Chapter 3

FANNY [_still keeping it up_]. George Newte! Of course—ah, yes. Do you mind showing him up?

BENNET. I thought I would let you know he had arrived, in case you might be getting anxious about him. I propose giving him a glass of beer and sending him away again.

FANNY [_flares up_]. Look here, uncle, you and I have got to understand one another. I may put up with being bullied myself—if I can’t see any help for it—but I’m not going to stand my friends being insulted. You show Mr. Newte up here.

_A silence_.

BENNET. I shall deem it my duty to inform his lordship of Mr. Newte’s visit.

FANNY. There will be no need to. Mr. Newte, if his arrangements permit, will be staying to dinner.

BENNET. That, we shall see about. [_He goes out_.]

FANNY [_following him to door_]. And tell them I shall want the best bedroom got ready in case Mr. Newte is able to stay the night. I’ve done it. [_She goes to piano_, _dashes into the_ “_Merry Widow Waltz_,” _or some other equally inappropriate but well-known melody_, _and then there enters Newte_, _shown in by Bennet_. _Newte is a cheerful person_, _attractively dressed in clothes suggestive of a successful bookmaker_. _He carries a white pot hat and tasselled cane_. _His gloves are large and bright_. _He is smoking an enormous cigar_.]

BENNET. Mr. Newte.

FANNY [_she springs up and greets him_. _They are evidently good friends_]. Hulloa, George!

NEWTE. Hulloa, Fan—I beg your pardon, Lady Bantock. [_Laughs_.] Was just passing this way—

FANNY [_cutting him short_]. Yes. So nice of you to call.

NEWTE. I said to myself—[_His eye catches Bennet_; _he stops_.] Ah, thanks. [_He gives Bennet his hat and stick_, _but Bennet does not seem satisfied_. _He has taken from the table a small china tray_. _This he is holding out to Newte_, _evidently for Newte to put something in it_. _But what_? _Newte is puzzled_, _he glances at Fanny_. _The idea strikes him that perhaps it is a tip Bennet is waiting for_. _It seems odd_, _but if it be the custom—he puts his hand to his trousers pocket_.]

BENNET. The smoking-room is on the ground-floor.

NEWTE. Ah, my cigar. I beg your pardon. I couldn’t understand. [_He puts it on the tray—breaks into a laugh_.]

BENNET. Thank you. Her ladyship is suffering from a headache. If I might suggest—a little less boisterousness. [_He goes out_.]

NEWTE [_he watches him out_]. I say, your Lord Chamberlain’s a bit of a freezer!

FANNY. Yes. Wants hanging out in the sun. How did you manage to get here so early? [_She sits_.]

NEWTE. Well, your telegram rather upset me. I thought—correct etiquette for me to sit down here, do you think?

FANNY. Don’t ask me. Got enough new tricks of my own to learn. [_Laughs_.] Should chance it, if I were you.

NEWTE. Such a long time since I was at Court. [_He sits_.] Yes, I was up at five o’clock this morning.

FANNY [_laughs_]. Oh, you poor fellow!

NEWTE. Caught the first train to Melton, and came on by cart. What’s the trouble?

FANNY. A good deal. Why didn’t you tell me what I was marrying?

NEWTE. I did. I told you that he was a gentleman; that he—

FANNY. Why didn’t you tell me that he was Lord Bantock? You knew, didn’t you?

NEWTE [_begins to see worries ahead_]. Can’t object to my putting a cigar in my mouth if I don’t light it—can he?

FANNY. Oh, light it—anything you like that will help you to get along.

NEWTE [_bites the end off the cigar and puts it between his teeth_. _This helps him_]. No, I didn’t know—not officially.

FANNY. What do you mean—“not officially”?

NEWTE. He never told me.

FANNY. He never told you _anything_—for the matter of that. I understood you had found out everything for yourself.

