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PART VIII
SURPRISES – AGREEABLE AND OTHERWISE

In the Amber Boudoir. Sir Rupert has just entered.

Sir Rupert. Ha, Maisie, my dear, glad to see you! Well, Rohesia, how are you, eh? You're looking uncommonly well! No idea you were here!

Spurrell (to himself). Sir Rupert! He'll hoof me out of this pretty soon, I expect!

Lady Cantire (aggrieved). We have been in the house for the best part of an hour, Rupert – as you might have discovered by inquiring – but no doubt you preferred your comfort to welcoming so unimportant a guest as your sister!

Sir Rupert (to himself). Beginning already! (Aloud.) Very sorry – got rather wet riding – had to change everything. And I knew Albinia was here.

Lady Cantire (magnanimously). Well, we won't begin to quarrel the moment we meet; and you are forgetting your other guest. (In an undertone.) Mr. Spurrell – the poet – wrote Andromeda. (Aloud.) Mr. Spurrell, come and let me present you to my brother.

Sir Rupert. Ah, how d'ye do? (To himself, as he shakes hands.) What the deuce am I to say to this fellow? (Aloud.) Glad to see you here, Mr. Spurrell – heard all about you —Andromeda, eh? Hope you'll manage to amuse yourself while you're with us; afraid there's not much you can do now though.

Spurrell (to himself). Horse in a bad way; time they let me see it. (Aloud.) Well, we must see, sir; I'll do all I can.

Sir Rupert. You see, the shooting's done now.

Spurrell (to himself, professionally piqued). They might have waited till I'd seen the horse before they shot him! After calling me in like this! (Aloud.) Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Sir Rupert. I wish I could have got here earlier, I'm sure.

Sir Rupert. Wish we'd asked you a month ago, if you're fond of shooting. Thought you might look down on sport, perhaps.

Spurrell (to himself). Sport? Why, he's talking of birds– not the horse! (Aloud.) Me, Sir Rupert? Not much! I'm as keen on a day's gunning as any man, though I don't often get the chance now.

Sir Rupert (to himself, pleased). Come, he don't seem strong against the Game Laws! (Aloud.) Thought you didn't look as if you sat over your desk all day! There's hunting still, of course. Don't know whether you ride?

Spurrell. Rather so, sir! Why, I was born and bred in a sporting county, and as long as my old uncle was alive, I could go down to his farm and get a run with the hounds now and again.

Sir Rupert (delighted). Capital! Well, our next meet is on Tuesday – best part of the country; nearly all grass, and nice clean post and rails. You must stay over for it. Got a mare that will carry your weight perfectly, and I think I can promise you a run – eh, what do you say?

Spurrell (to himself, in surprise). He is a chummy old cock! I'll wire old Spavin that I'm detained on biz; and I'll tell 'em to send my riding-breeches and dress-clothes down! (Aloud.) It's uncommonly kind of you, sir, and I think I can manage to stop on a bit.

Lady Culverin (to herself). Rupert must be out of his senses! It's bad enough to have him here till Monday! (Aloud.) We mustn't forget, Rupert, how valuable Mr. Spurrell's time is; it would be too selfish of us to detain him here a day longer than —

Lady Cantire. My dear, Mr. Spurrell has already said he can manage it; so we may all enjoy his society with a clear conscience. (Lady Culverin conceals her sentiments with difficulty.) And now, Albinia, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go to my room and rest a little, as I'm rather overdone, and you have all these tiresome people coming to dinner to-night.

[She rises and leaves the room; the other ladies follow her example.

Lady Culverin. Rupert, I'm going up now with Rohesia. You know where we've put Mr. Spurrell, don't you? The Verney Chamber.

[She goes out.

Sir Rupert. Take you up now, if you like, Mr. Spurrell – it's only just seven, though. Suppose you don't take an hour to dress, eh?

Spurrell. Oh dear no, sir, nothing like it! (To himself.) Won't take me two minutes as I am now! I'd better tell him – I can say my bag hasn't come. I don't believe it has, and, anyway, it's a good excuse. (Aloud.) The – the fact is, Sir Rupert, I'm afraid that my luggage has been unfortunately left behind.

