No. IX.—UNDER THE HARROW.
A Conventional Comedy-Melodrama, in Two Acts.
ACT. II.—Scene—Same as in Act I.; viz., the Morning-room at Natterjack Hall. Evening of same day. Enter Blethers.
Blethers. Another of Sir Poshbury's birthdays almost gone—and my secret still untold! (Dodders.) I can't keep it up much longer ... Ha, here comes his Lordship—he does look mortal bad, that he do! Miss Verbena ain't treated him too well, from all I can hear, poor young feller!
Enter Lord Bleshugh.
Lord Bleshugh. Blethers, by the memory of the innumerable half-crowns that have passed between us, be my friend now! I have no others left. Persuade your young Mistress to come hither—you need not tell her I am here, you understand. Be discreet, and this florin shall be yours!
Blethers. Leave it to me, my Lord. I'd tell a lie for less than that, any day, old as I am!
[Exit.
Lord Bl. I cannot rest till I have heard from her own lips that the past few hours have been nothing but a horrible dream ... She is coming! Now for the truth!
[Enter Verbena.
Verbena. Papa, did you want me? (Recognises Lord B.—controls herself to a cold formality.) My Lord, to what do I owe this—this unexpected intrusion?
[Pants violently.
Lord Bl. Verbena, tell me, you cannot really prefer that seedy snob in the burst boots to me?
Verb. (aside). How can I tell him the truth without betraying dear Papa? No, I must lie, though it kills me. (To Lord B.) Lord Bleshugh, I have been trifling with you. I—I never loved you.
Lord B. I see, and all the while your heart was given to a howling cad?
Verb. And if it was, who can account for the vagaries of a girlish fancy! We women are capricious beings, you know. (With hysterical gaiety.) But you are unjust to Mr. Spiker—he has not yet howled in my presence—(aside)—though I very nearly did in his!
Lord B. And you really love him?
Verb. I—I love him. (Aside.) My heart will break!
Lord B. Then I have no more to say. Farewell, Verbena! Be as happy as the knowledge that you have wrecked one of the brightest careers, and soured one of the sweetest natures in the county, will permit. (Goes up stage, and returns.) A few days since you presented me with a cloth pen-wiper, in the shape of a dog of unknown breed. If you will kindly wait here for half-an-hour, I shall have much pleasure in returning a memento which I have no longer the right to retain, and there are several little things I gave you which I can take back with me at the same time, if you will have them put up in readiness.
[Exit.
Verbena. Oh, he is cruel, cruel! but I shall keep the little bone yard-measure, and the diamond pig—they are all I have to remind me of him!
[Enter Spiker, slightly intoxicated.
Spiker (throwing himself on sofa without seeing Verb.) I don' know how it is, but I feel precioush shleepy, somehow. P'raps I did partake lil' too freely of Sir Poshbury's gen'rous Burgundy. Wunner why they call it "gen'rous"—it didn't give me anything 'cept a bloomin' headache! However, I punished it, and old Poshbury had to look on and let me. He-he! (Examining his hand.) Who'd think, to look at thish thumb, that there was a real live Baronet squirmin' under it. But there ish!
[Snores.
Verb. (bitterly). And that thing is my affianced husband! Ah, no, I cannot go through with it, he is too repulsive! If I could but find a way to free myself without compromising poor Papa. The sofa-cushion! Dare I? It would be quite painless ... Surely the removal of such an odious wretch cannot be Murder ... I will! (Slow music. She gets a cushion, and presses it tightly over Spiker's head.) Oh, I wish he wouldn't gurgle like that, and how he does kick! he cannot even die like a gentleman! (Spiker's kicks become more and more feeble, and eventually cease.) How still he lies! I almost wish ... Mr. Spiker, Mr. Spi-ker!... no answer—oh, I really have suffocated him! (Enter Sir Posh.) You, Papa?
Sir Posh. What, Verbena, sitting with, hem—Samuel in the gloaming? (Sings, with forced hilarity.) "In the gloaming, oh, my darling!" that's as it should be—quite as it should be!
Verb. (in dull strained accents). Don't sing, Papa, I cannot bear it—just yet. I have just suffocated Mr. Spiker with a sofa-cushion. See!
[Shows the body.
Sir Posh. Then I am safe—he will tell no tales now! But, my child, are you aware of the very serious nature of your act? An act of which, as a Justice of the Peace, I am bound to take some official cognizance!
Verb. Do not scold me, Papa. Was it not done for your sake?
Sir P. I cannot accept such an excuse as that. I fear your motives were less disinterested than you would have me believe. And now, Verbena, what will you do? As your father, I would gladly screen you—but, as a Magistrate, I cannot promise to be more than passive.
Verb. Listen, Papa. I have thought of a plan—why should I not wheel this sofa to the head of the front-door steps, and tip it over? They will only think he fell down when intoxicated—for he had taken far too much wine, Papa!
