stands  blinking for recognition.
+Pained at the non-fulfilment of this worthy expectation, he
+moves--a little blindly--towards the table.  Here he encounters the
+oppugnant back of the voracious ROBERT, who grows quite annoyed.
+Indeed, be as good as says so.]
+
+'Ere, where ye comin' to?
+
+BISHOP [peering closely into his face, the other edging away].  Ah!
+Mr. Smythe, or I am mistaken.
+
+ROBERT.  Smith's my name!  Don't you call me Smythe!
+
+BISHOP.  My dear sir, don't mention it: my sister has explained
+everything.  I bear you no grudge--none whatever!
+
+ROBERT.  What's the silly ole josser jawin' abaht now?
+
+BISHOP.  But I perceive that I have--er--[sniffing] disturbed you
+at your morning meal . . .
+
+ROBERT [with conviction].  You 'av' that!
+
+BISHOP.  Eh? . . .
+
+ROBERT [louder].  I say, you 'av'!
+
+BISHOP [fixing his ear-trumpet].  Just once more . . .
+
+ROB ERT.  Oh, Moses! [Roaring, and indicating his breakfast.] You
+'av' blarst you!
+
+BISHOP [mistaking the gesticulation].  Thank you, you are very
+kind.  I think I will.  I could get nothing on the journey but a
+cup of coffee and a bun.
+
+[He sits at the table without ever having perceived MANSON, who has
+nevertheless been serving him.]
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, you look as if you fed on buns!
+
+[Throughout the play the audience will understand where the BISHOP
+does, and where he does not, hear by his use or non-use of the
+ear-trumpet.  Perhaps the reader will be good enough to imagine
+these occasions for himself, as he may have observed a reluctance
+on the part of the author to encumber the text with stage
+directions.]
+
+BISHOP [eating, and at the same time addressing the becassocked
+ROBERT].  And you must not think, on account of the little coolness
+between us, that I have not followed your career with great
+interest--very great interest!  Your scholastic achievements have
+been most praiseworthy--especially under the unfortunate
+circumstances. . . .  Although, by-the-way, I cannot at all agree
+with your gloss on Romans fourteen, twenty-three; _Katakekritai_
+either means _damned_ or nothing at all.
+
+ROBERT [gesticulating].  It was _'im_ as said _damned_!
+
+BISHOP.  No, no, sir: it is perfectly indefensible!
+
+ROBERT.  I'll use what langwidge I like!
+
+BISHOP [warming].  You said _katakekritai_ . . .
+
+ROBERT.  I never did, _I_ tek my oath!
+
+BISHOP.  My dear sir, I learned my Greek at Shrewsbury, before you
+were born!  Don't argue, sir!
+
+ROBERT.  Oo is argufying? . . .  Talking to me about yer
+Katama-what-d'you-call-it!
+
+BISHOP.  We had better drop the subject! . . .  Boeotian!  After
+all, it is not precisely the matter which has brought us together.
+And that reminds me . . .  [Trumpet.]  Has he come yet?
+
+ROBERT.  Oo?
+
+BISHOP.  Your brother, of course.
+
+ROBERT.  My brother!  Oh, you'll see _'im_ soon enough!
+
+BISHOP.  I gather from your remark that he has not arrived yet.
+Good!  The fact is, I should like a preliminary discussion with
+yourself before meeting your illustrious brother.
+
+ROBERT.  Then you'd better look slippy!
+
+BISHOP.  I beg your pardon? . . .
+
+ROBERT [with a flap at the trumpet].  Go on: you 'eard.
+
+BISHOP.  Of course, the _financial_ undertaking is considerable:
+it's not like an _investment_, where there is some reasonable hope
+of a return: it's merely a matter of charity!  The money's--gone,
+so to speak.
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, I've noticed that about money, myself.
+
+BISHOP.  At the same time, I should like my _name_ to be associated
+with your brother's, in so worthy an enterprise . . .
+
+ROBERT [mildly sarcastic].  You don't say!
+
+BISHOP.  And then again, I _trust_--I say I _trust_--I am not
+impervious to the more sacred obligations involved; but . . .
+
+[He gropes blindly for bread.]
+
+ROBERT.  I allus notice that sort of 'igh talk ends with a
+"but" . . .
+
+BISHOP.  Naturally, I should like to learn a little, beforehand, of
+your brother's _views_.  From what I gather, they are not
+altogether likely to coincide with my own.  Of course, he is an
+idealist, a dreamer.  Now, under these circumstances, perhaps . . .
+
+Eh, what--  Oh! Bless my soul!
+
+[MANSON has been offering him bread for some time.  He has just
+tumbled to the fact of his presence.  He rises.]
+
+My--my Brother from Benares, I presume?
+
+ROBERT.  What, _my_ pal, _'is_ brother!  Oh, Je'oshaphat!
+
+BISHOP.  Ten thousand pardons!  Really, my eyesight is deplorable!
+Delighted to meet you! . . .
+
+I was just observing to our charming host that--er--  Humph! . . .
+
+Bless me!  Now what _was_ I . . .
+
+MANSON.  Something about your sacred obligations, I believe.
+
+BISHOP.  May I trouble you again?
+
+[MANSON gravely fixes the ear-trumpet in his ear.]
+
+ROBERT.  That's right: stick the damned thing in 'is ear-'ole,
+comride!
+
+MANSON [through the trumpet].  Your sacred obligations.
+
+BISHOP.  Precisely, precisely!  Er--  Shall we sit?
+
+[They do so.  The BISHOP looks to MANSON to begin.  MANSON, failing
+him, the spirit begins to work within himself.]
+
+Well--er---speaking of that, of course, my dearly-beloved brother,
+I feel very seriously on the matter, very seriously--as I am sure
+you do.  The restoration of a church is a tremendous, an
+overwhelming responsibility.  To begin with, it--it costs quite a
+lot.  Doesn't it?
+
+MANSON.  It does: quite a lot.
+
+BISHOP.  Hm, yes--yes! . . .  You mentioned _Sacred obligations_
+just now, and I think that on the whole I am inclined to agree with
+you.  It is an admirable way of putting it.  We must awaken people
+to a sense of their _sacred obligations_.  This is a work in which
+everybody can do something: the rich man can give of the abundance
+with which it has pleased Providence specially to favour him: the
+poor man with his slender savings need have no fear for the poverty
+of his gift--  Let him give all: it will be accepted.  Those of us
+who, like yourself, my dear brother--and I say it in all modesty,
+perhaps _my_self--are in possession of the endowments of learning,
+of influence, of authority--we can lend our _names_ to the good
+work.  As you say so very beautifully: _sacred obligations_.
+
+By-the-way, I don't think I quite caught your views as to the
+probable cost.  Eh, what do you think?
+
+MANSON.  I think that should depend upon the obligations; and then,
+of course, the sacredness might count for something.
+
+BISHOP.  Yes, yes, we've discussed all that.  But bringing it down
+to a _practical_ basis: how much could we manage with?
+
+MANSON.  What do you say to--everything you have?
+
+BISHOP.  My dear sir, I'm not talking about myself!
+
+MANSON.  Well--everything the others have?
+
+BISHOP.  My dear sir, they're not fools!  Do discuss the matter
+like a man of the world!
+
+MANSON.  _God's not watching: let's give as little, and grab as
+much as we can_!
+
+BISHOP.  Ssh!  My dear brother!  Remember who's present!  [He
+glances toward Robert.] However . . .  [Coughs.]  We will return to
+this later.  I begin to understand you.
+
+ROBERT.  Yus: you think you do!
+
+BISHOP.  At the same time, I do think we ought to come to some
+general understanding; we must count the cost.  Now, from all
+accounts, you have had some experience of church-building out in
+India--not that I think the extravagance for which you are credited
+would be either possible or desirable in this country--oh, no!
+Thank God, we know how to worship in spirit and in truth, without
+the aid of expensive buildings!  However, I should like to hear
+your views.  How did you manage it?
+
+MANSON.  Sacrifice.
+
+BISHOP.  Of course, of course; but _practically_.  They say it's an
+enormous concern!
+
+MANSON.  So it is.
+
+BISHOP.  Well, what would such an establishment as that represent?
+In round numbers, now?
+
+MANSON [calmly].  Numberless millions.
+
+BISHOP.  Numberless mil . . . !  [He drops his fork.]  My dear sir,
+absurd! . . .  Why, the place must be a palace--fit for a king!
+
+MANSON.  It is!
+
+BISHOP.  Do you mean to tell me that one man alone, on his own
+naked credit, could obtain numberless millions for such an object
+as that?  How could you possibly get them together?
+
+MANSON.  They came freely from every quarter of the world.
+
+BISHOP.  On the security of your own name alone?
+
+MANSON.  No other, I assure you.
+
+BISHOP.  For Heaven's sake, tell me all about it!  What sort of a
+place is it?
+
+MANSON [seriously].  Are you quite sure you can hear?
+
+BISHOP.  Perhaps your voice is _not_ quite so clear as it was.
