Quysterse

14

Quysterse

    “Why, Pip, it is the most delightful notion!” cried Lady Hartwell, clapping her hands.

    “Good; I thought you would care for it,” her eldest son replied, smiling. “They will do two pieces for us: Twelfth Night is for Mercy’s birthday, and then there is a comedy which I thought they might do to liven up the house party a day or two later.”

    “Splendid!”

    “No, well, George Drew knows the company, and swears they will give a good performance,” he said temperately. “Um… think they did that thing with the vicar in it that you were aux anges over, last winter.”

    Lukey gasped. “No! But darlingest boy! That is Roland Lefayne’s company! Where is he?”

    “Eh?”

    “Darling, he came down as far as Axminster with us!”

    “What? What in God’s name were you doing in his company, Stern Mamma?”

    “Oh, did you not know, dear boy? He is really a Bottomley-Pugh,” said Lukey, terrifically casual, “and in fact the uncle of the little girl that Leonard Cornwallis has married.”

    “You came with him all the way from Nettleford?” said Pip limply.

    “Well, with him and darling old Wilf—yes.”

    Pip sighed: “darling old Wilf” was a fashionable bachelor.

    “Dearest boy, there was nothing in it; for I was with Floss Greatorex and her little Henny-Penny every inch of the way!” she said, opening her eyes very wide at him.

    Pip sighed.

    Lady Hartwell swooped upon him and gave him a kiss. “I promise utterly not to breathe a word of the play to Mercy; it will be the greatest surprise ever!”

    “Yes. Well, try and keep her out of the ballroom,” said Pip temperately.

    “Of course! Where are they rehearsing?” she asked eagerly.

    “Henty said they might as well have the old barn down Five Acre, for it is standing empty now that we ain't making so much hay.”

    “Pip, how horridly rustic you are becoming in your old age!” she shuddered, putting her hands over her ears.

    “Just as well: balances you and Mercy with your fine-as-fivepence town ways. Now, you may tell me all about the Cornwallis wedding, Stern Mamma, if you wish to stroll out and speak to Pollock with me.”

    Lukey rolled her eyes madly, but accompanied her son out onto the spreading lawns of Quysterse, where he spoke seriously to their head gardener. And where Pollock, who normally threw a conniption if the housekeeper so much as suggested gathering a handful of flowers to decorate the house, presented her Ladyship, beaming all over his red-cheeked Devonman’s face, with a giant bouquet of choice blooms. Pip looked on with a certain wild resignation in his eye: Mamma had not, to his certain knowledge, so much as glanced at the gardens since she arrived, and she would not know a daffodil from a daisy. But Pollock was as much under her spell as any of them: they all, masters and men, had but to have her smile at them to become instantly her slaves.

    “What are they up to now?” said Miss Penelope Greatorex with a groan, watching two print gowns and straw bonnets departing the great house of Quysterse at a sufficiently early hour.

    Mercy Hartwell peered out of the window, and sighed. “Goodness knows. But I would not absolutely wager that that actor person was not in it somewhere.”

    Penny—whom only hopelessly old and silly persons such as her own mother and Mercy’s ever called Henny-Penny—sighed also, but blushed a little, too. “Yes, well, he is terribly attractive, Mercy.”

    “Yes. Oh, well, I suppose there is safety in numbers,” conceded Mercy.

    “I could find no-one suitable for Mamma at all, this last Season,” said Penny sadly.

    “Nor I, for Stern Mamma. I did wonder about Uncle Edward for your mamma.”

    Penny reddened.

    “Go on, what did she say?” asked Mercy resignedly.

    “Um, that he was negligible, Mercy,” she said apologetically.

    “I would not say that. He gives the appearance of it, but actually he has a very strong will. And considerable charm, when he exerts himself to use it. We must try to bring them together,” she said firmly.

    The two matchmakers looked out of the window again: the print dresses were almost out of sight. “Anything would be better than this pointless encouraging of actors and fribbles,” said Penny grimly.

    Mercy sighed. “Quite.”

    “Ah,” said Mr Lefayne with a twinkle in his eye. “Dorcas and Clorinda, I presume? Be ye welcome, fair country lasses, and please to be seated and partake of our humble but goodly fare.”

    Giggling terrifically, the two owned that it was Dorcas and Clorinda, yes; and allowed Mr Lefayne to usher them to a pile of hay upon which he thoughtfully cast the cloak of Orsino. Solemnly he then offered them mugs of cider. With more giggles, they accepted, the false Clorinda owning that it was a very warm day, and the false Dorcas, rolling the R terrifically, agreeing that that were r-r-roight.

    “If them two be country lasses, I’m a Dutchman with ’is clogs on,” said Mrs Hetty in Miss Martingale’s ear at this point.

    She nodded limply: the dark one’s simulacrum of the country accent of these parts was appallingly bad.

    “Clorinda”, meanwhile, was explaining that they had heard there was a play going on, and had ventured to come to watch the rehearsal. And they would be as still as two little mice, and dear Mr Lefayne must positively not regard them!

    “Are there mice?” asked Mrs Greatorex with a shudder, lapsing rather from the rôle of Dorcas.

    “Well, not very many: this barn doesn’t seemed to have been used for the storage of grain,” replied the actor cheerfully. “If you will excuse me, fair lasses? My producer requires my presence,” he said as Mr Hartington, from the area which was now clearly a stage, was seen to glare at him.

    “Get rid of them two: we said no spectators at rehearsals,” said Mr Hartington grimly as Sid came up to him.

    “They are not what they appear, Harold,” he replied primly.

    “What they appear to be is two ripe country matrons, no better than they should be, that fancy they are going to get a free show out of us, for what in return, precisely, I shan’t ask. Can you tell me better?”

    Eyes twinkling, Sid whispered in his ear.

    Mr Hartington gulped. “Oh, well, I suppose they can stay, in that case.”

    “Both widows,” he elaborated.

    “Ssh!” The actor-manager looked longingly at the well-curved Dorcas, but allowed: “A trifle too tall for my taste. Never tell me you fancy the little skinny one, Sid?”

    “Oh, not seriously, dear fellow. But then, they are not seriously on offer,” he said drily.

    Mr Hartington sniffed slightly, but nodded. “Oh, well. Once more into the breach? Might as well start from One, 1, if they’ve all managed to get their horrible bodies here at last. DANIEL!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Oh, there you are,” he said as Mr Deane appeared in Elizabethan dress, holding a staff. “Don’t forget, you’ll have to prompt, that noddy Reggie’s audible from the back of the gods, and incomprehensible with it. And stop eyeing up them two: it’s two of Sid’s ladies pretending to be country lasses.”

    “I see. Should I do anything with this staff, Harold?” he said meekly.

    “No. Just hold it: you’re supposed to be a major-domo,” said Mr Hartington severely.

    “Very well. –If that makeshift curtain of Sam’s holds up for one scene, it’ll be a miracle,” he added, glancing up at it.

    “Let it be a miracle, then,” returned Mr Hartington with horrid geniality. “Places, everyone, please! PLACES! One, 1!” he shouted. “Reggie! REGGIE! Where the Devil— There you are. –Don’t give me that,” he said as the misguided Mr Grantleigh began to tell him a story about his ruff. “Have you learnt up that piece, yet?”

    “Yes,” he said sulkily.

    “Then play it. Not NOW!” he shouted as Mr Grantleigh tinkled on his mandolin. “When I tell you. Vic! Vic! VIC!” he bellowed. “What the Devil were you doing back there? –Never mind that. Are you sure you can manage that tune on your flute?”

    “I can if he keeps in time,” said Mr Vanburgh, giving his nephew an unkind look. “Uncle me no uncles,” he said with satisfaction as Mr Grantleigh began to expostulate.

    “See you do,” Mr Hartington ordered Mr Grantleigh grimly. “Paul! Where the Devil— Paul!” he shouted. “POUTENEY!” he bellowed. “Get over here!”

    “Loud, isn’t it?” said Lukey happily as an actor in a yellow suit was seen to hurry up to the shouting one.

    Floss nodded. “And it hasn’t even started yet!”

    Giggling, the two ladies settled in to enjoy the morning thoroughly…

    “Oops!” said Lukey with a choke of laughter, as the dear little pageboy in the huge ruff attempted to draw the curtain at the conclusion of the first scene and it jammed halfway across. They watched avidly as a red-bearded man who had not been in the first scene appeared from the back regions beyond the stage area, mounted a ladder, and proceeded to fix it.

    “A sturdy Elizabethan yeoman?” hazarded Mrs Greatorex.

    “I do not think the play calls for any such. –My dear, is that the play? Could we possibly borrow it?” said Lukey sweetly to a pretty little girl whose rôle as court lady had seemed to entail nothing but the waving of a fan and the management of a large hoop skirt. Politely the girl handed them her Shakespeare.

    “No yeomen. My bet is that he is Sir Toby Belch!” said Floss with a giggle.

    “Would he not appear merrier? No, well, possibly not when perched on a ladder. Um… mayhap he is a sea-captain: there seems to be plethora of them. –My dear, why are there so many sea-captains?” said Lukey plaintively to the pretty little girl.

    Miss Martingale was not at all sure how to address these ladies who were presumably not here as themselves. “Um, Viola and her brother were shipwrecked,” she ventured.

    “Oh, yes! Of course!”

    “I don’t remember that,” said Mrs Greatorex.

