No. IX.—UNDER THE HARROW.
A Conventional Comedy-Melodrama, in two Acts.
Characters.
Sir Poshbury Puddock (a haughty and high-minded Baronet).
Verbena Puddock (his Daughter).
Lord Bleshugh (her Lover).
Spiker (a needy and unscrupulous Adventurer).
Blethers (an ancient and attached Domestic).
ACT I.—Scene—The Morning Room, at Natterjack Hall, Toadley-le-Hole; large window open at back, with heavy practicable sash.
Enter Blethers.
Blethers. Sir Poshbury's birthday to-day—his birthday!—and the gentry giving of him presents. Oh, Lor! if they only knew what I could tell 'em!... Ah, and must tell, too, before long—but not yet—not yet!
[Exit.
Enter Lord Bleshugh and Verbena.
Verb. Yes, Papa is forty to-day; (innocently) fancy living to that age! The tenants have presented him with a handsome jar of mixed pickles, with an appropriate inscription. Papa is loved and respected by every one. And I—well, I have made him a little housewife, containing needles and thread.... See!
[Shows it.
Lord Blesh. (tenderly). I say, I—I wish you would make me a little housewife!
[Comedy love-dialogue omitted owing to want of space.
Verb. Oh, do look!—there's Papa crossing the lawn with, oh, such a horrid man following him!
Lord B. Regular bounder. Shocking bad hat!
Verb. Not so bad as his boots, and they are not so bad as his face! Why doesn't Papa order him to go away? Oh, he is actually inviting him in!
Enter Sir Poshbury, gloomy and constrained, with Spiker, who is jaunty, and somewhat over-familiar.
Spiker (sitting on the piano, and dusting his boots with a handkerchief). Cosy little shanty you've got here, Puddock—very tasty!
Sir P. (with a gulp). I am—ha—delighted that you approve of it! Ah, Verbena!
[Kisses her on forehead.
Spiker. Your daughter, eh? Pooty gal. Introduce me.
[Sir Posh. introduces him—with an effort.
Verbena. (coldly). How do you do? Papa, did you know that the sashline of this window was broken? If it is not mended, it will fall on somebody's head, and perhaps kill him!
Sir. P. (absently). Yes—yes, it shall be attended to; but leave us, my child, go. Bleshugh, this—er—gentleman and I have business of importance to discuss.
Spiker. Don't let us drive you away, Miss; your Pa and me are only talking over old times, that's all—eh, Posh?
Sir P. (in a tortured aside). Have a care, Sir, don't drive me too far! (To Verb.) Leave us, I say. (Lord B. and Verb. go out, raising their eyebrows.) Now, Sir, what is this secret you profess to have discovered?
Spiker. Oh, a mere nothing. (Takes out a cigar.) Got a light about you? Thanks. Perhaps you don't recollect twenty-seven years ago this very day, travelling from Edgware Road to Baker Street, by the Underground Railway?
Sir P. Perfectly; it was my thirteenth birthday, and I celebrated the event by a visit to Madame Tussaud's.
Spiker. Exactly; it was your thirteenth birthday, and you travelled second-class with a half-ticket—(meaningly)—on your thirteenth birthday.
Sir P. (terribly agitated). Fiend that you are, how came you to learn this?
Spiker. Very simple. I was at that time in the temporary position of ticket-collector at Baker Street. In the exuberance of boyhood, you cheeked me. I swore to be even with you some day.
Sir P. Even if—if your accusation were well-founded, how are you going to prove it?
Sp. Oh, that's easy! I preserved the half-ticket, on the chance that I should require it as evidence hereafter.
Sir P. (aside). And so the one error of an otherwise blameless boyhood has found me out—at last. (To Spiker.) I fear you not; my crime—if crime indeed it was—is surely condoned by twenty-seven long years of unimpeachable integrity!
