Lyre and Lancet: A Story in Scenes

In the Housekeeper's Room at Wyvern; Mrs. Pomfret, the Housekeeper, in a black silk gown and her smartest cap, is seated in a winged armchair by the fire, discussing domestic politics with Lady Culverin's maid, Miss Stickler. The Chef, M. Ridevos, is resting on the sofa, in languid converse with Mlle. Chiffon, Miss Spelwane's maid; Pilliner's man, Louch, watches Steptoe, Sir Rupert's valet, with admiring envy, as he makes himself agreeable to Miss Phillipson, who is in demi-toilette, as are all the other ladies' maids present.

Miss Stickler (in an impressive undertone). All I do say, Mrs. Pomfret, ma'am, is this: if that girl Louisa marches into the pew to-morrow, as she did last Sunday, before the second laundry maid—and her only under-scullery maid—such presumptiousness should be put a stop to in future!

Mrs. Pomfret (wheezily). Depend upon it, my dear, it's her ignorance; but I shall most certainly speak about it. Girls must be taught that ranks was made to be respected, and the precedency into that pew has come down from time immemoriable, and is not to be set aside by such as her while I'm 'ousekeeper here.

Mlle. Chiffon (in French, to M. Ridevos). You have the air fatigued, my poor friend! Oh, there—but fatigued!

M. Ridevos. Broken, Mademoiselle, absolutely broken. But what will you? This night I surpass myself. I achieve a masterpiece—a sublime pyramid of quails with a sauce that will become classic. I pay now the penalty of a veritable crisis of nerves. It is of my temperament as artist.

Mlle. Chiffon. And me, my poor friend, how I have suffered from the cookery of these others—I who have the stomach so feeble, so fastidious! Figure to yourself an existence upon the villainous curry, the abominable "Iahristue," beloved by these barbarians, but which succeed with me not at all—oh, but not at all! Since I am here—ah, the difference! I digest as of old—I am gay. But next week to return with mademoiselle to the curry, my poor friend, what regrets!

M. Ridevos. For me, dear mademoiselle, for me the regrets—to hear no more the conversation, so spiritual, so sympathetic, of a fellow-countrywoman. For remark that here they are stupid—they comprehend not. And the old ones they roll at me the eyes to make terror. Behold this Gorgon who approaches. She adores me, my word of honour, this ruin!

[Miss Stickler comes up to the sofa smiling in happy unconsciousness.

Miss Stickler (graciously). So you've felt equal to joining us for once, Mossoo! We feel it a very 'igh compliment, I can assure you. We've really been feeling quite 'urt at the way you keep to yourself—you might be a regular 'ermit for all we see of you!

M. Ridevos. For invent, dear Mees, for create, ze arteeste must live ze solitaire as of rule. To-night—no! I emairge, as you see, to res-tore myself viz your smile.

Miss Stickler (flattered). Well, I've always said, Mossoo, and I always will say, that for polite 'abits and pretty speeches, give me a Frenchman!

M. Ridevos (alarmed). For me it is too moch 'appiness. For anozzer, ah!

[He kisses his fingers with ineffable grace.

Phillipson (advancing to meet Miss Dolman, who has just entered). Why, I'd no idea I should meet you here, Sarah! And how have you been getting on, dear? Still with——?

Miss Dolman (checking her with a look). Her grace? No, we parted some time ago. I'm with Lady Rhoda Cokayne at present. (In an undertone, as she takes her aside.) You needn't say anything here of your having known me at Mrs. Dickenson's. I couldn't afford to have it get about in the circle I'm in that I'd ever lived with any but the nobility. I'm sure you see what I mean. Of course I don't mind your saying we've met.

Phillipson. Oh, I quite understand. I'll say nothing. I'm obliged to be careful myself, being maid to Lady Maisie Mull.

Miss Dolman. My dear Emma! It is nice seeing you again—such friends as we used to be!

Phillipson. At her Grace's? I'm afraid you're thinking of somebody else. (She crosses to Mrs. Pomfret.) Mrs. Pomfret, what's become of the gentleman I travelled down with—the horse doctor? I do hope he means to come in; he would amuse you, Mr. Steptoe. I never heard anybody go on like him; he did make me laugh so!

Mrs. Pomfret. I really can't say where he is, my dear. I sent up word to let him know he was welcome here whenever he pleased; but perhaps he's feeling a little shy about coming down.

Phillipson. Oh, I don't think he suffers much from that. (As the door opens.) Ah, there he is!

Mrs. Pomfret (rising, with dignity, to receive Undershell, who enters in obvious embarrassment). Come in, sir. I'm glad to see you've found your way down at last. Let me see, I haven't the advantage of knowing your—Mr. Undershell, to be sure! Well, Mr. Undershell, we're very pleased to see you. I hope you'll make yourself quite at home. Her ladyship gave particular directions that we was to look after you—most particular she was!

Undershell. You are very good, ma'am. I am obliged to Lady Culverin for her (with a gulp) condescension. But I shall not trespass more than a short time upon your hospitality.