    “Yes, Floss, my dear: that is how they end up wherever it is, you see! Ooh, ssh, they’re starting again!” Lukey leant forward eagerly. “Ah! Sea-captain!” she cried as, against a background of tumbled grey clouds and lashing waves, Viola and the red-bearded one staggered on, bent double against the wind.

    “There is no actual wind, their cloaks are not moving,” observed Floss.

    Lukey broke down in helpless giggles, nodding madly.

    … “Floss!” she gasped, gripping her friend’s arm, as Sir Andrew Aguecheek wandered on, looking vague, but also vaguely drunk, his shoulder-length, wispy, straight yellow hair in some disorder, and greeted Sir Toby Belch and the robust Maria.

    Mrs Greatorex’s eyes started from her head. “That is never—”

    “It is!” she hissed.

    On stage Mr Hartington appeared absorbed in his character; but he did not neglect to observe the ladies’ every word and gesture. It had, clearly, been an excellent move to give Sid Aguecheek, given the list of country houses at which they proposed to do the piece. And, he decided, as they discussed Sir Andrew’s lank hair and the ladies shrieked at Sir Toby’s line: “it hangs like flax on a distaff, and I hope to see a huswife take thee between her legs and spin it off”, he would leave that bit in, whatever Vic might say about its being too vulgar for modern tastes. After all, the Bard was the Bard!

    The ladies clapped their hands raw as he and Sir Andrew capered off at the conclusion of the scene, so they capered back on again and took a bow—why not? Clorinda removed the hedgerow flowers from her straw bonnet and tossed them at Sir Andrew, laughing, and Dorcas, not to be outdone, blew him kisses.

    “Come and meet them,” said Sid, ceasing to be Sir Andrew.

    “Look, we haven’t nearly done the first act, Sid! Oh, very well.” Resignedly Mr Hartington came and let Sid introduce him to “Clorinda” and “Dorcas”. Giggling frantically, the ladies admitted they were not truly their names. Gallantly Harold refrained from saying he could have guessed that, and informed them they were certainly the two prettiest rural sights he had set eyes on. This went over really well, and the ladies congratulated him on the play, and on his own playing of Sir Toby, and revealed—surprise, surprise—who they really were. And he must utterly promise not to breathe a word, or Lady Hartwell’s reputation, it appeared, would be irretrievably lost! Gallantly Mr Hartington promised…

    “Gawdelpus, Sid,” he concluded as they retired into the wings and Mrs Mayhew and Mr Pouteney, who had been waiting patiently there, were enabled to go on as Olivia and Feste, and Mr Vanburgh to come on after them as Malvolio. –Aficionados of the Bard might have noticed that Mr Hartington had transposed this scene, and in fact broken it in two, so that Sid would have time to change out of Sir Andrew’s costume and make-up and into those of Orsino; but the players were pretty certain they would encounter none of those in their round of fashionable country houses and south-coast theatres.

    “They’re all like that, Harold. I suppose they’re our bread and butter—mustn’t complain,” returned Sid with a wink.

    “No, well, it’s giving me a chance to gauge how it’ll go over. Only how long do they intend staying?”

    “No idea. Until they become bored, I would presume.”

    “I’m not having a dinner-break until we’ve run right through it,” he warned.

    Sid just smiled, clapped him on the shoulder, and went off to change.

    … “Who is that?” gasped Lady Hartwell, bolt upright, eyes starting from her head, as Valentine in his emerald satin strolled on with the disguised Viola.

    “I know not…” The volume of Shakespeare was in Mrs Greatorex’s lap, but she ignored it, and stared fixedly at Mr Dickon Amyes, her somewhat petulant red mouth very slightly open. “My dear!” she concluded deeply, rolling her great dark eyes.

    Lukey nodded feelingly, and clutched her friend’s arm fiercely as Mr Lefayne came on again as Orsino, glowing in deep blue brocaded satin with, naturally, white silk stockings, his hair now a careless mass of short black curls. “Two at the same time? Floss, it is too much!”

    From the wings Mr Hartington observed the ladies smile and nod during the following scene between Olivia and Malvolio, and nodded pleasedly to himself; it had been a gamble, to let Vic take Malvolio, for hitherto he had always played Feste in the piece; but it looked to have been the right choice: they clapped enthusiastically as he came off and agreed loudly with each other that he was very good: as good as any actor one might see in London.

    “He is an actor one might see in London,” noted Mrs Mayhew drily in the wings.

    “Aye,” replied her manager cheerfully, “but them two, if you replaced the dresses and the curls and the silly smirks—no, scratch that; retain the silly smirks,” he corrected himself, “would be as like to them noddies Tony and Reggie as two peas in a pod.”

    Shaking slightly, Mrs Mayhew nodded, but noted as Mr Ardent hove in sight bearing a small gilt chair: “Retain the curls, also.”

    “Yes,” he said with a wink. “We’ll go straight on, I think. –OY!” he shouted at Mr Ardent. “Where do you think you’re going with that?”

    Mr Ardent returning no satisfactory answer, he was duly crushed into a nothing by his manager and retired, chair and all, looking discomfited.

    “What if he expected to be allowed to go out and sit near them two,” noted Mr Hartington evilly, “he had another expect coming. –Two, 1!” he shouted. “Sebastian! SEBAS— Oh, there you are. Where’s Antonio? AN— Good. Get on, we’re going straight on.”

    “What about the backdrop?” objected Mr Darlinghurst.

    “Hey? Oh—damnation. Get them famous movable flats CHANGED!” he shouted.

    “According to this, there is an interval,” said Lady Hartwell, peering at the volume.

    Mrs Greatorex had endeavoured to find the place in the book and had become very muddled by Mr Hartington’s masterly interposition of Valentine’s, Orsino’s and Viola’s scene between the two parts of Olivia’s. “Ye-es… I think that is correct, yes.” She looked eagerly about her, but there was no sign of Mr Lefayne. Or of the young gentleman with the copper curls.

    “My dear,” said Lukey loudly to the pretty little girl in the farthingale, “pray come and sit with us! –That’s right,” she said as, looking very shy, she came to do so: “now you can put us in the way of things!”

    “Indeed!” agreed Mrs Greatorex eagerly. “Who is the young gentleman with the coppery curls? And why have we not seen him in London?”

    “Mr Dickon Amyes,” replied Ricky’s sister faintly. “I believe he has just taken up the acting profession.”

    “It is not a wig, is it?” demanded Lady Hartwell.

    “Er—no, ma’am,” she said politely.

    “We must tell that lovely manager person to bring him to London this autumn without fail!” declared Mrs Greatorex firmly.

    “Floss, are you not promised to the Ivos at Craigie Castle this autumn?” murmured Lukey.

    “What, go off shooting silly birds in silly cold Scotland while that sort of game be available in London?” she retorted with a loud giggle.

    Lukey also giggled, hugging her arm. “You are perfectly right! And if Edward dares to suggest I stay on as his hostess for any silly shooting party at Sare Park, I shall very speedily put him right! –No, but what I intended to ask you, my dear,” she said to Miss Martingale, “was, is there not an interval, now?”

    “Normally there would be, yes; but I think Mr Hartington intends to go on. He wishes to have one run-through in order to time it.”

    “Oh. I suppose there would not be such a thing as a piece of fruit?” she asked wistfully.

    “No, ma’am.” Miss Martingale looked longingly over to where Troilus was sitting placidly with Mrs Hetty, Mrs Wittering and Georgy, but did not dare to go back to them.

    “Ssh! It’s starting again!” said Lukey, sitting forward eagerly. “Is it Mr Lefayne next?”

    “No,” said Miss Martingale, going very red.

    Her ladyship did not notice the blush; her eyes were glued to the stage.

    “Another sea-captain,” said Mrs Greatorex into the book.

    “You are right! So ’tis! Said I not there was a plethora of them?” she agreed pleasedly. “No! Wait!” she gasped as Antonio and Sebastian began to converse. “It is the same man!”

    Mrs Greatorex looked hard at Antonio. His hair was dark, liberally streaked with silver, and he had a neat little pointed dark beard instead of an untidy red one, and he spoke more like a gentleman and less like a country fellow, but… “Yes!” she choked, going off into a paroxysm. “How—utterly—confusing!”

    Lukey also collapsed in a paroxysm, nodding madly.

    Miss Martingale was very flushed: she considered that Mr Speede distinguished very well between the two characters, and that they were not in the least alike. She sat up very straight and ignored the ladies as best she might.

    A sufficiently long period intervened in which there was plenty of Malvolio, Maria, Sir Toby and Feste; but as Sir Andrew was also on stage they were more or less ignored by the public section of the audience. Mr Hartington, though not ceasing to present a convincing Sir Toby, made a mental note that he would have Sid out of them tight stockings before he was a day older, and find some longer breeches, that might come well below the knee, and get Mrs Wittering to cobble him up some stockings that would wrinkle and droop permanently. Because attracting the ladies’ eyes was all very well, but not during one of the funniest comic sequences. Not to mention, Feste’s best song. Not to mention again, a considerable portion of the plot.

