MANSON [softly], Mary . . .
MARY [in a whisper]. Who are you? . . .
MANSON. I am . . .
[He is interrupted by the great bell of the church, which tolls the
Sanctus. After the third stroke, he continues.]
I am the servant in this house. I have my work to do. Would you
like to help me?
MARY. What shall I do?
MANSON. Help to spin she fairy-tale. Will you?
MARY. I will.
MANSON. Then keep the secret--Remember! And wish hard.
MARY. Do you believe in wishing?
MANSON. Everything comes true, if you wish hard enough.
MARY. What shall I wish for?
MANSON. What have you needed most? What have you not had? Think
it out.
[Enter AUNTIE in a negligee morning gown. She has a preoccupied
air. She carries her husband's coat over her arm.]
AUNTIE. Oh, I heard you had arrived. I hope they gave you
something to eat when you came in.
MANSON. Thank you, ma'am: it will do later.
AUNTIE. Mary . . . Dearest . . .
MARY. Oh, I beg your pardon, auntie dear, I . . .
AUNTIE. Dreaming again! [Putting her arm round her.] Come, I
want you to put your uncle's coat by the fire. He will be cold,
coming out of that draughty church.
MARY [hugging her]. You darling! I believe you think of nobody
but uncle in the world!
AUNTIE. And you, sweetheart: you come next--a very near next!
Now, run along.
[MARY takes the coat to the fire.]
[Surveying the table]. That's very nice, Manson, very nice indeed!
Perhaps, just a little further this way. . . . [Removes flowers.]
My husband is so fond of them. Ye-es; and I _wanted_ things
_particularly_ nice this morning . . .
MARY [at the fire, looking up]. I thought you said you--you didn't
expect him till twelve-thirty! . . .
AUNTIE [absorbed]. Whom?
MARY [chuckling]. The--the Bishop of Benares.
AUNTIE. The--the . . . Oh, it's your _uncle_ I am . . . [To
Manson]. By-the-bye, has the postman been yet?
MANSON [at the window]. I can see him coming up the lane. He's
stopped at the next house.
AUNTIE. Oh, then, Mary: will you very much mind if you don't have
breakfast with us this morning? I want to have a private talk with
your uncle.
MARY. Oh, auntie, dear! . . .
AUNTIE. Don't think of yourself, dear-- Remember, there are other
people in the world besides you. Go down into the village, and
have breakfast with poor old Grannie Durden. Take her some nice
new-laid eggs and a pat of butter-- Poor soul, it would be a
charity!
MARY. Oh, auntie, she's as deaf as a post!
AUNTIE. Dearest!--Remember what your uncle said last Sunday about
_Pure religion and undefiled_! He mentioned Mrs. Durden only a
week ago; but I forgot. Now, run along.
MARY [reluctantly]. Very well, auntie.
[She goes out by the main door.]
AUNTIE [laughing]. Inconsiderate little monkey!
I am glad you have not thought of changing your pretty, native
costume, Manson. It is very picturesque; and, besides, to-day
there is a special reason why it may be considered complimentary.
[A double knock is heard at the outer door.]
Ah! Quick, Manson! The postman!
[MANSON goes out. AUNTIE takes a look at the coat: rearranges the
flowers, humming, meanwhile, "The Church's One Foundation"; and
then stands impatiently awaiting MANSON'S reappearance. Presently
he returns with a letter on server.]
MANSON. A letter for you, ma'am.
AUNTIE. Ah! What I expected!
[She breaks open the letter and reads it eagerly.]
Excellent! [More dubiously]. Excellent . . .
Manson, we shall have to be very busy to-day. There will be quite
a Church Congress to lunch--two bishops!
MANSON. Oh, not as bad as that, ma'am!
AUNTIE. Manson!
MANSON. Beg pardon, ma'am; but master mentioned only one--his
brother, the Bishop of Benares.
AUNTIE. _My_ brother will join us also--the Bishop of Lancashire.
This is his letter.
And now let's have breakfast, at once. The vicar is sure to be
earlier than he said; and I'm hungry.
[MANSON goes to the door. As he opens it, the VICAR and ROGERS
reappear.]
MANSON. Here is master. I'll hurry up the breakfast, ma'am.
VICAR [entering]. Do, Manson. Let's get it over.
[MANSON goes out.]
Excuse me, my dear.
[ROGERS helps him off with the cassock.]
So tiresome! Not a place in the house to do anything! Confound
the drains! Just run up-stairs for my coat, Rogers.
AUNTIE. It's here, dear. I have it warming for you.
VICAR [more graciously]. Oh, thank you, Martha. That will do,
then, Rogers. Tell Manson to hurry up.
[ROGERS helps him on and goes out. The cassock is left lying on
the long stool by the window.]
[The VICAR crosses moodily to the fireplace. AUNTIE stands
undecided, watching him, the letter in her hand.]
