_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.
VERNON. I’ll be careful. [_Ernest has left the door open_. _The
harmonium breaks forth again_, _together with vocal accompaniment as
before_.] What’s on downstairs, then—a party?
FANNY. Bennet is holding a prayer meeting.
VERNON. A prayer meeting?
FANNY. One of the younger members of the family has been detected
“telling a deliberate lie.” [_Vernon is near the door listening_, _with
his back towards her_, _or he would see that she is smiling_.] Black
sheep, I suppose, to be found in every flock. [_Music ceases_, _Ernest
having arrived with the news of his lordship’s return_.]
VERNON [_returning to the table_, _having closed the door_]. Good old
man, you know, Bennet. All of them! So high-principled! Don’t often
get servants like that, nowadays.
FANNY. Seems almost selfish, keeping the whole collection to ourselves.
VERNON [_laughs_]. ’Pon my word it does. But what can we do? They’ll
never leave us—not one of them.
FANNY. No, I don’t believe they ever will.
VERNON. Do you know, I sometimes think that you don’t like them.
[_Fanny makes a movement_.] Of course, they are a bit bossy, I admit.
But all that comes from their devotion, their—
FANNY. The wonder to me is that, brought up among them, admiring them as
you do, you never thought of marrying one of them.
VERNON [_staggered_.] Marrying them?
FANNY. I didn’t say “them.” I said “_one_ of them.” There’s Honoria.
She’s pretty enough, anyhow. So’s Alice, Charles Bennet’s daughter, and
Bertha and Grace—all of them beautiful. And what’s even better
still—good. [_She says it viciously_.] Didn’t you ever think of them?
VERNON. Well [_laughs_]—well, one hardly marries into one’s own kitchen.
FANNY. Isn’t that rather snobbish? You say they’re more like friends
than servants. They’ve lived with your people, side by side, for three
generations, doing their duty, honourably. There’s never been a slur
upon their name. They’re “high-principled.” You know it. They’ve
better manners than nine-tenths of your smart society, and they’re
healthy. What’s wrong with them—even from a lord’s point of view?
VERNON [_recovering himself_]. Well, don’t pitch into me about it. It’s
your fault if I didn’t marry them—I mean one of them. [_He laughs_,
_puts his empty cup back on the table_.] Maybe I’d have thought about
it—if I hadn’t met you.
FANNY [_takes his hand in hers_]. I wish you hadn’t asked Newte any
questions about me. It would have been so nice to feel that you had
married me—just because you couldn’t help it—just because I was I and
nothing else mattered.
VERNON. Let’s forget I ever did. [_He kneels beside her_.] I didn’t do
it for my own sake, as you know. A _man_ in my position has to think of
other people. His wife has to take her place in society. People insist
upon knowing something about her. It’s not enough for the stupid
“County” that she’s the cleverest, most bewilderingly beautiful,
bewitching lady in the land.
FANNY. And how long will you think all that?
VERNON. For ever, and ever, and ever.
FANNY. Oh, you dear boy. [_She kisses him_.] You don’t know how a
woman loves the man she loves to love her. [_Laughs_.] Isn’t that
complicated?
VERNON. Not at all. We’re just the same. We love to love the woman we
love.
FANNY. Provided the “County” will let us. And the County has said: A
man may not marry his butler’s niece.
VERNON [_laughing_]. You’ve got butlers on the brain. If ever I do run
away with my own cook or under-housemaid, it will be your doing.
FANNY. You haven’t the pluck! The “County” would laugh at you. You men
are so frightened of being laughed at.
VERNON [_he rises_]. Well, if it saves us from making asses of
ourselves—
FANNY. Wasn’t there a niece of old Bennet’s, a girl who had been brought
up abroad, and who _wasn’t_ a domestic servant—never had been—who stayed
with them here, at the gardener’s cottage, for a short time, some few
years ago?
VERNON. You mean poor Rose Bennet’s daughter—the one who ran away and
married an organ-grinder.
FANNY. An organ-grinder?
VERNON. Something of that sort—yes. They had her over; did all they
could. A crazy sort of girl; used to sing French ballads on the village
green to all the farm labourers she could collect. Shortened poor
Bennet’s life by about ten years. [_Laughs_.] But why? Not going to
bully me for not having fallen in love with her, are you? Because that
really _wasn’t_ my fault. I never even saw her. ’Twas the winter we
spent in Rome. She bolted before we got back. Never gave me a chance.
FANNY. I accept the excuse. [_Laughs_.] No, I was merely wondering
what the “County” would have done if by any chance you had married _her_.
Couldn’t have said you were marrying into your own kitchen in her case,
because she was never _in_ your kitchen—absolutely refused to enter it,
I’m told.
VERNON [_laughs_]. It would have been a “nice point,” as they say in
legal circles. If people had liked her, they’d have tried to forget that
her cousins had ever been scullery-maids. If not, they’d have taken good
care that nobody did.
_Bennet enters_. _He brings some cut flowers_, _with the_ “_placing_”
_of which he occupies himself_.
BENNET. I did not know your lordship had returned.