NEWTE. Yes; and one of the things I found out was that he didn’t _want_ you to know. I could see his little game. Wanted to play the Lord Burleigh fake. Well, what was the harm? Didn’t make any difference to you!

FANNY. Didn’t make any difference to me! [_Jumps up_.] Do you know what I’ve done? Married into a family that keeps twenty-three servants, every blessed one of whom is a near relation of my own. [_He sits paralysed_. _She goes on_.] That bald-headed old owl—[_with a wave towards the door_]—that wanted to send you off with a glass of beer and a flea in your ear—that’s my uncle. The woman that opened the lodge gate for you is my Aunt Amelia. The carroty-headed young man that answered the door to you is my cousin Simeon. He always used to insist on kissing me. I’m expecting him to begin again. My “lady’s” maid is my cousin Jane. That’s why I’m dressed like this! My own clothes have been packed off to the local dressmaker to be made “decent.” Meanwhile, they’ve dug up the family vault to find something for me to go on with. [_He has been fumbling in all his pockets for matches_. _She snatches a box from somewhere and flings it to him_.] For Heaven’s sake light it! Then, perhaps, you’ll be able to do something else than stare. I have claret and water—mixed—with my dinner. Uncle pours it out for me. They’ve locked up my cigarettes. Aunt Susannah is coming in to-morrow morning to hear me say my prayers. Doesn’t trust me by myself. Thinks I’ll skip them. She’s the housekeeper here. I’ve got to know them by heart before I go to bed to-night, and now I’ve mislaid them. [_She goes to the desk—hunts for them_.]

NEWTE [_having lighted his eternal cigar_, _he can begin to think_]. But why should _they_—

FANNY [_still at desk_]. Because they’re that sort. They honestly think they are doing the right and proper thing—that Providence has put it into their hands to turn me out a passable substitute for all a Lady Bantock should be; which, so far as I can understand, is something between the late lamented Queen Victoria and Goody-Two-Shoes. They are the people that I ran away from, the people I’ve told you about, the people I’ve always said I’d rather starve than ever go back to. And here I am, plumped down in the midst of them again—for life! [_Honoria Bennet_, _the_ “_still-room_” _maid_, _has entered_. _She is a pert young minx of about Fanny’s own age_.] What is is? What is it?

HONORIA. Merely passing through. Sorry to have excited your ladyship. [_Goes into dressing-room_.]

FANNY. My cousin Honoria. They’ve sent her up to keep an eye upon me. Little cat! [_She takes her handkerchief_, _drapes it over the keyhole of the dressing-room door_.]

NEWTE [_at sight of Honoria he has jumped up and hastily hidden his cigar behind him_]. What are you going to do?

FANNY [_she seats herself and suggests to him the writing-chair_]. Hear from you—first of all—exactly what you told Vernon.

NEWTE [_sitting_]. About you?

FANNY [_nods_]. About me—and my family.

NEWTE. Well—couldn’t tell him much, of course. Wasn’t much to tell.

FANNY. I want what you did tell.

NEWTE. I told him that your late father was a musician.

FANNY. Yes.

NEWTE. Had been unfortunate. Didn’t go into particulars. Didn’t seem to be any need for it. That your mother had died when you were still only a girl and that you had gone to live with relatives. [_He looks for approval_.]

FANNY. Yes.

NEWTE. That you hadn’t got on well with them—artistic temperament, all that sort of thing—that, in consequence, you had appealed to your father’s old theatrical friends; and that they—that they, having regard to your talent—and beauty—

FANNY. Thank you.

NEWTE. Had decided that the best thing you could do was to go upon the stage. [_He finishes_, _tolerably well pleased with himself_.]

FANNY. That’s all right. Very good indeed. What else?

NEWTE [_after an uncomfortable pause_]. Well, that’s about all I knew.

FANNY. Yes, but what did you _tell_ him?

