Part 19

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?