As the curtain ascends, Rogers and Manson are discovered laying the
table for breakfast, the lad being at the upper end of the table,
facing the audience, Manson, with his back to the audience, being
at the lower end. Rogers is an ordinary little cockney boy in
buttons; Manson is dressed in his native Eastern costume. His face
is not seen until the point indicated lower down.
ROGERS [glancing across curiously]. Arskin' your pardon, Mr.
Manson. . . .
MANSON. Yes: what is it, Rogers?
ROGERS. Funny thing--cawn't get it out of my 'ead as I've knowed
you somewhere before. Don't scarcely seem possible, do it, Mr.
Manson?
MANSON. Many things are possible in this world, Rogers.
ROGERS. That's all right; but 'ow long 'av' you been in England,
Mr. Manson?
MANSON. I landed late last night, if that's what you mean.
ROGERS. Well, I never been in the continong of Asia, where you
come from; and there you are!
MANSON [quietly]. Yes: here I am.
[He goes to the sideboard and busies himself with serviettes, mats,
etc.]
ROGERS. Perhaps it's this reincarnytion the Daily Mail been
writing about. Ever see the Daily Mail out there, Mr. Manson?
MANSON. No: we had few advantages.
ROGERS. Rum idea, reincarnytion! Think, Mr. Manson, perhaps we
wos lords once in ancient Babylon, you an' me!
MANSON. And now butler and page-boy, eh?
ROGERS [scratching his head]. Does seem a bit of a come-down,
don't it?
MANSON. That's one way of looking at it.
[ROGERS, enticed of Satan, has conveyed a furtive spoonful of jam
towards his mouth.]
[Without turning.] Isn't there jam in the kitchen, Rogers?
ROGERS [scared]. Evings! E've got eyes in 'is boots! S'y, do you
call it stealing, Mr. Manson?
MANSON. Do you? [Persisting.] Do you?
[ROGERS drops the spoon and moves mournfully away from temptation.]
ROGERS. 'Pon my word, Mr. Manson, you give me the fair creeps and
no mistike!
MANSON. You will get over that when you knew me better.
ROGERS. Mr. Manson! Do you mind if I arst you a question?
MANSON. No; what is it?
ROGERS. What d'you wear them togs for? This ain't India.
MANSON. People don't always recognise me in anything else.
[He turns for the first time. His face is one of awful sweetness,
dignity, and strength. There is the calm of a great mastery about
him, suited to his habit as a servant.]
ROGERS. Garn, Mr. Manson, that's a bit orf! Clothes don't make
all that difference, come now! . . .
MANSON. They are the only things the people of this world see.
ROGERS [after a pause]. Excuse me, Mr. Manson, you mek me larf.
MANSON. That's all right, Rogers. I have a sense of humour
myself, or I shouldn't be here.
ROGERS [suddenly sentimental]. Talking about clothes, Mr. Manson,
I often thinks in my 'ead as I'd like to be a church clergyman,
like master. Them strite-up collars are very becoming. Wouldn't
you, Mr. Manson?
MANSON. Wouldn't that be rather presuming, Rogers?
ROGERS. Don't you mek no mistike about it! 'Ere! [He grows
confidential.] _You are_ a butler, ain't you? Ain't you,
now? . . .
MANSON. Something like that.
ROGERS. Well, perhaps master 'asn't allus been as 'igh-- See! O'
course, I don't know, but they _do_ s'y as 'e was once only a . . .
Wot oh! 'Ere 'e is!
[The VICAR'S voice is heard off.]
VICAR. I shall be in to breakfast at a quarter to nine. Don't
wait for me, dearest.
[He enters hurriedly from door, right, watch in hand. He has on
his cassock and biretta.]
So awkward-- Both my curates down with the whooping-cough!
To-day, too! Just when I was expecting . . .
[As he goes up stage, left of table, MANSON comes down, right, with
serviettes. The VICAR wheels round slowly, facing him. Observing
his astonishment, ROGERS steps forward with explanation.]
ROGERS. It's the new butler, sir. Mr. Manson, sir.
VICAR. Surely, I--I've seen you somewhere before.
MANSON [looking at him]. Have you, sir?