    An interval then ensued: although, as Mrs Greatorex determined, they were not between the acts, so it was very odd. After a certain confusion in the matter of curtains, and the appearance of Mr Hartington on stage as himself, shouting angrily at the little boy, all the correct curtains were closed, and then drawn back at last, and the mystery of the interval was resolved, for there he was again! This time as Orsino, out of the blue brocaded satin, and in pink watered silk! Ooh! It was doubtful if a single word of the ensuing dialogue between Orsino and Viola was attended to but this time Mr Hartington, looking on from the wings, nodded approvingly. There was no doubt that Tilda was weak in the rôle, if she was doing her best; so anything that kept the audience’s attention off her was good. And who cared if, as Miss Martingale had at one point ventured dubiously, Orsino might be supposed to be in mourning out of sympathy for Olivia’s loss. Not a theatre-goer in the whole of the great metropolis would notice that, he would bet his last farthing, with Sid on stage in pale pink silk. –And it was a mystery to him, Harold Hartington, how the fellow managed, given the pink silk and given that he had his arm round the supposed lad who was his page at this moment, to come over as so damned masculine! He ventured to express this thought in Mr Speede’s ear.

    “No getting away from it: he’s our greatest asset,” whispered Mr Speede.

    Mr Hartington nodded hard. He was that, all right. Damned irritating though he might be.

    “Glorious!” concluded Lukey, clapping madly as the little boy drew the curtain again.

    Floss also clapped madly, her bosom heaving. “Wonderful!” she said deeply.

    Another sufficiently long interval ensued, and devotees of the Bard might have noticed that Sir Andrew came on in the next scene later than his creator had intended, a few of his earlier lines having been summarily cut; but the ladies remarked nothing odd, and laughed and clapped as the plot unfolded, with every appearance of being engrossed. Though her Ladyship did ask wistfully as the curtain was drawn on Act Three what those persons were eating. Miss Martingale revealed awkwardly that it was the little boy’s toffee and that he had only shared it with Mrs Pontifex and Mrs Wittering because they had been especially good to him.

    “The little dog is eating, too,” said Mrs Greatorex on a mournful note.

    Troilus’s mistress got up hurriedly. “He is not supposed to be given sweetmeats; please excuse me.”

    They watched sadly as she hurried over to the little group.

    “We should have brought a picknick,” murmured Floss.

    “Aye… No, this is silly, Floss, my dear!” Lukey got up. “Stay here: I shall find darling Roland, and acquaint him with our plight!” Rolling her eyes, she forthwith headed for the regions behind the scenes. Mrs Greatorex looked after her, smiling uncertainly. She herself would not have had the intrepidity, even if it had been her son’s barn.

    Mr Lefayne was discovered in a makeshift dressing-room constructed out of screens and flats, repairing Sir Andrew’s make-up.

    “There you are! No, no, don’t get up: let me watch!” said Lukey eagerly.

    Amiably Sid allowed Lady Hartwell to watch him repair his makeup and comb out his flax-like wig. And to stay as Mr Hartington entered, ordering him summarily to get those stockings off, and let Mrs Wittering, here, operate on them. And himself knelt and investigated the construction of Mr Lefayne’s Elizabethan breeches, the which came almost to the knee. “Ah,” he said grimly, undoing the ties which were keeping them in place and hauling out stuffing. “Thought so. These can hang below the knee.”

    “But dear sir! What a waste!” cried Lukey, laughing very much.

    “He is supposed to be a figure of fun as Sir Andrew, ma’am, not a cynosure of, if you will pardon the remark, all female eyes,” replied Harold grimly.

    Lady Hartwell collapsed in hysterics on the spot. Though noting as she wiped her eyes: “But will his female admirers recognise him, thus horridly disguised?”

    “They recognised him as Richard III,” said Mr Hartington stolidly.

    “But the limbs in question were on display!” hissed Lukey.

    “And, as I was about to say, your Ladyship,” said the actor-manager with a sardonic gleam in his eye, “we shall have his name writ large as life in the programme. To assist them.”

    Her Ladyship again dissolved in giggles; but noted, as Mr Hartington took himself off again: “I rather like him. What a pity that he is not a gentleman, for do you know, I think he would be the very thing for darling Floss!”

    “Permit me to observe,” drawled Sid, “that we had had the very thought.”

    Predictably—though Mrs Wittering, operating on the stockings, was heard to gulp—her Ladyship merely giggled again.

    Mr Lefayne having hospitably provided the ladies with some of his own coffee, and a selection of pies and jam tarts, they professed themselves sufficiently revived to be able to enjoy the next act, and begged him to proceed with it. Sid eyed them sardonically and did not reveal that Harold had not been awaiting their pleasure, but grimly working out with Sam Speede an infallible procedure by which all flats and backdrops would be changed when required and all curtains would be drawn, in either direction, without mishap.

    The plot became somewhat involved during the third and fourth acts and the ladies became somewhat somnolent, though brightening whenever Sir Andrew was on. The which caused Mr Hartington to mutter to himself sotto voce, as the curtain was drawn at last: “I was right: David don’t have what it takes, for they never looked twice at him; and for two pins I’d give Sebastian to that Dickon Amyes; only he ain’t been with us long enough. Damnation. Well… cut half of Three and most of Four and combine the two?”

    Even though in the producer’s opinion the first scene of Act Five was one of the most boring the Bard ever wrote, the ladies perked up amazingly as Orsino came on, very grand in black and glowing purple, with white touches around the areas of the throat and the calves. The small hat set jauntily aslant the black curls was enlivened with a purple favour and some white ostrich tips, the whole pinned on with an amethyst brooch.

    “You know, a gold chain with an amethyst clip on it would greatly improve that costume,” murmured Mrs Greatorex, her dark eyes flickering over Mr Lefayne’s glorious person.

    “Would you give it him on account of the costume alone, darling?” breathed Lukey.

    Floss gave a little husky laugh deep in her throat—very much the effect for which Mrs Lilian Deane strove. “Not alone, my dear!”

    Naturally the ladies did not remark that Sir Andrew’s last appearance had been excised completely from the play; and clapped very hard at the end of it, drowning out Feste’s last song. The which piece Mr Hartington concluded was a damned mistake, and Bard him no Bards: he’d cut the thing for two pins, only that it allowed Viola to get into her farthingale and come on for the bows.

    They duly came on for the bows, the ladies clapped again, and Mrs Greatorex stripped a bangle off her wrist and tossed it to Orsino; while Lady Hartwell, having used up the flowers from her bonnet and not having a bangle to hand, blew him ecstatic kisses.

    “Phew!” concluded Mr Hartington as Georgy drew the curtain for the last time.

    “Went not bad,” said Mr Speede, solemnly withdrawing a large pocket-watch from the recesses of Antonio’s costume.

    “Three and Four dragged. Four, especially.”

    “The whole audience will not be composed of Sid’s demned admirers, all of the time,” noted Mr Speede pointedly. “Some of them may even enjoy Vic’s performance as Malvolio. Meself, I thought he was demned good, Harold.”

    “Yes. –All RIGHT! DINNER!” shouted Mr Hartington to his cast. “But I'll think about cutting some of it. Not Malvolio. But there’s too much of damned Feste: that Paul’s not got the weight for the part. Though he did well enough, for his first real character rôle, I’ll grant you. –Wish we could have got Billy Quipp,” he muttered.

    “Percy Brentwood’s taken them down to Brighton—”

    “We KNOW!” he shouted terribly.

    Mr Speede subsided.

    Perhaps predictably, the dinner hour, which was spent al fresco, all parties having had enough of the barn, featured Lady Hartwell and Mrs Greatorex warmly inviting Mr Lefayne, Mr Hartington and Mr Amyes to sit and picknick with themselves. They expressed great sorrow at Mr Amyes’s not wearing his lovely green suit, but accepted amiably enough Mr Hartington’s explanation that it was a strict rule of his company that actors did not consume food whilst wearing the costumes that belonged to the management. And owned carelessly, Lady Hartwell with a toss of her curls and a smothered giggle, and Mrs Greatorex with a throaty laugh and a very speaking look, that he did well enough in his day clothes! Mr Amyes laughed modestly and shook his head; but to himself concluded he had been right and Reggie wrong in deciding that his appearing before the ladies slightly dishevelled, the neckcloth missing, the shirt open at the neck, and the curls wildly ruffled, would earn infinitely more appreciation than appearing quite point de vice. The more so as Mr Lefayne was in similar disarray, and had gone so far as to discard his coat and leave his waistcoat unbuttoned. True, his neckcloth was not missing: but it was draped round his neck and hanging loose, a very artistic effect indeed, which the false Mr Amyes decided silently was worth copying.

    Some young actors—nay, many—might have felt a little at a loss in such company; but Mr Amyes bore his part in the conversation with remarkable sangfroid.

    “A snake,” concluded Mr Ardent bitterly, “in the grass.”

    “Tony, that was evident from the instant the fellow appeared amongst us,” said Mr Vanburgh with a yawn, lying back on the grass. “Wish it was summer all the time.”

    “Ay concede you’re rayght, Uncle,” conceded Mr Grantleigh, scowling, “but what has the fellow got that we hevn’t, may Ay ’nquay-ah?”

    “Besides diction, Vic,” prompted Mr Deane with a grin.

    Mr Vanburgh smiled, though smothering another yawn. “Er—nous?” he suggested.

    Mr Deane collapsed in splutters, nodding.

    “Edg’cation,” said Mr Speede thickly through a pork pie.

    “Eh?” replied Mr Grantleigh blankly.

    Mr Speede swallowed. “Ed-u-ca-ti-on,” he said slowly and clearly. “Knows his Shakespeare backwards. He’s read Molière in the original, too. Haven’t you noddies noticed?”

    Manifestly they had not, no.

    “There you are,” he concluded.