NEWTE. Well, of course, I had to tell him something. A man doesn’t marry without knowing just a little about his wife’s connections. Wouldn’t be reasonable to expect him. You’d never told me anything—never would; except that you’d liked to have boiled the lot. What was I to do? [_He is playing with a quill pen he has picked up_.]

FANNY [_she takes it from him_]. What _did_ you do?

NEWTE [_with fine frankness_]. I did the best I could for you, old girl, and he was very nice about it. Said it was better than he’d expected, and that I’d made him very happy—very happy indeed.

FANNY [_she leans across_, _puts her hand on his_]. You’re a dear, good fellow, George—always have been. I wouldn’t plague you only it is absolutely necessary I should know—exactly what you did tell him.

NEWTE [_a little sulkily_]. I told him that your uncle was a bishop.

FANNY [_sits back—staring at him_]. A what?

NEWTE. A bishop. Bishop of Waiapu, New Zealand.

FANNY. Why New Zealand?

NEWTE. Why not? Had to be somewhere. Didn’t want him Archbishop of Canterbury, did you?

FANNY. Did he believe it?

NEWTE. Shouldn’t have told him had there been any fear that he wouldn’t.

FANNY. I see. Any other swell relations of mine knocking about?

NEWTE. One—a judge of the Supreme Court in Ohio. Same name, anyhow, O’Gorman. Thought I’d make him a cousin of yours. I’ve always remembered him. Met him when I was over there in ninety-eight—damn him!

_A silence_.

FANNY [_she rises_]. Well, nothing else for it! Got to tell him it was all a pack of lies. Not blaming you, old boy—my fault. Didn’t know he was going to ask any questions, or I’d have told him myself. Bit of bad luck, that’s all.

NEWTE. Why must you tell him? Only upset him.

FANNY. It’s either my telling him or leaving it for them to do. You know me, George. How long do you see me being bossed and bullied by my own servants? Besides, it’s bound to come out in any case.

NEWTE [_he rises_. _Kindly but firmly he puts her back into her chair_. _Then pacing to and fro with his hands mostly in his trousers pockets_, _he talks_]. Now, you listen to me, old girl. I’ve been your business manager ever since you started in. I’ve never made a mistake before—[_he turns and faces her_]—and I haven’t made one this time.

FANNY. I don’t really see the smartness, George, stuffing him up with a lot of lies he can find out for himself.

NEWTE. _If he wants to_. A couple of telegrams, one to His Grace the Bishop of Waiapu, the other to Judge Denis O’Gorman, Columbus, Ohio, would have brought him back the information that neither gentlemen had ever heard of you. _If he hadn’t been careful not to send them_. He wasn’t marrying you with the idea of strengthening his family connections. He was marrying you because he was just gone on you. Couldn’t help himself.

FANNY. In that case, you might just as well have told him the truth.

NEWTE. _Which he would then have had to pass on to everyone entitled to ask questions_. Can’t you understand? Somebody, in the interest of everybody, had to tell a lie. Well, what’s a business manager for?

FANNY. But I can’t do it, George. You don’t know them. The longer I give in to them the worse they’ll get.

NEWTE. Can’t you square them?

FANNY. No, that’s the trouble. They _are_ honest. They’re the “faithful retainers” out of a melodrama. They are working eighteen hours a day on me not for any advantage to themselves, but because they think it their “duty” to the family. They don’t seem to have any use for themselves at all.

NEWTE. Well, what about the boy? Can’t _he_ talk to them?

FANNY. Vernon! They’ve brought him up from a baby—spanked him all round, I expect. Might as well ask a boy to talk to his old schoolmaster. Besides, if he did talk, then it would all come out. As I tell you, it’s bound to come out—and the sooner the better.

NEWTE. It must _not_ come out! It’s too late. If we had told him at the beginning that he was proposing to marry into his own butler’s family—well, it’s an awkward situation—he might have decided to risk it. Or he might have cried off.

FANNY. And a good job if he had.