Sir P. Always the same quick-witted little fairy! Go, my child, but be careful that none of the servants see you. (Verb. wheels the sofa and Spiker's body out, L.U.E.) My poor impulsive darling, I do hope she will not be seen—servants do make such mischief! But there's an end of Spiker, at any rate. I should not have liked him for a son-in-law, and with him, goes the only person who knows my unhappy secret!
Enter Blethers.
Blethers. Sir Poshbury, I have a secret to reveal which I can preserve no longer—it concerns something that happened many years ago—it is connected with your birthday, Sir Poshbury.
Sir P. (quailing). What, another! I must stop his tongue at all hazards. Ha, the rotten sash-line! (To Bl.) I will hear you, but first close yonder window, the night air is growing chill.
[Blethers goes to window at back. Slow music. As he approaches it, Lord Bleshugh enters (R 2 E), and, with a smothered cry of horror, drags him back by the coat-tails—just before the window falls with a tremendous crash.
Sir P. Bleshugh! What have you done?
Lord Blesh. (sternly). Saved him from an untimely end—and you from—crime.
[Collapse of Sir P. Enter Verbena, terrified.
Verb. Papa, Papa, hide me! The night-air and the cold stone steps have restored Mr. Spiker to life and consciousness! He is coming to denounce me—you—both of us! He is awfully annoyed!
Sir P. (recklessly). It is useless to appeal to me, child. I have enough to do to look after myself—now!
[Enter Spiker, indignant.
Spiker. Pretty treatment for a gentleman, this! Look here, Poshbury, this young lady has choked me with a cushion, and then pitched me down the front steps—I might have broken my neck!
Sir P. It was an oversight which I lament, but for which I must decline to be answerable. You must settle your differences with her.
Spiker. And you, too, old horse! You had a hand in this, I know, and I'll pay you out for it now. My life ain't safe if I marry a girl like that, so I've made up my mind to split, and be done with it!
Sir P. (contemptuously). If you don't, Blethers will. So do your worst, you hound!
Spiker. Very well, then; I will. (To the rest.) I denounce this man for travelling with a half-ticket from Edgware Road to Baker Street on his thirteenth birthday, the 31st of March, twenty-seven years ago this very day. [Sensation.
Blethers. Hear me; it was not his thirteenth birthday! Sir Poshbury's birthday falls on the 1st of April—to-morrow! I was sent to register the birth, and, by a blunder, which I have repented bitterly ever since, unfortunately gave the wrong date. Till this moment I have never had the manliness or sincerity to confess my error, for fear of losing my situation.
Sir P. (to Spiker). Do you hear, you paltry knave? I was not thirteen. Consequently, I was under age, and the Bye-laws are still unbroken. Your hold over me is gone—gone for ever!
Spiker. H'm—Spiker spiked this time!
[Retires up disconcerted.
Lord Bl. And you did not really love him, after all, Verbena?
Verb. (with arch pride). Have I not proved my indifference?
Lord Bl. But I forget—you admitted that you were but trifling with my affection—take back your pin-cushion.
Verb. Keep it. All that I did was done to spare my father!
Sir Posh. Who, as a matter of fact, was innocent—but I forgive you, child, for your unworthy suspicions. Bleshugh, my boy, you have saved me from unnecessarily depriving myself of the services of an old retainer. Blethers, I condone a dissimulation for which you have done much to atone. Spiker, you vile and miserable rascal, be off, and be thankful that I have sufficient magnanimity to refrain from giving you in charge. (Spiker sneaks off, crushed.) And now, my children, and my faithful old servant, congratulate me that I am no longer——
Verbena and Lord Bleshugh (together). Under the Harrow!
[Affecting Family Tableau and quick Curtain.
BLANK REFUSAL.
B-lf-r. "Quite easy to get the Money, if you'll Back the Bill."
P-rn-ll. "No, thank you!"
The Royal Society of Painters in Water-Colours.—Sir John Gilbert leads off with an excellent landscape "Autumn," which is full of his best quality. The presidential key-note thus struck, seems to have been taken up by the rest of the exhibitors, for in the present show there is certainly a preponderance of landscapes. Among the most notable contributions may be named those by Messrs. Birket Foster, A. D. Fripp, T. Lloyd, C. B. Phillip, Hemy, Smallfield, Marshall, Goodwin, Waterlow, E. K. Johnson, Stacy Marks, Henshall, J. D. Watson, T. J. Watson, Henry Moore, Carl Haag, Miss Clara Montalba, Mrs. Allingham and Miss C. Phillott. The exhibition, though it appears to be not so large as usual, is a very interesting one.
"An Unconsidered Trifle."—One of the clever young men who assist in that excellent Daily Telegraph salad, "London Day by Day," without which, served fresh and fresh every morning, life would not be worth living, said, last Tuesday, that "the latest on 'Change is that Stanley declares he never saw Emin Pasha. Why? Because there's no M in Pasha." Mr. Punch, December 21, 1889, originated it in this form:—
A Mythical Person: Emin Pasha.—Why this fuss about a man who does not exist? There's no M in "Pasha."
"It's of no consequence;" only, given as the latest quotation on 'Change, was not quite up to date for "London Day by Day."