Mrs. Pomfret. Don't speak of it as trespassing, sir. It's not often we have a gentleman of your profession as a visitor, but you are none the less welcome. Now I'd better introduce you all round, and then you won't feel yourself a stranger. Miss Phillipson you have met, I know.

[She introduces him to the others in turn; Undershell bows helplessly.

Steptoe (with urbanity). Your fame, sir, has preceded you. And you'll find us a very friendly and congenial little circle on a better acquaintance—if this is your first experience of this particular form of society?

Undershell (to himself). I mustn't be stiff, I'll put them at their ease. (Aloud.) Why, I must admit, Mr. Steptoe, that I have never before had the privilege of entering the—(with an ingratiating smile all round him) the "Pugs' Parlour," as I understand you call this very charming room.

[The company draw themselves up and cough in disapprobation.

Steptoe (very stiffly). Pardon me, sir, you have been totally misinformed. Such an expression is not current here.

Mrs. Pomfret (more stiffly still). It is never alluded to in my presence except as the 'ousekeeper's room, which is the right and proper name for it. There may be some other term for it in the servants' 'all for anything I know to the contrary—but, if you'll excuse me for saying so, Mr. Undershell, we'd prefer for it not to be repeated in our presence.

Undershell (confusedly). I—I beg ten thousand pardons. (To himself.) To be pulled up like this for trying to be genial—it's really too humiliating!

Steptoe (relaxing). Well, well, sir; we must make some allowances for a neophyte. You'll know better another time, I dare say. Miss Phillipson here has been giving you a very favourable character as a highly agreeable rattle, Mr. Undershell. I hope we may be favoured with a specimen of your social talents later on. We're always grateful here for anything in that way—such as a recitation now, or a comic song, or a yumorous imitation—anything, in short, calculated to promote the general harmony and festivity will be appreciated.

Miss Stickler (acidly). Provided it is free from any helement of coarseness, which we do not encourage—far from it!

Undershell (suppressing his irritation). You need be under no alarm, madam. I do not propose to attempt a performance of any kind.

Phillipson. Don't be so solemn, Mr. Undershell! I'm sure you can be as comical as any play-actor when you choose!

Undershell. I really don't know how I can have given you that impression. If you expect me to treat my lyre like a horse-collar, and grin through it, I'm afraid I am unable to gratify you.

Steptoe (at sea). Capital, sir, the professional allusion very neat. You'll come out presently, I can see, when supper's on the table. Can't expect you to rattle till you've something inside of you, can we?

Miss Stickler. Reelly, Mr. Steptoe, I am surprised at such commonness from you!

Steptoe. Now you're too severe, Miss Stickler, you are indeed. An innocent little Judy Mow like that!

Tredwell (outside). Don't answer me, sir. Ham I butler 'ere, or ham I not? I've a precious good mind to report you for such a hignorant blunder.... I don't want to hear another word about the gentleman's cloes—you'd no hearthly business for to do such a thing at all! (He enters and flings himself down on a chair.) That Thomas is beyond everything—stoopid hass as he is!

Mrs. Pomfret (concerned). La, Mr. Tredwell, you do seem put out! Whatever have Thomas been doing now?

Undershell (to himself). It's really very good of him to take it to heart like this! (Aloud.) Pray don't let it distress you; it's of no consequence, none at all!

Tredwell (glaring). I'm the best judge of that, Mr. Undershell, sir—if you'll allow me; I don't call my porogatives of no consequence, whatever you may! And that feller Thomas, Mrs. Pomfret, actially 'ad the hordacity, without consulting me previous, to go and 'and a note to one of our gentlemen at the hupstairs table, all about some hassinine mistake he'd made with his cloes! What call had he to take it upon himself? I feel puffecly disgraced that such a thing should have occurred under my authority!

[The Steward's Room Boy has entered with a dish, and listens with secret anxiety on his own account.

Undershell. I assure you there is no harm done. The gentleman is wearing my evening clothes—but he's going to return them——

[The conclusion of the sentence is drowned in a roar of laughter from the majority.

Tredwell (gasping). Hevenin' cloes! Your hevenin'—— P'raps you'll 'ave the goodness to explain yourself, sir!

Steptoe. No, no, Tredwell, my dear fellah, you don't understand our friend here—he's a bit of a wag, don't you see? He's only trying to pull your leg, that's all; and, Gad, he did it too! But you mustn't take liberties with this gentleman, Mr. Undershell; he's an important personage here, I can tell you!

Undershell (earnestly). But I never meant—if you'll only let me explain——

[The Boy has come behind him, and administers a surreptitious kick, which Undershell rightly construes as a hint to hold his tongue.

Tredwell (in solemn offence). I'm accustomed, Mr. Hundershell, to be treated in this room with respect and deference—especially by them as come here in the capacity of guests. From such I regard any attempt to pull my leg as in hindifferent taste—to say the least of it. I wish to 'ave no more words on the subjick, which is a painful one, and had better be dropped, for the sake of all parties. Mrs. Pomfret, I see supper is on the table, so, by your leave, we had better set down to it.