VICAR. Hm! No, I can't quite . . .
ROGERS. Beg pardon, sir: getting on for eight.
[He hands him a small silver paten upon which there is a piece of
bread.]
VICAR [Taking it mechanically]. Hm! These mysteries are not
always helpful . . . Anyway, I'm glad to see you, Manson. When
did you arrive?
[He begins to break the bread into fragments whilst talking.]
MANSON. Early this morning, sir. I should have come sooner; but I
had a little trouble down at the Customs.
VICAR. Indeed! How was that?
MANSON. They said something about the new Alien Act, sir.
VICAR. Of course, of course. Er . . . You speak English
remarkably well.
MANSON. I have seen a good deal of the English, one time and
another.
VICAR. That's good: it will save a lot of explanation. By-the-bye
. . .
My old friend in Brindisi, who recommended you, writes that you
bore a very excellent character with your late employer in India;
but there was one matter he didn't mention-- No doubt you will
recognise its importance in a clergyman's family-- He never
mentioned your religion.
MANSON. I can soon remedy that, sir. My religion is very simple.
I love God and all my brothers.
VICAR [after a pause]. God and your brothers . . .
MANSON. Yes, sir: _all_ of them.
[The VICAR stands thoughtful for a moment. He places the paten on
the table, beside him.]
VICAR [slowly]. That is not always so easy, Manson; but it is my
creed, too.
MANSON. Then-- Brother!
[Rapt in thought, the VICAR takes his profferred hand mechanically.]
[MARY enters. She is a slim young girl in her teens, the picture
of rosy sweetness and health.]
MARY. Good-morning, Uncle William! Oh! . . . I suppose you're
Manson? I must say you look simply ripping! How do you do? My
name's Mary. [She offers her hand.]
MANSON [kissing it]. A very dear name, too!
MARY [embarrassed, blurting]. We were wondering last night about
your religion. I said . . .
VICAR. Mary, my child . . .
MARY. You don't _look_ like a cannibal. After all, even the devil
isn't as black as he's . . . Oh, I beg your pardon: perhaps I'm
rude.
VICAR. Yes, indeed you are. Don't take any notice of our little
feather-brain, Manson.
MARY. I say, has uncle told you who's coming to-day?
MANSON. No.
MARY. Not about Uncle Josh?
VICAR. T-t-t! You mustn't call your uncle Joshua that! It is
irreverent. He may resent it.
MARY. You know, _you'll_ make me positively dislike him! Just
fancy, Manson, meeting an uncle whom you've never so much as set
eyes on before! I don't even know what he looks like.
[She is looking MANSON in the face. He returns her gaze curiously.]
MANSON. Then--you have a surprise in store.
MARY. _You_ ought to be awfully interested! You will, when you
hear where he comes from!
MANSON. I _am_--interested.
MARY. Then guess who he is!
MANSON. Guess--when I know already?
MARY. Oh, Uncle Joshua isn't his only name--don't you think that!
He's a very important person, I can tell you! His name's on
everybody's lips!
MANSON [dryly]. Really!
MARY. Can't you guess? . . . Think of the very biggest person you
ever heard of in this world!
MANSON. In _this_ world: that sounds rather like . . . Does he
give free libraries?
MARY. I can't say I ever heard of that; but he does things quite
as wonderful! Listen! What do you think of the BISHOP OF BENARES!!
MANSON [unimpressed]. Oh, it's the--Bishop of Benares, is it?
MARY. I must say, you don't seem very surprised! Surely you've
heard of him? He _comes_ from India.
MANSON [quietly]. I happen to know him.
VICAR. No, really: this is most interesting!
MANSON. As a man might know _his own soul_, sir--As they say in
India. His work has been mine, so to speak.
VICAR. Bless me, you will know him better than I do. I have never
seen him since I was quite a little lad.
MARY [with prodigious solemnity]. Just you think, Manson! He's my
uncle--my own father's brother!
[MANSON is now up stage between the two.]
MANSON. _Your_ brother, sir?
VICAR [fervently]. I am grateful to God for it, Manson: he is.
[MANSON regards him calmly for a moment: then he turns inquiringly
towards Mary.]