AUNTIE. You're back early, dear.
VICAR. What can you expect? Not a soul there, of course!
AUNTIE. My poor William! I'm glad I thought to hurry up the
breakfast.
VICAR. Thanks, dear. You are always thoughtful.
AUNTIE. William . . .
[He looks up.]
I--I want to have a little talk with you.
VICAR. What is it? Any more--worry?
AUNTIE. You needn't make it so.
VICAR.. Ah!
AUNTIE [moving over to him and stroking his hair]. My dearest is
not well.
VICAR. I think you are right, Martha. I am not well.
AUNTIE [alarmed]. Not the trouble with your heart again?
VICAR. No; I fancy it goes deeper than that!
AUNTIE. William! What do you mean?
VICAR [suddenly facing her]. Martha! Do you know the sort of man
you have been living with all these years? Do you see through me?
Do you know me?--No: don't speak: I see your answer already--Your
own love blinds you! Ha! I am a good man!--I don't drink, I don't
swear, I am respectable, I don't blaspheme like Bletchley! Oh yes,
and I am a scholar: I can cackle in Greek: I can wrangle about
God's name: I know Latin and Hebrew and all the cursed little
pedantries of my trade! But do you know what I am? Do you know
what your husband is in the sight of God? He is a LIAR!
AUNTIE. William!
VICAR. A liar! I heard it in my ears as I stood up before Christ's
altar in the church this morning, reciting my miserable creed! I
heard it in my prayers! I heard it whilst I tasted . . . whilst I
drank . . . whilst I . . .
[He sinks into a chair, and buries his face in his hands.]
AUNTIE. Oh, you are ill!
VICAR [breaking down]. O wretched man that I am! Who shall
deliver me out of the body of this death?
[She stands above him, hesitating. After a moment, she says,
determinedly.]
AUNTIE. I know: it's this money trouble. It's what Joshua said in
his letter about your having to get somebody to help him. Well,
that's just what I wanted to speak to you about. I have a way out
of the difficulty.
VICAR. It's not the church. I could wish every Stone of it were
crumbled into dust!
AUNTIE. William, how wicked of you! . . .
Is it--is it anything to do with your brother Joshua? Why don't
you answer?
VICAR. _It has to do with my brother--Robert_.
AUNTIE. Mary's fa . . .
William, did you send him that telegram yesterday?
VICAR. Yes: that was a lie, too!
AUNTIE. Nonsense! Don't be absurd!
VICAR. It was a lie!
AUNTIE. You told him we couldn't do with him because the house was
upset: that's true! You told him that the drains were up in the
study: that's true!
VICAR. Was that the real reason why we refused to have him here?
Was it?
AUNTIE. I can't think what possessed him to write and say he'd
come. We've not heard from him for fifteen years!
VICAR. Whose fault is that?
AUNTIE. Why, his own, of course! He can't expect to be treated
decently! [She walks up and down with anger.] It's perfectly
absurd, it really is, dear, making all this fuss and trouble about
a wretched--
Have you told Mary?
VICAR. No: the _silent_ lie was comparatively easy!
AUNTIE. My dear, do try and be reasonable. Think of what he is!
VICAR. Isn't he my brother?
AUNTIE. No, he's not your brother--at least, nothing that a
brother ought to be! Ridicules everything that you hold sacred!
Hates everything you love! Loves everything you hate! . . .
VICAR. _That's_ true!
AUNTIE. A scoffer, an atheist, a miserable drunkard!
VICAR. That was fifteen years ago, remember, after Mary's mother
died! . . .
AUNTIE. A man like that never changes! What would have become of
that poor child if we hadn't stepped in? Have you ever dared to
tell her what her father's like? Of course not! To-day, too, of
all days! It's utterly preposterous!
VICAR. That is all the more reason why . . .
AUNTIE. My dear, think of his _occupation_!
VICAR. I think the child ought to be told.
AUNTIE. Of his _occupation_?
VICAR. That, and everything.
AUNTIE. My dear, have you gone perfectly mad? Do you know who's
coming? Do you want to advertise his _occupation_ to all the world?
VICAR. Do you think his brother Joshua would mind that?
AUNTIE. It isn't only your brother Joshua! You think of nobody
but your brother Joshua! Some one else is coming.
VICAR. Who?
AUNTIE. _My brother James_! [She throws down the letter.] Now
you've heard it all!
[There is a long silence. Then the VICAR speaks in a low, intense
voice of bitter contempt.]
VICAR. Your brother James is coming here today? You have brought
him here to help my brother Joshua! _Him_!
AUNTIE. Why not? He's rich! He can do it!
VICAR. So, he can recognise me at last!
AUNTIE. It was as much your fault as his, that you have never met!
He naturally resented our marriage.