+However . . .
+
+[He wipes the inside of the ear-trumpet, and fixes it afresh.]
+
+Now! Tell me about your church.
+
+[During the following speech the BISHOP is occupied with his own
+thoughts: after the first few words he makes no attempt at
+listening: indeed, the trumpet goes down to the table again in no
+time.  On the other hand, ROBERT, at first apathetic, gradually
+awakens to the keenest interest in what MANSON says.]
+
+MANSON [very simply].  I am afraid you may not consider it an
+altogether substantial concern.  It has to be seen in a certain
+way, under certain conditions.  Some people never _see_ it at all.
+You must understand, this is no dead pile of stones and unmeaning
+timber.  _It is a living thing_.
+
+BISHOP [in a hoarse whisper, self-engrossed].  Numberless millions!
+
+MANSON.  When you enter it you hear a sound--a sound as of some
+mighty poem chanted.  Listen long enough, and you will learn that
+it is made up of the beating of human hearts, of the nameless music
+of men's souls--that is, if you have ears.  If you have eyes, you
+will presently see the church itself--a looming mystery of many
+shapes and shadows, leaping sheer from floor to dome.  The work of
+no ordinary builder!
+
+BISHOP [trumpet down].  On the security of one man's name!
+
+MANSON.  The pillars of it go up like the brawny trunks of heroes:
+the sweet human flesh of men and women is moulded about its
+bulwarks, strong, impregnable: the faces of little children laugh
+out from every corner-stone: the terrible spans and arches of it
+are the joined hands of comrades; and up in the heights and spaces
+there are inscribed the numberless musings of all the dreamers of
+the world.  It is yet building--building and built upon.  Sometimes
+the work goes forward in deep darkness: sometimes in blinding
+light: now beneath the burden of unutterable anguish: now to the
+tune of a great laughter and heroic shoutings like the cry of
+thunder.  [Softer.] Sometimes, in the silence of the night-time,
+one may hear the tiny hammerings of the comrades at work up in the
+dome--the comrades that have climbed ahead.
+
+[There is a short silence, broken only by the champing jaws of the
+BISHOP, who has resumed his sausages.  ROBERT speaks first.]
+
+ROBERT [slowly].  I think I begin to understand you, comride:
+especially that bit abaht . . .  [his eyes stray upwards] . . .
+the 'ammerins' an' the--the harches--an' . . .  Humph! I'm only an
+'og! . . .
+
+S'pose there's no drain 'ands wanted in that there church o' yours?
+
+MANSON.  Drains are a very important question there at present.
+
+ROBERT.  Why, I'd be cussin' over every stinkin' pipe I laid.
+
+MANSON.  I should make that a condition, comrade.
+
+ROBERT [rising, he pulls off the cassock; goes to fire for his
+coat: returns: drags it on].  I don't know!  Things 'av' got in a
+bit of a muck with me!  I'm rather like a drain-pipe myself.
+
+[With sudden inspiration].  There's one thing I _can_ do!
+
+MANSON.  What's that?
+
+ROBERT.  Renahnce ole Beelzebub an' all 'is bloomin' wirks!  'And
+us that brarss-band!
+
+[He alludes to the ear-trumpet.  MANSON obeying, ROBERT jabs it
+into the ear of the BISHOP, who seems quite surprised.]
+
+'Ere!  'Av' you ever 'eard of 'ell?
+
+BISHOP.  Of what?
+
+ROBERT.  'Ell.  [Spelling.]  H, E, double L, 'ell.
+
+BISHOP.  Well, my dear sir, I think I ought to!
+
+ROBERT.  Then, go there! Aymen . . .
+
+Now I'll go an' 'av' a look at our Bill's drains, damn 'is eyes!
+
+[He goes out through the main door, repentant.]
+
+BISHOP.  The scoundrel!  Did you hear what he said?  I shall
+certainly report him to his bishop!
+
+MANSON.  I don't think I should.  _His_ bishop doesn't mind a
+little plain speech now and again.
+
+BISHOP.  A little plain speech!  Do you think it's right for a
+clergyman to--to direct me to perdition?
+
+MANSON.  I think you are making a mistake: the man who gave you
+your--direction is not a clergyman.  He's a scavenger.
+
+BISHOP.  A scavenger!
+
+MANSON.  Yes--looks after drains.
+
+BISHOP.  Do you mean to tell me that I've been sitting down to
+breakfast with a common working-man?
+
+MANSON.  Yes; have you never done that before?
+
+BISHOP.  My dear sir, whatever do you take me for?
+
+MANSON.  A bishop of God's church.
+
+BISHOP.  Precisely!  Is it _your_ custom to breakfast with
+working-men?
+
+MANSON.  Every morning.  You see, I'm prejudiced: I was one myself,
+once.
+
+BISHOP.  You? . . .
+
+MANSON.  Yes--a long time ago, though: people have forgotten.
+
+BISHOP.  But, my dear brother, I am perfectly sure you never told
+people to go to . . .
+
+MANSON.  Oh yes, quite frequently: it would shock you to learn the
+language I really did use.  Perhaps, under the circumstances, it
+might be advisable to drop the subject at this point.
+
+BISHOP [emphatically].  I most certainly agree with you there!
+After all, it is a digression from the purpose for which we are
+here! . . .  Let me see, then: where were we? . . .  Oh yes, I
+remember--  Although, by the way, it was very ill-advised of you to
+speak your mind so openly in that man's presence! However . . .
+
+To resume our--how shall I call it ?--our--little understanding, eh?
+
+MANSON.  That describes it most accurately.
+
+BISHOP.  Now, you said, _Let's give as little, and grab as much as
+we can_.  Of course, that is a playful way of putting it; but
+between ourselves, it expresses my sentiments exactly.
+
+MANSON.  I knew that when I said it.
+
+BISHOP [delighted].  My dear brother, your comprehension makes my
+heart warm.  I trust our relations may always remain as warm.
+
+MANSON.  Oh, warmer, warmer!
+
+BISHOP.  Very well then, to business!  I tell you, candidly, I
+agree with you, that there is no necessity for sinking anything of
+our own in the concern: nothing ever comes of that sort of reckless
+generosity!  If people want a church, let them make some sacrifice
+for it!  Why should _we_ do anything?
+
+I am sure you will appreciate my candour?
+
+MANSON.  At its full value.  Go on.
+
+BISHOP.  At the same time, there is no reason why we should throw
+cold water upon the project.  On the contrary, we might promote it,
+encourage it, even lend it the influence of our patronage and our
+names.  _But on one understanding_!
+
+MANSON.  And that?
+
+BISHOP.  That it is extended--imperialised, so to speak: that it is
+made the vehicle of a much vaster, of a much more momentous project
+behind it!
+
+MANSON.  You interest me intensely.  Explain.
+
+BISHOP.  I will.
+
+[He looks around to assure himself that they are alone.]
+
+There is in existence a society, a very influential society, in
+which I happen to have an interest--very great interest.  Hm!  I am
+one of the directors.
+
+I may say that it is already very well established, financially;
+but it is always open to consider the--extension of its influence
+in that way.
+
+MANSON.  And the name of the society?
+
+BISHOP.  Rather long, but I trust explicit.  It is called "_The
+Society for the Promotion and Preservation of Emoluments for the
+Higher Clergy_."
+
+MANSON.  I do not seem to have heard it _named_ before.
+
+BISHOP.  Well, no: its movements have always been characterised by
+a certain modesty.  It is an invisible society, so to speak; but I
+can assure you its principles are very clearly understood--among
+the parties most concerned.
+
+MANSON.  And your project?
+
+BISHOP.  Affiliate the subsidiary question of the building of the
+Church, with the larger interests of the Society.
+
+MANSON.  Yes, but since people have already refused to subscribe to
+the more trivial project . . .
+
+BISHOP.  They have not been properly approached.  My dear sir, in
+order to awaken public generosity, It is necessary to act like men
+of the world: _we must have names_.  People will subscribe to any
+amount, if you can only get the right names.
+
+That Is where _you_ come in.
+
+MANSON.  I!  Do you propose to place my name at the head of
+your--prospectus?
+
+BISHOP.  My dear sir, invaluable!  Didn't you say yourself that you
+brought in numberless millions, on your own credit, out there in
+India?  Why shouldn't you do the same in England?  Think of your
+reputation, your achievements, your name for sanctity--  Not a
+word, sir: I _mean_ it! . . .  Why, there's no end to the amount it
+would bring in: it would mean billions!
+
+Well, what do you say?
+
+MAMSON [slowly].  Let us clearly understand one another.  I am to
+lend you my name--just my name--and you are to do all the rest.
+
+BISHOP [quickly].  Oh yes: I'd _rather_ you kept out of the
+business negotiations!
+
+MANSON.  It is rather a dangerous name to play with!
+
+BISHOP, I take that responsibility entirely upon myself!
+
+MANSON.  And when all's over and done with, what are we going to
+gain out of the transaction?
+
+BISHOP.  We shall have to come to some private settlement between
+ourselves.
