Stage Fright

7

Stage Fright

    Mr Buxleigh’s usual position having revealed nothing very much except that the caller was a mild-looking fellow who probably wasn't a dun, he had gone to the door in person. The mild-looking fellow asked for Mr Porteous. Mr Buxleigh swallowed but replied with admirable sang-froid: “I am he, fellow.” Forthwith receiving a note from General Sir Arthur Murray. He was so overset that he almost gave the messenger a sixpence. And tottered back into the sitting-room mopping his brow.

    Mr Deane and Mr Vanburgh were in there reading. Neither looked up.

    “From the ’Orse Guards,” said the Beau, mopping his brow.

    “Putting you off again,” murmured Mr Vanburgh into his book.

    “I ain’t opened it yet, me fingers is trembling,” he owned. “’E asked for Porteous; Gawd, it’s been so long I’d almost forgot I was ’im!”

    At this, both actors did look up, and Mr Deane volunteered to open it.

    Mr Buxleigh was so shaken that he let him.

    “Lord love us,” said Mr Deane mildly. “News at last.”

    “Eh?” gasped Mr Buxleigh.

    “He has an address for the Dearborns and would like to see you, if convenient, at three tomorrow. Like a Royal command, really, Beau: if convenient or no, take it or lea—” He stopped; the Beau had snatched it out of his hand.

    “You will have to do Porteous again,” noted Mr Vanburgh tranquilly.

    “Y— Uh— What about Sid?” he gasped. “He's doing that reading at that demned salon, tomorrow!”

    Mr Vanburgh wanted to know what salon but the Beau could not tell him, except that it was a lady’s salon. What gave salons, and to stop asking him! Here Mr Deane winked solemnly at Mr Vanburgh and the comic choked slightly.

    “Never mind all that, what’ll we do?” said Mr Buxleigh wildly.

    Mr Vanburgh looked at him kindly. “Thought Sid only played the clerk?”

    “Lawyer’s clerk: yes,” he said mopping the brow again. “Sort of like what that Peebles does. –Pity ’e weren’t with us then, we might of took him instead,” he noted.

    “Well, do you need Sid, Beau?”

    “The note doesn’t say to bring him,” murmured Mr Deane.

    Mr Buxleigh read it again. “Um—no,” he admitted.

    The actors looked at him kindly. It was clear that the Beau had lost his nerve at the prospect of going on. The which had been an increasing phenomenon in his stage career, and had led, indeed, to his decision to quit the boards.

    “I could take it,” offered Mr Vanburgh.

    Mr Deane, who didn't feel that he himself could, not with a real general and the real Horse Guards in the offing, looked at him gratefully.

    “Y— Um, well, thanks, Vic, only he’s seen Sid in the part!” replied the Beau, terribly flustered.

    “Do it as an associate of— What were the name?” asked Mr Deane.

     Mr Buxleigh had forgotten.

    “You will have to prop him up, if you do do it, Vic,” noted Mr Deane.

    “I think I can manage that. But we need the details of the setting. The firm Sid was with, his name, and so forth.”

    “But he’s not here!” gasped Mr Buxleigh.

    “Hell, nor he is,” remembered Mr Deane. “Accepted an invitation to a lady’s box in the last interval last night, accepted an invitation to supper with the lady and her party, ain’t been seen since,” he explained.

    “You’ll see him tonight, though, Daniel,” Mr Vanburgh reminded him.

    “Yes, but will his mind be on the Porteous thing?”

    “It don’t need to be on the damned costume piece, at all events,” said the comic actor drily.

    “No, well, I’ll try to catch him alone. But it won’t be easy. And if he’s all set to rush off to meet the lady afterwards—” Mr Deane shrugged.

    Mr Vanburgh got up. “All I’ll need is the name of the firm and his name. And a useful name for me, if he’s got one; otherwise we’ll make one up. Meanwhile, I’ll go and talk to Peebles, get some background.”

    “Eh? He’s down in Southampton for his law firm, Vic!” objected Mr Buxleigh.