Phillipson (to Undershell). Never mind him, pompous old thing! It was awfully cheeky of you, though. You can sit next me if you like.

Undershell (to himself, as he avails himself of this permission). I shall only make things worse if I explain now. But, oh, great Heavens, what a position for a poet!

At the Supper-table in the Housekeeper's Room. Mrs. Pomfret and Tredwell are at the head and foot of the table respectively. Undershell is between Mrs. Pomfret and Miss Phillipson. The Steward's Room Boy waits.

Tredwell. I don't see Mr. Adams here this evening, Mrs. Pomfret. What's the reason of that?

Mrs. Pomfret. Why, he asked to be excused to-night, Mr. Tredwell. You see some of the visitors' coachmen are putting up their horses here, and he's helping Mr. Checkley entertain them. (To Undershell.) Mr. Adams is our stud-groom, and him and Mr. Checkley, the 'ed coachman, are very friendly just now. Adams is very clever with his horses, I believe, and I'm sure he'd have liked a talk with you; it's a pity he's engaged elsewhere this evening.

Undershell (mystified). I—I'm exceedingly sorry to have missed him, ma'am. (To himself.) Is the stud-groom literary, I wonder?... Ah, no, I remember now; I allowed Miss Phillipson to conclude that my tastes were equestrian. Perhaps it's just as well the stud-groom isn't here!

Mrs. Pomfret. Well, he may drop in later on. I shouldn't be surprised if you and he had met before.

Undershell (to himself). I should. (Aloud.) I hardly think it's probable.

Mrs. Pomfret. I've known stranger things than that happen. Why, only the other day, a gentleman came into this very room, as it might be yourself, and it struck me he was looking very hard at me, and by and bye he says, "You don't recollect me, ma'am, but I know you very well," says he. So I said to him, "You certainly have the advantage of me at present, sir." "Well, ma'am," he says, "many years ago I had the honour and privilege of being steward's room boy in a house where you was still-room maid; and I consider I owe the position I have since attained entirely to the good advice you used to give me, as I've never forgot it, ma'am," says he. Then it flashed across me who it was—"Mr. Pocklington!" says I. Which it were. And him own man to the Duke of Dumbleshire! Which was what made it so very nice and 'andsome of him to remember me all that time.

Undershell (perfunctorily). It must have been most gratifying, ma'am. (To himself.) I hope this old lady hasn't any more anecdotes of this highly interesting nature. I mustn't neglect Miss Phillipson—especially as I haven't very long to stay here.

[He consults his watch stealthily.

Miss Phillipson (observing the action). I'm sorry you find it so slow here; it's not very polite of you to show it quite so openly though, I must say.

[She pouts.

Undershell (to himself). I can't let this poor girl think me a brute! But I must be careful not to go too far. (To her, in an undertone which he tries to render unemotional.) Don't misunderstand me like that. If I looked at my watch, it was merely to count the minutes that are left. In one short half-hour I must go—I must pass out of your life, and you must forget—oh, it will be easy for you—but for me, ah! you cannot think that I shall carry away a heart entirely unscathed! Believe me, I shall always look back gratefully, regretfully, on——

Phillipson (bending her head with a gratified little giggle). I declare you're beginning all that again. I never did see such a cure as you are.

Undershell (to himself, displeased). I wish she could bring herself to take me a little more seriously. I can not consider it a compliment to be called a "cure"—whatever that is.

Steptoe (considering it time to interfere). Come, Mr. Undershell, all this whispering reelly is not fair on the company! You mustn't hide your bushel under a napkin like this; don't reserve all your sparklers for Miss Phillipson there.

Undershell (stiffly). I—ah—was not making any remark that could be described as a sparkler, sir. I don't sparkle.

Phillipson (demurely). He was being rather sentimental just then, Mr. Steptoe, as it happens. Not that he can't sparkle, when he likes. I'm sure if you'd heard how he went on in the fly!

Steptoe (with malice). Not having been privileged to be present, perhaps our friend here could recollect a few of his happiest efforts and repeat them.

Miss Dolman. Do, Mr. Undershell, please. I do love a good laugh.

Undershell (crimson). I—you really must excuse me. I said nothing worth repeating. I don't remember that I was particularly——

Steptoe. Pardon me. Afraid I was indiscreet. We must spare Miss Phillipson's blushes by all manner of means.

Phillipson. Oh, it was nothing of that sort, Mr. Steptoe! I've no objection to repeat what he said. He called me a little green something or other. No; he said that in the train, though. But he would have it that the old cab-horse was a magic steed, and the fly an enchanted chariot; and I don't know what all. (As nobody smiles.) It sounded awfully funny as he said it, with his face perfectly solemn like it is now, I assure you it did!

Steptoe (patronisingly). I can readily believe it. We shall have you contributing to some of our yumerous periodicals, Mr. Undershell, sir, before long. Such facetious talent is too good to be lost, it reelly is.