+
+MANSON.  When?
+
+BISHOP.  Oh, hereafter.
+
+MANSON.  Hereafter, then.
+
+[Enter AUNTIE and VICAR by door to right.]
+
+AUNTIE [off].  Leave him to me, William!  I'll soon settle the
+matter!  [Entering.]  The man must be possessed of some evil
+spirit! . . .
+
+Why--it's my brother James! . . .
+
+[MANSON has risen, and is now the butler once more.  He speaks into
+the ear-trumpet.]
+
+MANSON.  Your sister and the vicar, my lord.
+
+BISHOP [behind table, rising].  Ah!  Well, Martha!--No, no, no, if
+you please!  [He restrains her approach.] Observe the retribution
+of an unchastened will.  You have never seen my face for sixteen
+years!  However, like a cloud, I blot out your transgressions from
+this hour!
+
+And so this is your husband ?--Not a word, sir; not a single
+word!--the sausages were delicious, and your place has been most
+agreeably occupied by your brother!
+
+VICAR.  My brother!  Then you . . . What do you mean?
+
+BISHOP [testily].  I mean what I say, sir!  Your brother, _my_
+brother, _our_ brother here, of course, our Oriental brother!
+
+AUNTIE.  James, you are making a mistake: this is our new
+butler--our _Indian_ butler.
+
+BISHOP.  Your Indian--WHAT?
+
+[He stands cogitating horribly until the end of the act, facing
+towards MANSON.]
+
+AUNTIE.  What has made him like this?  He seems possessed!
+
+MANSON.  He is! . . .
+
+I have just been having some trouble with _another_ devil, ma'am.
+
+AUNTIE.  Meaning, of course . . .  What has become of him?
+
+MANSON [with his eye].  _He_ is cast out forever.
+
+AUNTIE.  Where is he now?
+
+MANSON.  He walks through dry places seeking--[he probes her
+soul]--_other_ habitations.
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson! This is your doing! Oh, you have saved us!
+
+MANSON.  I am trying to, ma'am; but, God knows, you make it rather
+difficult!
+
+[A change comes over her face, as the curtain slowly falls.]
+
+
+
+
+THE THIRD ACT
+
+As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged; but
+attention now centres in the Bishop, who appears to be struggling
+apoplectically for speech.
+
+BISHOP [bursting].  Before we proceed a step further, I have a most
+extraordinary request to make!  The fact is, you interrupted me in
+the middle of a most engrossing spiritual discussion with my . . .
+that is to say, with your . . .  in short, with that person
+standing over there!  My request is, that I be permitted a few
+minutes further conversation with him--alone, and at once!
+
+ALL.     ) With Manson! . . .
+MANSON.  ) With me! . . .
+
+BISHOP.  Not a word!  I know my request will appear singular--most
+singular!  But I assure you it is most necessary.  The peace, the
+security of a human soul depends upon it!  Come, sir!  Where shall
+we go?
+
+MANSON.  Have I your permission, ma'am
+
+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?
+
+ROGERS [with reservation].  Nuthin', miss.  [He fetches the tray.]
+
+MARY.  Then why look so solemn?
+
+ROGERS [lugubriously].  Ain't lookin' solemn, miss.
+
+MANSON.  Hold up the tray, Rogers.
+
+ROGERS.  _Am_ 'oldin' it up, Mr. Manson.  MARY [loading him up].
+I'm sure there is something the matter!
+
+ROGERS.  Well, since you arsk me, miss, it's the goin's on in this
+'ouse!  I never see such a complicyted mass of mysteries and
+improbabilities in my life!  I shall 'av' to give in my notice!
+
+MARY.  Oh, Rogers, that would be dreadful!  Why?
+
+MANSON.  Now the cloth, Mary . . .
+
+ROGERS.  Cos why?  _That's_ why!--What you're doin' now!  I likes
+people to keep their proper stytion!  I was brought up
+middle-clarss myself, an' taught to be'ave myself before my
+betters!--No offence to you, Mr. Manson!  [He says this with a jib,
+belying his words.]
+
+MARY.  Nonsense, Rogers!  I like helping.
+
+ROGERS.  My poor farver taught me.  'E led a godly, righteous, an'
+sober life.  'E was a grocer.
+
+MANSON.  Come, Rogers.  Take them to the kitchen.
+
+[ROGERS obeys with some asperity of mien.  At the door he delivers
+a Parthian shot.]
+
+ROGERS.  If my poor farver could see what I've seen to-day, 'e
+would roll over in 'is grave!
+
+[MANSON opens the door for him.  He goes.]
+
+MARY [gayly].  Isn't he funny?  Just because his silly old
+father . . .
+
+MANSON.  Ssh!  His father's _dead_, Mary!
+
+[There is a sudden pause.  He comes down to her.]
+
+Well, have you thought any more about . . .
+
+MARY.  About wishing?--Yes, lots.
+
+MANSON.  And have you? . . .
+
+MARY.  I don't know what to think.  You see, I never believed
+properly in wishing before.  Wishing is a dreadfully difficult
+thing, when you really set about it, isn't it?
+
+MANSON.  Yes.
+
+MARY.  You see, ordinary things won't do: they're all wrong,
+somehow.  You'd feel a bit of a sneak to wish for them, wouldn't
+you?
+
+MANSON.  Yes.
+
+MARY.  Even if you got them, you wouldn't care, after all.  They'd
+all turn to dust and ashes in your hand.
+
+That last bit is what Grannie Durden said.
+
+MANSON.  Who's she?
+
+MARY.  She's the poor old woman I've been having breakfast with.
+Do you know, she said a funny thing about wishing.  I must tell you
+first that she's quite blind and very deaf--  Well, she's been
+wishing ever so long to see and hear; and at last she says she can!
+
+MANSON.  What--see and hear?  [He glances towards the drawing-room.]
+
+MARY.  Um! I must say, I didn't notice any difference myself; but
+that's what she said.
+
+She agreed with you, that wishing was the only way; and if you
+didn't know how, then you had to keep on wishing to wish, until you
+could.
+
+MANSON.  And so . . .
+
+MARY.  Well, that's as far as I've got.
+
+[ROGERS re-enters.]
+
+MANSON.  Yes, what is it, Rogers?
+
+ROGERS.  Cook's compliments, Mr. Manson, and might she make so bold
+as to request your presence in the kitchen, seein' as she's 'ad no
+orders for lunch yet.  O' course, she says, it will do when you've
+_quite_ finished any private business you may 'av' in the upper
+part of the 'ouse!
+
+[He delivers this with distinct hauteur.  MANSON, smiling, goes up
+to him and takes his head in his hands.]
+
+MANSON.  Why do you dislike me so, Rogers?
+
+ROGERS [taken aback].  Me?  Me dislike you, Mr. Manson?  _Oh no_!
+
+MANSON.  Come along, little comrade.
+
+[They go out like brothers, MANSON'S arm round the lad's shoulders.]
+
+[MARY is left seated on the table, chuckling at the situation.
+Suddenly her face becomes serious again: she is lost in thought.
+After a while she speaks softly to herself.]
+
+MARY.  What have I needed most?  What have I not had? . . .  Oh!  I
+know! . . .
+
+[Her face flames with the sudden inspiration.]
+
+And I never dreamed of it till now!
+
+[ROBERT enters by the main door.  The child turns round, and,
+seeing him, gives a startled little cry.  They stand facing each
+other, silent.  Presently ROBERT falters.]
+
+ROBERT.  Beg pawdon, miss: I . . .
+
+MARY.  Who are you?  What are you doing here?
+
+ROBERT.  I'm . . .
+
+I was goin' ter see what's--what's in that room . . .
+
+MARY.  If you do, I'll . . .
+
+[She moves swiftly to the bell.]
+
+ROBERT.  It's a mistake, miss.  P'r'aps I'd--I'd better tek my 'ook.
+
+MARY.  Stop! . . .
+
+How dare you!  Don't you know you're a very wicked man?
+
+ROBERT.  Me, miss?
+
+MARY.  Yes, you.
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, I know it.
+
+MARY [trying to save the sinner].  That isn't the way to be happy,
+you know.  Thieves are never _really_ happy in their hearts.
+
+ROBERT.  Wot's that? . . .
+
+Do you tike me for a thief, miss?  You? . . .
+
+[He advances to the table: she edges away.]
+
+Why don't you arnser?
+
+MARY.  I had rather not say.
+
+ROBERT.  Cos why?
+
+MARY.  I don't want to be unkind.
+
+[ROBERT sinks stricken into the chair behind him.]
+
+ROBERT, Oh, my Gawd, my Gawd!
+
+MARY [relenting].  Of course, if--if you're sorry, that makes a
+difference.  Being sorry makes a lot of difference.  Doesn't it?
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, a fat lot!
+
+MARY.  Only you must never give way to such a wicked temptation
+again.  Oh, don't cry!  [She goes to him.]
+
+ROBERT.  Oo is cryin'?  I'm not cryin'--not a cryin' sort!
