Lyre and Lancet: A Story in Scenes

Sir Rupert (horrified). Good Gad! you didn't suppose I had any hand in fixing up that booby-trap, or whatever it was, did you? Young fellows will get bear-fighting and playing idiotic tricks on one another, and you seem to have been the victim – that's how it was. Have you had anything to eat since you came? If not —

Undershell (hastily). Thank you, I – I have dined. (To himself.) So he doesn't know where, after all! I will spare him that.

Sir Rupert. Got some food at Shuntingbridge, eh? Afraid they gave you a wretched dinner?

Undershell. Quite the reverse, I assure you. (To himself.) Considering that it came from his own table!

Pilliner (to himself). I still don't understand how his clothes – (Aloud.) Did you send your portmanteau on ahead, then, or what?

Undershell (blankly). Send my port – ? I don't understand.

Pilliner. Oh, I only asked, because the other man said he was wearing your things.

Sir Rupert (as Undershell remains speechless). I see how it was – perfectly simple – rush for the train – porter put your luggage in – you got left behind, wasn't that it?

Undershell. I – I certainly did get separated from my portmanteau, somehow, and I suppose it must have arrived before me. (To himself.) Considering the pace of the fly-horse, I think I am justified in assuming that!

Pilliner (to himself). Ass I was not to hold my tongue!

Lady Maisie (in an undertone, to Captain Thicknesse). Gerald, you remember what I said some time ago – about poetry and poets?

Captain Thicknesse. Perfectly. And I thought you were quite right.

Lady Maisie. I was quite wrong. I didn't know what I was talking about. I do now. Good night. (She crosses to Undershell.) Good night, Mr. Blair, I'm so very glad we have met – at last!

[She goes.

Undershell (to himself, rapturously). She's not freckled; she's not even sandy. She's lovely! And, by some unhoped-for good fortune, all this has only raised me in her eyes. I am more than compensated!

Captain Thicknesse (to himself). I may just as well get back to Aldershot to-morrow —now. I'll go and prepare Lady C.'s mind, in case. It's hard luck; just when everything seemed goin' right! I'd give somethin' to have the other bard back, I know. It's no earthly use my tryin' to stand against this one!

PART XX

DIFFERENT PERSONS HAVE DIFFERENT OPINIONS

Lady Maisie's Room at Wyvern. Time —Saturday night, about 11.30.

Lady Maisie (to Phillipson, who is brushing her hair). You are sure mamma isn't expecting me? (Irresolutely.) Perhaps I had better just run in and say good night.

Phillipson. I wouldn't recommend it, really, my lady; her ladyship seems a little upset in her nerves this evening.

Lady Maisie (to herself). Il-y-a de quoi! (Aloud, relieved.) It might only disturb her, certainly… I hope they are making you comfortable here, Phillipson?

Phillipson. Very much so indeed, thank you, my lady. The tone of the room downstairs is most superior.

Lady Maisie. That's satisfactory. And I hear you have met an old admirer of yours here – Mr. Spurrell, I mean.

Phillipson. We did happen to encounter each other in one of the galleries, my lady, just for a minute; though I shouldn't have expected him to allude to it!

Lady Maisie. Indeed! And why not?

Phillipson. Mr. James Spurrell appears to have elevated himself to a very different sphere from what he occupied when I used to know him, my lady; though how and why he comes to be where he is, I don't rightly understand myself at present.

Lady Maisie (to herself). And no wonder! I feel horribly guilty! (Aloud.) You mustn't blame poor Mr. Spurrell, Phillipson; he couldn't help it!

Phillipson (with studied indifference). I'm not blaming him, my lady. If he prefers the society of his superiors to mine, he's very welcome to do so; there's others only too willing to take his place!

Lady Maisie. Surely none who would be as fond of you or make so good a husband, Phillipson!

Phillipson. That's as maybe, my lady. There was one young man that travelled down in the same compartment, and sat next me at supper in the room. I could see he took a great fancy to me from the first, and his attentions were really quite pointed. I am sure I couldn't bring myself to repeat his remarks, they were so flattering!