Undershell (to himself, writhing). I gave her credit for more sense. To make me publicly ridiculous like this!

[He sulks.

Miss Stickler (to M. Ridevos, who suddenly rises). Mossoo, you're not going! Why, whatever's the matter?

M. Ridevos. Pairmeet zat I make my depart. I am cot at ze art.

[General outcry and sensation.

Mrs. Pomfret (concerned). You never mean that, Mossoo? And a nice dish of quails just put on, too, that they haven't even touched upstairs!

M. Ridevos. It is for zat I do not remmain! Zey 'ave not toch him; my pyramide, result of a genius stupend, énorme! to zem he is nossing; zey retturn him to crash me! To-morrow I demmand zat miladi accept my demission. Ici je souffre trop!

[He leaves the room precipitately.

Miss Stickler (offering to rise). It does seem to have upset him! Shall I go after him and see if I can't bring him round?

Mrs. Pomfret (severely). Stay where you are, Harriet; he's better left to himself. If he wasn't so wropped up in his cookery, he'd know there's always a dish as goes the round untasted, without why or wherefore. I've no patience with the man!

Tredwell (philosophically). That's the worst of 'aving to do with Frenchmen; they're so apt to beyave with a sutting childishness that—(checking himself)—I really ask your pardon, mamsell, I quite forgot you was of his nationality; though it ain't to be wondered at, I'm sure, for you might pass for an Englishwoman almost anywhere!

Mlle. Chiffon. As you for Frenchman, hein?

Tredwell. No, 'ang it all, mamsell, I 'ope there's no danger o' that! (To Miss Phillipson.) Delighted to see the Countess keeps as fit as ever, Miss Phillipson! Wonderful woman for her time o' life! Law, she did give the Bishop beans at dinner, and no mistake!

Phillipson. Her ladyship is pretty generous with them to most people, Mr. Tredwell. I'm sure I'd have left her long ago, if it wasn't for Lady Maisie—who is a lady, if you like!

Tredwell. She don't favour her ma, I will say that for her. By the way, who is the party they brought down with them? a youngish looking chap—seemed a bit out of his helement, when he first come in, though he's soon got over that, judging by the way him and your Lady Rhoda, Miss Dolman, was 'obnobbing together at table!

Phillipson. Nobody came down with my ladies; they must have met him in the bus, I expect. What is his name?

Tredwell. Why, he give it to me, I know, when I enounced him; but it's gone clean out of my head again. He's got the Verney Chamber, I know that much; but what was his name again? I shall forget my own next.

Undershell (involuntarily). In the Verney Chamber? Then the name must be Spurrell!

Phillipson (starting). Spurrell! Why, I used to—— But of course it can't be him!

Tredwell. Spurrell was the name, though. (With a resentful glare at Undershell.) I don't know how you came to be aware of it, sir!

Undershell. Why, the fact is, I happened to find out that—(here he receives an admonitory drive in the back from the Boy)—that his name was Spurrell. (To himself.) I wish this infernal boy wouldn't be officious—but perhaps he's right!

Tredwell. Ho, indeed! Well, another time, Mr. Hundershell, if you require information about parties staying with us, p'raps you'll be good enough to apply to me pussonally, instead of picking it up in some 'ole-and-corner fashion. (Undershell controls his indignation with difficulty.) To return to the individual in question, Miss Phillipson, I should have said myself he was something in the artistic or littery way; he suttingly didn't give me the impression of being a gentleman.

Phillipson (to herself, relieved). Then it isn't my Jem! I might have known he wouldn't be visiting here, and carrying on with Lady Rhodas. He'd never forget himself like that—if he has forgotten me!

Steptoe. It strikes me he's more of a sporting character, Tredwell. I know when I was circulating with the cigarettes and so on, in the hall just now, he was telling the Captain some anecdote about an old steeplechaser that was faked up to win a selling handicap, and it tickled me to that extent I could hardly hold the spirit-lamp steady.

Tredwell. I may be mistook, Steptoe. All I can say is, that when me and James was serving cawfy to the ladies in the drawing-room, some of them had got 'old of a little pink book all sprinkled over with silver cutlets, and, rightly or wrongly, I took it to 'ave some connection with 'im.

Undershell (excitedly). Pink and silver! Might I ask—was it a volume of poetry, called—er—Andromeda?

Tredwell (crushingly). That I did not take the liberty of inquiring, sir, as you might be aware if you was a little more familiar with the hetiquette of good society.

[Undershell collapses; Mr. Adams enters, and steps into the chair vacated by the Chef, next to Mrs. Pomfret, with whom he converses.

Undershell (to himself). To think that they may be discussing my book in the drawing-room at this very moment, while I—I—— (He chokes.) Ah, it won't bear thinking of! I must—I will get out of this accursed place! I have stood this too long as it is! But I won't go till I have seen this fellow Spurrell, and made him give me back my things. What's the time?... ten! I can go at last. (He rises.) Mrs. Pomfret, will you kindly excuse me? I—I find I must go at once.