VICAR [ironically]. But, of course, now that I'm related to the
great and _wealthy_ Bishop of Benares ...
AUNTIE [warmly]. He's as much a bishop as your brother is!
VICAR. He! That gaitered snob!
AUNTIE. William, how dare you!
VICAR. Yes, he's a bishop! A bishop of stocks and shares! A
bishop of the counting-house! A bishop of Mammon!
AUNTIE. William!
VICAR. The devil's own bishop!
AUNTIE. _At least, he isn't a WORKING-MAN_!
VICAR [as though stung]. Ah! . . .
[They stand below the table, one on either side, tense with
passion. They remain so.]
[MANSON and ROGERS come in with the breakfast. ROGERS goes out
immediately.]
MANSON. Sorry to have delayed, sir; but you said a quarter to
nine, didn't you, sir?
VICAR. Yes.
MANSON. Breakfasts served, ma'am. It's served, sir.
[They move to the table, absently, first one, then the other, as he
goes to each separately.]
[MANSON serves them in silence for a few moments.]
Beg pardon, sir: what time did you expect the Bishop of Benares?
VICAR. Oh!--_During the morning_, he said. That will mean the
twelve-thirty, I suppose. It's the only convenient service.
MANSON. And the Bishop of Lancashire, ma'am?
AUNTIE. He didn't say; but I think we may expect him by the same
train. He would scarcely think of catching the . . .
[There is heard a loud Ringing of the Bell--a bishop at the very
least. All three heads turn automatically.]
Good gracious! Already!
MANSON. It doesn't sound like the Bishop of Benares, ma'am. He
generally comes very quietly.
AUNTIE. Quick!
MANSON. Yes, ma'am.
[He goes out by the main door.]
AUNTIE [rapidly], William, I'm sorry! Really, I didn't mean you: I
never thought of you; I was only thinking of Robert. I only think
of you as a great scholar and a saint--yes, you are one!--and as
the man I love! I would sacrifice everything to your happiness.
Robert's nothing to me; that's why I . . . Think of what it might
mean to Mary--we must think of others, William!--our own little
child, as we try to imagine . . .
[The VICAR makes a gesture of anguish.]
As for James, God knows I did it for the best. I love you, my
dear, I love you: I wouldn't have vexed you for the world! After
all, he is my brother, William! . . . . I thought of patching up
the enmity between you: I thought of all your hopes of rebuilding
the church, and James was the only rich man I thought might be
induced--under the circumstances . . .
VICAR. I am in the darkness. I don't know what to do. God has
left me stranded.
[MANSON re-enters. They look at him inquiringly.]
MANSON. It isn't the Bishop of Benares, ma'am.
AUNTIE. Well, who is it?
MANSON. I didn't ask his name, ma'am.
AUNTIE. T-t-t! How is he dressed?
MANSON. Rather oddly, ma'am: I noticed that his legs . . .
AUNTIE. William, it's James! I can't be seen like this. Shew him
in. I can slip out this way.
[MANSON goes out.]
William, try and treat him like . . .
VICAR. How? Like a brother?
AUNTIE. I was going to say, like a Priest and a Christian, William.
VICAR. Like a Christian, then.
AUNTIE. My dear!
[She goes out by the door to the right, as MANSON begins to turn
the handle of the other door.]
MANSON [outside]. This way, if you please.
[The VICAR, braces himself up and turns towards the door with an
effort at cordiality.]
VICAR. Just in time for breakfast, my lord.
[Enter ROBERT SMITH and MANSON. ROBERT'S costume is a navvy's, the
knees tied With string.]
ROBERT [grimly]. Thanks, Bill Awlmighty, don't mind if I do. My
belly's fair aching.
VICAR. Robert!
ROBERT. Yus, it's me, my 'oly brother!
VICAR. Didn't you--didn't you get my wire?
ROBERT. Yus, I gorit-: _Drains wrong_, eh? Thought I'd like to
'av' a look at 'em--my job, yer know, _drains_! So you'll excuse
the togs: remind you of old days, eh what?
VICAR. Robert, what have you come here for?
ROBERT. You arsk me that?
VICAR. Yes, I do. Bob . . .
ROBERT. Why, to see my little gel, o' course--Gawd curse you! . . .
Now go an tell your ole woman.
[The VICAR stands as though stricken.]
Did you 'ear me speak? Tell 'er!
[The VICAR wavers a moment, and then staggers out silently through
the door, right. ROBERT watches him off with a look of iron. He
pays no heed to MANSON, who stands quite close to him, on the left.]
See that blighter? That's the bloke as was born with no bowels!
'E might a-made a man o' me once, if 'e'd tried; but 'e didn't--'im
and 'is like. Hm! Dam foolish, I call it, don't you?
MANSON. Yes, both: foolish and--damned!
[ROBERT turns and looks into his face for the first time as the
curtain slowly falls on the First Act.]