Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 98, April 26th 1890

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS.

(CONTINUED FROM P. 145.)

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