+On'y--you 'adn't no right to talk to me like that, miss.
+
+MARY.  Why, didn't you own . . .
+
+ROBERT.  No, I didn't.  It was you as jumped down my throat, an'
+took up my words afore I got 'em out.
+
+MARY.  Oh: I'm sorry.  Did I make a mistake?
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, miss--a whopper.
+
+MARY.  Then you're not a . . .
+
+ROBERT.  _No_, swelp me Gaw--  [He pulls himself up.]  I assure
+you, no.  I'm a bit of a low un; but I never come so stinkin' low
+as that.
+
+You thought I looked like one, all the same.  Didn't yer, now?
+
+MARY.  Well, you see, I thought you said so; and then there's your
+. . .
+
+ROBERT.  I know!  You don't like my mug.  It ain't much of a mug to
+look at, is it?  Sort of a physog for a thief, eh?  See them
+lines?--Want to know what them stand for?  That's drink, an'
+starvation, an' 'ard work, an' a damned lonely life.
+
+MARY.  Oh, you poor man!
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, miss, I am.
+
+MARY.  You mustn't say "damned," you know.
+
+ROBERT.  No, miss.
+
+MARY.  _That's_ wicked, at any rate.
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, miss.
+
+MARY.  And you owned yourself that you drank.  That's not very
+good, either.
+
+ROBERT.  No, miss.
+
+MARY.  So, you see, you _are_ a little bit naughty, after all,
+aren't you?
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, miss.
+
+MARY.  Now, isn't it much nicer for you to try and look at things
+in this way?  I'm sure you feel a great deal better already.
+
+Do you know--  Wait a moment . . .
+
+[She resumes her seat, turning it towards him, the passion of
+salvation in her eyes.]
+
+Do you know, I'd like to do you some good!
+
+ROBERT.  You, miss?
+
+MARY.  Yes, wouldn't you like me to?
+
+ROBERT.  You're the on'y person in the world I'd--I'd like to see
+try, miss.
+
+MARY [glad in the consciousness of "being used"].  That's because
+you know I'm interested in you, that I mean it, that I'm not trying
+to think only of myself.
+
+ROBERT [a little stupidly].  Aren't you, miss?
+
+MARY.  No: we must always remember that there are other people in
+the world besides ourselves.
+
+[This coincides with his experience: he says so.]
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, miss, there are.
+
+MARY.  Very well: now I'll see what I can do to help you.
+
+ROBERT.  Thank you, miss.
+
+MARY.  Now, don't you think, if you were really _to wish_ very
+hard, it would make things better for you?
+
+ROBERT.  I don't know what you mean, miss.
+
+MARY.  Well, it's like this: if you only wish very very hard,
+everything comes true.
+
+ROBERT.  Wot _I_ want, ain't no use wishing for!
+
+MARY.  It doesn't matter what it is!  Anything you like!  It will
+all happen!
+
+ROBERT.  Blimey, wot's the good o' talkin'?
+
+MARY.  Oh, wouldn't you like to help to spin the fairy-tale?
+
+ROBERT [roughly], I don't believe in no fairy-tales!
+
+MARY.  I do!  I don't believe there's anything else in the world,
+if we only knew!  And that's why I'm wishing!  I'm wishing now!
+I'm wishing hard!
+
+ROBERT [passionately].  So am I, Gawd 'elp me!  But it's no use!
+
+MARY.  It is!  It is!  What are you wishing for?
+
+ROBERT.  Never you mind!  Summat as impossible as--fairy-tales!
+
+MARY.  So's mine!  That's what it has to be!  Mine's the most
+impossible thing in the world!
+
+ROBERT.  Not more than mine!
+
+MARY.  What's yours?
+
+ROBERT.  What's yours?
+
+MARY.  _I want my father_!
+
+ROBERT.  I WANT MY LITTLE KID!
+
+[There is a second's pause.]
+
+MARY.  Your--what? . . .
+
+ROBERT [brokenly].  My--daughter.
+
+MARY.  Oh! . . .
+
+[She goes towards him: they face each other.]
+
+[Softly.] Is she dead?
+
+[He stands looking at her.]
+
+Is she?
+
+[He turns away from her.]
+
+ROBERT.  Fur as I am concerned--yus.
+
+MARY.  What do you mean?  _Isn't_ she dead?
+
+ROBERT.  She's alive, right enough.
+
+MARY.  Perhaps--perhaps she ran away? . . .
+
+ROBERT.  She got took.
+
+MARY.  How do you mean--gypsies?
+
+ROBERT.  I _give_ 'er up.  'Ad to.
+
+MARY.  Why?
+
+ROBERT.  Look at me! . . .
+
+_That_--an' the drink, an' the low wages, an' my ole woman dyin'!
+That's why I give 'er up.
+
+MARY.  Where is she now?
+
+ROBERT.  Never you mind.  She's bein' looked arfter.
+
+MARY.  By whom?
+
+ROBERT.  By people as I've allus 'ated like poison!
+
+MARY.  Why, aren't they kind to her?
+
+ROBERT.  Yus: they've made 'er summat, as I couldn't 'a' done.
+
+MARY.  Then why do you hate them ?
+
+ROBERT.  I don't any longer.  I 'ates myself, I 'ates the world I
+live in, I 'ates the bloomin' muck 'ole I've landed into!
+
+MARY.  Your wife's dead, you say?
+
+ROBERT.  Yus.
+
+MARY.  What would she think about it all?
+
+ROBERT [hollowly, without variation].  I don't know: I don't know:
+I don't know.
+
+[MARY sits down beside him.]
+
+MARY [thoughtfully].  Isn't it strange--both our wishes alike!  You
+want your little girl; and I, my father!
+
+ROBERT.  What sort of a . . .
+
+MARY.  Yes?
+
+ROBERT.  What sort of a bloke might your father be, miss?
+
+MARY.  I don't know.  I have never seen him.
+
+ROBERT.  Got no idea?  Never--'eard _tell_ of 'im?
+
+MARY.  Never.
+
+ROBERT.  'Aven't thought of 'im yourself, I s'pose?  Wasn't
+particular worth while, eh?
+
+MARY.  It's not that.  I've been selfish.  I never thought anything
+about him until to-day.
+
+ROBERT.  What made you think of 'im--to-day?
+
+MARY.  I can't quite say.  At least . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Mebbe 'e wrote--sent a telingram or summat, eh?--t' say as
+'e was comin'?
+
+MARY [quickly].  Oh no: he never writes: we never hear from him.
+That's perhaps a bit selfish of him, too, isn't it?
+
+ROBERT [after a moment].  Looks like it, don't it?
+
+MARY.  But I don't think he can be really selfish, after all.
+
+ROBERT [with a ray of brightness].  Cos why?
+
+MARY.  Because he must be rather like my Uncle William and Uncle
+Joshua.
+
+[He looks at her curiously.]
+
+ROBERT.  Like your . . .
+
+MARY.  Yes--they're his brothers, you know.
+
+This is Uncle William's house.
+
+ROBERT.  Yes, but what do you know about. . .
+
+MARY.  About Uncle Joshua?  Well, I happen to know a good deal more
+than I can say.  It's a secret.
+
+ROBERT.  S'pose your _Uncle William_ spoke to you about 'im?
+
+MARY.  Well, yes.  Uncle William spoke about him, too.
+
+ROBERT.  But never about your father?
+
+MARY.  Oh no, never.
+
+ROBERT.  Why, miss?
+
+MARY [slowly].  I--don't--know.
+
+ROBERT.  P'r'aps 'e ain't--good enough--to be--to be the brother of
+your Uncle William--and--  Uncle--Joshua--eh, miss?
+
+MARY.  Oh, I can't think that!
+
+ROBERT.  Why not, miss?  Three good brothers in a family don't
+scarcely seem possible--not as families go--do they, miss?
+
+MARY.  You mustn't talk like that! A father must be much--much
+better than anybody else!
+
+ROBERT.  But s'pose, miss--s'pose 'e ain't . . .
+
+MARY.  He is!  I know it!  Why, that's what I'm wishing! . . .
+
+ROBERT.  P'r'aps it ain't altogether 'is fault, miss! . . .
+
+MARY.  Oh, don't!  Don't. . .
+
+ROBERT.  Things may 'a' bin agin 'im, miss! . . .
+
+MARY.  Oh, you make me so unhappy! . . .
+
+ROBERT.  P'r'aps 'e's 'ad a 'ard life--a bitter 'ard life--same as
+I 'av', miss . . .  [He breaks down.]
+
+MARY.  Ssh!  Please!  Please! . . .
+
+I can quite understand: indeed, indeed, I can!  I'm sorry--oh, so
+sorry for you.  You are thinking of yourself and of your own little
+girl--the little girl who doesn't know what you have been telling
+me.  Don't be miserable!  I'm sure it will all turn out right in
+the end--things always do; far better than you dream!  Only . . .
+don't take away _my_ little dream!
+
+[She turns away her face.  ROBERT rises heavily.]