MANSON. Then--Miss Mary? . . .
VICAR [quickly]. Oh, my niece is the daughter of--of my other
brother.
MANSON. I see: _two_ brothers?
VICAR [shortly]. Yes, yes, I have: I--I had.
MANSON [resuming his work at the table]. Thank you, sir: it's
always helpful, coming to a new place, to know who are--and who are
not--the family connections.
VICAR. Come, Rogers! My poor brethren in the church are waiting.
I must see to their necessities at once. [He starts for the door.]
MANSON. Pardon me, sir.
[He hands him the bread which, among those necessities, he has
forgotten. The VICAR looks at him a moment in troubled thought,
and then goes out, followed by ROGERS.]
ROGERS [at door]. I'll be back to 'elp you in with the breakfast,
Mr. Manson. [Exit.]
MARY. Now, Manson: let's talk! You've got nothing more to do? . . .
MANSON. Not till breakfast.
MARY. Then come over here, and make ourselves comfy.
[They go over to the settee: she plumps herself down, gathering her
legs up into a little bunch. He seats himself beside her.]
Now! Tell me everything you know about the Bishop of Benares!
MANSON. What--Uncle Josh?
MARY. Ssh--ssh--ssh! That's naughty, you know! You heard what
Uncle William said! . . . Do you think he'd very much mind if I
called him Uncle Josh?
MANSON. You may take it from _me_, that you may call him whatever
you like.
MARY. That's all very well; but you're not Uncle Joshua!
MANSON. No? . . .
MARY [hotly]. No, you're not!
MANSON. Well, since you're so certain . . .
MARY [with conviction]. I'm perfectly certain he'll never stand a
kid like me cheeking him and calling him names! Uncle William's
quite right! . . . And that's why I've made up my mind that I
sha'n't like him, after all!
MANSON. Indeed, I hope you will!
MARY. Do you believe in liking people simply because they're
uncles?
MANSON. Perhaps I'm a prejudiced person.
MARY. I know exactly what he'll be--goody-goody, isn't he? You
know--religious, and all that!
MANSON. God forbid!
MARY [fearfully]. Oh, perhaps he's the other sort--like auntie's
brother! He's a bishop--the Bishop of Lancashire. You see, I've
heard a lot about bishops in my time, and they're not always quite
nice men.
MANSON. And what sort is the Bishop of Lancashire?
MARY. Well, I don't think I ought to tell you; but I once heard
_Uncle William_ call him a devil!--And he's a clergyman!
MANSON. Your Uncle Joshua's reputation is exactly opposite.
MARY. There is that; everybody speaks awfully well of him.
MANSON. I don't think I would go so far as that: some people
blackguard him abominably.
MARY. No!--Who?
MANSON. His clergy, chiefly.
MARY. His clergy! They must be dreadfully wicked men!
MANSON. No--only blind: perhaps, also, a little deaf. But between
the two they manage to make his work very difficult.
MARY. Why? What do they do?
MANSON. It's partly what they do _not_ do.
MARY. Oh, I see--lazy.
MANSON. Not precisely--they work: they are not idle; but they
serve other masters.
MARY. Such as whom?
MANSON. The Bishop of Lancashire.
MARY [after a pause], I always thought he was such a great success
out there. The papers have been full of it--of the millions of
people who follow him about: they say they almost worship him in
some places. What kind of people are they?
MANSON. Just common people.
MARY. And then, all that talk of die great churches he built out
there! . . .
MANSON. Churches?
MARY. Yes; didn't he?
MANSON. He built one.
MARY. What's it like?
MANSON. Those who have seen it say there is nothing like it on
earth.
MARY [eagerly]. Have you seen it?
MANSON. I was there when he built it.
MARY. From the very beginning?
MANSON [solemnly]. From the beginning.
[MARY pauses before speaking: then she says, slowly.]
MARY. I hope I _shall_ like him. Is he--is he anything like you?
[MANSON regards her silently for a moment.]
MANSON. How is it that you know so little about him?
MARY. Well, you see, I only heard yesterday.
MANSON. I thought you said his name was on everybody's _lips_.
MARY. You don't understand. I mean, I never knew that he had
anything to do with _me_--that he was my father's brother.