Sir Rupert. No luggage, eh? Well, well, it's of no consequence. But I'll ask about it – I dare say it's all right.

[He goes out.

Captain Thicknesse (to Spurrell). Sure to have turned up, you know – man will have seen that. Shouldn't altogether object to a glass of sherry and bitters before dinner. Don't know how you feel – suppose you've a soul above sherry and bitters, though?

Spurrell. Not at this moment. But I'd soon put my soul above a sherry and bitters if I got a chance!

Captain Thicknesse (after reflection). I say, you know, that's rather smart, eh? (To himself.) Aw'fly clever sort of chap, this, but not stuck up – not half a bad sort, if he is a bit of a bounder. (Aloud.) Anythin' in the evenin' paper? Don't get 'em down here.

Spurrell. Nothing much. I see there's an objection to Monkey-tricks.

Captain Thicknesse (startled). No, by Jove! Hope they'll overrule it – make a lot of difference to me if they don't.

Spurrell. Don't fancy there's much in it. Your money's safe enough, I expect. Have you any particular fancy for the Grand National? I know something that's safe to win, bar accidents – a dead cert, sir! Got the tip straight from the stable. You just take my advice, and pile all you can on Jumping Joan.

Captain Thicknesse (later, to himself, after a long and highly interesting conversation). Thunderin' clever chap – never knew poets were such clever chaps. Might be a "bookie," by Gad! No wonder Maisie thinks such a lot of him!

[He sighs.

Sir Rupert (returning). Now, Mr. Spurrell, if you'll come upstairs with me, I'll show you your quarters. By the way, I've made inquiries about your luggage, and I think you'll find it's all right. (As he leads the way up the staircase.) Rather awkward for you if you'd had to come down to dinner just as you are, eh?

Spurrell (to himself). Oh, lor, my beastly bag has come after all! Now they'll know I didn't bring a dress suit. What an owl I was to tell him! (Aloud, feebly.) Oh – er – very awkward indeed, Sir Rupert!

Sir Rupert (stopping at a bedroom door). Verney Chamber – here you are. Ah, my wife forgot to have your name put on the door – better do it now, eh? (He writes it on the card in the door-plate.) There – well, hope you'll find it all comfortable – we dine at eight, you know. You've plenty of time for all you've got to do!

Spurrell (to himself). If I only knew what to do! I shall never have the cheek to come down as I am!

[He enters the Verney Chamber dejectedly.

In an Upper Corridor in the East Wing.

Steward's Room Boy (to Undershell). This is your room, sir – you'll find a fire lit and all.

Undershell (scathingly). A fire? For me! I scarcely expected such an indulgence. You are sure there's no mistake?

Boy. This is the room I was told, sir. You'll find candles on the mantelpiece, and matches.

Undershell. Every luxury indeed! I am pampered —pampered!

Boy. Yes, sir. And I was to say as supper's at ar-past nine, but Mrs. Pomfret would be 'appy to see you in the Pugs' Parlour whenever you pleased to come down and set there.

Undershell. The Pugs' Parlour?

Boy. What we call the 'ousekeeper's room, among ourselves, sir.

Undershell. Mrs. Pomfret does me too much honour. And shall I have the satisfaction of seeing your intelligent countenance at the festive board, my lad?

Boy (giggling). On'y to wait, sir. I don't set down to meals along with the upper servants, sir!

Undershell. And I – a mere man of genius —do! These distinctions must strike you as most arbitrary; but restrain any natural envy, my young friend. I assure you I am not puffed up by this promotion!

Boy. No, sir. (To himself, as he goes out.) I believe he's a bit dotty, I do. I don't understand a word he's been a-talking of!

Undershell (alone, surveying the surroundings). A cockloft, with a painted iron bedstead, a smoky chimney, no bell, and a text over the mantelpiece! Thank Heaven, that fellow Drysdale can't see me here! But I will not sleep in this place, my pride will only just bear the strain of staying to supper – no more. And I'm hanged if I go down to the housekeeper's room till hunger drives me. It's not eight yet – how shall I pass the time? Ha, I see they've favoured me with pen and ink. I will invoke the Muse. Indignation should make verses, as it did for Juvenal; and he was never set down to sup with slaves!

