LYRE AND LANCET.
(A Story in Scenes.)
PART XXII.—A DESCENT FROM THE CLOUDS.
SCENE XXXII.—In the Elizabethan Garden. Time—About 11 A.M.; Lady Maisie and Undershell are on a seat in the Yew Walk.
Lady Maisie (softly). And you really meant to go away, and never let one of us know what had happened to you!
Undershell (to himself.) How easy it is after all to be a hero! (Aloud.) That certainly was my intention, only I was—er—not permitted to carry it out. I trust you don't consider I should have been to blame?
Lady Maisie (with shining eyes). To blame? Mr. Blair! As if I could possibly do that!! (To herself.) He doesn't even see how splendid it was of him!
Und. (to himself). I begin to believe that I can do no wrong in her eyes! (Aloud.) It was not altogether easy, believe me, to leave without even having seen your face; but I felt so strongly that it was better so.
Lady Maisie (looking down). And—do you still feel that?
Und. I must confess that I am well content to have failed. It was such unspeakable torture to think that you, Lady Maisie, you of all people, would derive your sole idea of my personality from such an irredeemable vulgarian as that veterinary surgeon—the man Spurrell!
Lady Maisie (to herself, with an almost imperceptible start). I suppose it's only natural he should feel like that—but I wish—I do wish he had put it just a little differently! (Aloud.) Poor Mr. Spurrell; perhaps he was not exactly——
Und. Not exactly! I assure you, it is simply inconceivable to me that, in a circle of any pretensions to culture and refinement, an ill-bred boor like that could have been accepted for a single moment as—I won't say a Man of Genius, but——
Lady Maisie (the light dying out of her eyes). No, don't—don't go on, Mr. Blair! We were all exceedingly stupid, no doubt, but you must make allowances for us—for me, especially. I have had so few opportunities of meeting people who are really distinguished—in literature, at least. Most of the people I know best are—well, not exactly clever, you know. I so often wish I was in a set that cared rather more about intellectual things!
Und. (with infinite pity). How you must have pined for freer air! How you must have starved on such mental provender as, for example, the vapid and inane common-places of that swaggering carpet-soldier, Captain—Thickset, isn't it?
Lady Maisie (drawing back into her corner). You evidently don't know that Captain Thicknesse distinguished himself greatly in the Soudan, where he was very severely wounded.
Und. Possibly; but that is scarcely to the point. I do not question his efficiency as a fighting animal. As to his intelligence, perhaps, the less said the better.
Lady Maisie (contracting her brows). Decidedly. I ought to have mentioned at once that Captain Thicknesse is a very old friend of mine.
Und. Really? He, at least, may be congratulated. But pray don't think that I spoke with any personal animus; I merely happen to entertain a peculiar aversion for a class whose profession is systematic slaughter. In these Democratic times, when Humanity is advancing by leaps and bounds towards International Solidarity, soldiers are such grotesque and unnecessary anachronisms.
Lady Maisie (to herself, with a little shiver). Oh, why does he—why does he? (Aloud.) I should have thought that, until war itself is an anachronism, men who are willing to fight and die for their country could never be quite unnecessary. But we won't discuss Captain Thicknesse, particularly now that he has left Wyvern. Suppose we go back to Mr. Spurrell. I know, of course, that, in leaving him in ignorance as you did, you acted from the best and highest motives; but still——
Und. It is refreshing to be so thoroughly understood! I think I know what your "but still" implies—why did I not foresee that he would infallibly betray himself before long? I did. But I gave him credit for being able to sustain his part for another hour or two—until I had gone, in fact.
Lady Maisie. Then you didn't wish to spare his feelings as well as ours?
Und. To be quite frank, I didn't trouble myself about him; my sole object was to retreat with dignity; he had got himself somehow or other into a false position he must get out of as best he could. After all, he would be none the worse for having filled My place for a few hours.
Lady Maisie (slowly). I see. It didn't matter to you whether he was suspected of being an impostor, or made to feel uncomfortable, or—or anything. Wasn't that a little unfeeling of you?
Und. Unfeeling! I allowed him to keep my evening clothes, which is more than a good many——!
Lady Maisie. At all events, he may have had to pay more heavily than you imagine. I wonder whether—— But I suppose anything so unromantic as the love affairs of a veterinary surgeon would have no interest for you?
Und. Why not, Lady Maisie? To the Student of Humanity, and still more to the Poet, the humblest love-story may have its interesting—even its suggestive—aspect.
Lady Maisie. Well, I may tell you that it seems Mr. Spurrell has long been attached, if not actually engaged, to a maid of mine.
Und. (startled out of his self-possession). You—you don't mean to Miss Phillipson?