Mrs. Pomfret. Well, Mr. Undershell, sir, you're the best judge; and, if you really can't stop, this is Mr. Adams, who'll take you round to the stables himself, and do anything that's necessary. Won't you, Mr. Adams?

Adams. So you're off to-night, sir, are you? Well, I'd rather ha' shown you Deerfoot by daylight, myself; but there, I dessay that won't make much difference to you, so long as you do see the 'orse?

Undershell (to himself). So Deerfoot's a horse! One of the features of Wyvern, I suppose; they seem very anxious I shouldn't miss it. I don't want to see the beast; but I dare say it won't take many minutes; and, if I don't humour this man, I shan't get a conveyance to go away in! (Aloud.) No difference whatever—to me. I shall be delighted to be shown Deerfoot; only I really can't wait much longer; I—I've an appointment elsewhere!

Adams. Right, sir; you get your 'at and coat, and come along with me, and you shall see him at once.

[Undershell takes a hasty farewell of Miss Phillipson and the company generally—none of whom attempts to detain him—and follows his guide. As the door closes upon them, he hears a burst of stifled merriment, amidst which Miss Phillipson's laughter is only too painfully recognisable.

Outside the Stables at Wyvern. Time—About 10 P.M.

Undershell (to himself, as he follows Adams). Now is my time to arrange about getting away from here. (To Adams.) By the bye, I suppose you can let me have a conveyance of some sort—after I've seen the horse? I—I'm rather in a hurry.

Adams. You'd better speak to Mr. Checkley about that, sir; it ain't in my department, you see. I'll fetch him round, if you'll wait here a minute; he'd like to hear what you think about the 'orse.

[He goes off to the coachman's quarters.

Undershell (alone). A very civil fellow this; he seems quite anxious to show me this animal! There must be something very remarkable about it.

[Adams returns with Checkley.

Adams. Mr. Checkley, our 'ed coachman, Mr. Undershell. He's coming in along with us to 'ear what you say, if you've no objections.

Undershell (to himself). I must make a friend of this coachman, or else—— (Aloud.) I shall be charmed, Mr. Checkley. I've only a very few minutes to spare; but I'm most curious to see this horse of yours.

Checkley. He ain't one o' my 'orses, sir. If he 'ad been—— But there, I'd better say nothing about it.

Adams (as he leads the way into the stables, and turns up the gas). There, sir, that's Deerfoot over there in the loose box.

Undershell (to himself). He seems to me much like any other horse! However, I can't be wrong in admiring. (Aloud, as he inspects him, through the rails.) Ah, indeed? he is worth seeing! A magnificent creature!

Adams (stripping off Deerfoot's clothing). He's a good 'orse, sir. Her ladyship won't trust herself on no other animal, not since she 'ad the influenzy so bad. She'd take on dreadful if I 'ad to tell her he wouldn't be fit for no more work, she would!

Undershell (sympathetically). I can quite imagine so. Not that he seems in any danger of that!

Checkley (triumphantly). There, you 'ear that, Adams? The minute he set eyes on the 'orse!

Adams. Wait till Mr. Undershell has seen him move a bit, and see what he says then.

Checkley. If it was what you think, he'd never be standing like he is now, depend upon it.

Adams. You can't depend upon it. He 'eard us coming, and he's quite artful enough to draw his foot back for fear o' getting a knock. (To Undershell.) I've noticed him very fidgety-like on his forelegs this last day or two.

Undershell. Have you, though? (To himself.) I hope he won't be fidgety with his hind-legs. I shall stay outside.

Adams. I cooled him down with a rubub and aloes ball, and kep 'im on low diet; but he don't seem no better.

Undershell (to himself). I didn't gather the horse was unwell. (Aloud.) Dear me! no better? You don't say so!

Checkley. If you'd rubbed a little embrocation into the shoulder, you'd ha' done more good, in my opinion, and it's my belief as Mr. Undershell here will tell you I'm right.

Undershell (to himself). Can't afford to offend the coachman! (Aloud.) Well, I dare say—er—embrocation would have been better.

Adams. Ah, that's where me and Mr. Checkley differ. According to me, it ain't to do with the shoulder at all—it's a deal lower down.... I'll 'ave him out of the box and you'll soon see what I mean.

Undershell (hastily). Pray don't trouble on my account. I—I can see him capitally from where I am, thanks.

Adams. You know best, sir. Only I thought you'd be better able to form a judgment after you'd seen the way he stepped across. But if you was to come in and examine the frog?— I don't like the look of it myself.

Undershell (to himself). I'm sure I don't. I've a horror of reptiles. (Aloud.) You're very good. I—I think I won't come in. The place must be rather damp, mustn't it—for that?

Adams. It's dry enough in 'ere, sir, as you may see; nor yet he ain't been standing about in no wet. Still, there it is, you see!