    “No, it’s more than that, Sam,” said Mr Deane fairly, grabbing a large slice of fruit-cake from under Mr Grantleigh’s fine nose. “I don’t know that I can define it, lads, but I speak as a fellow who has known Sid Bottomley ever since he first trod the boards. What Amyes has got is what he’s got, and it’s what appeals to the ladies.”

    Mr Darlinghurst looked sourly over at where Mr Amyes, laughing very much, was now fending off, though not very vigorously, Mrs Greatorex’s attempts to feed him from her plate. “As opposed to talent? Aye.”

    “Well, personally,” noted Mr Pouteney, “I’d prefer not to be taken up as the lapdog of a fine lady, whether or not it might advance me in the profession. –It’s known as pride,” he explained kindly. “If that’s a relish in that there jar, Tony, I’ll have some of it on my pie.”

    Sighing deeply, Mr Ardent passed him the jar. “Look: she has tucked his napkin into his shirt for him.”

    Mr Speede cleared his throat, hitched slightly at the crotch of his breeches, and winked. “Lucky lad,” he concluded.

    Mr Hartington had borne with equanimity the sight of Mrs Greatorex feeding Mr Amyes like a baby, but noted, as the ladies graciously allowed Mr Amyes to drive them back to Quysterse in the shabby dog-cart belonging to The Dancing Dog: “That’s a damned waste of a fine figure of a woman, and a widow into the bargain! Oh, well. Run through All In The Mind?”

    Mr Lefayne consulted his watch. “I wouldn’t: there’s a performance tomorrow, remember. Give them a rest, and then we can do a final check of the things that didn’t work this morning. And listen: maybe it might not be a bad idea to let young Georgy bring Troilus on. On a lead, of course. We could put a ruff round his neck.”

    Mr Hartington opened and shut his mouth. Finally he said limply: “I’ll think about it.”

    “The groundlings would like it, I think. And the ladies, of course.”

    “Rubbish, Sid! Given that every scene the lad appears in has got you and Amyes both in it, they wouldn’t notice if he led on a damned camel!”

    “Thanks,” he said with a grin.

    “Um, look, Amyes may be an encroaching little pest, but do you think, a bit further into the season, I should give him a go at Sebastian?”

    “It would be damned unfair to David. Um—well, let him play a matinée or two at these country-town theatres you claim we’re booked into.”

    “Aye.” The actor-manager looked broodingly at Miss Martingale, now encouraging a somewhat somnolent Troilus to come for a walk. “Miss M. read Viola damned well, once she had been given a few hints.”

    “She has not the experience to sustain the part, Harold.”

    “It ain’t that long, when you look at the number of lines. Aye, well, see how it goes. I’ll just have a word with Sam: we must get that damned curtain to run when it’s pulled.” Mr Hartington hurried off.

    Sid hesitated. Then he shrugged his shoulders very slightly and followed Miss Martingale and Master Troilus down to the stream.

    “He was thirsty,” she said, as the little dog lapped eagerly.

    “Mm.” Sid sat down on the grassy bank, smiling, and patted the place beside him. “What did you think of the performance, Miss Martingale?”

    She sat down, replying eagerly: “I thought you were very good, sir, and so were Mr Hartington and Mr Vanburgh!”

    “Thank you. But for myself, I will concede that there is nothing in Orsino, and that Aguecheek is a gift of a part.”

    “Only if you can act, I think!” she returned with a laugh.

    “No, well, thank you again. Vic was very good, though: I agree. And Harold does Toby Belch very competently. What did you think of Tilda?”

    “Um, I think she was a little nervous, sir.”

    “In especial with those damned cats sitting out front, talking through her every line—quite. The summer will give her the chance to settle into the rôle. Amyes’s début went well, I thought,” he said with a sharp glance.

    “Yes. Though the part is not large. But he seemed very confident and spoke his lines clearly, and made sense of them.”

    “More than some would—quite. Er…” He looked thoughtfully at the little stream, bubbling and sparkling under a pure blue sky. “Miss Martingale, forgive me if this seems impertinent, but I think you might have met Mr Amyes before?” He raised his mobile eyebrows at her.

    “No! Who gave you that idea?” she gasped, very red.

    Sid’s long grey eyes were watchful. “I would not say that anyone gave it me, precisely,” he said slowly. “It was but... an impression.”

    Silence fell. Mr Martin’s sister had spent considerable time pondering whether she should speak to Mr Lefayne and thank him for setting Mr Dinwoody to watch over her, but had reached no decision, except that if perhaps he were to give her the opportunity to speak, it would mean that she should do so. Now she said, holding up her pointed chin and looking him bravely in the eye: “Sir, I think you should know that I—I am aware I have quite a lot to thank you for.”

    “Do you?” he said neutrally.

    “Yes. Mr Briggs and I worked out that it must have been you who set Mr Dinwoody to—to look after me, for there was no-one else at Mr Buxleigh’s who both knew I had gone to Cousin Dearborn and might have paid Mr Dinwoody’s expenses. And I am very grateful.”

    The actor was silent for a moment. Then he murmured: “And did you consult Mr Dinwoody himself?”

    “Yes, and though he had been sworn to secrecy, he did not positively deny it. And—and please allow me to express my gratitude.”

    “Much as I should like to feel you were under an obligation to me, Miss Martingale, I really must protest; the knight-errant rôle in question was not taken by my humble self,” said Sid Bottomley lightly.

    Her eyelids fluttered, and she looked away. “If you persist in denying it, then I shall not mention it again,” she said in a low voice.

    He looked at the delicacy of the eyelids, and the elegant line of her nose and chin, and in spite of all the experience of the fair sex in all those years between them, bit his lip. “I am not a wholly bad fellow, but I am no hero, either. I do beg you to believe, it was not I.”

    She smiled at him somewhat mistily. “It must have been someone from Mr Buxleigh’s, who knew you were all coming down, you see; but I shall not press you to admit it.”

    Sid Bottomley looked into those wide, amber-coloured eyes and, stirred though he was, reviewed rapidly all the possible tacks he might take, and rejected all save one. “Ah—and were I this knight-errant, which I do not admit for an instant, mind!” he said with his careless smile, “what reward should I seek from thee, fair maid?”

    She went red, laughed awkwardly, looked away, and said: “Oh! Well, you certainly have my undying gratitude, sir!”

    “Mm. Knights-errant should be content with that, but I confess I know not an one who would be,” he said softly, putting a hand gently on hers. She jumped sharply, and he laughed, just a little, transferred the hand to her chin, and turned her face very gently to his. ‘This,” he said with a very prim look, but allowing the eyes to sparkle, “is the more traditional reward, I think!” Very gently he put his lips on hers.

    It was a real kiss, not a mere brush of the lips. Her eyes opened a little in shock.

    “Some knights-errant do that,” he said with a mocking look, releasing her.

    “You—you are very wicked,” she said weakly. “Stop that this instant, mauvais chien!” she cried as Troilus, apparently suddenly convinced his mistress needed defending, barked sharply at Mr Lefayne.

    “Well, not very wicked. But shall we call it quits?” he drawled, getting up without haste.

    She scrambled to her feet, her bosom having. “Yes—I mean, I still owe you a great debt of gratitude, sir!”

    “Well, we could repeat the process,” he murmured.

    “No,” she said, swallowing, and stepping back.

    “Don’t be afraid, sweet maid, your virtue is safe with me,” he drawled.

    “Actually, I do know that, or I assure you, I would not have let you kiss me at all!”

    “No, you would have kneed me in me privates like the unlamented gentleman in Holland,” he agreed with a wry look. “Well, I, at any events, shall call us quits, and importune you no further. Only just let me say this—” He stepped forward and put a hand under her chin again. “Toi, ferme la gueule, mauvais chien,” he added firmly as Troilus became agitated again. “I wish to God, Miss Martin, that you were not a lady. Or, dare I say it, that I were a gent? No, no! That would be flying in the face of a kindly Providence that has permitted me to get where I am today in my chosen profession!” he said with a laugh. “Let’s leave it as this, then: that you were not a lady.”

    “I—I hope to become an actress, sir, and not to have to live as a fine lady, at all,” she said with a brave lift of the chin.

    “Perish the thought! I think I would do almost anything to prevent your having to live the life of a Hetty Pontifex or a Margery Mayhew,” he said lightly.

    “Many actresses lead respectable and—and fulfilled lives, full of artistic endeavour!”

    “Yes, well, Mrs Siddons me no Mrs Siddonses. They are the exception. If you wish to tread the boards with us for the summer, I shan’t throw a rub in your way,” he said lightly, releasing her. “But if the Dearborn cousins venture did not turn out well, that is no reason for you not to try what that letter to Neddy Sare will do for you. Do not expect me, I beg you, to encourage you to anything else.” He gave her a little wry, mocking smile, released her, bowed, and strolled away without hurry.

    Major Martin’s daughter found her knees were trembling; she sank down onto the grass, and reached somewhat blindly for her little dog. “Nuh-now I don’t know what to think!” she confided to him.

    Very sympathetically, Troilus licked her chin.

    “Oh dear! He is so—so contradictory! For an honnête homme would never have seized the opportunity to kiss me like that! And yet, to—to refuse to countenance a lady’s taking up his own profession? That shows he is a man of truly gentlemanly instincts! …Oh, dear.”

    “Oops!” said Lukey with a smothered laugh as the trap bowled up the drive of Quysterse to a view of her son standing on the front sweep with another gentleman.

    “Oh, Lord! Is that your brother?” said Mrs Greatorex.

    “Yes, indeed; be prepared to lie in your teeth!” she ordered merrily.