    “No, he isn’t: he’s in the back garden as we speak. He came back yesterday, went straight in to report to his masters, got back very late. You were asleep. This morning you were still asleep when he and I had breakfast. By the way, is he actually paying Cook for Bagshot’s sausage, or has he done it by the power of his eye alone?”

    Promptly Mr Deane went into a spluttering fit at the thought of the meek Mr Peebles’s eye having any power to it at all, let alone sufficient to convince the masterful Mrs Harmon of anything.

    Mr Vanburgh smiled slightly but said to the Beau: “Well?”

    “Eh? Oh. Well, ’e was paying, only Sid overheard Miss Martin telling him it was very kind of him, but could he afford it, so he offered to, himself. Just as well, acos then Peebles went orf to Southampton.”

    “Peebles don't strike me as the man to rush off on errands forgetting his obligations,” said Mr Vanburgh mildly, going out.

    In the garden Mr Bagshot was sitting on a whiskery, sagging old rush-bottomed chair, picking over some watercress, and Mr Peebles, under an ancient straw hat which had once featured as something pastoral in A Tale of Arcady, one of Mr Hartington’s own, was sitting on a kitchen chair, placidly stroking the crooked little cat. Which was purring loudly.

    “Hullo,” said Mr Vanburgh mildly. “Don’t get up, Peebles, don't disturb him,” he added hurriedly as the clerk made to rise politely.

    Mr Peebles smiled a little and continued to stroke the cat.

    There was an empty bucket to hand; Mr Vanburgh up-ended it and perched on it. “I wanted to ask you about the law, Peebles.”

    “About the law, Mr Vanburgh?”

    “Aye. For a part which may be coming up. Tell me about your office, and so forth; you know: about your daily round.”

    Mr Peebles was plainly at a loss. Clearly the office and the daily round were such norms in his existence that he had never paused to think how they might be described. “Well, Mr Vanburgh, it’s just an orfice. Like what any solicitor-at-law might have!” he noted desperately. “Panelled, very largely. Mr Hartley and Mr Fitch, they have orfices to themselves, being senior partners in the firm, sir, and the important clients are shown in to them. And Mr Jackson and Mr Henley, they share, being only junior partners.”

    “Well, now!” said Mr Vanburgh, rubbing his hands and smiling at him. “We’re getting somewhere! Two senior partners, are there? Wasn’t the name of your firm longer, though?”

    “Hartley, Hartley, Fitch and French, sir. Mr Hartley, Senior, passed on many years ago, and Mr French adorns the rural magistracy; only, the name was retained. He inherited a small property in the country, and finding there was not enough to occupy his energies, having been a busy attorney-at-law for many years, had recourse, as we say in the law, to the bench.”

    “Aye; Othello’s occupation was gone, eh?” he said kindly.

    “Yes, sir,” said the clerk dubiously.

    “Tell me a little more about the actual office.”

    “Well, panelling, sir, as I say. Um… the clerks, they mostly sit on tall stools,” he volunteered suddenly.

   “Good! And?”

    Mr Peebles wrinkled his brow. “Dunno, really. We got lots of pigeonholes, what we calls them that in general in the law, sir, only nothink to do with yer actual pigeons as birds, meanink not pigeons qua birds in the legal term.”

    Mr Vanburgh smiled a little: in his profession he had become a connoisseur of accents, and he had noted that Mr Peebles’s normally refined tones tended to slip a bit when he became flustered or excited. “Yes? For the documents, I assume?”

    “For hundreds of documents, sir,” he agreed: “deeds of all kinds. What they is general used for sortink but some storink also, and then in the document room, you has to see it to believe it! Which is where the clients’ documents is all stored, and Mr Jarret, he has the key, and it is all writ down in a ’uge book. What you might not think would not never be used up, only they has piles of them, sir, writ all through. Piles.”

    “Very graphic,” said Mr Vanburgh with the utmost solemnity.

    Mr Peebles blinked. “Thank you, Mr Vanburgh.”