Lady Maisie. Don't you think you will be rather a foolish girl if you allow a few idle compliments from a stranger to outweigh such an attachment as Mr. Spurrell seems to have for you?

Phillipson. If he's found new friends, my lady, I consider myself free to act similarly.

Lady Maisie. Then you don't know? He told us quite frankly this evening that he had only just discovered you were here, and would much prefer to be where you were. He went down to the housekeeper's room on purpose.

Phillipson (moved). It's the first I've heard of it, my lady. It must have been after I came up. If I'd only known he'd behave like that!

Lady Maisie (instructively). You see how loyal he is to you. And now, I suppose, he will find he has been supplanted by this new acquaintance – some smooth-tongued, good-for-nothing valet, I dare say?

Phillipson (injured). Oh, my lady, indeed he wasn't a man! But there was nothing serious between us – at least, on my side – though he certainly did go on in a very sentimental way himself. However, he's left the Court by now, that's one comfort! (To herself.) I wish now I'd said nothing about him to Jem. If he was to get asking questions downstairs – He always was given to jealousy – reason or none!

[A tap is heard at the door.

Lady Rhoda (outside). Maisie, may I come in? if you've done your hair, and sent away your maid. (She enters.) Ah, I see you haven't.

Lady Maisie. Don't run away, Rhoda; my maid has just done. You can go now, Phillipson.

Lady Rhoda (to herself, as she sits down). Phillipson! So that's the young woman that funny vet man prefers to us! H'm, can't say I feel flattered!

Phillipson (to herself, as she leaves the room). This must be the Lady Rhoda, who was making up to my Jem! He wouldn't have anything to say to her, though; and, now I see her, I am not surprised at it!

[She goes. A pause.

Lady Rhoda (crossing her feet on the fender). Well, we can't complain of havin' had a dull evenin', can we?

Lady Maisie (taking a hand-screen from the mantelshelf). Not altogether. Has – anything fresh happened since I left?

Lady Rhoda. Nothing particular. Archie apologised to this new man in the billiard-room. For the booby trap. We all told him he'd got to. And Mr. Carrion Bear, or Blundershell, or whatever he calls himself —you know – was so awf'lly gracious and condescendin' that I really thought poor dear old Archie would have wound up his apology by punchin' his head for him. Strikes me, Maisie, that mop-headed minstrel boy is a decided change for the worse. Doesn't it you?

Lady Maisie (toying with the screen). How do you mean, Rhoda?

Lady Rhoda. I meantersay I call Mr. Spurrell – Well, he's real, anyway – he's a man, don't you know. As for the other, so feeble of him missin' his train like he did, and turnin' up too late for everything! Now, wasn't it?

Lady Maisie. Poets are dreamy and unpractical and unpunctual – it's their nature.

Lady Rhoda. Then they should stay at home. Just see what a hopeless muddle he's got us all into! I declare I feel as if anybody might turn into somebody else on the smallest provocation after this. I know poor Vivien Spelwane will be worryin' her pillows like rats most of the night, and I rather fancy it will be a close time for poets with your dear mother, Maisie, for some time to come. All this silly little man's fault!

Lady Maisie. No, Rhoda. Not his —ours. Mine and mamma's. We ought to have felt from the first that there must be some mistake, that poor Mr. Spurrell couldn't possibly be a poet! I don't know, though – people generally are unlike what you'd expect from their books. I believe they do it on purpose! Not that that applies to Mr. Blair; he is one's idea of what a poet should be. If he hadn't arrived when he did, I don't think I could ever have borne to read another line of poetry as long as I lived!

Lady Rhoda. I say! Do you call him as good-lookin' as all that?

Lady Maisie. I was not thinking about his looks, Rhoda – it's his conduct that's so splendid.

Lady Rhoda. His conduct? Don't see anything splendid in missin' a train. I could do it myself if I tried.

Lady Maisie. Well, I wish I could think there were many men capable of acting so nobly and generously as he did.

Lady Rhoda. As how?

