Lyre and Lancet: A Story in Scenes. Anstey F.

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СКАЧАТЬ Because, in the present case, I do not – I cannot – feel as if we were strangers. Some mysterious instinct led me, almost from the first, to associate you with a certain Miss Maisie Mull.

      Phillipson. Well, I wonder how you discovered that. Though you shouldn't have said "Miss" —Lady Maisie Mull is the proper form.

      Undershell (to himself). Lady Maisie Mull! I attach no meaning to titles – and yet nothing but rank could confer such perfect ease and distinction. (Aloud.) I should have said Lady Maisie Mull, undoubtedly – forgive my ignorance. But at least I have divined you. Does nothing tell you who and what I may be?

      Phillipson. Oh, I think I can give a tolerable guess at what you are.

      Undershell. You recognize the stamp of the Muse upon me, then?

      Phillipson. Well, I shouldn't have taken you for a groom exactly.

      Undershell (with some chagrin). You are really too flattering!

      Phillipson. Am I? Then it's your turn now. You might say you'd never have taken me for a lady's maid!

      Undershell. I might – if I had any desire to make an unnecessary and insulting remark.

      Phillipson. Insulting? Why, it's what I am! I'm maid to Lady Maisie. I thought your mysterious instinct told you all about it?

      Undershell (to himself – after the first shock). A lady's maid! Gracious Heaven! What have I been saying – or rather, what haven't I? (Aloud.) To – to be sure it did. Of course, I quite understand that. (To himself.) Oh, confound it all, I wish we were at Wyvern!

      Phillipson. And, after all, you've never told me who you are. Who are you?

      Undershell (to himself). I must not humiliate this poor girl! (Aloud.) I? Oh – a very insignificant person, I assure you! (To himself.) This is an occasion in which deception is pardonable – even justifiable!

      Phillipson. Oh, I knew that much. But you let out just now you had to do with a Mews. You aren't a rough-rider, are you?

      Undershell. N – not exactly– not a rough-rider. (To himself.) Never on a horse in my life! – unless I count my Pegasus. (Aloud.) But you are right in supposing I am connected with a muse – in one sense.

      Phillipson. I said so, didn't I? Don't you think it was rather clever of me to spot you, when you're not a bit horsey-looking?

      Undershell (with elaborate irony). Accept my compliments on a power of penetration which is simply phenomenal!

      Phillipson (giving him a little push). Oh, go along – it's all talk with you – I don't believe you mean a word you say!

      Undershell (to himself). She's becoming absolutely vulgar. (Aloud.) I don't – I don't; it's a manner I have; you mustn't attach any importance to it – none whatever!

      Phillipson. What! Not to all those high-flown compliments? Do you mean to tell me you are only a gay deceiver, then?

      Undershell (in horror). Not a deceiver, no; and decidedly not gay. I mean I did mean the compliments, of course. (To himself.) I mustn't let her suspect anything, or she'll get talking about it; it would be too horrible if this were to get round to Lady Maisie or the Culverins – so undignified; and it would ruin all my prestige! I've only to go on playing a part for a few minutes, and – maid or not – she's a most engaging girl!

[He goes on playing the part, with the unexpected result of sending Miss Phillipson into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

      At a Back Entrance at Wyvern. The Fly has just set down Phillipson and Undershell.

      Tredwell (receiving Phillipson). Lady Maisie's maid, I presume? I'm the butler here – Mr. Tredwell. Your ladies arrived some time back. I'll take you to the housekeeper, who'll show you their rooms, and where yours is, and I hope you'll find everything comfortable. (In an undertone, indicating Undershell, who is awaiting recognition in the doorway.) Do you happen to know who it is with you?

      Phillipson (in a whisper). I can't quite make him out – he's so flighty in his talk. But he says he belongs to some Mews or other.

      Tredwell. Oh, then I know who he is. We expect him right enough. He's a partner in a crack firm of Vets. We've sent for him special. I'd better see to him, if you don't mind finding your own way to the housekeeper's room, second door to the left, down that corridor. (Phillipson departs.) Good evening to you, Mr. – ah – Mr. – ?

      Undershell (coming forward). Mr. Undershell. Lady Culverin expects me, I believe.

      Tredwell. Quite correct, Mr. Undershell, sir. She do. Leastwise, I shouldn't say myself she'd require to see you – well, not before to-morrow morning – but you won't mind that, I dare say.

      Undershell (choking). Not mind that! Take me to her at once!

      Tredwell. Couldn't take it on myself, sir, really. There's no particular 'urry. I'll let her ladyship know you're 'ere; and if she wants you, she'll send for you; but, with a party staying in the 'ouse, and others dining with us to-night, it ain't likely as she'll have time for you till to-morrow.

      Undershell. Oh, then whenever her ladyship should find leisure to recollect my existence, will you have the goodness to inform her that I have taken the liberty of returning to town by the next train?

      Tredwell. Lor! Mr. Undershell, you aren't so pressed as all that, are you? I know my lady wouldn't like you to go without seeing you personally; no more wouldn't Sir Rupert. And I understood you was coming down for the Sunday!

      Undershell (furious). So did I– but not to be treated like this!

      Tredwell (soothingly). Why, you know what ladies are. And you couldn't see Deerfoot – not properly, to-night, either.

      Undershell. I have seen enough of this place already. I intend to go back by the next train, I tell you.

      Tredwell. But there ain't any next train up to-night – being a loop line – not to mention that I've sent the fly away, and they can't spare no one at the stables to drive you in. Come, sir, make the best of it. I've had my horders to see that you're made comfortable, and Mrs. Pomfret and me will expect the pleasure of your company at supper in the 'ousekeeper's room, 9.30 sharp. I'll send the steward's room boy to show you to your room.

[He goes, leaving Undershell speechless.

      Undershell (almost foaming). The insolence of these cursed aristocrats! Lady Culverin will see me when she has time, forsooth! I am to be entertained in the servants' hall! This is how our upper classes honour Poetry! I won't stay a single hour under their infernal roof. I'll walk. But where to? And how about my luggage?

[Phillipson returns.

      Phillipson. Mr. Tredwell says you want to go already! It can't be true! Without even waiting for supper?

      Undershell СКАЧАТЬ