+
+ROBERT.  All right, miss--I won't: swelp me Gawd, I won't.  Don't
+cry, miss.  Don't, miss!  Breaks my 'eart--after all you've done
+for me.  I ort never to 'a' bin born--mekin' you cry!  Thank you
+kindly, miss: thank you very kindly.  I'll--I'll tek my 'ook.
+
+MARY.  Oh, but I'm so sorry for _you_!
+
+ROBERT.  Thank you, miss.
+
+MARY.  I did so want to help you.
+
+ROBERT.  You 'av', miss.
+
+MARY.  Before you go, won't you tell me your name?  Who are you?
+
+ROBERT.  I . . .
+
+I got no name worth speakin' of, miss: I'm--just the bloke wot's
+a-lookin' arter the drains.
+
+Good-bye, miss.
+
+[At the door, he turns.]
+
+Sorry I used bad words, miss.
+
+[She runs to him and offers her hand.  He takes it.]
+
+MARY.  Good-bye,
+
+ROBERT.  Good-bye, miss.
+
+[He goes out.]
+
+[She shuts the door after him, and turns a wretched little face
+towards the audience as the curtain falls.]
+
+
+
+
+THE FOURTH ACT
+
+As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged.
+After a moment, Mary comes down to the settee, left, and buries her
+face in the cushions, weeping.  Shortly, the handle of the
+drawing-room door is turned, and from within there emerges a murmur
+of voices, the Vicar's uppermost.
+
+VICAR [within].  Very well, then, after you have finished your
+letters! . . .
+
+[The voices continue confusedly: MARY rises quickly and goes into
+the garden.]
+
+[The VICAR enters and goes to the mantel-piece weariedly: a moment
+later, AUNTIE.]
+
+BISHOP [within], I shall only be about twenty minutes.
+
+AUNTIE [entering].  All right, don't hurry, James: you have all the
+morning.
+
+[She closes the door upon the BISHOP'S grunts, and comes, to the
+middle of the room.]
+
+VICAR.  Hm!  When he has finished his letters!
+
+AUNTIE.  Yes, things seem to be shaping better than we thought,
+William.  Perhaps we have a little misjudged him.
+
+[He looks at her curiously.]
+
+To think, my dear, that the rebuilding of the church is becoming
+possible at last!  All your hopes, all your enthusiasms, about to
+be realised!  Now, it only remains to gain your brother Joshua's
+approval and help, and the scheme is complete!
+
+VICAR.  Supposing he--doesn't approve of the scheme?
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear, he must approve: he will see the advantages at
+once.  I think James made that perfectly clear! . . .
+
+And then, look at the opportunities it creates for _you_!  Not only
+the church, William, the beautiful big church of your dreams, with
+the great spires and flashing crosses and glorious windows; but a
+much larger sphere of usefulness than you ever dared to dream!
+Think of your work, William, of your great gifts--even James had to
+acknowledge them, didn't he?--Think of the influence for good you
+will be able to wield!  Ah!  And then I shall see my beloved,
+_himself_ again--No more worry, no more feverish nights and days,
+none of the wretched frets and fancies that have been troubling him
+all this morning; but the great Scholar and Saint again, the master
+of men's souls, the priest in the congregation!
+
+VICAR.  Suppose you try and forget me for a moment.  Do you think
+you can?
+
+AUNTIE.  William, that's unkind!  Of course I can't.
+
+VICAR.  It might mean the salvation of my soul.
+
+AUNTIE.  Oh, William!  Now you're going to begin to worry again!
+
+VICAR.  Oh no: I'm quite calm.  Your brother's powers of reasoning
+have left me philosophical. . . .
+
+Tell me, are you quite sure that you have grasped the full meaning
+of his project?
+
+AUNTIE.  Of course!  You think no one can understand a simple
+business dealing but men!  Women are every bit as clever!
+
+VICAR.  Well, then, this project: what was it?
+
+AUNTIE.  James explained clearly enough: the affiliation of your
+brother's scheme with that of the society he mentioned.
+
+VICAR.  Yes--_what_ society?
+
+AUNTIE.  _The Society for the Extension of Greater Usefulness among
+the Clergy_. . . .  It was an admirable suggestion--one that ought
+to appeal particularly to you.  Haven't you always said, yourself,
+that if only you had enough money to . . .
+
+VICAR.  Did you happen to realise his explanation as to the
+constitution of the society?
+
+AUNTIE.  To tell the truth, I wasn't listening just then: I was
+thinking of you.
+
+VICAR.  The _financial_ possibilities of the scheme--Did his
+eloquence on that point escape you?
+
+AUNTIE.  Figures always bore me, and James uses dreadfully long
+words.
+
+VICAR.  Did you hear nothing of _profits_?
+
+AUNTIE.  I only heard him say that you were to . . .
+
+VICAR.  Well, didn't it strike you that throughout the entire
+discussion he spoke rather like a _tradesman_?
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear, you can't expect everybody to be an idealist!
+Remember, he's a practical man: he's a bishop.
+
+VICAR.  Didn't it strike you that there are some things in this
+world which are not to be bought at _any_ price?
+
+AUNTIE.  My dear William, bricks and mortar require money: you
+can't run a society without funds!
+
+VICAR.  Yes, but what of flesh and blood?  What of reputation?
+What of a man's name?
+
+AUNTIE.  Whatever do you mean now?
+
+VICAR.  Didn't his proposal practically amount to this: that we
+should turn my brother Joshua's name and reputation into a bogus
+Building Society, of which the funds were to be scraped together
+from all the naked bodies and the starving bellies of the world,
+whilst _we_ and our thieving co-directors should collar all the
+swag?
+
+AUNTIE.  Now, that's exactly where I think you are so unjust!
+Didn't you yourself refuse, before he spoke a word, to let him put
+a penny of his own into the concern?  I must say, you were
+unnecessarily rude to him about that, William!
+
+VICAR.  Yes, and didn't he jump at the suggestion!
+
+AUNTIE.  He offers to give his patronage, his influence, his time.
+All he asks of your brother is his bare name.
+
+VICAR.  Yes, and all he asks of me is simply my eloquence, my gift
+of words, my power of lying plausibly!
+
+AUNTIE.  William, he is offering you the opportunity of your life!
+
+VICAR.  Damnation take my life!
+
+AUNTIE.  William, why are you so violent?
+
+VICAR.  Because violence is the only way of coming to the truth
+between you and me!
+
+AUNTIE [now thoroughly afraid].  What do you mean by the truth,
+William?
+
+VICAR.  I mean this: What is the building of this church to you?
+Are you so mightily interested in architecture, in clerical
+_usefulness_, in the furtherance of God's work?
+
+AUNTIE.  I am interested in your work, William.  Do you take me for
+an atheist?
+
+VICAR.  No: far worse--for an idolater!
+
+AUNTIE.  William . . .
+
+VICAR.  What else but idolatry is this precious husband-worship you
+have set up in your heart--you and all the women of your kind?  You
+barter away your own souls in the service of it: you build up your
+idols in the fashion of your own respectable desires: you struggle
+silently amongst yourselves, one against another, to push your own
+god foremost in the miserable little pantheon of prigs and
+hypocrites you have created!
+
+AUNTIE [roused].  It is for your own good we do it!
+
+VICAR.  Our own good!  What have you made of me?  You have plucked
+me down from whatever native godhead I had by gift of heaven, and
+hewed and hacked me into the semblance of your own idolatrous
+imagination!  By God, it shall go on no longer!  If you have made
+me less than a man, at least I will prove myself to be a priest!
+
+AUNTIE.  Do you call it a priest's work to . . .
+
+VICAR.  It is _my_ work to deliver you and me from the bondage of
+lies!  Can't you see, woman, that God and Mammon are about us,
+fighting for our souls?
+
+AUNTIE [determinedly].  Listen to me, William, listen to me . . .
+
+VICAR.  I have listened to you too long!
+
+AUNTIE.  You would always take my counsel before . . .
+
+VICAR.  All that is done with!  I am resolved to be a free man from
+this hour--free of lies, free of love if needs be, free even of
+you, free of everything that clogs and hinders me in the work I
+have to do!  I will do my own deed, not yours!
+
+AUNTIE [with deadly quietness].  If I were not certain of one
+thing, I could never forgive you for those cruel words: William,
+this is some madness of sin that has seized you: it is the
+temptation of the devil!
+
+VICAR.  It is the call of God!
+
+AUNTIE [still calmly].  That's blasphemy, William!  But I will save
+you--yes, I will--in spite of yourself.  I am stronger than you.
+
+[They look at each other steadily for a moment, neither yielding,]
+
+VICAR.  Then I accept the challenge!  It is God and I against you,
+Martha!
+
+AUNTIE.  God and I against _you_, William.
+
+VICAR.  So now--for my work!
+
+AUNTIE [quietly].  Yes: what are you going to do?
+
+VICAR.  Three things.
+
+AUNTIE.  Yes--and they? . . .