VERNON. Found a telegram waiting for me in the village. What’s become
of that niece of yours, Bennet—your sister Rose’s daughter, who was here
for a short time and ran away again? Ever hear anything about her?
BENNET [_very quietly he turns_, _lets his eyes for a moment meet
Fanny’s_. _Then answers as he crosses to the windows_]. The last I
heard about her was that she was married.
VERNON. Satisfactorily?
BENNET. Looking at it from her point of view—most satisfactorily.
VERNON [_laughs_]. But looking at it from his—more doubtful?
BENNET. She was not without her attractions. Her chief faults, I am
inclined to think, were those arising from want of discipline in youth.
I have hopes that it is not even yet too late to root out from her nature
the weeds of indiscretion.
VERNON. And you think he is the man to do it?
BENNET. Perhaps not. But fortunately there are those about her fully
alive to the duty devolving upon them.
VERNON. Um. Sounds a little bit like penal servitude for the poor girl,
the way you put it, Bennet.
BENNET. Even penal servitude may be a blessing, if it serves to correct
a stubborn spirit.
VERNON. We’ll have to make you a J.P., Bennet. Must be jolly careful I
don’t ever get tried before you. [_Laughs_.] Is that the cart?
BENNET [_he looks out through the window_]. Yes, your lordship.
VERNON [_he takes up his cap_]. I may be bringing someone back with me.
[_To Fanny_, _who throughout has remained seated_.] Why not put on your
hat—come with me?
FANNY [_she jumps up_, _delighted_]. Shall I?
BENNET. Your ladyship is not forgetting that to-day is Wednesday?
FANNY. What’s the odds. There’s nobody to call. Everybody is still in
town.
BENNET. It has always been the custom of the Lady Bantocks, when in
residence, to be at home on Wednesdays.
VERNON. Perhaps better not. It may cause talk; if, by chance, anybody
does come. I was forgetting it was Wednesday. [_Fanny sits again_.] I
shan’t do anything without consulting you. Good-bye.
FANNY. Good-bye.
_Vernon goes out_.
BENNET. You think it wise, discussing with his lordship the secret
history of the Bennet family?
FANNY. What do you mean by telling him my father was an organ-grinder?
If the British public knew the difference between music and a
hurdy-gurdy, he would have kept a butler of his own.
BENNET. I am not aware of having mentioned to his lordship that you ever
to my knowledge even had a father. It is not my plan—for the present at
all events—to inform his lordship anything about your family. Take care
I am not forced to.
FANNY. Because my father, a composer who had his work performed at the
Lamoureux Concerts—as I can prove, because I’ve got the programme—had the
misfortune to marry into a family of lackeys—I’m not talking about my
mother: she was never really one of you. _She_ had the soul of an
artist.
BENNET [_white with suppressed fury_; _he is in front of her_; _his very
look is enough to silence her_]. Now you listen to me, my girl, once and
for all. I told you the night of your arrival that whether this business
was going to prove a pleasant or an unpleasant one depended upon you.
You make it an easy one—for your own sake. With one word I can bring
your house of cards about your ears. I’ve only to tell him the truth for
him to know you as a cheat and liar. [_She goes to speak_; _again he
silences her_.] You listen to me. You’ve seen fit to use strong
language; now I’m using strong language. This _boy_, who has married you
in a moment of impulse, what does _he_ know about the sort of wife a man
in his position needs? What do _you_? made to sing for your living on
the Paris boulevards—whose only acquaintance with the upper classes has
been at shady restaurants.
FANNY. He didn’t _want_ a woman of his own class. He told me so. It
was because I wasn’t a colourless, conventional puppet with a book of
etiquette in place of a soul that he was first drawn towards me.
BENNET. Yes. At twenty-two, boys like unconventionality. Men don’t:
they’ve learnt its true name, vulgarity. Do you think I’ve stood behind
English society for forty years without learning anything about it! What
you call a colourless puppet is what _we_ call an English lady. And that
you’ve got to learn to be. You talk of “lackeys.” If your mother, my
poor sister Rose, came from a family of “lackeys” there would be no hope
for you. With her blood in your veins the thing can be done. We
Bennets—[_he draws himself up_]—we serve. We are not lackeys.
FANNY. All right. Don’t you call my father an organ-grinder, and I
won’t call you lackeys. Unfortunately that doesn’t end the trouble.
BENNET. The trouble can easily be ended.
FANNY. Yes. By my submitting to be ruled in all things for the
remainder of my life by my own servants.
BENNET. Say “relations,” and it need not sound so unpleasant.
FANNY. Yes, it would. It would sound worse. One can get rid of one’s
servants. [_She has crossed towards the desk_. _Her cheque-book lies
there half hidden under other papers_. _It catches her eye_. _Her hand
steals unconsciously towards it_. _She taps it idly with her fingers_.
_It is all the work of a moment_. _Nothing comes of it_. _Just the idea
passes through her brain—not for the first time_. _She does nothing
noticeable—merely stands listless while one might count half a dozen—then
turns to him again_.] Don’t you think you’re going it a bit too strong,
all of you? I’m not a fool. I’ve got a lot to learn, I know. I’d be
grateful for help. What you’re trying to do is to turn me into a new
woman entirely.
