PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 107.
August 11, 1894.
LORD ORMONT'S MATE AND MATEY'S AMINTA.
By G***GE M*R*D*TH.
Volume III.
And now the climax comes not with tongue-lolling sheep-fleece wolves, ears on top remorselessly pricked for slaughter of the bleating imitated lamb, here a fang pointing to nethermost pit not of stomach but of Acheron, tail waving in derision of wool-bearers whom the double-rowed desiring mouth soon shall grip, food for mamma-wolf and baby-wolf, papa-wolf looking on, licking chaps expectant of what shall remain; and up goes the clamour of flocks over the country-side, and up goes howling of shepherds shamefully tricked by Æsop-fable artifice or doggish dereliction of primary duty; for a watch has been set through which the wolf-enemy broke paws on the prowl; and the King feels this, and the Government, a slab-faced jubber-mubber of contending punies, party-voters to the front, conscience lagging how far behind no man can tell, and the country forgotten, a lout dragging his chaw-bacon hobnails like a flask-fed snail housed safely, he thinks, in unbreakable shell soon to be broken, and no man's fault, while the slow country sinks to the enemy, ships bursting, guns jammed, and a dull shadow of defeat on a war-office drifting to the tide-way of unimagined back-stops on a lumpy cricket-field of national interests. But this was a climax revealed to the world. The Earl was deaf to it. Lady Charlotte dumbed it surprisingly. Change the spelling, put a for u and n for b in the dumbed, and you have the way Morsfield mouthed it, and Matey swimming with Browny full in the Harwich tide; head under heels up down they go in Old Ocean, a glutton of such embraces, lapping softly on a pair of white ducks tar-stained that very morning and no mistake.
"I have you fast!" cried Matey.
"Two and two's four," said Browny. She slipped. "Are four," corrected he, a tutor at all times, boys and girls taken in and done for, and no change given at the turnstiles.
"Catch as catch can," was her next word. Plop went a wave full in the rosy mouth. "Where's the catch of this?" stuttered the man.
"A pun, a pun!" bellowed the lady. "But not by four-in-hand from London."
She had him there. He smiled a blue acquiescence. So they landed, and the die was cast, ducks changed, and the goose-pair braving it in dry clothes by the kitchen fire. There was nothing else to be done; for the answer confessed to a dislike of immersions two at a time, and the hair clammy with salt like cottage-bacon on a breakfast-table.
Lord Ormont sat with the jewels seized from the debating, unbeaten sister's grasp.
"She is at Marlow," he opined.
"Was," put in Lady Charlotte.
The answer blew him for memory.
"Morsfield's dead," his lordship ventured; "jobbed by a foil with button off."
"And a good job too."
Lady Charlotte was ever on the crest-wave of the moment's humour. He snicked a back-stroke to the limits, shaking the sparse hair of repentance to the wind of her jest. But the unabashed one continued.
"I'll not call on her."
"You shall," said he.
"Shan't," was her lightning-parry.
"You shall," he persisted.
"Never. Her head is a water-flower that speaks at ease in the open sea. How call on a woman with a head like that?"
The shock struck him fair and square.
"We wait," he said, and the conflict closed with advantage to the petticoat.
A footman bore a letter. His step was of the footman order, calves stuffed to a longed-for bulbousness, food for donkeys if any such should chance: he presented it.
"I wait," he murmured.
"Whence and whither comes it?"
"Postmark may tell."
"Best open it," said the cavalry general, ever on the dash for open country where squadrons may deploy right shoulders up, serre-files in rear, and a hideous clatter of serjeant-majors spread over all. He opened it. It was Aminta's letter. She announced a French leave-taking. The footman still stood. Lord Ormont broke the silence.
"Go and be——" the words quivered into completion, supply the blank who will.
But her punishment was certain. For it must be thus. Never a lady left her wedded husband, but she must needs find herself weighted with charge of his grand-nephew. Cuckoo-tutor sits in General's nest, General's wife to bear him company, and lo! the General brings a grand-nephew to the supplanter, convinced of nobility beyond petty conventions of divorce-court rigmarole. So the world wags wilful to the offshoot, lawn-mowers grating, grass flying, and perspiring gardener slow in his shirt-sleeves primed with hope of beer that shall line his lean ribs at supper-time, nine o'clock is it, or eight—parishes vary, and a wife at home has rules. A year later he wrote—
"Sir,—Another novel is on hand. Likely you will purchase. Readers gape for it. Better than acrostics, they say, fit for fifty puzzle-pages. What price?
"G***ge M*r*d*th."
The End.
NO END TO HIS INIQUITIES.
(From a Yorkshire Moor.)
Sportsman (awaiting the morrow, and meeting Keeper as he strolls round). "Well, Rodgers, things look fairly hopeful for Tomorrow, eh?"
