Part 23

FANNY. Worse. I’ve been lying. [Ernest gives vent to a low whistle.] Said I didn’t know what had become of that yellow poplin with the black lace flounces, that they’ve had altered for me. Found out that I’d given it to old Mother Potts for the rummage sale at the Vicarage. Jane was down there. Bought it in for half a crown.

ERNEST. You are risky. Why, you might have known—

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?