The Servant in the House Part 15

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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.s.]

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 sc.r.a.pe it together? How did he come by it? . . .

AUNTIE. Yes, William, that's true, but the opportunity of turning it to G.o.d's service . . .

VICAR. Do you think any blessing is going to fall upon a church whose every stone is reeking with the b.l.o.o.d.y sweat and anguish of the human creatures whom the wealth of men like that has driven to despair? Shall we base G.o.d'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, circ.u.mstances 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 . . .