    Mr Amyes and Mrs Greatorex both agreed with great readiness to lie in their teeth to Lady Hartwell’s brother.

    “Dare one ask what you have been up to, Stern Mamma?” Lord Hartwell greeted his wayward parent on a certain note of resignation.

    “Oh, nothing at all, my dear!” returned Lukey gaily, glancing under her lashes at Edward. “A country drive, you know. Oh—may I present Mr Amyes? My son, Pip, Lord Hartwell, and my brother, Lord Sare, Mr Amyes,” she explained politely. “Delicious to see you again, Edward, darling!” she added airily.

    Lord Sare acknowledged the introduction politely and greeted Mrs Greatorex politely; but said, eyeing his sister’s garment: “I cannot return the compliment, Lukey. What in God’s name are you wearing?”

    “It is just an old print gown,” she said airily.

    “I think I’ve seen her wear it to wash the dogs,” admitted Pip.

    “It is just the thing for a r-r-rustic voyage of discovery!” said Lukey gaily, preparing to descend. “Thank you, darling!” she trilled as Pip gave her his hand. “—Which, you know, is what we have just had!”

    “Oh, quite. You have,” noted Mrs Greatorex, accepting Lord Sare’s hand to aid her descent, “some charming rustic features hereabouts.”

    In the case anyone had misread her words, admittedly unlikely, Mr Amyes here emitted a low laugh. And gracefully accepted Lady Hartwell’s invitation to go on into the house for a little refreshment after the “long, hot, dusty drive.”

    The ladies voted for lemonade but Lord Hartwell noted kindly that Mr Amyes might care for ale instead? Mr Amyes smiled his charming smile and, not revealing that he was wondering if this were some sort of test of his gentility—damn the fellow’s eyes—murmured that he would prefer lemonade. And was then very disconcerted—though he did not reveal that, either—to find Lord Sare asking robustly for ale.

    “You’re staying in the neighbourhood, are you, Mr Amyes?” Lord Hartwell asked politely.

    “Not precisely, Lord Hartwell; I am with the company of players who have been rehearsing in your barn,” he replied cheerfully.

    “Really?” said the good-natured Pip with a smile. “We are all looking forward tremendously to the show.”

    “This would be a summer diversion for you, would it, Mr Amyes?” murmured Lord Sare as a tray of refreshment was brought in.

    Ricky Martin was very, very tempted to agree that it would. But in the first instance claiming to be a gentleman would not have marched with the rôle of Dickon Amyes, aspiring actor, which he was at present filling; and in the second instance, he was very wary indeed of high-born gentlemen who asked casual questions that tempted the incautious to present themselves as belonging to a higher stratum of society than that to which they could honestly lay claim—not, of course, out of any rooted objection to telling a falsehood; but because these same high-born gentlemen with the casual air were, in his considerable experience, the very ones who would trip you up and expose you for the liar you were. Added to which, this man was very much more than just a high-born gentleman, was he not? Ricky had discovered that one of Lord Sare’s sisters had married the late Viscount Hartwell of Quysterse, but nevertheless it had been a horrid little shock to find the man actually present.

    “It is diverting enough, sir, in truth!” he replied with a frank laugh. “But no: although I am just a beginner, it is my ambition to become a professional actor.”

    “He is certainly very lucky to find Roland Lefayne’s company down here in the woilds of Devon!” gurgled Mrs Greatorex, fluttering her black eyelashes outrageously at him.

    “Yes,” said Ricky smoothly. “I have been very lucky indeed.”

    This went over very well with the ladies: they both smirked and exchanged smug glances; but young Lord Hartwell reddened and glanced anxiously at his mother. So Ricky determined to be on his best behaviour, and smoothly expressed his admiration of the fertile countryside around Quysterse. –He was entirely alert to social clues of any kind, and Lukey had already mentioned that her son was becoming positively rustic in his old age. Sure enough, this topic went down very well, and he was enabled to draw Lord Hartwell out upon the methods of agriculture practised hereabouts and his plans for the estate.

    Lord Sare then countering this politely with an enquiry after the play, Ricky gave them a most amusing little sketch of its merits and demerits and, careful not to overstay his welcome, rose to take his leave. No, no: he must not stay, though he thanked them for the kind invitation; but an he did not get back directly, Mr Hartington would positively—er—gronder? Growl him? Yes, yes: scold him! he agreed with a laugh, as Mrs Greatorex corrected him. And, smiling and bowing, he took his leave.

    “Hm,” said Lord Sare slowly as the door closed after his graceful form.

    “Hm, hm, to you, too, you grumpy old thing, talking of gronder!” cried Lukey. “There is nothing wrong with him!”

    “I would say, saving your presence, ladies, that there must be something a little wrong with a fellow who is prepared to play the part of lapdog to two females, however charming, who are old enough to be his mother,” he replied drily.

    “Oh, I say, Uncle Edward! That’s going a bit far!” protested Pip, reddening.

    “Is it, indeed? One collects you had told him of Pip’s interest in matters agricultural, Lukey?”

    “What?” said Lukey blankly.

    Edward eyed her drily. “He played him like a fish.”

    “What nonsense!”

    “I concede he is a charmer, Lord Sare,” ventured Floss, rather flushed, “but surely that is better than a bully or a dullard?”

    “My dear Mrs Greatorex, I would never dream of contradicting you,” he replied formally. “What was all that gronder stuff, by the by? Affectation, pure and simple?”

    “What? No!” cried Lukey crossly. “Mr Amyes has spent a good deal of his life on the Continent. He has spoken French almost from his cradle.”

    “Indeed?” he replied, rising. “I am sure you ladies would wish to change your gowns. Pip, old fellow, will you come for a stroll?

    His nephew agreed very readily, and they strolled outside.

    “Sir, they don’t mean anything by it,” said Pip uncomfortably, as his uncle was silent.

    “What? Er, well, I would not absolutely agree with that, dear boy. Women of charm who find themselves unattached at Lukey’s age, or attached to men who have lost interest in them, commonly do very foolish things. May I advise you to watch her? Though in this instance,” he noted as Pip nodded numbly, “I think it is her silly friend who is the more taken by Mr—er—Amyes.”

    “Yes. Um, sir, I’m damned sure the fellow has no notion it’s one of your family names!” blurted Pip, turning scarlet.

    “Oh, I am sure,” murmured Edward John Amyes Luton. “Pip, just be a little careful of that young fellow.”

    “He did seem perfectly pleasant,” he murmured. “And—well, quite house-trained!” he added with a little laugh.

    “Did he not strike as, in fact, too socially adroit?”

    “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Uncle.”

    “He can be little more than your own age. Don’t you think that being suddenly introduced into the house of the son of a woman whom he has manifestly been encouraging to overstep the line, would tend slightly to overset the average young fellow?”

    “No, well, perhaps he was a little too smooth. But I think you are being too hard on him.”

    Lord Sare sighed. “Just add it all up, Pip. It’s too damned much. He was not in the least overset either at meeting you or at being invited in to Quysterse—one would have sworn from his manner, in fact, that he spends every summer doing the rounds of the great houses. He spoke civilly to you on a topic which he knew must interest you, but avoided even the slightest implication of toad-eating, behaving with all the assurance of a man twice his age. Then, he was careful not to stay too long, and excused himself with all the grace in the world when damned Lukey and that fool Floss Greatorex were urging him to stay. Not to mention being careful to—” He broke off.

    “Honestly, sir, I think you’re being over-nice! I dare say he ain’t no saint, but he did not overstep the line, and you cannot condemn a man for having pleasant company manners!”

    Lord Sare passed a hand over the shiny brown curls with the scattering of silver at the temples. “How can I put it? I gave him ample opportunity to lay claim to be a gentleman, and he refused the gambit.”

    “Uncle Edward, the fellow told the truth about his ambitions in life. How can you possibly find fault with that?”

    “Look, plunged into the company of those who are very much his betters, any young idiot would feel the temptation to pass himself off as better than he was, if the way were shewn clearly for him to do so! But he did not; can you not see that that proves he is a damned dangerous fellow?”

    Pip took his arm, smiling his sunny smile. “Mamma is right, Uncle Edward, and you have the most suspicious mind in the world and, I fear, are incapable of thinking anything but the worst of your fellow creatures!” he said lightly. “I refuse to condemn poor, pretty Mr Amyes for being an honest man with decent manners! –I wonder what his name really is?” he added with a smile. “Something horrid like Boggs or Grundy, I suppose! Come and tell me what you think of my new chestnut: Mooney will have it he is short in the back, but I do not agree!”

    Lord Sare suffered himself to be led off to the stables. Quysterse’s head groom was right, and the chestnut, though very pretty, was a bit short in the back. The which possibly proved that Pip Hartwell was as accurate a judge of horseflesh as he was of men. It was just as well that Lukey was due to come back to Sare Park for the latter half of the summer, and not be left to the tender mercies of such as Mr Dickon Amyes under her son’s innocent eye.

    In Miss Martingale’s opinion Quysterse was very grand indeed, and it was no wonder that her cousins Belle and Josephine had only ever been to the Hartwell estate for one open day in their lives. In Mr Hartington’s opinion it was well enough, and at least they had done what was asked in the ballroom, and the temporary stage they had erected seemed good and solid, and at least there was, for once, decent dressing-room accommodation just off the ballroom, from which they would not have to scamper in the rain, as had been known to happen in the past. In Mr Speede’s opinion he could have made a better job himself of the stage and the curtains, if allowed to do so, but everyone ignored this: the last performance in the barn had featured Georgy pulling Mr Speede’s front curtain right off, and having to be disinterred from it by Troilus Martin. Fortunately the locals thronging the barn had taken it as part of the show, and laughed and clapped uproariously. In Mrs Hetty’s opinion handsome was as handsome did, but then, she was jaundiced by the discovery of a nasty stain on the ruff which she had sewn with her own fair hands for Orsino’s pink outfit. And had sworn to kill with those same hands any young devil she caught borrowing the leading man’s ruffs.

