SCENE.--_The Vicarage parlour at Cleveheddon. An old-fashioned comfortable room in an old English house. A large window, with low broad sill, takes up nearly all the back of the stage, showing to the right a part of Cleveheddon Minster in ruins. To the left a stretch of West Country landscape. A door, right, leading to house. A fireplace, right. A door, left. Table with chairs, right. A portrait of MICHAEL'S mother hangs on wall at a height of about nine feet. It is a very striking painting of a lady about twenty-eight, very delicate and spirituelle. Time.--A fine spring morning. Discover at the window, looking off right, with face turned away from audience, and in an attitude of strained attention to something outside, ANDREW GIBBARD. Enter FANNY CLOVER, the vicarage servant, showing in the REVEREND MARK DOCWRAY, a middle-aged clergyman._ FANNY. Mr. Feversham is over to the church, sir, but he'll be back directly. (_Exit._) MARK. Andrew---- (_ANDREW turns round, an odd, rather seedy, carelessly-dressed man, a little over forty, rather gaunt, longish hair, an intelligent face with something slightly sinister about it. He shows signs of great recent sorrow and distress._) MARK. Andrew, what is it? ANDR. I'd rather not tell you, Mr. Docwray. MARK. Nothing has happened to Mr. Feversham? ANDR. No. MARK. Come! Come! What's the matter? ANDR. My daughter---- MARK. What ails her? Where is she? ANDR. Over at the church. MARK. What is she doing? ANDR. Making a public confession. MARK. Public confession--of what? ANDR. You'll be sure to hear all about it, so I may as well tell you myself. Perhaps it was my fault, perhaps I neglected her. All my time is given to Mr. Feversham in the library here. While I was buried in my work, and sometimes staying here half the night with Mr. Feversham, a scoundrel ruined my girl. Of course my only thought was to hide it. Was I wrong? MARK. Go on. Tell me all. ANDR. Well, right or wrong, I sent her away to the other end of England. Her child only lived a few weeks. And I brought her back home thinking it was all hushed up. MARK. But it became known? ANDR. Yes. Little by little, things began to leak out. Well, you may blame me if you like--I lied about it; and the more lies I told, the more I had to tell to cover them. Mr. Feversham heard of it and questioned us. Like a fool I lied to him. It wasn't like lying, it was like murdering the truth to tell lies to him. And she had to lie, too. Of course he believed us and defended us against everybody. And then we daredn't tell him the truth. MARK. Go on. What else? ANDR. There's nothing else. It all had to come out at last. MARK. What did Mr. Feversham do? ANDR. He persuaded us that we could never be right with ourselves, or right with our neighbours, or right with our God, till we had unsaid all our lies, and undone our deceit. So we've confessed it this morning. MARK. In church? In public?