[He writes.

In the Verney Chamber.

Spurrell (to himself). My word, what a room! Carpet hung all over the walls, big fourposter, carved ceiling, great fireplace with blazing logs, – if this is how they do a vet here, what price the other fellows' rooms? And to think I shall have to do without dinner, just when I was getting on with 'em all so swimmingly! I must. I can't, for the credit of the profession – to say nothing of the firm – turn up in a monkey jacket and tweed bags, and that's all I've got except a nightgown!.. It's all very well for Lady Maisie to say, "Take everything as it comes," but if she was in my fix!.. And it isn't as if I hadn't got dress things either. If only I'd brought 'em down, I'd have marched in to dinner as cool as a – (he lights a pair of candles.) Hullo! What's that on the bed? (He approaches it.) Shirt! white tie! socks! coat, waistcoat, trousers – they are dress clothes!.. And here's a pair of brushes on the table! I'll swear they're not mine– there's a monogram on them – "U.G." What does it all mean? Why, of course! regular old trump, Sir Rupert, and naturally he wants me to do him credit. He saw how it was, and he's gone and rigged me out! In a house like this, they're ready for emergencies – keep all sizes in stock, I dare say… It isn't "U.G." on the brushes – it's "G.U." – "Guest's Use." Well, this is what I call doing the thing in style! Cinderella's nothing to it! Only hope they're a decent fit. (Later, as he dresses.) Come, the shirt's all right; trousers a trifle short – but they'll let down; waistcoat – whew, must undo the buckle – hang it, it is undone! I feel like a hooped barrel in it! Now the coat – easy does it. Well, it's on; but I shall have to be peeled like a walnut to get it off again… Shoes? ah, here they are – pair of pumps. Phew – must have come from the Torture Exhibition in Leicester Square; glass slippers nothing to 'em! But they'll have to do at a pinch; and they do pinch like blazes! Ha, ha, that's good! I must tell that to the Captain. (He looks at himself in a mirror.) Well, I can't say they're up to mine for cut and general style; but they're passable. And now I'll go down to the drawing-room and get on terms with all the smarties!

[He saunters out with restored complacency.

PART IX
THE MAUVAIS QUART D'HEURE

In the Chinese Drawing-room at Wyvern. Time – 7.50. Lady Culverin is alone, glancing over a written list.

Lady Cantire (entering). Down already, Albinia? I thought if I made haste I should get a quiet chat with you before anybody else came in. What is that paper? Oh, the list of couples for Rupert. May I see? (As Lady Culverin surrenders it.) My dear, you're not going to inflict that mincing little Pilliner boy on poor Maisie! That really won't do. At least let her have somebody she used to. Why not Captain Thicknesse? He's an old friend, and she's not seen him for months. I must alter that, if you've no objection. (She does.) And then you've given my poor poet to that Spelwane girl! Now, why?

Lady Culverin. I thought she wouldn't mind putting up with him just for one evening.

Lady Cantire. Wouldn't mind! Putting up with him! And is that how you speak of a celebrity when you are so fortunate as to have one to entertain? Really, Albinia!

Lady Culverin. But, my dear Rohesia, you must allow that, whatever his talents may be, he is not – well, not quite one of Us. Now, is he?

Lady Cantire (blandly). My dear, I never heard he had any connection with the manufacture of chemical manures, in which your worthy papa so greatly distinguished himself – if that is what you mean.

Lady Culverin (with some increase of colour). That is not what I meant, Rohesia – as you know perfectly well. And I do say that this Mr. Spurrell's manner is most objectionable; when he's not obsequious, he's horribly familiar!

Lady Cantire (sharply). I have not observed it. He strikes me as well enough – for that class of person. And it is intellect, soul, all that kind of thing that I value. I look below the surface, and I find a great deal that is very original and charming in this young man. And surely, my dear, if I find myself able to associate with him, you need not be so fastidious! I consider him my protégé, and I won't have him slighted. He is far too good for Vivien Spelwane!