+
+VICAR.  Tell Mary everything: send for my brother, Robert: and
+then--answer that monster in there.
+
+AUNTIE [fearfully].  William, you would never dare! . . .
+
+VICAR.  Look! . . .
+
+[MARY re-enters from the garden.]
+
+MARY.  Auntie!  Uncle!  I want to speak to you at once--both of you!
+
+VICAR.  You are just in time: I wanted to speak to _you_ at once.
+
+MARY.  Is it important, uncle?  Mine's dreadfully important.
+
+VICAR.  So is mine.
+
+AUNTIE [quickly].  Let the child speak, William.  Perhaps . . .
+
+MARY.  I hardly know how to begin.  Perhaps it's only my cowardice.
+Perhaps it isn't really dreadful, after all . . .
+
+AUNTIE [troubled].  Why, what are you thinking of, Mary?
+
+MARY.  It's about something we have never spoken of before;
+something I've never been told.
+
+VICAR [searchingly].  Yes?  . . .
+
+AUNTIE [falteringly].  Yes?  . . .
+
+MARY.  I want to know about my father.
+
+[There is a short silence.  The VICAR looks at AUNTIE.]
+
+VICAR.  Now: is God with you or me, Martha?
+
+MARY.  What do you mean by that?  Is it very terrible, uncle?
+
+[He stands silent, troubled.  MARY crosses him, going to AUNTIE.]
+
+Auntie . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  Don't ask me, child: I have nothing to tell you about your
+father.
+
+MARY.  Why, isn't he . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  I have nothing to tell you.
+
+VICAR.  I have.
+
+AUNTIE.  William! . . .
+
+VICAR.  I have, I say!  Come, sit here, Mary.
+
+[She sits to left of him, on the settee.  AUNTIE is down stage on
+the other side of him.]
+
+Now!  What do you want to know about your father?
+
+MARY [passionately].  Everything there is to know!
+
+AUNTIE.  William, this is brutal! . . .
+
+VICAR.  It is _my work_, Martha!--God's work!  Haven't I babbled in
+the pulpit long enough about fatherhood and brotherhood, that I
+should shirk His irony when He takes me at my word!
+
+Now: what put this thought into your head to-day?
+
+MARY.  I don't know.  I've been puzzling about something all the
+morning; but there was nothing clear.  It only came clear a few
+minutes ago--just before I went into the garden.  But I think it
+must have begun quite early--before breakfast, when I was talking
+to my--to Manson,
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson! . . .
+
+MARY.  And then, all of a sudden, as I was sitting there by the
+fireplace, _it came_--all in a flash, you understand!  I found
+myself wishing for my father: wondering why I had never seen him:
+despising myself that I had never thought of him before.
+
+VICAR.  Well, what then?
+
+MARY.  I tried to picture him to myself.  I imagined all that he
+must be.  I thought of you.  Uncle William, and Uncle Joshua, and
+of all the good and noble men I had ever seen or heard of in my
+life; but still--that wasn't quite like a father, was it?  I
+thought a father must be much, much better than anything else in
+the world!  He must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be
+good!  I kept on saying it over and over to myself like a little
+song: he must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be good!
+[Anxiously.] That's true of fathers, isn't it, uncle?  Isn't it?
+
+VICAR.  A father ought to be all these things.
+
+MARY.  And then . . .  then . . .
+
+VICAR.  Yes? . . .
+
+MARY.  I met a man, a poor miserable man--it still seems like a
+dream, the way I met him--and he said something dreadful to me,
+something that hurt me terribly.  He seemed to think that my
+father--that perhaps my father--might be nothing of the sort!
+
+AUNTIE.  Why, who was he--the man?
+
+MARY.  He wouldn't tell me his name: I mistook him for a thief at
+first; but afterwards I felt very, very sorry for him.  You see,
+his case was rather like my own.  _He was wishing for his little
+girl_.
+
+[There is a short silence.]
+
+VICAR.  Where did you meet with him?
+
+MARY.  Here, in this room.
+
+AUNTIE.  When was this?
+
+MARY.  A few minutes ago--just before you came in.
+
+AUNTIE.  Where is he now?
+
+MARY.  He said good-bye.  He has gone away.
+
+AUNTIE.  For good?
+
+MARY.  Yes, I think so: I understood him to mean that.
+
+VICAR.  Was he--a rough-looking man?
+
+MARY.  Dreadfully; and he swore once--but afterwards he said he was
+sorry for that.
+
+VICAR.  Did he frighten you at all?
+
+MARY.  No, not exactly frighten: you see, I felt sorry for him.
+
+VICAR [slowly].  _And he wouldn't tell you his name_? . . .
+
+MARY.  No: I asked him, but he wouldn't.
+
+[The VICAR ponders this for a moment.]
+
+AUNTIE.  Now, is it God with you or with me, William?
+
+[For a moment this unnerves him.  Then setting his teeth together,
+he faces his task stubbornly.]
+
+VICAR.  Have you any idea about this man?
+
+MARY.  How do you mean--any idea?
+
+VICAR.  As to why he put this doubt into your head about your
+father.
+
+MARY.  He seemed to be thinking about himself, and how unworthy he
+was of his own little girl.
+
+VICAR.  Did he say--unworthy?
+
+MARY.  That's what I think he meant.  What he said was that perhaps
+my father wasn't good enough to be your brother, uncle.  That's not
+true, is it?
+
+VICAR.  No, by Heaven!  That's not true!
+
+MARY [rapturously].  Oh, I knew it, I knew it!
+
+VICAR [in an agony].  Stop!  You don't understand!
+
+MARY.  I understand quite enough!  That's all I wanted to know!
+
+VICAR.  Listen, child!  Listen!  I mean that it is I who am not
+worthy to be called his brother.
+
+AUNTIE.  William, this is absurd!
+
+MARY [snuggling up to him].  Isn't he a dear?
+
+VICAR [freeing himself].  Listen to me, Mary: I have something
+awful to tell you: try and bear it bravely.  You will hate me for
+it--never love me again! . . .  No, listen! . . .
+
+Supposing your father were--not what you imagine him to be? . . .
+
+MARY.  Uncle, didn't you just say . . .
+
+VICAR.  Supposing that wretched man you spoke with just now were
+right, after all!  What would you say?
+
+MARY.  Uncle! . . .
+
+VICAR.  Supposing he were one upon whom a11 the curses of the world
+had been most cruelly visited--his poor body scarred and graven out
+of human semblance; his soul the prey of hate and bitterness; his
+immortal spirit tortured and twisted away from every memory of God!
+What would you say?
+
+MARY.  Uncle, it would be terrible--terrible!
+
+VICAR.  What will you say, then, to the man who has brought him to
+such ruin?  What will you say to that man being God's priest?  What
+word of loathing have you for the thief who has stolen the love of
+another man's child, for the murderer who has slain his brother's
+soul?
+
+MARY.  Uncle, do you mean . . .  do you mean . . .
+
+VICAR.  I mean that I am the man!
+
+MARY.  You! . . .
+
+AUNTIE [passionately].  It is not true!  It is a lie!  It's
+entirely your father's own fault!
+
+MARY.  I don't understand.  Why should Uncle William lie to me?
+
+AUNTIE.  He is overwrought: he is ill.  It is like your uncle
+William to take upon himself another man's wickedness!
+
+MARY.  Then, _that_ is true, at least: my father is a wicked
+man! . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  I don't want to speak about your father!
+
+MARY.  He is nothing that I have wished him to be: not _brave_ . . .
+
+VICAR.  Yes--_that_ at least!
+
+MARY [turning towards him].  _Beautiful_? . . .
+
+VICAR.  What do you mean by beautiful?
+
+MARY.  You know what I mean: What you once said God was, when you
+called _Him_ beautiful.
+
+VICAR.  I have no right to judge your father.
+
+[She perceives the evasion.]
+
+MARY.  Not even--_good_?  . . .
+
+VICAR.  He is what I have made him.  I and no other!
+
+[She stands looking at him piteously.]
+
+AUNTIE.  There is another--I!  I kept them apart: I poisoned your
+uncle against him: I took you away from him: It was I who kept you
+in ignorance of your father!
+
+MARY.  Why?  . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  Because he stands in the way of my husband's happiness!
+Because, even, he is your father!  Because I hate him!  I could
+almost _wish him dead_!
+
+VICAR.  Martha! . . .
+
+[There is a long pause.]
+
+MARY.  Then I have nobody, now.  It's no use wishing any more.
+
+AUNTIE.  Mary . . .
+
+MARY.  No! . . .  I want to be alone.
+
+[She goes out into the garden.  They follow her out with their
+eyes.]
+
+VICAR.  So! God has revealed His partisanship!--He has beggared us
+both!
+
+[AUNTIE considers this for a moment.  Then, with sudden
+determination, she rises.]
+
+AUNTIE.  I am not going to be beggared without a struggle for it,
+William!
+
+[She moves briskly across to the bell.]
+
+VICAR.  What are you going to do, Martha?