Lady Maisie. You really don't see! Well, then, you shall. He arrives late, and finds that somebody else is here already in his character. He makes no fuss; manages to get a private interview with the person who is passing as himself; when, of course, he soon discovers that poor Mr. Spurrell is as much deceived as anybody else. What is he to do? Humiliate the unfortunate man by letting him know the truth? Mortify my uncle and aunt by a public explanation before a whole dinner-party? That is what a stupid or a selfish man might have done, almost without thinking. But not Mr. Blair. He has too much tact, too much imagination, too much chivalry for that. He saw at once that his only course was to spare his host and hostess, and – and all of us a scene, by slipping away quietly and unostentatiously, as he had come.

Lady Rhoda (yawning). If he saw all that, why didn't he do it?

Lady Maisie (indignantly). Why? How provoking you can be, Rhoda! Why? Because that stupid Tredwell wouldn't let him! Because Archie delayed him by some idiotic practical joke! Because Mr. Spurrell went and blurted it all out!.. Oh, don't try to run down a really fine act like that; because you can't – you simply can't!

Lady Rhoda (after a low whistle). No idea it had gone so far as that – already! Now I begin to see why Gerry Thicknesse has been lookin' as if he'd sat on his best hat, and why he told your aunt he might have to be off to-morrow; which is all stuff, because I happen to know his leave ain't up for two or three days yet. But he sees this Troubadour has put his poor old nose out of joint for him.

Lady Maisie (flushing). Now, Rhoda, I won't have you talking as if – as if – You ought to know, if Gerald Thicknesse doesn't, that it's nothing at all of that sort! It's just – Oh, I can't tell you how some of his poems moved me, what new ideas, wider views they seemed to teach; and then how dreadfully it hurt to think it was only Mr. Spurrell after all!.. But now– oh, the relief of finding they're not spoilt; that I can still admire, still look up to the man who wrote them! Not to have to feel that he is quite commonplace – not even a gentleman – in the ordinary sense!

Lady Rhoda (rising). Ah well, I prefer a hero who looks as if he had his hair cut, occasionally – but then, I'm not romantic. He may be the paragon you say; but if I was you, my dear, I wouldn't expect too much of that young man – allow a margin for shrinkage, don't you know. And now I think I'll turn into my little crib, for I'm dead tired. Good night; don't sit up late readin' poetry; it's my opinion you've read quite enough as it is!

[She goes.

Lady Maisie (alone, as she gazes dreamily into the fire). She doesn't in the least understand! She actually suspects me of – As if I could possibly – or as if mamma would ever – even if he– Oh, how silly I am!.. I don't care! I am glad I haven't had to give up my ideal. I should like to know him better. What harm is there in that? And if Gerald chooses to go to-morrow, he must – that's all. He isn't nearly so nice as he used to be; and he has even less imagination than ever! I don't think I could care for anybody so absolutely matter-of-fact. And yet, only an hour ago I almost – But that was before!

PART XXI

THE FEELINGS OF A MOTHER

In the Morning Room. Time —Sunday morning; just after breakfast.

Captain Thicknesse (outside, to Tredwell). Dogcart round, eh? everything in? All right – shan't be a minute. (Entering.) Hallo, Pilliner, you all alone here? (He looks round disconcertedly.) Don't happen to have seen Lady Maisie about?

Pilliner. Let me see – she was here a little while ago, I fancy… Why? Do you want her?

Captain Thicknesse. No – only to say good-bye and that. I'm just off.

Pilliner. Off? To-day! You don't mean to tell me your chief is such an inconsiderate old ruffian as to expect you to travel back to your Tommies on the Sabbath! You could wait till to-morrow if you wanted to. Come now!

Captain Thicknesse. Perhaps – only, you see, I don't want to.

Pilliner. Well, tastes differ. I shouldn't call a cross-country journey in a slow train, with unlimited opportunities of studying the company's bye-laws and traffic arrangements at several admirably ventilated junctions, the ideal method of spending a cheery Sunday, myself, that's all.

Captain Thicknesse (gloomily). Dare say it will be about as cheery as stoppin' on here, if it comes to that.

Pilliner. I admit we were most of us a wee bit chippy at breakfast. The bard conversed – I will say that for him – but he seemed to diffuse a gloom somehow. Shut you up once or twice in a manner that might almost be described as damned offensive.

