Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (313 page)

ERNEST. Yes.

FANNY. Shut the door. Sure it went off last night, that telegram?

ERNEST. Yes.

FANNY. If he doesn’t catch that eight o’clock, he can’t get here till nearly four. That will be awkward. [To Ernest] What time is it now?

ERNEST [looks at clock]. Twenty past eleven.

FANNY. If he does, he’ll be here about twelve — I believe I’ll go and meet him. Could I get out without being seen?

ERNEST. You’ll have to pass the lodge.

FANNY. Who’s at the lodge now?

ERNEST. Mother.

FANNY. Damn!

Bennet has entered unnoticed and drawn near. At this point from behind, he boxes Ernest’s ears.

ERNEST. Here, steady!

BENNET. On the occasions when your cousin forgets her position, you will remember it and remind her of it. Get out! [Ernest, clumsily as ever, “gets out.”] A sort of person has called who, according to his own account, “happened to be passing this way,” and would like to see you.

FANNY [who has been trying to hide the Bradshaw — with affected surprise.] To see me!

BENNET [drily]. Yes. I thought you would be surprised. He claims to be an old friend of yours — Mr. George Newte.

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.