Rodgers (strong Tory). "Well, Sir, midlin', pretty midlin'. But, oh dear, it's awk'ard this 'ere Twelfth bein' fixed of a Sunday!"
(With much wisdom.) "Now, might Mr. Gladstone ha' had hanything to do wi' that arrangement, Sir?"
THE MARCH OF CIVILISATION.
(From a Record in the Far East.)
Step One.—The nation takes to learning the English language.
Step Two.—Having learned the English language, the nation begins to read British newspapers.
Step Three.—Having mastered the meaning of the leaders, the nation start a Parliament.
Step Four.—Having got a Parliament, the nation establishes school boards, railways, stockbrokers, and penny ices.
Step Five.—Having become fairly civilised, the nation takes up art and commerce.
Step Six.—Having realised considerable wealth, the nation purchases any amount of ironclads, heavy ordnance, and ammunition.
Step Seven.—Having the means within reach, the nation indulges in a terrific war.
THE TRIUMPH OF CIVILISATION!
A HINT TO THE POSTAL AUTHORITIES.
The Employment of Good-looking and Attractive Young Men in clearing the Letter-Boxes undoubtedly results in frequent Detention of the Mails.
EASTWARD HO!
Mem. by a Muddled One.
OLD THREE-VOL.
REMNANTS.
(A Pindaric Fragment.)
Pope for the Emancipated Sex.—"The understudy of mankind is woman."
LYRE AND LANCET.
(A Story in Scenes.)
PART VI.—ROUND PEGS IN SQUARE HOLES.
Scene IX.—The Entrance Hall at Wyvern.
"What name, if you please, Sir?"
Tredwell (to Lady Cantire). This way, if
Lady Cantire. Wait. (She looks round.) What has become of that young Mr. Androm——? (Perceiving Spurrell, who has been modestly endeavouring to efface himself.) Ah, there he is! Now, come along, and be presented to my sister-in-law. She'll be enchanted to know you!
Spurrell. But indeed, my lady I—I think I'd better wait till she sends for me.
Lady Cant. Wait? Fiddlesticks! What! A famous young man like you! Remember Andromeda, and don't make yourself so ridiculous!
Spurr. (miserably). Well, Lady Cantire, if her ladyship says anything, I hope you'll bear me out that it wasn't——
Lady Cant. Bear you out? My good young man, you seem to need somebody to bear you in! Come, you are under My wing. I answer for your welcome—so do as you're told.
Spurr. (to himself, as he follows resignedly). It's my belief there'll be a jolly row when I do go in; but it's not my fault!
Tred. (opening the door of the Amber Boudoir), Lady Cantire and Lady Maisie Mull. (To Spurrell.) What name, if you please, Sir?
Spurr. (dolefully). You can say "James Spurrell" —you needn't bellow it, you know!
Tred. (ignoring this suggestion). Mr. James Spurrell.
Spurr. (to himself, on the threshold). If I don't get the chuck for this, I shall be surprised, that's all!
[He enters.
Scene X.—In a Fly.
Undershell (to himself). Alone with a lovely girl, who has no suspicion, as yet, that I am the poet whose songs have thrilled her with admiration! Could any situation be more romantic? I think I must keep up this little mystification as long as possible.
Phillipson (to herself). I wonder who he is. Somebody's Man, I suppose. I do believe he's struck with me. Well, I've no objection. I don't see why I shouldn't forget Jim now and then—he's quite forgotten me! (Aloud.) They might have sent a decent carriage for us instead of this ramshackle old summerhouse. We shall be hours getting to the house at this rate!
Und. (gallantly). For my part, I care not how long we may be. I feel so unspeakably content to be where I am.
Phill. (disdainfully). In this mouldy, lumbering old concern? You must be rather easily contented, then!
Und. (dreamily). It travels only too swiftly. To me it is a veritable enchanted car, drawn by a magic steed.
Phill. I don't know whether he's magic—but I'm sure he's lame. And I shouldn't call stuffiness enchantment myself.
Und. I'm not prepared to deny the stuffiness. But cannot you guess what has transformed this vehicle for me—in spite of its undeniable shortcomings—or must I speak more plainly still?
Phill. Well, considering the shortness of our acquaintance, I must say you've spoken quite plainly enough as it is!
Und. I know I must seem unduly expansive, and wanting in reserve; and yet that is not my true disposition. In general, I feel an almost fastidious shrinking from strangers——
Phill. (with a little laugh). Really, I shouldn't have thought it!
Und. 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.
Phill. Well, I wonder how you discovered that. Though you shouldn't have said "Miss"—Lady Maisie Mull is the name.
Und. (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?
Phill. Oh, I think I can give a tolerable guess at what you are.