+
+AUNTIE, [flashing round passionately, before she can ring the
+bell].  Do you think I am going to stand by and see your life
+wrecked--yours and that child's?
+
+VICAR.  We are not the only persons concerned, Martha.
+
+AUNTIE.  As far as I care, you are!
+
+VICAR.  And what of Robert? . . .
+
+AUNTIE.  Robert!  That's what I'm going to see to now!
+
+[She rings the bell.]
+
+There's only one way of dealing with a brute like that!
+
+VICAR.  What's that?
+
+AUNTIE.  Pack him off to Australia, Africa--anywhere, so long as we
+are never pestered with him again!
+
+VICAR, Do you think you'll get him to go?
+
+AUNTIE.  Oh, I'll find the money!  A drunkard like that will do
+anything for money!  Well, he shall have plenty: perhaps he'll
+drink himself to . . .
+
+VICAR.  By Heaven, but I say no!
+
+AUNTIE.  By Heaven, but I say yes!  It's about time I took things
+in hand again!  Do you think I'm going to risk that child learning
+everything?  She knows more than enough already!  Providentially,
+she does not know the worst!
+
+VICAR.  And what knowledge do you consider Providence has so kindly
+spared her?
+
+AUNTIE.  The knowledge who that man was!  She shall never know, if
+I can have my way!  [She rings the bell again, impatiently.]  Why
+doesn't he come?  Why doesn't he come?
+
+VICAR.  Who?
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson.
+
+[Enter MANSON by the main door.  There is a subtle change in the
+manner of him, a look in his eye, as of the servant merging in the
+master.]
+
+MANSON.  You rang.
+
+AUNTIE.  Yes, come in, Manson.  I want to have a little
+confidential talk with you--confidential, you understand.
+
+MANSON [eying her].  If you please.  I expected this.
+
+[He has the air of a judge.  She hurries on, unheeding.]
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson, you saw everything.  You were here when that
+dreadful creature arrived.
+
+MANSON.  Which?
+
+AUNTIE.  Why, my husband's brother, Robert.  Didn't you tell me,
+William, that Manson heard everything he said?
+
+VICAR.  Yes.
+
+AUNTIE.  Then you will know the wretched plight we are in.  Manson,
+it's terrible.  I want your help.  By-the-way, you have not spoken
+about it to the other servants?
+
+MANSON.  I am always most discreet.
+
+AUNTIE [touched].  Thank you, Manson, thank you: I felt that I
+could trust you.  It's to prove my trust that I've sent for you
+now.  Perhaps I'd better begin by explaining everything quite
+clearly, so that you . . .
+
+MANSON.  There is no need.  I know everything already.
+
+AUNTIE, Everything!  How? . . .
+
+MANSON.  A certain gift of divination--mine by birth.  And,
+besides, you forget that I had a long conversation with your
+brother-in-law after master left the room.
+
+AUNTIE.  What!  Whilst my brother was here?
+
+MANSON.  Yes: we all three had breakfast together.
+
+AUNTIE.  Breakfast together!  Then James has heard all!
+
+MANSON.  Not quite all.  You may have observed that your brother is
+a little deaf.
+
+AUNTIE.  But surely--  What did he think?
+
+MANSON.  He mistook him for your husband.
+
+AUNTIE.  My husband!
+
+MANSON.  Your brother is also a little blind, remember.
+
+AUNTIE [delighted].  Then James never found out? . . .
+
+MANSON.  Oh yes: I took care to undeceive him on the point.
+
+AUNTIE.  Good gracious! How did he take it?
+
+MANSON.  At first, a little angrily; but, after a while, some few
+poor words of my own chanced to move him to more--_profitable_
+meditation.
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson, you're perfectly wonderful!  I respect you very,
+very much!
+
+MANSON.  It is not enough.  I shall require more.
+
+AUNTIE [embarrassed].  Oh, of course, I shall be glad to do
+anything that . . .
+
+Why, what do you mean? . . .
+
+MANSON.  I mean that service such as mine demands a greater
+recompense!
+
+AUNTIE.  You may be sure that anything in reason . . .
+
+MANSON.  It must go beyond that!
+
+AUNTIE.  Well, what do you ask?
+
+MANSON.  The uttermost obedience, loyalty, and love!
+
+AUNTIE.  Manson, how dare you!  By what right . . .
+
+MANSON.  By my own right!
+
+AUNTIE.  This is insolence!  What right do you mean?
+
+MANSON.  The right of understanding, the right of purpose, and the
+right of will!
+
+AUNTIE.  You force me to speak angrily to you!  Do you forget that
+you are my servant?
+
+MANSON.  No!  And, therefore, it is my office to command you now!
+
+Sit down, and hear me speak!
+
+VICAR.  He has been sent to help us!  Martha, this is God!
+
+MANSON.  Over here, please.  [He points to the settee.]
+
+AUNTIE.  I . . .  I . . .
+
+[MANSON still points.  She wavers as in a dream, and at length
+moves mechanically across the room, obeying him.]
+
+MANSON.  Now, let me tell you exactly why you have sent for me
+here.  There is a strange and wretched turmoil in your soul: you
+have done wrong, and you know it--but you don't know all!  You
+would keep what miserable little right you have by bolstering it up
+with further wrong.  And you have sent for me to help you in that
+wrong!
+
+AUNTIE.  How dare you say that?
+
+MANSON.  Haven't you sent for me to help you in your plans about
+his brother, Robert?
+
+AUNTIE [faintly].  What plans? . . .
+
+MANSON.  The plan of banishing him further from your lives than
+ever!  The plan of _providing_ for him!  The plan of patching up
+his bitter wrongs with gold!
+
+AUNTIE.  How did you know that?
+
+MANSON.  I know _you_!  What, do you think that God's eyes are like
+your brother's--blind?  Or do you think these things can be done in
+darkness without crying aloud to Heaven for light?
+
+AUNTIE.  I am here to work my will, not yours!
+
+MANSON.  What gain do you hope to bring yourself by that?
+
+AUNTIE.  I am not thinking of myself!  I am thinking only of my
+husband's happiness!
+
+MANSON.  Behold the happiness you have already brought him!
+
+AUNTIE.  There is the child!  It would break her heart!
+
+MANSON.  What is her heart but broken now--by you?
+
+AUNTIE, Robert himself would be the first to repudiate any other
+plan.
+
+MANSON.  Have you tried him?
+
+AUNTIE.  Of course not; but he must see the impossibility.
+
+MANSON.  What impossibility?
+
+AUNTIE.  The impossibility of having him here: the impossibility of
+letting him see the child: the impossibility of him and his brother
+ever meeting again!
+
+MANSON.  Is that your only difficulty?
+
+AUNTIE.  Only difficulty!  What, would you have me welcome him with
+open arms?
+
+MANSON.  Yes, and heart, too!
+
+AUNTIE.  Have him here, entertain him, treat him as a guest?
+
+MANSON.  As an honoured guest!
+
+AUNTIE.  In this house?
+
+MANSON.  This house.
+
+AUNTIE.  Good Heavens! what else?
+
+MANSON.  Sweep and garnish it throughout, seek out and cleanse its
+hidden corners, make it fair and ready to lodge him royally as a
+brother!
+
+AUNTIE [desperately].  I won't do it!  I can't!  I can't!
+
+MANSON.  With my assistance, you can!
+
+VICAR.  Manson, how can we bring it about?
+
+AUNTIE, I daren't!  I daren't!
+
+VICAR.  I dare!  I will!
+
+AUNTIE.  In God's name, how is it possible?
+
+MANSON.  _Make me the lord and master of this house for one little
+hour_!
+
+VICAR.  By Heaven, yes!
+
+MANSON.  And you?  You? . . .
+
+[She falters a few moments: then, utterly broken down, she
+whispers, feebly.]
+
+AUNTIE.  Yes.
+
+MANSON.  Then first TO CLEANSE IT OF ITS ABOMINATIONS!
+
+[The BISHOP enters from the drawing-room.  He carries a letter in
+his hand.]
+
+BISHOP.  Well, here is the letter I have written to the secretary
+of our Society: I have explained everything quite nicely; and have
+warned him, of course, against doing anything definite in the
+matter until we have consulted your dear brother.  Now . . .  Eh,
+what?  Oh! . . .
+
+[MANSON has tapped his ear, peremptorily: he fixes his ear-trumpet.]
+
+MANSON.  I bear you a message from the master of this house.  Leave
+it.
+
+BISHOP.  Really, I . . . . . . .  Most extraordinary!  Hm!
+
+[He blows down the ear-trumpet, and afterwards wipes it very
+carefully with his handkerchief.  MANSON stands, as though carven
+in marble, waiting for him to fix it again.]
+
+Now: again, please.
+
+MANSON.  You are no longer necessary.  Leave this house.
+
+BISHOP.  You scoundrel!  You impudent scoundrel!  You . . .
+You . . .
+
+Give me back my five-pound note!
+
+MANSON [pointing to the fire].  It is invested for you.
+
+BISHOP.  I will have it back at once!