MANSON. Didn't _he_ know?
MARY. Who--father? Oh, you see, I. . . _I don't know my father_
. . . . . . Uncle William didn't know anything about it until
yesterday.
MANSON. Hm! That is strange, too!
MARY. There's a bit of a mystery about it altogether. Would you
like to hear? It is rather like a fairy-tale.
MANSON. It must be. Yes, do go on.
MARY. It was all through Uncle William's Restoration Fund. You
see, our old church is in a perfectly rotten state of decay, and
naturally it would take a lot to repair it: so uncle thought of
starting a Fund--Yes! Wasn't it clever of him?--I addressed all
the envelopes.
Would you believe it, we couldn't get a single halfpenny! Isn't it
a shame?--Such a nice old church, too!
MANSON. How was that?
MARY. That's the question! People have been most rude! Oh, the
letters we have had! The funny thing is, for all their
fault-finding, they none of them agree with each other!--Some say
the foundations are all wrong: some don't like the stained-glass
windows; but if you ask me . . .
MANSON. Yes, what do you think?
MARY. Well, uncle won't hear of it; but I can't help thinking old
Bletchley is right . . .
MANSON. Who's he?
MARY. Oh, he's a dreadfully wicked man, I know that-- He's the
quack doctor in the village: he's--he's _an atheist_! . . .
MANSON. Well, what does he think is the matter?
MARY. He says it's the DRAIN!
MANSON. The--the drain? . . .
MARY. Um! You know, in spite of what uncle says, there is a
smell: I had it in my nose all last Sunday morning. Up in the
choir it's bad enough, and round by the pulpit-- Ugh! I can't
think how uncle stands it!
That's why the people won't come to church-- They _say_ so: they
stand in the market-place listening to old Bletchley, instead of
listening to uncle and trying to be good.
The odd thing Is, it must be that very same drain that's causing
the trouble in uncle's study-- That's his study out there, where
they've been digging: it's where he writes his sermons. You know,
_I've_ noticed the smell for some time, but uncle got so cross
whenever I mentioned it, that I learned to hold my tongue. At
last, auntie smelt it, too, and that soon brought the men in! Ugh!
Perhaps you've . . .
MANSON. I have! But what has all this to do with . . .
MARY. Don't get impatient: it's all part of the story. . . .
Well, we thought we should have poor dear Uncle William perfectly
ill . . .
MANSON. Because of the drain? . . .
MARY. No, because of the Fund. He tried everything: all his rich
friends, bazaars, jumble-sales, special intercessions--everything!
And nothing seemed to come of it!
Then at last, yesterday morning, he was reading the newspaper, and
there was a long piece about the Bishop of Benares. Uncle read it
aloud to us. Suddenly, in the middle, he broke off and said: _Look
at the power this chap seems to have at the back of him! I wish to
God I had some of it_!
He had scarcely said it, when there was a rat-tat at the door: it
was the postman; and what do you think? IT WAS A LETTER FROM THE
BISHOP OF BENARES?
MANSON [anticipating the critics]. What a coincidence!
MARY. Isn't that wonderful? _Isn't_ it just like a fairy-tale?
Wait a bit. There's more yet . . . Here's the letter: uncle gave
it me for my autographs . . .
[She fishes it out from her pocket. MANSON reads it aloud, slowly
and clearly.]
MANSON. "_I shall be with you during to-morrow morning. If any
one will help me, I will restore your church. Your brother,
Joshua_."
MARY [pointing]. And there, do you see, underneath, in brackets:
_The Bishop of Benares_.
MANSON. Dear me, dear me, just those few words!
MARY. Wasn't it like an answer to prayer? Auntie saw that at once!
And the odd part about it is, that Uncle William did have a brother
Joshua who went away and got lost in India years and years ago!
And to think that he was who he was all the time! To think of him
never writing until yesterday! To think that before the day is out
he will be sitting down here, perhaps in this very place, just
like . . .
[She breaks off suddenly, gazing at him; for his eyes have taken a
strange fire.]
MANSON. Just like I am now . . .
MARY [falteringly]. Yes . . .
MANSON. Talking to you . . .