NEWTE. Now talk sense. You wanted him—you took a fancy to him from the beginning. He’s a nice boy, and there’s something owing to him. [_It is his trump card_, _and he knows it_.] Don’t forget that. He’s been busy, explaining to all his friends and relations why they should receive you with open arms: really nice girl, born gentlewoman, good old Church of England family—no objection possible. For you to spring the truth upon him _now_—well, it doesn’t seem to me quite fair to _him_.

FANNY. Then am I to live all my life dressed as a charity girl?

NEWTE. You keep your head and things will gradually right themselves. This family of yours—they’ve got _some_ sense, I suppose?

FANNY. Never noticed any sign of it myself.

NEWTE. Maybe you’re not a judge. [_Laughs_.] They’ll listen to reason. You let _me_ have a talk to them, one of these days; see if I can’t show them—first one and then the other—the advantage of leaving to “better” themselves—_with the help of a little ready money_. Later on—choosing your proper time—you can break it to him that you have discovered they’re distant connections of yours, a younger branch of the family that you’d forgotten. Give the show time to settle down into a run. Then you can begin to make changes.

FANNY. You’ve a wonderful way with you, George. It always sounds right as you put it—even when one jolly well knows that it isn’t.

NEWTE. Well, it’s always been right for you, old girl, ain’t it?

FANNY. Yes. You’ve been a rattling good friend. [_She takes his hands_.] Almost wish I’d married you instead. We’d have been more suited to one another.

NEWTE [_shakes his head_]. Nothing like having your fancy. You’d never have been happy without him. [_He releases her_.] ’Twas a good engagement, or I’d never have sanctioned it.

FANNY. I suppose it will be the last one you will ever get me. [_She has dropped for a moment into a brown study_.]

NEWTE [_he turns_]. I hope so.

FANNY [_she throws off her momentary mood with a laugh_]. Poor fellow! You never even got your commission.

NEWTE. I’ll take ten per cent. of all your happiness, old girl. So make it as much as you can for my benefit. Good-bye. [_He holds out hand_.]

FANNY. You’re not going? You’ll stop to lunch?

NEWTE. Not to-day.

FANNY. Do. If you don’t, they’ll think it’s because I was frightened to ask you.

NEWTE. All the better. The more the other party thinks he’s having his way, the easier always to get your own. Your trouble is, you know, that you never had any tact.

FANNY. I hate tact. [_Newte laughs_.] We could have had such a jolly little lunch together. I’m all alone till the evening. There were ever so many things I wanted to talk to you about.

NEWTE. What?

FANNY. Ah, how can one talk to a man with his watch in his hand? [_He puts it away and stands waiting_, _but she is cross_.] I think you’re very disagreeable.

NEWTE. I must really get back to town. I oughtn’t to be away now, only your telegram—

FANNY. I know. I’m an ungrateful little beast! [_She crosses and rings bell_.] You’ll have a glass of champagne before you go?

NEWTE. Well, I won’t say no to that.

FANNY. How are all the girls?

NEWTE. Oh, chirpy. I’m bringing them over to London. We open at the Palace next week.

FANNY. What did they think of my marriage? Gerty was a bit jealous, wasn’t she?

NEWTE. Well, would have been, if she’d known who he was. [_Laughs_.]

FANNY. Tell her. Tell her [_she draws herself up_] I’m Lady Bantock, of Bantock Hall, Rutlandshire. It will make her so mad. [_Laughs_.]

NEWTE [_laughs_]. I will.

FANNY. Give them all my love. [_Ernest appears in answer to her bell_.] Oh, Ernest, tell Bennet—[_the eyes and mouth of Ernest open_]—to see that Mr. Newte has some refreshment before he leaves. A glass of champagne and—and some caviare. Don’t forget. [_Ernest goes out_.] Good-bye. You’ll come again?

NEWTE. Whenever you want me—and remember—the watchword is “Tact”!