Captain Thicknesse. Don't know what you all saw in what he said that was so amusin'. Confounded rude I thought it!

Pilliner. Don't think anyone was amused – unless it was Lady Maisie. By the way, he might perhaps have selected a happier topic to hold forth to Sir Rupert on than the scandalous indifference of large landowners to the condition of the rural labourer. Poor dear old boy, he stood it wonderfully, considering. Pity Lady Cantire breakfasted upstairs; she'd have enjoyed herself. However, he had a very good audience in little Lady Maisie.

Captain Thicknesse. I do hate a chap that jaws at breakfast… Where did you say she was?

Lady Maisie's voice (outside, in conservatory). Yes, you really ought to see the orangery and the Elizabethan garden, Mr. Blair. If you will be on the terrace in about five minutes, I could take you round myself. I must go and see if I can get the keys first.

Pilliner. If you want to say good-bye, old fellow, now's your chance!

Captain Thicknesse. It – it don't matter. She's engaged. And, look here, you needn't mention that I was askin' for her.

Pilliner. Of course, old fellow, if you'd rather not. (He glances at him.) But I say, my dear old chap, if that's how it is with you, I don't quite see the sense of chucking it up already, don't you know. No earthly affair of mine, I know; still, if I could manage to stay on, I would, if I were you.

Captain Thicknesse. Hang it all, Pilliner, do you suppose I don't know when the game's up! If it was any good stayin' on – And besides, I've said good-bye to Lady C., and all that. No, it's too late now.

Tredwell (at the door). Excuse me, sir, but if you're going by the 10.40, you haven't any too much time.

Pilliner (to himself after Captain Thicknesse has hurried out). Poor old chap, he does seem hard hit! Pity he's not Lady Maisie's sort. Though what she can see in that long-haired beggar – ! Wonder when Vivien Spelwane intends to come down; never knew her miss breakfast before… What's that rustling?.. Women! I'll be off, or they'll nail me for church before I know it.

[He disappears hastily in the direction of the Smoking-room as Lady Cantire and Mrs. Chatteris enter.

Lady Cantire. Nonsense, my dear, no walk at all; the church is only just across the park. My brother Rupert always goes, and it pleases him to see the Wyvern pew as full as possible. I seldom feel equal to going myself, because I find the necessity of allowing pulpit inaccuracies to pass without a protest gets too much on my nerves; but my daughter will accompany you. You'll have just time to run up and get your things on.

Mrs. Chatteris (with arch significance). I don't fancy I shall have the pleasure of your daughter's society this morning. I just met her going to get the garden keys; I think she has promised to show the grounds to – Well, I needn't mention whom. Oh dear me, I hope I'm not being indiscreet again!

Lady Cantire. I make a point of never interfering with my daughter's proceedings, and you can easily understand how natural it is that such old friends as they have always been —

Mrs. Chatteris. Really? I thought they seemed to take a great pleasure in one another's society. It's quite romantic. But I must rush up and get my bonnet on if I'm to go to church. (To herself, as she goes out.) So she was "Lady Grisoline," after all! If I was her mother – But dear Lady Cantire is so advanced about things.

Lady Cantire (to herself). Darling Maisie! He'll be Lord Dunderhead before very long. How sensible and sweet of her! And I was quite uneasy about them last night at dinner; they scarcely seemed to be talking to each other at all. But there's a great deal more in dear Maisie than one would imagine.

Sir Rupert (outside). We're rather proud of our church, Mr. Undershell – fine old monuments and brasses, if you care about that sort of thing. Some of us will be walking over to service presently, if you would like to —

Undershell (outside – to himself). And lose my tête-à-tête with Lady Maisie! Not exactly! (Aloud.) I am afraid, Sir Rupert, that I cannot conscientiously —

Sir Rupert (hastily). Oh, very well, very well; do exactly as you like about it, of course. I only thought – (To himself.) Now, that other young chap would have gone!

Lady Cantire. Rupert, who is that you are talking to out there? I don't recognise his voice, somehow.