    The rest of the company of Hartington’s Players appeared to incline to Miss Martingale’s opinion. Mrs Deane rolled her black-fringed eyes very much and said huskily: “Real nobs, they must be!” Mr Deane rubbed his chin, which was in its usual state, and said that perhaps he ought to have shaved. And Mrs Margery, her eyes very wide, pronounced it to be “Quite splendacious!” The which, if meant to express a compound of “splendid” and “gracious”, most certainly suited Quysterse very well.

    All too soon the night itself rolled round, and Miss Martingale, who had merely been pleasantly excited before the public performances in the barn, discovered she was in a quake of nerves. The which was very odd indeed, for she had no responsibility in the piece, being required merely to walk on in the farthingale, to “look pretty”, the which Mr Hartington had assured her with a positively paternal smile he was sure she would do without difficulty, and wave her fan. Thanks to Mrs Mayhew’s tuition, she could now handle it like an expert. And Troilus had almost as little to do: to wit, to allow Georgy to lead him on in three scenes whilst wearing a large ruff. Or, strictly speaking, large ruffs, Georgy’s being even larger than Troilus’s. When Georgy had to draw the curtain he was to hand the lead to her, and as they had practised this innumerable times she was quite confident that they could do it smoothly. And not, as Mr Deane, who had time on his hands and was very bored, had at one point predicted, trip up Duke Orsino himself.

    It was not much comfort to discover that Tilda was also in a quake of nerves, even although the little actress admitted that she was always better once she went on. Neither of them felt like food that day. Georgy appeared completely unperturbed at the thought of performing in the great house before a crowd of ladies and gentlemen and consumed two enormous meals; and his sister owned sadly that he had not a nerve in his body, and would eat heartily before appearing at Drury Lane itself.

    The appetites of the rest of the cast also appeared unaffected; but as the afternoon wore on and little spats arose over the possession of pairs of stockings, a glove which had mysteriously gone missing, the state of various persons’ ruffs, and who should have the exclusive attention of Mrs Wittering and her smoothing irons, it became clear that most of the company were more on edge than they looked.

    Late in the afternoon Mr Lefayne stuck his head into the room which had been allocated to the wardrobe and said: “Miss Martingale, for God’s sake come for a walk. If I have to listen to one more syllable of Reggie and Tony fighting over gloves and ruffs, I’ll throttle the pair of ’em! –Not doing anything, are you?” he added as an afterthought.

    She was assisting Mrs Wittering with the irons, it being her responsibility to reheat them as the little seamstress applied them; she looked up, very flushed, and said: “I think Mrs Wittering needs me, sir.”

    Mrs Wittering immediately insisted very kindly that she could manage, and Miss Cressida must go for a walk, and take Troilus.

    Mr Lefayne then offering his arm in a stately manner, she had no option, really, but to take it. And with Troilus frisking along by his mistress’ skirts, they set off.

    “Pretty, isn’t it?” said Mr Lefayne as they strolled out onto the broad lawns of Quysterse.

    “Yes, very. But very grand. I had expected… Well, I don’t know. More flowers?”

    Mr Lefayne sniffed slightly. “This will all be after Capability Brown, Miss Martingale: this is the famous English landscaping style. It consists of sweeping prospects and—er—massy trees, and so forth, rather than close effects. I prefer more flowers, myself!” He smiled at her.

    She expressed interest in the topic, and they strolled along, talking amiably about gardening styles, for some while.

    “This is prettier, I think?” he said with a little laugh they came suddenly upon a sunken garden full of flower beds, with a fountain in the middle of them.

    “Why, yes! Charming!” she agreed. As there was a gravelled path leading directly to the fountain they accepted its suggestion, and strolled up it.

    “An attempt to imitate the style of Rome? In little!” suggested Sid with a smothered laugh, eyeing the writhing marble limbs and spouting heads.

    “Yes, indeed. Or that of Vienna, perhaps? We lived in Vienna when I was a very little girl. I don’t remember much of it, but I do remember an enormous fountain. Petite Maman liked to drive past it. That’s how I remember her, really,” she said in a dreamy voice. “All frills and furs, smelling delicious, cuddled up in the barouche… She was silly, but very warm-hearted. Well, I suppose she spoilt us children dreadfully; and she had no idea of discipline at all; but in spite of her faults, we all—um, the whole household, I mean—adored her.”

    “Mm,” he said, looking at the pretty slim figure in a figured print, made by Mrs Wittering out of exactly what no-one of Hartington’s Players had been unkind enough to enquire, and smiling. “One can imagine that very easily. How old were you, again, when she died?”

    She sighed a little. “Just fourteen. I suppose I had begun to see her faults… Ricky would never admit she had any, which was one of the causes of the friction between him and Papa.”

    “Yes. Red hair, I think you said your brother has?” he said carelessly.

    She swallowed. “Mm.”

    Sid hesitated. She had already avoided the topic once. Then he said: “Possibly no-one else has remarked it. But although your features are smaller and much more delicate, and your colouring different, in profile you and the gentleman whom we know as Mr Amyes are very alike.”

    She took a deep breath. “Yes. Our hair, eyes and brows are very different, and so the likeness is hardly apparent, full face. I had no idea he was coming here, sir, and it was quite a shock to see him,” she assured him earnestly.

    “I can well imagine! Did he come to find you, is that it?”

    “No; he had no idea that I was with Hartington’s Players.” Her face remained frank and innocent, but behind it the clever brain characterised by her brother as “relentlessly logical” was working rapidly. If Mr Lefayne was Mr Dinwoody’s patron, then it could do no harm for him to know that Ricky was Mr Amyes. And if he were not, and it was Cousin Dearborn who had set the man on to spy on her, then there was no possible reason for Mr Lefayne to mention the matter to Mr Dinwoody. Good.

    A frown gathered on Mr Lefayne’s high ivory brow. “I see. He is not amongst us with the intention of taking up his responsibilities, then.”

    “Ricky?” she replied incredulously, opening the amber eyes very wide. “No, indeed!”

    “Then what the Devil is he here for?”

    “Um—well—I suppose I assumed you knew…” she murmured.

    Mr Lefayne’s gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.

    “Um, well, he is in Devon to find out what our Dearborn cousins are like.”

    “Ah. Would this explain his prolonged absence t’other day, when he was supposed to be helping get the costumes and props up here from the barn?”

    “Probably, yes. I mean, he probably did go over to Sandy Bay. But he would not need a reason to be absent when some boring labour was required of him.”

    “That certainly confirms my impressions,” said the actor drily.

    She looked up at him, and smiled. Mr Lefayne had unaffectedly stripped off his coat and helped load and unload waggons with a will. “Yes. Some of them have said that he reminds them of yourself when a young man, sir; but I can see that his character has nothing at all in common with yours!”

    “I was brought up in a hard-working family and taught to pull my weight,” he said neutrally.

    “Yes, well, I can assure you that Papa, at least, did his best to teach Ricky to pull his weight; and so did our nurse and our faithful maid!”

    “Mm. One of the type that believes the world owes them a living, is that it?”

    “Something very like that, yes,” she owned.

    He took her elbow gently. “It is not uncommon. –Shall we go that way?”

    They strolled towards a long hedge which bordered the far side of the sunken garden; but as they neared it they heard voices and laughter; and she hung back, whispering: “I think it is ladies and gentlemen!”

    “That isn’t so very dreadful,” he said with a smile. “But if you don’t wish to meet ’em, let’s not.”

    They waited a little, therefore, and soon observed a group of fashionably dressed persons walk past the graceful arched gap in the tall hedge. They were all chattering, and did not observe the two below in the garden.

    “What is it?” asked the actor, as she gave a little gasp and grasped at his arm.

    “That was very strange,” she said faintly. “I could have sworn for a moment that that was Mr Peebles with those people.”

    “I hardly think so!” he said with a laugh. He bent and patted Troilus. “Troilus, here, did not react, either.”

    “No. How silly of me. It must have just been a chance resemblance. Um—I don't think that man had the same walk, or… I suppose it was just the nose and chin,” she said dubiously, fingering her own.

    Sid Bottomley refrained from saying it was not impossible that the meek Peebles should have some genteel connections on the wrong side of the blanket, and merely nodded mildly. And suggested that they might stroll another way, for he thought that might be where the famous Quysterse waterfall was located.

    So they strolled that way, but failed to find the waterfall; and strolled slowly back to the house, talking amiably of cities they had known, and books they had read.

    “Thank you,” said Sid with a grin as they reached the side door by which they had come out. “That took my mind off the show!”

    “Surely you are not nervous?” she replied in amaze.

    “You flatter me. –Well,” he said, wrinkling his handsome nose a little, “I suppose I am always a little nervous before a performance. Yes, even before doing it in the barn!” he admitted with a twinkle. “And it is slightly worse when I have to perform in front of a crowd of damned fashionables who will be all too ready to pull my performance apart. But this is as nothing to a first night in London! I was sick all day before my first leading part in London. And not much better before the first night of Richard III, last year,” he owned, grimacing. “It was a big departure for me, doing anything approaching a character rôle, and I thought it might be a damned disaster.”