Undershell (to himself). What a fool he must be not to drive it out! Of course it must annoy the horse. (Aloud.) I don't see it; but I'm quite willing to take your word for it.

Adams. I don't know how you can expect to see it, sir, without you look inside of the 'oof for it.

Undershell (to himself). It's not alive—it's something inside the hoof. I suppose I ought to have known that. (Aloud.) Just so; but I see no necessity for looking inside the hoof.

Checkley. In course he don't, or he'd ha' looked the very fust thing, with all his experience. I 'ope you're satisfied now, Adams?

Adams. I can't say as I am. I say as no man can examine a 'orse thoroughly at that distance, be he who he may. And whether I'm right or wrong, it 'ud be more of a satisfaction to me if Mr. Undershell was to step in and see the 'oof for himself.

Checkley. Well, there's sense in that, and I dessay Mr. Undershell won't object to obliging you that far.

Undershell (with reluctance). Oh, with pleasure, if you make a point of it.

[He enters the loose box delicately.

Adams (picking up one of the horse's feet). Now, tell me how this 'ere 'oof strikes you.

Undershell (to himself). That hoof can't; but I'm not so sure about the others. (Aloud, as he inspects it.) Well—er—it seems to me a very nice hoof.

Adams (grimly). I was not arsking your opinion of it as a work of art, sir. Do you see any narrering coming on, or do you not? That's what I should like to get out of you!

Undershell (to himself). Does this man suppose I collect hoofs! However, I'm not going to commit myself. (Aloud.) H'm—well, I—I rather agree with Mr. Checkley.

Checkley. I knew he would! Now you've got it, Adams! I can see Mr. Undershell knows what he's about.

Adams (persistently). But look at this 'ere pastern. You can't deny there's puffiness there. How do you get over that?

Undershell. If the horse is puffy, it's his business to get over it—not mine.

Adams (aggrieved). You may think proper to treat it light, sir; but if you put your 'and down 'ere, above the coronet, you'll feel a throbbing as plain as——

Undershell. Very likely. But I don't know, really, that it would afford me any particular gratification if I did!

Adams. Well, if you don't take my view, I should ha' thought as you'd want to feel the 'orse's pulse.

Undershell. You are quite mistaken. I don't. (To himself.) Particularly as I shouldn't know where to find it. What a bore this fellow is with his horse!

Checkley. In course, sir, you see what's running in Mr. Adams's 'ed all this time, what he's a-driving at, eh?

Undershell (to himself). I only wish I did! This will require tact. (Aloud.) I—I could hardly avoid seeing that—could I?

Checkley. I should think not. And it stands to reason as a vet like yourself'd spot a thing like navickler fust go off.

Undershell (to himself). A vet! They've been taking me for a vet all this time! I can't have been so ignorant as I thought. I really don't like to undeceive them—they might feel annoyed. (Aloud, knowingly.) To be sure, I—I spotted it at once.

Adams. He does make it out navicular after all! What did I tell you, Checkley? Now p'raps you'll believe me!

Checkley. I'll be shot if that 'orse has navickler, whoever says so—there!

Adams (gloomily). It's the 'orse 'll 'ave to be shot; worse luck! I'd ha' give something if Mr. Undershell could ha' shown I was wrong; but there was very little doubt in my mind what it was all along.

Undershell (to himself, horrified). I've been pronouncing this unhappy animal's doom without knowing it! I must tone it down. (Aloud.) No—no, I never said he must be shot. There's no reason to despair. It—it's quite a mild form of er—clavicular—not at all infectious at present. And the horse has a splendid constitution. I—I really think he'll soon be himself again, if we only—er—leave Nature to do her work, you know.

Adams (after a prolonged whistle). Well, if Nature ain't better up in her work than you seem to be, it's 'igh time she chucked it, and took to something else. You've a lot to learn about navicular, you 'ave, if you can talk such rot as that!

Checkley. Ah, I've 'ad to do with a vet or two in my time, but I'm blest if I ever come across the likes o' you afore!

Undershell (to himself). I knew they'd find me out! I must pacify them. (Aloud.) But, look here, I'm not a vet. I never said I was. It was your mistake entirely. The fact is, my—my good men, I came down here because—well, it's unnecessary to explain now why I came. But I'm most anxious to get away, and if you, my dear Mr. Checkley, could let me have a trap to take me to Shuntingbridge to-night, I should feel extremely obliged.

[Checkley stares, deprived of speech.

Adams (with a private wink to Checkley). Certainly he will, sir. I'm sure Checkley 'll feel proud to turn out, late as it is, to oblige a gentleman with your remarkable knowledge of 'orseflesh. Drive you over hisself in the broom and pair, I shouldn't wonder!

Undershell. One horse will be quite sufficient. Very well, then. I'll just run up and get my portmanteau, and—and one or two things of mine, and if you will be round at the back entrance—don't trouble to drive up to the front door—as soon as possible, I won't keep you waiting longer than I can help. Good evening, Mr. Adams, and many thanks. (To himself, as he hurries back to the house.) I've got out of that rather well. Now, I've only to find my way to the Verney Chamber, see this fellow Spurrell, and get my clothes back, and then I can retreat with comfort, and even dignity! These Culverins shall learn that there is at least one poet who will not put up with their insolent patronage!