Sir Rupert (entering with Undershell). Ha, Rohesia, you've come down, then? slept well, I hope. I was talking to a gentleman whose acquaintance I know you will be very happy to make – at last. This is the genuine celebrity this time. (To Undershell.) Let me make you known to my sister, Lady Cantire, Mr. Undershell. (As Lady Cantire glares interrogatively.) Mr. Clarion Blair, Rohesia, author of hum – ha —Andromache.

Lady Cantire. I thought we were given to understand last night that Mr. Spurrell – Mr. Blair – you must pardon me, but it's really so very confusing – that the writer of the – ah – volume in question had already left Wyvern.

Sir Rupert. Well, my dear, you see he is still here – er – fortunately for us. If you'll excuse me, I'll leave Mr. Blair to entertain you; got to speak to Adams about something.

[He hurries out.

Undershell (to himself). This must be Lady Maisie's mamma. Better be civil to her, I suppose; but I can't stay here and entertain her long! (Aloud.) Lady Cantire, I – er – have an appointment for which I am already a little late; but before I go, I should like to tell you how much pleasure it has given me to know that my poor verse has won your approval; appreciation from —

Lady Cantire. I'm afraid you must have been misinformed, Mr. – a – Blair. There are so many serious publications claiming attention in these days of literary over-production that I have long made it a rule to read no literature of a lighter order that has not been before the world for at least ten years. I may be mistaken, but I infer from your appearance that your own work must be of a considerably more recent date.

Undershell (to himself). If she imagines she's going to snub Me – ! (Aloud.) Then I was evidently mistaken in gathering from some expressions in your daughter's letter that —

Lady Cantire. Entirely. You are probably thinking of some totally different person, as my daughter has never mentioned having written to you, and is not in the habit of conducting any correspondence without my full knowledge and approval. I think you said you had some appointment; if so, pray don't consider yourself under any necessity to remain here.

Undershell. You are very good; I will not. (To himself, as he retires.) Awful old lady, that! I quite thought she would know all about that letter, or I should never have – However, I said nothing to compromise any one, luckily!

Lady Culverin (entering). Good morning, Rohesia. So glad you felt equal to coming down. I was almost afraid – after last night, you know.

Lady Cantire (offering a cold cheekbone for salutation). I am in my usual health, thank you, Albinia. As to last night, if you must ask a literary Socialist down here, you might at least see that he is received with common courtesy. You may, for anything you can tell, have advanced the Social Revolution ten years in a single evening!

Lady Culverin. My dear Rohesia! If you remember, it was you yourself who – !

Lady Cantire (closing her eyes). I am in no condition to argue about it, Albinia. The slightest exercise of your own common sense would have shown you – But there, no great harm has been done, fortunately, so let us say no more about it. I have something more agreeable to talk about. I've every reason to hope that Maisie and dear Gerald Thicknesse —

Lady Culverin (astonished). Maisie? But I thought Gerald Thicknesse spoke as if – !

Lady Cantire. Very possibly, my dear. I have always refrained from giving him the slightest encouragement, and I wouldn't put any pressure upon dear Maisie for the world – still, I have my feelings as a mother, and I can't deny that, with such prospects as he has now, it is gratifying for me to think that they may be coming to an understanding together at this very moment. She is showing him the grounds; which I always think are the great charm of Wyvern, so secluded!

Lady Culverin (puzzled). Together! At this very moment! But – but surely Gerald has gone?

Lady Cantire. Gone! What nonsense, Albinia! Where in the world should he have gone to?

Lady Culverin. He was leaving by the 10.40, I know. For Aldershot. I ordered the cart for him, and he said good-bye after breakfast. He seemed so dreadfully down, poor fellow, and I quite concluded from what he said that Maisie must have —

Lady Cantire. Impossible, my dear, quite impossible! I tell you he is here. Why, only a few minutes ago, Mrs. Chatteris was telling me – Ah, here she is to speak for herself. (To Mrs. Chatteris, who appears, arrayed for divine service.) Mrs. Chatteris, did I, or did I not, understand you to say just now that my daughter Maisie – ?