    “I see. Well, I am glad, if our walk managed to take your mind off it.”

    Sid smiled his charming smile, bowed, and conducted her back into the house. Not revealing that the walk had not only taken his mind off his nerves: it had also given him certain food for thought.

    For her part the Major’s daughter felt more confused than ever about Roland Lefayne. Not just about his rôle with regard to herself, though that mystery was vexing enough. Had it been he who had set Mr Dinwoody on, or not? If only there was some way to make the man tell! And if it had been Mr Lefayne, they could more or less stop worrying about Ricky’s safety: there was no way Cousin Dearborn could suspect he was in Devon. But as for the other thing… Mr Lefayne could be so entirely pleasant, when he was not—well, frankly, not overstepping the line and encouraging one to do likewise! Whenever she thought about that kiss by the stream, which she did not seldom, she was overtaken by a weak, trembly feeling. The which was generally much worse in Mr Lefayne’s company. But this afternoon he had been such a pleasant companion, with nothing of the flirtatious in his manner… Oh, dear!

    “SIT!” ordered Orsino loudly. The line was not in the script, and certain of the audience frankly sniggered, whilst others, more considerate, merely swallowed coughs. The order, alas, had no effect on the excited Troilus Martin, so the Duke added firmly: “Assieds-toi, mauvais chien!” Troilus duly sat and most of the audience collapsed in helpless laughter.

    “That animal,” noted Mr Hartington evilly in the wings as Georgy dragged the disgraced one off, “will not darken another stage of mine as long as it lives: which, note, may not be long.”

    “’E was upset, acos ’e ain’t never been on a real stage afore!” hissed Georgy, very red.

    “Not—another—word.”

    The red-faced Georgy disappeared in the direction of the dressing-rooms, dragging Troilus with him, the tail well between the legs.

    Mr Hartington mopped his fevered brow. Well-disposed though the wined and dined ladies and gents in the Quysterse audience were, they really did not need that sort of incident during the performance!

    … “It’s going well, considering,” drawled Sid, removing Sir Andrew’s make-up in the interval between the abbreviated Acts Three and Four.

    “Considering what?” replied Mr Hartington hotly.

    “Troilus!” he said with a chuckle. “No, sorry, Harold. Well, we’ve seen worse happen on stage than a little dog becoming over-excited, let’s admit it. No, well, let’s say, considering that Tilda isn’t as strong as one might wish a Viola to be, that Paul has not yet the weight for Feste, though I grant he’s improving visibly, and that in every damned scene in which Amyes walks on the rest of us have to fight merely to be noticed.”

    “That’s an exaggeration. Well, you don’t, Sid!” he said with a pleased grin. “Forget him. It’s going well, otherwise, ain’t it?”

    “Well enough. Margery is not my idea of Olivia, but she makes up well, I’ll give her that.”

    Mr Hartington cleared his throat. “It ain’t my fault that some gent in the third row apparently knows her. But I’ll make sure she don’t bat the eyelids at him in future.”

    “That would be terribly kind,” said his leading man sweetly. “In especial if you could ask her not to do it in Act Five, during which, you may remember, we have to be on stage together.”

    “All right, I’ll speak to her anon. –And don’t worry, the damned dog won’t set foot on stage during Five.”

    “But Harold, he must! The ladies are aux anges over him!”

    “Look, are you sure? Ten to one the little brute will ruin your last big scene, Sid.”

    “Then it will be a race between him and Amyes,” he said sweetly.

    “Is it my fault if that Dorcas woman is sitting in the front row large as life and twice as natural, blowing him kisses?” retorted Mr Hartington hotly.

    “No. Well, I’m not on in Four.” Mr Lefayne had removed Sir Andrew’s wig some time since. He now assumed the riotous black curls of Orsino, and carefully combed one small ringlet to droop over his forehead. “Don’t worry about Amyes: I have a plan.” He eyed himself narrowly in the glass. “Would you hand me Orsino’s jacket? Thank you.”

    “You know, it’s about time you had a dresser,” said Harold, kindly assisting him into the jacket.

    “Can my management afford to give me one, though? –Don’t answer that! …Mm,” he said, eyeing the effect of the high-necked black taffeta doublet admiringly. “I do like the way it sits at the neck. The tiny ruff was the right choice, I think?”

    “Yes; Mrs Wittering’s taste don’t err. Look, she’d dress you, Sid, if you wanted.”

    “But who would iron and pin for the rest of ’em? I admit one is tempted to say, Leave them to Hetty’s tender mercies! No, well, I might ask that stout fellow who has been assisting Sam with the carpentry,” he said slowly.

    “Eh? That Dinwoody fellow?”

    “I dare say he could do with the employment.”

    “No, but Sid, do you want a great clodhopper like that cluttering up your dressing-room?”

    “He is a sturdy fellow, but not a clodhopper. In fact, he moves damned well: have you not noticed? I don’t think he would incommode me.”

    “Well—uh—ask him, if you want,” said his manager limply. “And listen, I will pay. Only don’t offer him nothing outrageous.”

    “Thanks. You sure, Harold?”

    “Yes.” Mr Hartington winked, came up very closed, and hissed: “These nobs are paying through the nose like you wouldn’t believe, Sid!”

    “Good,” he said, closing one black-fringed grey eye. “Do go and speak to Margery, there’s a good fellow.”

    Mr Hartington went over to the real door of the real room that had been graciously provided by Quysterse for Mr Lefayne’s needs. “I shall. What are you going to do?” he asked as Sid carefully drew on the white silk stockings of Orsino.

    “Put a spoke in Amyes’s wheel—if it be within my poor powers,” he replied dulcetly.

    Mr Hartington sniggered, and went out.

    Sid slipped on the high-heeled, rosetted shoes of Orsino, smiling.

    During Act Four those of the audience who had been favoured with seats in the front row of the Quysterse ballroom were highly gratified to have Mr Lefayne in person come and sit with them. Mrs Greatorex in especial, as he made a point of informing her that she was in great looks tonight and another point of placing himself at her side and fanning her. Mrs Greatorex duly informed him, with terrific giggling and battings of the lashes, that the black doublet with the purple touches lacked but the addition of a gold chain with an amethyst pendant to make it quite exquisite. Mr Lefayne then asking her, with the most innocent look in the world, what one would have to do to gain such an artefact, very naturally Mrs Greatorex was driven to take the fan back off him and smack his hand repeatedly with it. Her friends and relatives were not, therefore, entirely surprised to see her exit in quest of fresh air on Mr Lefayne’s arm in the interval. Her elegant brother in fact remarked with a sigh: “Well, that were to be expected.”

    “Uncle Wilf, you agreed to join up with him for the journey down,” noted Penny Greatorex.

    Mr Rowbotham eyed his niece drily. “What you mean is, Henny-Penny, I couldn’t stop your mother with the bit between her teeth. –Don’t tell me,” he ordered the company generally, “that what Floss needs is a strong hand; I know it. Only I ain’t got it.”

    Most regrettably, at this Lady Hartwell immediately collapsed in giggles. Emerging from them to mop her eyes and declare: “Well, at one point I was quite persuaded that Edward could be the strong hand, Wilf; but alas, Floss will have none of him.”

    “He seems to be keeping out of her way, too,” noted the elegant one drily.

    “Yes; where on earth is he, Mamma?” demanded Mercy, looking round aggrievedly.

    “He was here at one point,” offered Pip. “Er, well, in body, if not in spirit! He had his handkerchief over his face most of the time.”

    “Aye; did not look too awake even while the fat fellow and that yaller-haired fellow were goin’ at it hammer and tongs,” said Mr Rowbotham. “—I say, that is Lefayne too, ain’t it?”

    His young host, his niece and her friend were seen to gulp. Lady Hartwell, however, merely ordered: “Wilf, darling, go back to sleep. –Er, possibly I made a tactical error, darlings, in making sure Edward sat beside Floss.”

    “You did in that once he had pushed off, that left the seat free for Lefayne: aye,” noted Mr Rowbotham sourly.

    Pip grinned. “I was thinking that, too, Stern Mamma!”

    “Oh, pooh! There is no harm in darling Roland!” said Lukey airily.

    “Not much,” noted Mrs Greatorex’s brother.

    Lukey opened her eyes very wide at him. “Wilf, dearest, surely you would not rather see her—er—intriguée with that pretty copper-haired boy?”

    “Eh?” replied the elegant one blankly.

    Penny and Mercy exchanged glances, but did not dare to point out to Penny’s uncle that her mamma had been making sheep’s eyes at that person whenever he was on stage.

    Lukey explained calmly: “He is utterly adorable, my dear: the boy in green. Quite a nicely-spoken boy, but of course half dearest Floss’s age.”

    Mr Rowbotham by this time had turned purple and was spluttering.

    “Of course there is nothing in it, Wilf,” continued Lukey kindly, “but there is always the chance that a boy of that sort could—well—turn horrid?” she said, wrinkling up her nose.

    “I confess I am glad to hear you realise it, Mamma,” admitted Pip. “Uncle Edward suggested something of the sort.”

    “Pip, dearest boy, Edward is the most hopeless fuddy-duddy that ever walked! Never mind him. The thing is, Wilf, dear,” she said to the empurpled one, “darling Roland knows exactly where the line is drawn. And if,” she said, the dimples peeping, “he oversteps it a lee-tle, at least he judges to a nicety exactly how far he may go!”