Lady Culverin (with just a suspicion of malice). Perhaps, Rohesia, you would like him to take you in?

Lady Cantire. That, of course, is quite out of the question. I see you have given me the Bishop – he's a poor, dry stick of a man – never forgets he was the Headmaster of Swisham – but he's always glad to meet me. I freshen him up so.

Lady Culverin. I really don't know whom I can give Mr. Spurrell. There's Rhoda Cokayne, but she's not poetical, and she'll get on much better with Archie Bearpark. Oh, I forgot Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris – she's sure to talk, at all events.

Lady Cantire (as she corrects the list). A lively, agreeable woman – she'll amuse him. Now you can give Rupert the list.

[Sir Rupert and various members of the house-party appear one by one; Lord and Lady Lullington, the Bishop of Birchester and Mrs. Rodney, Mr. and Mrs. Earwaker, and Mr. Shorthorn are announced at intervals; salutations, recognitions, and commonplaces are exchanged.

Lady Cantire (later – to the Bishop, genially). Ah, my dear Bishop, you and I haven't met since we had our great battle about – now, was it the necessity of throwing open the Public Schools to the lower classes – for whom of course they were originally intended– or was it the failure of the Church to reach the working man? I really forget.

The Bishop (who has a holy horror of the Countess). I – ah – fear I cannot charge my memory so precisely, my dear Lady Cantire. We – ah – differ unfortunately on so many subjects. I trust, however, we may – ah – agree to suspend hostilities on this occasion?

Lady Cantire (with even more bonhomie). Don't be too sure of that, Bishop. I've several crows to pluck with you, and we are to go in to dinner together, you know!

The Bishop. Indeed? I had no conception that such a pleasure was in store for me! (To himself.) This must be the penance for breaking my rule of never dining out on Saturday! Severe – but not unmerited!

Lady Cantire. I wonder, Bishop, if you have seen this wonderful volume of poetry that every one is talking about —Andromeda?

The Bishop (conscientiously). I chanced only this morning, by way of momentary relaxation, to take up a journal containing a notice of that work, with copious extracts. The impression left on my mind was – ah – unfavourable; a certain talent, no doubt, some felicity of expression, but a noticeable lack of the – ah – reticence, the discipline, the – the scholarly touch which a training at one of our great Public Schools (I forbear to particularise), and at a University, can alone impart. I was also pained to observe a crude discontent with the existing Social System – a system which, if not absolutely perfect, cannot be upset or even modified without the gravest danger. But I was still more distressed to note in several passages a decided taint of the morbid sensuousness which renders so much of our modern literature sickly and unwholesome.

Lady Cantire. All prejudice, my dear Bishop; why, you haven't even read the book! However, the author is staying here now, and I feel convinced that if you only knew him, you'd alter your opinion. Such an unassuming, inoffensive creature! There, he's just come in. I'll call him over here… Goodness, why does he shuffle along in that way!

Spurrell (meeting Sir Rupert). Hope I've kept nobody waiting for me, Sir Rupert. (Confidentially.) I'd rather a job to get these things on; but they're really a wonderful fit, considering!

[He passes on, leaving his host speechless.

Lady Cantire. That's right, Mr. Spurrell. Come here, and let me present you to the Bishop of Birchester. The Bishop has just been telling me he considers your Andromeda sickly, or unhealthy, or something. I'm sure you'll be able to convince him it's nothing of the sort.

[She leaves him with the Bishop, who is visibly annoyed.

Spurrell (to himself, overawed). Oh, Lor! Wish I knew the right way to talk to a Bishop. Can't call him nothing – so doosid familiar. (Aloud.) Andromeda sickly, your – (tentatively) – your Right Reverence? Not a bit of it – sound as a roach!

The Bishop. If I had thought my – ah – criticisms were to be repeated – I might say misrepresented, as the Countess has thought proper to do, Mr. Spurrell, I should not have ventured to make them. At the same time, you must be conscious yourself, I think, of certain blemishes which would justify the terms I employed.

