THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE
THE FIRST ACT
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 . . .
MARY. Oh! . . . [She rises, afraid.]
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.]