    “Really, Mamma,” objected Pip mildly, glancing at the girls’ glowing cheeks.

    “No, true! –Well?” she said to the empurpled one. “You see?”

    “Gettin’ mixed up with a lad half her age?” he spluttered. “What the Devil’s Ceddie goin’ to say?” –This was Sir Cedric Rowbotham, Wilf’s and Floss’s eldest brother and head of the family. An eminent diplomat, late ambassador to the Prussian Court, and a gentleman of determined character and fixed views.

    “No, well, if he does not wish her to contract unsuitable involvements, perhaps he should keep an eye on her himself, Wilf,” said Lukey airily. “But what I am trying to say is, darling Roland’s distracting her from that boy is a blessing!”

    “In disguise,” murmured Pip.

    “Uh—well, yes!” spluttered Mr Rowbotham. “I dare say it may be. –A lad half her age? On the damned stage?”

    “You see? Roland is far preferable,” cooed Lukey smoothly, getting up. “Give me your arm, Wilf, dear, and we’ll take a little stroll. And if we should encounter Floss and Roland, I dare say we might foist ourselves upon them!”

    “Aye, so we might. Thanks, Lukey,” said Mr Rowbotham with heartfelt gratitude.

    The young people watched in a stunned fashion as they moved off, arm-in-arm.

    Eventually Mercy croaked: “Mamma and your Uncle Wilf?”

    “Mercy, she’d manage the poor fellow within an inch of his life!” objected Pip with a smile.

    “Don't laugh, Pip! This may be the solution to the Stern Mamma problem! She has spent all her life being the leaner, not the leaned upon, but underneath, you know, she is really a very strong character!”

    Penny swallowed. “Yes; but the only thing is, Uncle Wilf has been a bachelor for a very long time.”

    Pip sniggered. “Aye! He may come over as somewhat simple-minded, but he’s fly as a fox underneath it, y’know! I cannot see him falling into any matrimonial trap!”

    At this, sad to relate, Miss Hartwell and Miss Greatorex got up in a pointed manner and removed themselves from Lord Hartwell’s vicinity.

    “Is this the last?” enquired Mr Ashleigh-Peet lugubriously, as his old friend sat down beside him in the very back row of the audience.

    “The last what, A.-P.?” replied Lord Sare primly.

    “Don’t give me that, Edward. The last thingamajig—scene. No, act.”

    “Yes, there are only five. Ain’t you enjoying it, old thing?” asked Lord Sare solicitously.

    “Not all that much no. Damned Elizabethan, ain’t it?”

    “What’s left of it,” he murmured. “No, well, I think you must blame Shakespeare for that, A.-P., rather than the performers.”

    “That fair dame must be thirty if a day,” returned Mr Ashleigh-Peet lugubriously.

    Lord Sare’s mouth twitched a little. “Olivia? Forty.”

    “You was up the front: you should know,” conceded Mr Ashleigh-Peet, solemnly withdrawing an elaborate enamelled watch from his pocket and consulting it. “Though from what I could see, you were asleep most of the time.”

    “Too much dinner,” replied Lord Sare smoothly.

    Mr Ashleigh-Peet gave the impression of being another of the Wilfred Rowbotham type. In fact, he had been a serving officer for many years, retiring after Waterloo with the rank of Major. And, indeed, during the Peninsula campaigns had been engaged upon the same sort of work as had Edward himself. He knew Edward Luton perhaps as well as any man living; though the two had not seen very much of each other since Mr Ashleigh-Peet’s leaving the Army. He now directed a sapient look at him and replied, equally smooth: “Too much dinner. Of course. –You know,” he said, slowly replacing the watch, “I was down your way not so long since, old man.”

    “Oh, yes?” replied Lord Sare, smothering a yawn. “At Sare? Was you?”

    “Aye. Lukey had sworn you was down in the country. But your servants said they hadn’t laid eyes upon you for weeks.”

    “That will teach you,” he drawled, “not to take account of anything at all Lukey may say, up to and including a declaration that world be still circling in its orbit.”

    Mr Ashleigh-Peet eyed him knowingly. “Yes, won’t it? –I had no notion,” he added airily, “that Meinhoff was in the country.”

    “Is he?”

    “Have it your own way. Dare say you won’t want to hear another surprisin’ thing, neither.”

    Lord Sare yawned again. “No, but you’ll inflict it on me in any case, old man, won’t you?”

    Mr Ashleigh-Peet’s shrewd blue eyes twinkled but he said soberly enough: “Could have sworn I laid eyes on Max Blunsden, just then.”

    “What, down at Sare?” he drawled mockingly.

    “No, that would not have surprised me. No, just now.”

    “I dare say Lukey may have invited him.”

    “I dare say. But would she have invited him to dress himself in the garments of a rough working fellow and leave two days’ growth of beard on his chin?”

    “Not for Mercy’s birthday party: no, A.-P.,” he said soothingly.

    Mr Ashleigh-Peet merely lifted an eyebrow at him and noted: “Possibly the rumours that he has retired from his old occupation are ill-founded, then.”

    “Aye,” he said without interest, picking up a discarded programme from the empty seat at his other side. “Yes, I was right: only five acts.”

    The sapient Mr Ashleigh-Peet raised an eyebrow again, but this time, said nothing at all.

    In the wings, Mr Lefayne swallowed a sigh. “Congratulate me upon a duty nobly done,” he said to Miss Martingale on a sour note.

    “I think you are playing very well, sir!” she gasped, going very red.

    “Not that, though I thank you for the sentiment. No, did you not observe me sacrificing myself in order to prevent a certain lady from falling into your—er—connection’s clutches?”

    She gulped. “Did you do it on purpose?”

    “Mm.” said Sid, smiling a little as it dawned that Miss Martingale had indeed remarked his encounter with Mrs Greatorex. “Well, on purpose to ensure that her attention would not be fixed on anyone but yours truly during the dénouement. And in especial that she would not distract the whole of Orsino’s court by making at eyes at Amyes.”

    “During your lines,” she agreed drily.

    He grinned at her. “Aye, that’s it!”

    “You are—”  Words failed her.

    “‘Irresistible’ is the word that has been used by some,” said the actor drily.

    “At least you are not taken in by yourself!” she said strongly. “A Machiavel, I think is what I mean.”

    “Thank you. –Miss Martingale, please gratify my curiosity and explain why in God’s name you have let Hetty trick you out in that damned black wig!” he said on a desperate note.

    “To disguise me in the case that my Dearborn cousins should be in the audience, of course!”

    Sid gulped. “Of course,” he said weakly. “Are they?”

    She nodded hard.

    “Good God,” he said limply. “Show me.”

    The curtains were still drawn and in the wings opposite Mr Hartington could be observed haranguing Mr Grantleigh and Mr Ardent, so she cautiously drew the edge of the curtain a little aside. “Over to the right—stage right,” she whispered. Mr Lefayne duly peered and she explained: “Cousin Evangeline is in purple silk with black and purple feathers in her hair: a disagreeable-looking woman with greying fair hair; and Belle and Josephine are the very pretty yellow-haired girls to her left. Stage right!”

    “Ah… Yes, I think I see them. Near to a pillar, yes?”

    “Yes, that’s right: Josephine in the blue and Belle in the lemon.”

    “A pair of peaches,” he murmured, half to himself.

    “Yes; they are very pretty indeed,” she agreed simply.

    He straightened and smiled at her. “You may rest assured your own mother would not recognise you in that wig, Miss Martingale!”

    “That’s what I thought,” she owned in some relief.

    Sid peered again. “Any sign of that fellow you thought looked like Peebles?”

    “Um… I thought I saw a man at the back who did look something like him.”

    “Yes? Stage left? –No. Er—did you notice a fellow asleep the front row, earlier?”

    “Yes, there was a horrid man who slept with his handkerchief over his face through all of your scenes!” she said indignantly.

    “Mm. He is gone, now. Possibly given up on the whole thing and gone to bed,” said Sid lightly, taking her elbow and leading her back to the wings. “I think Harold has finished bawling out Reggie and Tony at last, so perhaps we may get on with it. Now, if Troilus should misbehave again, just leave everything to me.”

    “Yes,” she agreed, smiling shyly at him and blushing under her paint. “Thank you, Mr Lefayne: I shall.”

    Sid swallowed a sigh. Sweet, wasn’t she? In especial after the well-matured charms of Mrs Greatorex. He said nothing, however; and, as Harold appeared ready to proceed, waved vigorously at Mr Grantleigh in the hopes of recalling to his mind the fact that he was supposed to be on this side of the stage, in order to come on with Orsino’s court.

    ... “Lovely!” cried Lukey, clapping loudly, as the whole cast rushed on again, Viola this time in her farthingale, and took their bows.

    “Oh, it was splendid!” breathed Mercy, clapping until her hands ached.

    Pip Hartwell thought it had been pretty average. He eyed his little sister tolerantly, and clapped politely.

    “Delicious!” said Mrs Greatorex with her husky laugh, clapping very much and, catching Mr Lefayne’s eye, giving him a meaning look.

    On stage, Mr Amyes concealed a pout. He directed a charming smile at Lady Hartwell, but alas, she was not looking at him. What she was doing, in fact, was jabbing her neighbour hard in his ribs with her fan. “Wilf!” she hissed.

    Mr Rowbotham woke with a start. “What—Oh,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “All over, eh? Good show!”

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/sowcot-speculates.html