Lady Maisie. That is her name. How very odd that you—— But perhaps Mr. Spurrell mentioned it to you last night?
Und. (recovering his sang-froid). I am hardly likely to have heard of it from any other quarter.
Lady Maisie. Of course not. And did he tell you that she was here, in this very house?
Und. No, he never mentioned that. What a singular coincidence!
Lady Maisie. Yes, rather. The worst of it is that the foolish girl seems to have heard that he was a guest here, and jumped to the conclusion that he had ceased to care for her; so she revenged herself by a desperate flirtation with some worthless wretch she met in the Housekeeper's Room, whose flattery and admiration, I'm very much afraid, have completely turned her head!
Und. (uncomfortably). Ah, well, she must learn to forget him, and no doubt, in time—— How wonderful the pale sunlight is on that yew hedge!
Lady Maisie. You are not very sympathetic! I should not have told you at all, only I wanted to show you that if poor Mr. Spurrell did innocently usurp your place, he may have lost—— But I see all this only bores you.
Und. Candidly, Lady Maisie, I can't affect a very keen interest in the—er—gossip of the Housekeeper's Room. Indeed I am rather surprised that you should condescend to listen to——
Lady Maisie (to herself). This is really too much! (Aloud.) It never occurred to me that I was "condescending" in taking an interest in a pretty and wayward girl who happens to be my maid. But then I'm not a Democrat, Mr. Blair.
Und. I—I'm afraid you construed my remark as a rebuke; which it was not at all intended to be.
Lady Maisie. It would have been rather uncalled for if it had been, wouldn't it? (Observing his growing uneasiness.) I'm afraid you don't find this bench quite comfortable?
Und. I—er—moderately so. (To himself.) There's a female figure coming down the terrace steps. It's horribly like—— But that must be my morbid fancy; still, if I can get Lady Maisie away, just in case—— (Aloud.) D—don't you think sitting still becomes a little—er—monotonous after a time? Couldn't we——
[He rises, spasmodically.
Lady Maisie (rising too). Certainly; we have sat here quite long enough. It is time we went back.
Und. (to himself). We shall meet her! and I'm almost sure it's—— I must prevent any—— (Aloud.) Not back, Lady Maisie! You—you promised to show me the orchid-house—you did, indeed!
Lady Maisie. Very well; we can go in, if you care about orchids. It's on our way back.
Und. (to himself). This is too awful! It is that girl Phillipson. She is looking for somebody! Me! (Aloud.) On second thoughts, I don't think I do care to see the orchids. I detest them; they are weird unnatural extravagant things. Let us turn back and see if there are any snowdrops on the lawn behind that hedge. I love the snowdrop, it is so trustful and innocent, with its pure green-veined—— Do come and search for snowdrops!
"Do come and search for snowdrops!"
Lady Maisie. Not just now. I think—(as she shields her eyes with one hand)—I'm not quite sure yet—but I rather fancy that must be my maid at the other end of the walk.
Und. (eagerly). I assure you, Lady Maisie, you are quite mistaken. Not the least like her!
Lady Maisie (astonished). Why, how can you possibly tell that, without having seen her, Mr. Blair?
Und. I—I meant—— You described her as "pretty," you know. This girl is plain—distinctly plain!
Lady Maisie. I don't agree at all. However, it certainly is Phillipson, and she seems to have come out in search of me; so I had better see if she has any message.
Und. She hasn't. I'm positive she hasn't. She—she wouldn't walk like that if she had. (In feverish anxiety.) Lady Maisie, shall we turn back? She—she hasn't seen us yet!
Lady Maisie. Really, Mr. Blair! I don't quite see why I should run away from my own maid!... What is it, Phillipson?
[She advances to meet Phillipson, leaving Undershell behind, motionless.
Und. (to himself). It's all over! That confounded girl recognises me. I saw her face change! She'll be jealous, I know she'll be jealous—and then she'll tell Lady Maisie everything!... I wish to Heaven I could hear what she is saying. Lady Maisie seems agitated.... I—I might stroll gently on and leave them; but it would look too like running away, perhaps. No, I'll stay here and face it out, like a man! I won't give up just yet. (He sinks limply upon the bench.) After all, I've been in worse holes than this since I came into this infernal place, and I've always managed to scramble out—triumphantly, too! If she will only give me five minutes alone, I know I can clear myself; it isn't as if I had done anything to be ashamed of.... She's sent away that girl. She seems to be expecting me to come to her.... I—I suppose I'd better.
[He rises with effort, and goes towards Lady Maisie with a jaunty unconsciousness that somehow has the air of stopping short just above the knees.