FANNY. Yes, I’ve got the _word_ all right. [_Laughs_.] Don’t forget to give my love to the girls.

NEWTE. I won’t. So long! [_He goes out_.]

_Fanny closes the door_. _Honoria has re-entered from the dressing-room_. _She looks from the handkerchief still hanging over the keyhole to Fanny_.

HONORIA. Your ladyship’s handkerchief?

FANNY. Yes. Such a draught through that keyhole.

HONORIA [_takes the handkerchief_, _hands it to Fanny_]. I will tell the housekeeper.

FANNY. Thanks. Maybe you will also mention it to the butler. Possibly also to the—[_She suddenly changes_.] Honoria. Suppose it had been you—you know, you’re awfully pretty—who had married Lord Bantock, and he had brought you back here, among them all—uncle, aunt, all the lot of them—what would you have done?

HONORIA [_she draws herself up_]. I should have made it quite plain from the first, that I was mistress, and that they were my servants.

FANNY. You would, you think—

HONORIA [_checking her outburst_]. But then, dear—you will excuse my speaking plainly—there is a slight difference between the two cases. [_She seats herself on the settee_. _Fanny is standing near the desk_.] You see, what we all feel about you, dear, is—that you are—well, hardly a fit wife for his lordship. [_Fanny’s hands are itching to box the girl’s ears_. _To save herself_, _she grinds out through her teeth the word_ “_Tack_!”] Of course, dear, it isn’t altogether your fault.

FANNY. Thanks.

HONORIA. Your mother’s marriage was most unfortunate.

FANNY [_her efforts to suppress her feelings are just—but only just—successful_.] Need we discuss that?

HONORIA. Well, he was an Irishman, dear, there’s no denying it. [_Fanny takes a cushion from a chair—with her back to Honoria_, _she strangles it_. _Jane has entered and is listening_.] Still, perhaps it is a painful subject. And we hope—all of us—that, with time and patience, we may succeed in eradicating the natural results of your bringing-up.

JANE. Some families, finding themselves in our position, would seek to turn it to their own advantage. _We_ think only of your good.

FANNY. Yes, that’s what I feel—that you are worrying yourselves too much about me. You’re too conscientious, all of you. You, in particular, Jane, because you know you’re not strong. _You’ll_ end up with a nervous breakdown. [_Mrs. Bennet has entered_. _Honoria slips out_. _Fanny turns to her aunt_.] I was just saying how anxious I’m getting about Jane. I don’t like the look of her at all. What she wants is a holiday. Don’t you agree with me?

MRS. BENNET. There will be no holiday, I fear, for any of us, for many a long day.

FANNY. But you must. You must think more of yourselves, you know. _You’re_ not looking well, aunt, at all. What you both want is a month—at the seaside.

MRS. BENNET. Your object is too painfully apparent for the subject to need discussion. True solicitude for us would express itself better in greater watchfulness upon your own behaviour.

FANNY. Why, what have I done?

_Bennet enters_, _followed_, _unwillingly_, _by Ernest_.

MRS. BENNET. Your uncle will explain.

BENNET. Shut that door. [_Ernest does so_. _They group round Bennet—Ernest a little behind_. _Fanny remains near the desk_.] Sit down. [_Fanny_, _bewildered_, _speechless_, _sits_.] Carry your mind back, please, to the moment when, with the Bradshaw in front of you, you were considering, with the help of your cousin Ernest, the possibility of your slipping out unobserved, to meet and commune with a person you had surreptitiously summoned to visit you during your husband’s absence.

FANNY. While I think of it, did he have anything to eat before he went? I told Ernest to—ask you to see that he had a glass of champagne and a—

BENNET [_waves her back into silence_]. Mr. Newte was given refreshment suitable to his station. [_She goes to interrupt_. _Again he waves her back_.] We are speaking of more important matters. Your cousin reminded you that you would have to pass the lodge, occupied by your Aunt Amelia. I state the case correctly?