BENNET. Because that is the only _way_ to help you. Men do not put new
wine into old bottles.
FANNY. Oh, don’t begin quoting Scripture. I want to discuss the thing
sensibly. Don’t you see it can’t be done? I can’t be anybody else than
myself. I don’t want to.
BENNET. My girl, you’ve _got_ to be. Root and branch, inside and
outside, before you’re fit to be Lady Bantock, mother of the Lord
Bantocks that are to be, you’ve got to be a changed woman.
_A pause_.
FANNY. And it’s going to be your job, from beginning to end—yours and
the rest of you. What I wear and how I look is Jane’s affair. My
prayers will be for what Aunt Susannah thinks I stand in need of. What I
eat and drink and say and do _you_ will arrange for me. And when you
die, Cousin Simeon, I suppose, will take your place. And when Aunt
Susannah dies, it will merely be a change to Aunt Amelia. And if Jane
ever dies, Honoria will have the dressing and the lecturing of me. And
so on and so on, world without end, for ever and ever, Amen.
BENNET. Before that time, you will, I shall hope, have learnt sufficient
sense to be grateful to us. [_He goes out_.]
FANNY [_she turns—walks slowly back towards the tea-table_. _Halfway she
pauses_, _and leaning over the back of a chair regards in silence for a
while the portrait of the first Lady Bantock_]. I do wish I could tell
what you were saying.
_The door opens_. _The Misses Wetherell come in_. _They wear the same
frocks that they wore in the first act_. _They pause_. _Fanny is still
gazing at the portrait_.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. Don’t you notice it, dear?
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Yes. There really is.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. It struck me the first day. [_To Fanny_, _who
has turned_] Your likeness, dear, to Lady Constance. It’s really quite
remarkable.
FANNY. You think so?
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. It’s your expression—when you are serious.
FANNY [_laughs_]. I must try to be more serious.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. It will come, dear.
_They take their places side by side on the settee_.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL [_to her sister_, _with a pat of the hand_].
In good time. It’s so nice to have her young. I wonder if anybody’ll
come this afternoon.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [_to Fanny_]. You see, dear, most of the county
people are still in town.
FANNY [_who is pouring out tea_]. I’m not grumbling.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. Oh, you’ll like them, dear. The
Cracklethorpes especially. [_To her sister for confirmation_] Bella
Cracklethorpe is so clever.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. And the Engells. She’ll like the Engells.
All the Engell girls are so pretty. [_Fanny brings over two cups of
tea_.] Thank you, dear.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [_as she takes her cup—patting Fanny’s hand_].
And they’ll like you, dear, _all_ of them.
FANNY [_returning to table_]. I hope so.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. It’s wonderful, dear—you won’t mind my saying
it?—how you’ve improved.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Of course it was such a change for you. And
at first [_turns to her sister_] we were a little anxious about her,
weren’t we?
_Fanny has returned to them with the cake-basket_.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [_as she takes a piece_]. Bennet [_she lingers
on the name as that of an authority_] was saying only yesterday that he
had great hopes of you.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL [_Fanny is handing the basket to her_]. Thank
you, dear.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. I told Vernon. He was _so_ pleased.
FANNY. _Vernon_ was?
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. He attaches so much importance to Bennet’s
opinion.
FANNY. Um. I’m glad I appear to be giving satisfaction. [_She has
returned to her seat at the table_.] I suppose when you go to town, you
take the Bennets with you?
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [_surprised at the question_]. Of course, dear.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Vernon didn’t wish to go this year. He
thought you would prefer—
FANNY. I was merely thinking of when he did. Do you ever go abroad for
the winter? So many people do, nowadays.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. We tried it once. But there was nothing for
dear Vernon to do. You see, he’s so fond of hunting.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL [_to her sister_]. And then there will be his
Parliamentary duties that he will have to take up now.
_Fanny rises_, _abruptly_.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. You’re not ill, dear?
FANNY. No. Merely felt I wanted some air. You don’t mind, do you?
[_She flings a casement open_.]
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Not at all, dear. [_To her sister_] It
_is_ a bit close.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. One could really do without fires.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. If it wasn’t for the evenings.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. And then, of course, the cold weather might
come again. One can never feel safe until—
_The door opens_. _Dr. Freemantle enters_, _announced by Bennet_. _The
old ladies go to rise_. _He stops them_.
DR. FREEMANTLE. Don’t get up. [_He shakes hands with them_.] How are
we this afternoon? [_He shakes his head and clicks his tongue_.]
Really, I think I shall have to bring an action for damages against Lady
Bantock. Ever since she—
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. Hush! [_She points to the window_.] Fanny.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Here’s Doctor Freemantle.
_Fanny comes from the window_.
DR. FREEMANTLE [_he meets her and takes her hand_]. Was just saying, I
really think I shall have to claim damages against you, Lady Bantock.
You’ve practically deprived me of two of my best paying patients. Used
to be sending for me every other day before you came. Now look at them!
[_The two ladies laugh_.] She’s not as bad as we expected. [_He pats
her hand_.] Do you remember my description of what I thought she was
going to be like?
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. She’s a dear girl.