Spurrell. I never saw any in Andromeda myself, your – your Holiness. You're the first to find a fault in her. I don't say there mayn't be something dicky about the setting and the turn of the tail, but that's a trifle.

The Bishop. I did not refer to the setting of the tale, and the portions I object to are scarcely trifles. But pardon me if I prefer to end a discussion that can hardly be other than unprofitable. (To himself, as he turns on his heel.) A most arrogant, self-satisfied, and conceited young man – a truly lamentable product of this half-educated age!

Spurrell (to himself). Well, he may be a dab at dogmas – he don't know much about dogs. Drummy's got a constitution worth a dozen of his!

Lady Culverin (approaching him). Oh, Mr. Spurrell, Lord Lullington is most anxious to know you. If you will come with me. (To herself, as she leads him up to Lord Lullington.) I do wish Rohesia wouldn't force me to do this sort of thing!

[She presents him.

Lord Lullington (to himself). I suppose I ought to know all about his novel, or whatever it is he's done. (Aloud, with courtliness.) Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Spurrell; you've – ah – delighted the world by your Andromeda. When are we to look for your next production? Soon, I hope.

Spurrell (to himself). He's after a pup now! Never met such a doggy lot in my life! (Aloud.) Er – well, my lord, I've promised so many as it is, that I hardly see my way to —

Lord Lullington (paternally). Take my advice, my dear young man, leave yourself as free as possible. Expect you to give us your best, you know.

[He turns to continue a conversation.

Spurrell (to himself). Give it! He won't get it under a five-pound note, I can tell him. (He makes his way to Miss Spelwane.) I say, what do you think the old Bishop's been up to? Pitching into Andromeda like the very dooce – says she's sickly!

Miss Spelwane (to herself). He brings his literary disappointments to me, not Maisie! (Aloud, with the sweetest sympathy.) How dreadfully unjust! Oh, I've dropped my fan – no, pray don't trouble; I can pick it up. My arms are so long, you know – like a kangaroo's – no, what is that animal which has such long arms? You're so clever, you ought to know!

Spurrell. I suppose you mean a gorilla?

Miss Spelwane. How crushing of you! But you must go away now, or else you'll find nothing to say to me at dinner – you take me in, you know. I hope you feel privileged. I feel – But if I told you, I might make you too conceited!

Spurrell (gracefully). Oh, it's not so easily done as all that!

[Sir Rupert approaches with Mr. Shorthorn.

Sir Rupert. Vivien, my dear, let me introduce Mr. Shorthorn – Miss Spelwane. (To Spurrell.) Let me see – ha – yes, you take in Mrs. Chatteris. Don't know her? Come this way, and I'll find her for you.

[He marches Spurrell off.

Mr. Shorthorn (to Miss Spelwane). Good thing getting this rain at last; a little more of this dry weather and we should have had no grass to speak of!

Miss Spelwane (who has not quite recovered from her disappointment). And now you will have some grass to speak of? How fortunate!

Spurrell (as dinner is announced, to Lady Maisie). I say, Lady Maisie, I've just been told I've got to take in a married lady. I don't know what to talk to her about. I should feel a lot more at home with you. Couldn't we work it somehow?

Lady Maisie (to herself). What a fearful suggestion – but I simply daren't snub him! (Aloud.) I'm afraid, Mr. Spurrell, we must both put up with the partners we have; most distressing, isn't it —but!

[She gives a little shrug.

Captain Thicknesse (immediately behind her, to himself). Gad, that's pleasant! I knew I'd better have gone to Aldershot! (Aloud.) I've been told off to take you in, Lady Maisie – not my fault, don't you know.

Lady Maisie. There's no need to be so apologetic about it. (To herself.) Oh, I hope he didn't hear what I said to that wretch!

Captain Thicknesse. Well, I rather thought there might be, perhaps.

Lady Maisie (to herself). He did hear it. If he's going to be so stupid as to misunderstand, I'm sure I shan't explain.