Checkley (to Adams). He has got a cool cheek, and no mistake! But if he waits to be druv over to Shuntingbridge till I come round for him, he'll 'ave to set on that portmanteau of his a goodish time!

Adams. He did you pretty brown, I must say. To 'ear you crowing over me when he was on your side. I could 'ardly keep from larfing!

Checkley. I see he warn't no vet long afore you, but I let it go on for the joke of it. It was rich to see you a-wanting him to feel the 'oof, and give it out navickler. Well, you got his opinion for what it was wuth, so you're all right!

Adams. You think nobody knows anything about 'orses but yourself, you do; but if you're meanin' to make a story out o' this against me, why, I shall tell it my way, that's all!

Checkley. It was you he made a fool of, not me—and I can prove it—there!

[They dispute the point, with rising warmth, for some time.

Adams (calming down). Well, see 'ere, Checkley, I dunno, come to think of it, as either on us 'll show up partickler smart over this 'ere job; and it strikes me we'd better both agree to keep quiet about it, eh? (Checkley acquiesces, not unwillingly.) And I think I'll take a look in at the 'ousekeeper's-room presently, and try if I can't drop a hint to old Tredwell about that smooth-tongued chap, for it's my belief he ain't down 'ere for no good!

In a Gallery outside the Verney Chamber. Time—About 10.15 P.M.

Undershell (to himself, as he emerges from a back staircase). I suppose this is the corridor? The boy said the name of the room was painted up over the door.... Ah, there it is; and, yes, Mr. Spurrell's name on a card.... The door is ajar; he is probably waiting for me inside. I shall meet him quite temperately, treat it simply as a—— (He enters; a waste-paper basket, containing an ingenious arrangement of liquid and solid substances, descends on his head.) What the devil do you mean, sir, by this outrageous——? All dark! Nobody here! Is there a general conspiracy to insult me? Have I been lured up here for a brutal—— (Spurrell bursts in.) Ah, there you are, sir! (With cold dignity, through the lattice-work of the basket.) Will you kindly explain what this means?

Spurrell. Wait till I strike a light. (After lighting a pair of candles.) Well, sir, if you don't know why you're ramping about like that under a waste-paper basket, I can hardly be expected to——

Undershell. I was determined not to remove it until somebody came in; it fell on my head the moment I entered; it contained something in a soap-dish, which has wetted my face. You may laugh, sir, but if this is a sample of your aristocratic——

Spurrell. If you could only see yourself! But I'd nothing to do with it, 'pon my word I hadn't; only just this minute got away from the hall.... I know! It's that sulky young beggar, Bearpark. I remember he slipped off on some excuse or other just now. He must have come in here and fixed that affair up for me—confound him!

Undershell. I think I'm the person most entitled to—— But no matter; it is merely one insult more among so many. I came here, sir, for a purpose, as you are aware.

Spurrell (ruefully). Your dress clothes? All right, you shall have them directly. I wouldn't have put 'em on if I'd known they'd be wanted so soon.

Undershell. I should have thought your own would have been more comfortable.

Spurrell. More comfortable! I believe you. Why, I assure you I feel like a Bath bun in a baby's sock! But how was I to know? You shouldn't leave your things about like that!

Undershell. It is usual, sir, for people to come to a place like this provided with evening clothes of their own.

Spurrell. I know that as well as you do. Don't you suppose I'm unacquainted with the usages of society! Why, I've stayed in boarding-houses at the seaside many a time where it was de rigger to dress—even for high tea! But coming down, as I did, on business, it never entered my head that I should want my dress suit. So, when I found them all as chummy and friendly as possible, and expecting me to dine as a matter of course,—why, I can tell you I was too jolly glad to get hold of anything in the shape of a swallowtail and white choker to be over particular!

Undershell. You seem to have been more fortunate in your reception than I. But then I had not the advantage of being here in a business capacity.

Spurrell. Well, it wasn't that altogether. You see, I'm a kind of a celebrity in my way.

Undershell. I should hardly have thought that would be a recommendation here.

Spurrell. I was surprised myself to find what a lot they thought of it; but, bless you, they're all as civil as shopwalkers; and, as for the ladies, why, the old Countess and Lady Maisie and Lady Rhoda couldn't be more complimentary if I'd won the Victoria Cross, instead of getting a first prize for breeding and exhibiting a bull-bitch at Cruft's Dog show!

Undershell (bitterly, to himself). And this is our aristocracy! They make a bosom friend of a breeder of dogs; and find a poet only fit to associate with their servants! What a theme for a satirist! (Aloud.) I see nothing to wonder at. You possess precisely the social qualifications most likely to appeal to the leisured class.