FANNY. Beautifully!

BENNET. I said nothing at the time, doubting the evidence of my own ears. The boy, however—where is the boy?—[_Ernest is pushed forward_]—has admitted—reluctantly—that he also heard it. [_A pause_. _The solemnity deepens_.] You made use of an expression—

FANNY. Oh, cut it short. I said “damn.” [_A shudder passes_.] I’m sorry to have frightened you, but if you knew a little more of really good society, you would know that ladies—quite slap-up ladies—when they’re excited, do—.

MRS. BENNET [_interrupting with almost a scream_]. She defends it!

BENNET. You will allow _me_ to be the judge of what a _lady_ says, even when she is excited. As for this man, Newte—

FANNY. The best friend you ever had. [_She is_ “_up_” _again_.] You thank your stars, all of you, and tell the others, too, the whole blessed twenty-three of you—you thank your stars that I did “surreptitiously” beg and pray him to run down by the first train and have a talk with me; and that Providence was kind enough to _you_ to enable him to come. It’s a very different tune you’d have been singing at this moment—all of you—if he hadn’t. I can tell you that.

MRS. BENNET. And pray, what tune _should_ we have been singing if Providence hadn’t been so thoughtful of us?

FANNY [_she is about to answer_, _then checks herself_, _and sits again_]. You take care you don’t find out. There’s time yet.

MRS. BENNET. We had better leave her.

BENNET. Threats, my good girl, will not help you.

MRS. BENNET [_with a laugh_]. She’s in too tight a corner for that.

BENNET. A contrite heart is what your aunt and I desire to see. [_He takes from his pocket a small book_, _places it open on the desk_.] I have marked one or two passages, on pages 93–7. We will discuss them together—later in the day.

_They troop out in silence_, _the key turns in the lock_.

FANNY [_takes up the book—turns to the cover_, _reads_]. “The Sinner’s Manual.” [_She turns to page_ 93.]

[CURTAIN]

_ACT III_

_SCENE_

_The same_.

_Time_.—_A few days later_.

_A table is laid for tea_. _Ernest enters with the tea-urn_. _He leaves the door open_; _through it comes the sound of an harmonium_, _accompanying the singing of a hymn_. _Fanny comes from her dressing-room_. _She is dressed more cheerfully than when we last saw her_, _but still_ “_seemly_.” _She has a book in her hand_. _She pauses_, _hearing the music_, _goes nearer to the open door_, _and listens_; _then crosses and takes her place at the table_. _The music ceases_.

FANNY. Another prayer meeting? [_Ernest nods_.] I do keep ’em busy.

ERNEST. D’ye know what they call you downstairs?

FANNY. What?

ERNEST. The family cross.

FANNY. I’m afraid it’s about right.

ERNEST. What have you been doing _this_ time? Swearing again?

FANNY. Worse. I’ve been lying. [_Ernest gives vent to a low whistle_.] Said I didn’t know what had become of that yellow poplin with the black lace flounces, that they’ve had altered for me. Found out that I’d given it to old Mother Potts for the rummage sale at the Vicarage. Jane was down there. Bought it in for half a crown.

ERNEST. You are risky. Why, you might have known—

_Vernon comes in_. _He is in golfing get-up_. _He throws his cap on to the settee_.

VERNON. Hello, got a cup of tea there?

_Ernest goes out_.

FANNY. Yes. Thought you were playing golf?

VERNON. Just had a telegram handed to me in the village—from your friend Newte. Wants me to meet him at Melton Station at five o’clock. [_Looks at his watch_.] Know what he wants?

FANNY. Haven’t the faintest idea. [_She hands him his cup_.] Is he coming _here_? Or merely on his way somewhere?

VERNON. I don’t know; he doesn’t say.

FANNY. Don’t let him mix you up in any of his “ventures.” Dear old George, he’s as honest as the day, but if he gets hold of an “idea” there’s always thousands in it for everybody.