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?