Spurrell. Oh, there's a lot of humbug in it, mind you! Most of 'em know about as much of the points of a bull as the points of a compass, only they let on to know a lot because they think it's smart. And some of 'em are after a pup from old Drummy's next litter. I see through all that, you know!

Undershell. You are a cynic, I observe, sir. But possibly the nature of the business which brings you here renders them——

Spurrell. That's the rummest thing about it. I haven't heard a word about that yet. I'm in the veterinary profession, you know. Well, they sent for me to see some blooming horse, and never even ask me to go near it! Seems odd, don't it?

Undershell (to himself). I had to go near the blooming horse! Now I begin to understand; the very servants did not expect to find a professional vet in any company but their own! (Aloud.) I—I trust that the horse will not suffer through any delay.

Spurrell. So do I; but how do I know that some ignorant duffer mayn't be treating him for the wrong thing? It may be all up with the animal before I get a chance of seeing what I can do?

Undershell (to himself). If he knew how near I went to getting the poor beast shot! But I needn't mention that now.

Spurrell. I don't say it isn't gratifying to be treated like a swell, but I've got my professional reputation to consider, you know; and if they're going to take up all my time talking about Andromeda——

Undershell (with a start). Andromeda! They have been talking about Andromeda? To you! Then it's you who——

Spurrell. Haven't I been telling you? I should just jolly well think they have been talking about her! So you didn't know my bull's name was Andromeda before, eh? But you seem to have heard of her, too!

Undershell (slowly). I—I have heard of Andromeda—yes.

[He drops into a chair, dazed.

Spurrell (complacently). It's curious how that bitch's fame seems to have spread. Why, even the old Bishop—— But, I say, you're looking rather queer; anything the matter with you, old fellow?

Undershell (faintly). Nothing—nothing. I—I feel a little giddy, that's all. I shall be better presently.

[He conceals his face.

Spurrell (in concern). It was having that basket down on your head like that. Too bad! Here, I'll get you some water. (He bustles about.) I don't know if you're aware of it, old chap, but you're in a regular dooce of a mess!

Undershell (motioning him away irritably). Do you suppose I don't know that? For Heaven's sake, don't speak to me! let me alone!... I want to think—I want to think. (To himself.) I see it all now! I've made a hideous mistake! I thought these Culverins were deliberately—— And all the time—— Oh, what an unspeakable idiot I've been!... And I can't even explain!... The only thing to do is to escape before this fellow suspects the truth. It's lucky I ordered that carriage! (Aloud, rising.) I'm all right now; and—and I can't stay here any longer. I am leaving directly—directly!

Spurrell. You must give me time to get out of this toggery, old chap; you'll have to pick me out of it like a lobster!

Undershell (wildly). The clothes? Never mind them now. I can't wait. Keep them!

Spurrell. Do you really mean it, old fellow? If you could spare 'em a bit longer, I'd be no end obliged. Because, you see, I promised Lady Rhoda to come and finish a talk we were having, and they've taken away my own things to brush, so I haven't a rag to go down in except these; and they'd all think it so beastly rude if I went to bed now!

Undershell (impatiently). I tell you you may keep them, if you'll only go away!

Spurrell. But where am I to send the things to when I've done with 'em?

Undershell. What do I—— Stay, here's my card. Send them to that address. Now go and finish your evening!

Spurrell (gratefully). You are a rattling good chap, and no mistake! Though I'm hanged if I can quite make out what you're doing here, you know!

Undershell. It's not at all necessary that you should make it out. I am leaving immediately, and—and I don't wish Sir Rupert or Lady Culverin to hear of this—you understand?

Spurrell. Well, it's no business of mine; you've behaved devilish well to me, and I'm not surprised that you'd rather not be seen in the state you're in. I shouldn't like it myself!

Undershell. State? What state?

Spurrell. Ah, I wondered whether you knew. You'll see what I mean when you've had a look at yourself in the glass. I dare say it'll come off right enough. I can't stop. Ta, ta, old fellow, and thanks awfully!

[He goes out.

Undershell (alone). What does he mean? But I've no time to waste. Where have they put my portmanteau? I can't give up everything. (He hunts round the room, and eventually discovers a door leading into a small dressing-room.) Ah, it's in there. I'll get it out, and put my things in. (As he rushes back, he suddenly comes face to face with his own reflection in a cheval glass.) Wh—who's that? Can this—this piebald horror possibly be—me? How——? Ah, it was ink in that infernal basket—not water! And my hair's full of flour! I can't go into a hotel like this, they'd think I was an escaped lunatic! (He flies to a wash-hand stand, and scrubs and sluices desperately, after which he inspects the result in the mirror.) It's not nearly off yet! Will anything get rid of this streakiness? (He soaps and scrubs once more.) And the flour's caked in my hair now! I must brush it all out before I am fit to be seen. (He gradually, after infinite toil, succeeds in making himself slightly more presentable.) Is the carriage waiting for me all this time? (He pitches things into his portmanteau in a frantic flurry.) What's that? Some one's coming!

[He listens.