Und. You recognise the stamp of the Muse upon me, then?
Phill. Well, I shouldn't have taken you for a groom exactly.
Und. (with some chagrin). You are really too flattering!
Phill. Am I? Then it's your turn now. You might say you'd never have taken me for a lady's maid!
Und. I might—if I had any desire to make an unnecessary and insulting remark.
Phill. Insulting? Why, it's what I am! I'm maid to Lady Maisie. I thought your mysterious instinct told you all about it?
Und. (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!
Phill. And, after all, you've never told me who you are. Who are you?
Und. (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!
Phill. Oh, I knew that. But you let out just now you had to do with a Mews. You aren't a rough-rider, are you?
Und. 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.
Phill. 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?
Und. (with elaborate irony). Accept my compliments on a power of penetration which is simply phenomenal!
Phill. (giving him a little push). Oh, go along—it's all talk with you—I don't believe you mean a word you say!
Und. (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!
Phill. What! Not to all those high-flown compliments? Do you mean to tell me you're only a gay deceiver, then?
Und. (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! Ive only to go on playing a part for a few minutes, and—maid or not—she's a most engaging girl!
Scene XI.—The 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.
Tred. 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 morning to you, Mr.—ah—Mr.——?
Undershell (coming forward). Mr. Undershell. Lady Culverin expects me, I believe.
Tred. 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 daresay.
Und. (choking). Not mind that! Take me to her at once!
Tred. 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.
Und. 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?
Tred. 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!
Und. (furious). So did I—but not to be treated like this!
Tred. (soothingly). Why, you know what ladies are. And you couldn't see Deerfoot—not properly, to-night, either.
Und. I have seen enough of this place already. I intend to go back by the next train, I tell you.
Tred. 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.
Und. (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.
Phill. Mr. Tredwell says you want to go already! It can't be true! Without even waiting for supper?
Und. (gloomily). Why should I wait for supper in this house?
Phill. Well, I shall be there; I don't know if that's any inducement.
[She looks down.
Und. (to himself). She is a singularly bewitching creature; and I'm starving. Why shouldn't I stay—if only to shame these Culverins? It will be an experience—a study in life. I can always go afterwards. I will stay. (Aloud.) You little know the sacrifice you ask of me, but enough; I give way. We shall meet—(with a gulp)—in the housekeeper's room!
Phill. (highly amused). You are a comical little man. You'll be the death of me if you go on like that!
[She flits away.
Und. (alone). I feel disposed to be the death of somebody! Oh, Lady Maisie Mull, to what a bathos have you lured your poet by your artless flattery—a banquet with your aunt's butler!
Mamma (to Johnny, who has been given a Pear with Pills artfully concealed in it).
"Well, dear, have you finished your Pear?"
Johnny. "Yes, Mamma, all but the Seeds!"
A BETTING MAN ON CRICKET.
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
"There are, methinks," quoth the Baron, "two or three novels—one certainly I can call to mind—wherein the interior domestic life of Jews strict in the observance of their ancient and most touching religious rites and ceremonies is more amply, as well as more minutely, described than in Mr. Farjeon's Aaron the Jew, which, be it my pleasing duty to testify, is one of the best of this prolific author's works; a simple, touching story, the interest being well kept up, as of course the "interest" should be when dealing with the true history of one who commenced as a pawnbroker." As to the rites above mentioned, no special or intimate personal experience is shown to be possessed by the author, who could very easily have obtained his materials from an interesting work entitled, as I fancy, The Jew at Home, which has, the Baron regrets to say, disappeared from its shelf in the Baron's
Baron de Book-Worms.
A VOTE OF THANKS.
By a Hard-up Journalist.
[A strange light has appeared on that part of the surface of Mars not illuminated by the sun. The Westminster Gazette of August 2 asks the question, "Is Mars signalling to us?"]
Distinguished Visitors to Bournemouth.—The Royal Bath Hotel announces "Private Suites." Is "General Bitters" there also?
Educational Motto. (For Mr. Acland's use.)—"A place for every child, and every child in its place."
ON A CERTAIN CONDESCENSION IN FOREIGNERS.
He. "Oh, you're from America, are you? People often say to me, 'Don't you dislike Americans?' But I always say 'I believe there are some very nice ones among them.'"
She. "Ah, I dare say there may be Two or Three nice People amongst Sixty Millions!"
"MOWING THEM DOWN!"
["He (Sir William Harcourt) confessed that he was not enamoured of these exceptional measures, and he resorted to them with extreme regret. But if he were asked for a justification of this motion, he would refer hon. gentlemen to the Order Book of the House of Commons."]
Gunner Harcourt, loquitur:—
AIRS RESUMPTIVE.
II.—The Links of Love.