+
+MANSON.  Hereafter, was the arrangement.
+
+BISHOP.  Mr. Smythe!  Where are you?  Do you hear what this
+blackguard says?
+
+VICAR.  I endorse it, every word.
+
+BISHOP.  Martha! . . .
+
+[She turns away from him as from some horror of sin.  The BISHOP
+stands dumfounded for a moment or two: then he boils over.]
+
+Now I see it all! I've been trapped, I've been tricked!  Martha,
+this is all your doing!  Brought me here on a trumped-up story of
+relationship with the Bishop of Benares, to insult me!  Oh, what
+would that godly man say if he heard of it!--And he shall hear of
+it, believe me!  Your infamy shall be spread abroad!  So this is
+your revenge, sir--[he turns to the VICAR]--your revenge for the
+contumely with which I have very properly treated you, sir!  Now I
+understand why I was made to sit down and eat sausages with a
+butler--yes, sir, with a butler and a common working-man!  Oh!  I
+could die with shame!  You have bereft me of all words!  You . . .
+You . . .  You are no scholar, sir!  And your Greek is
+contemptible! . . .
+
+[He crosses to AUNTIE.] Martha!  You are no sister of mine
+henceforward!  [Going, he returns to her.]  Anathema maranatha!
+
+[He bounces up to the door, but turns back again for a last word
+with MANSON.]
+
+And I have one word for you, sir!  You are a scoundrel, sir--a
+cheat, an impostor!  And if I could have my way with you, I would
+have you publicly whipped: I would visit you with the utmost rigour
+of the law: I would nail you up, sir, for an example!
+
+MANSON.  I have encountered similar hostility before, my lord--from
+gentlemen very like your lordship.  Allow me . . .
+
+[He opens the door, his eyes flashing.]
+
+BISHOP.  Don't trouble, sir.  I can get my hat and my stick and my
+portmanteau for myself!  I can do very well without your
+assistance--thank God!
+
+[He stumps out.  MANSON closes the door after him, barring it, as
+it were, with his great left arm.  He lifts the other arm slowly,
+as commanding silence.  After a moment the front door is heard
+slamming noisily.]
+
+[AUNTIE sinks, weeping, upon the settee.  The VICAR goes over to
+comfort her.  The uplifted hand of MANSON assumes the BISHOP'S sign
+of blessing as the curtain slowly falls.]
+
+
+
+
+THE FIFTH ACT
+
+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.]
+
+IT AIN'T NO DRAIN AT ALL!
+
+ALL [breathlessly].  Why, what is it, then? . . .
+
+ROBERT.  IT'S A GRIVE!
+
+ALL.  A grave! . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Yus, one o' them whoppin' great beer-vaults as you shove
+big bugses' corpses inter!  What d'yer think o' that now?
+
+MARY.    ) Oh! . . .
+AUNTIE.  ) Horrible! . . .
+
+VICAR.  I seem to remember some tradition . . .
+
+ROBERT, You'd 'a' said so if you'd seen wot I seen!  Talk abaht
+corfins an' shrouds an' bones an' dead men gone to rot, they wasn't
+in it, wot I saw dahn there!  Madame Twosoes is a flea-bite to it!
+Lord!--I never thought there could be such a lot o' muck an' dead
+things all in one place before!  It was a fair treat, it was, I tek
+my oath! . . .
+
+[Rapturously].  Why--why, it may cost a man 'is LIFE to deal with
+that little job!
+
+VICAR.  My God!  The thing's impossible!
+
+ROBERT.  Impossible!  Means a bit of work, that's all!
+
+VICAR.  Why, no one would ever dare . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Dare!  Why, wot d'you think I come 'ere for? . . .
+
+VICAR.  _You_! . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Yus--makin' myself unpleasant . . .
+
+VICAR.  Do you mean . . .  Do I understand . . .
+
+ROBERT.  I mean as I've found _my place_, or I don't know a good
+thing when I see it!
+
+AUNTIE.  What! To go into that dreadful vault, and . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Why not: ain't it my job?
+
+AUNTIE.  But you said--perhaps--_death_ . . .
+
+ROBERT.  It's worth it, it's a lovely bit of work!
+
+VICAR.  No, ten thousand times, no!  The sacrifice is too much!
+
+ROBERT.  You call that sacrifice?--It's fun: not 'arf!
+
+VICAR.  I had rather see the church itself . . .
+
+ROBERT.  What, you call yourself a clergyman!
+
+VICAR.  I call myself nothing: I _am_ nothing--less than nothing in
+all this living world!
+
+ROBERT.  By God, but I call myself summat--I'M THE _DRAIN-MAN_,
+THAT'S WOT I AM!
+
+VICAR [feverishly].  You shall not go! . . .
+
+ROBERT.  Why, wot is there to fear? Ain't it worth while, to move
+away that load o' muck!
+
+VICAR.  The stench--the horror--the darkness . . .
+
+ROBERT.  What's it matter, if the comrides up above 'av' light an'
+joy an' a breath of 'olesome air to sing by? . . .
+
+VICAR.  Hour by hour--dying--alone . . .
+
+ROBERT.  The comrides up in the spans an arches, joinin' 'ands . . .
+
+VICAR.  Fainter and fainter, below there, and at last--an endless
+silence! . . .
+
+ROBERT.  'Igh in the dome, the 'ammerin's of the comrides as 'av'
+climbed aloft!
+
+AUNTIE.  William, there is yet one other way! . . .
+
+VICAR.  Yes, yes, I see: I see! . . .  [To ROBERT].  Then--you mean
+to go?
+
+ROBERT.  By 'Eaven, yus!
+
+VICAR.  Then, by God and all the powers of grace, you shall not go
+alone!  Off with these lies and make-believes!  Off with these
+prisoner's shackles!  They cramp, they stifle me!  Freedom!
+Freedom!  This is no priest's work--it calls for a man! . . .
+
+[He tears off his parson's coat and collar, casting them furiously
+aside.  He rolls up his sleeves.]
+
+Now, if you're ready, Comrade: you and I together!
+
+AUNTIE.  God's might go with you, William!  Accept him, Christ!
+
+[There is a silence.  Then ROBERT speaks with slow consideration.]
+
+ROBERT.  I--don't--know.  It's dangerous, you understand!
+
+VICAR.  I go with you.
+
+ROBERT.  This ain't psalms an 'ymns an' ole maids' tea-parties,
+mind you!  It may mean typhoid!
+
+VICAR.  I understand.
+
+ROBERT.  Rats.
+
+VICAR.  Yes.
+
+ROBERT.  They don't leave you alone: they got teeth,
+remember--poison in 'em!
+
+VICAR.  I will go with you.
+
+[A slight pause.  Then ROBERT, dropping into a quite ordinary tone,
+says.]
+
+ROBERT.  Then let's 'av' summat so eat, an' get along.  There's
+nuthin' more to say.
+
+MARY [inspired].  Yes, there is!
+
+ROBERT.  What do you mean, miss?
+
+MARY.  I mean that I understand: that I know who you are.
+
+ROBERT.  Me? . . .
+
+MARY [simply].  Yes, you are my father.
+
+ROBERT.  'Ow the everlastin' did you know that?
+
+MARY [going up to him].  Because you are my wish come true: because
+you are brave, because you are very beautiful, because you are good!
+
+ROBERT.  My little kid! My little kid!
+
+[They embrace each other.]
+
+VICAR.  Robert!  [Taking his left hand].
+
+AUNTIE.  Brother!  [Taking his other hand.]
+
+[They form a kind of cross.]
+
+[MANSON and ROGERS re-enter with table-cloth, etc., for lunch.]
+
+MANSON.  Come along, Rogers.  Take that end.
+
+[They lay the cloth, as it were with ceremonial gravity, MANSON
+being at the upper end of the table.  They pay no heed to the
+others, who watch them interestedly.]
+
+ROBERT.  I could just do with a good, square feed.  My work meks me
+'ungry.
+
+MANSON.  Flowers, Rogers.
+
+[ROGERS brings vase from side-board and places it on the VICAR'S
+side of the table.   MANSON removes it to a more communal position.
+Presently looking up, he sees the group to his left watching him.]
+
+Oh, beg pardon, sir: perhaps you'd like to know--the Bishop of
+Benares is here.
+
+VICAR.  What, already!  Let's have him in at once!
+
+[MANSON deliberates with the flowers before he speaks.]
+
+MANSON.  He is here.
+
+[The VICAR crosses towards him.]
+
+VICAR.  What do you mean?  Where is he?
+
+[MANSON looks at him over the flowers.]
+
+MANSON.  Here.
+
+[The VICAR steps back, gazing at him.  After a moment he gasps.]
+
+VICAR.  In God's name, who are you?
+
+MANSON.  In God's Name--your brother.
+
+[He holds out his hand.  The VICAR takes it, sinking to his knees
+and sobbing as one broken yet healed.]
+
+[The curtain descends slowly.]
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Servant in the House, by Charles Rann Kennedy
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