Sp. Bye-laws are bye-laws, old buck! there's no time limit in criminal offences that ever I heard of! Nothing can alter the fact that you, being turned thirteen, obtained a half-ticket by a false representation that you were under age. A line from me, even now, denouncing you to the Traffic Superintendent, and I'm very much afraid——
Sir P. (writhing). Spiker, my—my dear friend, you won't do that—you won't expose me? Think of my age, my position, my daughter!
Sp. Ah, now you've touched the right chord! I was thinking of your daughter—a nice lady-like gal—I don't mind telling you she fetched me, Sir, at the first glance. Give me her hand, and I burn the compromising half-ticket before your eyes on our return from church after the wedding. Come, that's a fair offer!
Sir P. (indignantly). My child, the ripening apple of my failing eye, to be sacrificed to a blackmailing blackguard like you! Never while I live!
Sp. Just as you please; and, if you will kindly oblige me with writing materials, I will just drop a line to the Traffic Superintendent——
Sir P. (hoarsely). No, no; not that.... Wait, listen; I—I will speak to my daughter. I promise nothing; but if her heart is still her own to give, she may (mind, I do not say she will) be induced to link her lot to yours, though I shall not attempt to influence her in any way—in any way.
Sp. Well, you know your own business best, old Cockalorum. Here comes the young lady, so I'll leave you to manage this delicate affair alone. Ta-ta. I shan't be far off.
[Swaggers insolently out as Verb. enters.
Sir P. My child, I have just received an offer for your hand. I know not if you will consent?
Verb. I can guess who has made that offer, and why. I consent with all my heart, dear Papa.
Sir P. Can I trust my ears! You consent? Noble girl!
[He embraces her.
Verb. I was quite sure dear Bleshugh meant to speak, and I do love him very much.
Sir P. (starting). It is not Lord Bleshugh, my child, but Mr. Samuel Spiker, the gentleman (for he is at heart a gentleman) whom I introduced to you just now.
Verb. I have seen so little of him, Papa, I cannot love him—you must really excuse me!
Sir P. Ah, but you will, my darling, you will—I know your unselfish nature—you will, to save your poor old dad from a terrible disgrace ... yes, disgrace, listen! Twenty-seven years ago—(he tells her all). Verbena, at this very moment, there is a subscription on foot in the county to present me with my photograph, done by an itinerant photographer of the highest eminence, and framed and glazed ready for hanging. Is that photograph never to know the nail which even now awaits it? Can you not surrender a passing girlish fancy, to spare your fond old father's fame? Mr. Spiker is peculiar, perhaps, in many ways—not quite of our monde—but he loves you sincerely, my child, and that is, in itself, a recommendation. Ah, I see—my prayers are vain ... be happy, then. As for me, let the police come—I am ready!
[Weeps.
Verb. Not so, Papa; I will marry this Mr. Spiker, since it is your wish.
[Sir Posh. dries his eyes.
Sir P. Here, Spiker, my dear fellow, it is all right. Come in. She accepts you.
Enter Spiker.
Sp. Thought she would. Sensible little gal! Well, Miss, you shan't regret it. Bless you, we'll be as chummy together as a couple of little dicky-birds!
Verb. Mr. Spiker, let us understand one another. I will do my best to be a good wife to you—but chumminess is not mine to give, nor can I promise ever to be your dicky-bird.
Enter Lord Bleshugh.
Lord B. Sir Poshbury, may I have five minutes with you? Verbena, you need not go. (Looking at Spiker.) Perhaps this person will kindly relieve us of his presence.
Sp. Sorry to disoblige, old feller, but I'm on duty where Miss Verbena is now, you see, as she's just promised to be my wife.
Lord B. Your wife!
Verb. (faintly). Yes, Lord Bleshugh, his wife!
Sir P. Yes, my poor boy, his wife!
[Verbena totters, and falls heavily in a dead faint, R.C., upsetting a flower-stand; Lord Bleshugh staggers, and swoons on sofa, C., overturning a table of knicknacks; Sir Poshbury sinks into chair, L.C., and covers his face with his hands.
Sp. (looking down on them triumphantly). Under the Harrow, by Gad! Under the Harrow!
[Curtain, and end of Act I.