    “And who is Mr Jarret?”

    Mr Peebles’s normally meek and respectful face took on an expression of even greater respect. And he replied in a hushed tone: “Oh, he is the Head Clerk, sir, what runs, between you and me, the whole place. The partners, they don’t have nothink to do with it. And a genius for organisation, if I may make so bold.”

    “I can see he would have to be, yes,” Mr Vanburgh conceded, nodding thoughtfully. “And your own duties?”

    Mr Peebles could not explain them very clearly, but they obviously largely entailed sorting documents that had come in, and delivering documents that were to go out. Sometimes to the law courts themselves! he explained, brightening: if they was urgent, and a partner was in court, and he, Peebles, happened to be in the office.

    The actor could see that these occasions formed the highlights of the poor fellow’s existence, and he smiled at him very kindly and said if he was ever free for a bite at around dinner-time, maybe they could manage to meet up, for there was an inn quite close to the Inns of Court that was much favoured by the players from Drury Lane. Mr Peebles became very flustered, explaining that he could not promise nothing, for in the law, one could not predict when a document might have to go, or where it might have to go to. Mr Vanburgh could see that, and could see, also, that the poor, meek little fellow was run off his feet from dawn to dusk by his damned employers. And said very kindly indeed: “Well, I am often there, so if you are in the neighbourhood, look in. And so, they are giving you the day off, are they?”

    With a thrilled expression on his innocent face, Mr Peebles explained that Mr Hartley in person had told him he had done a good job at Southampton, and had been quite right to save the money when he found he could come back in the rumble—Mr Vanburgh winced in spite of himself, the position was only too well known to one of his profession—and he had best take the morning off! And Mr Jarret had said Yes, well done, and to be back in the orfice at two sharp.

    “Oh, dammit, you will miss dinner,” said Mr Vanburgh somewhat lamely, considerably affected by this report. Though not in the direction of sharing the clerk’s simple joy.

    Mr Bagshot, who had not appeared to be listening, not that one could tell much from his expression, here made an inarticulate noise.

    Nodding very hard, the meek clerk agreed: “Mrs Harmon is very kindly puttink me up a bite for midday, sir.”

    “Good,” said Mr Vanburgh, blinking. “Well, thanks, Peebles.” With that he suddenly darted back into the house again.

    “Get much?” asked Mr Deane, yawning, as he came into the sitting-room,

    Mr Vanburgh sat down. “Enough,” he said shortly.

    “Eh?” said Mr Deane, staring.

    “Shut it, Daniel.” Mr Vanburgh blew his nose hard on a large red and white kerchief. “No, sorry,” he said remorsefully. “I got more than I had bargained for, not that the fellow realised he was telling it me; and by God, if we thought ours was a hard life, let me tell you, it ain’t got nothing on the existence of the fellows that have to grind away in their offices sixteen hours a day!”

    “Peebles don’t. He’s out and about all the time, said so himself.”

    “In all weathers, you mean!” said Mr Vanburgh loudly. “Quite! He’s thrilled to the back teeth because having worked non-stop down at Southampton and come back in the rumble seat to save the damned firm money what they’ve more than gypped out of the clients fifty times over, they condescend to give him the morning—not the whole day, Daniel, the morning—off!”

    “There’s lots as wouldn’t,” said Mr Deane peaceably.

    Mr Vanburgh bit his lip. “Aye, you’re not wrong.”

    “So, did you get enough?”

    “Eh? Oh. More than enough. I could do you a whole office full—beg pardon, Mr Deane, sir, orfice full,” he said in the meek accents of Mr Peebles, “of senior partners, and pigeonholes what we call them in the law, nothink to do with pigeons qua birds, and Senior Clerks what are considerably more powerful than God Almighty and only let us have a half-day off because the senior partner has been and gone and said it to our faces, and documents all writ up in ’uge books. –Not to mention,” he did mention sourly, relapsing into his own character, “being out and about in all weathers, with the damned documents protected in pouches, and ourselves under nothing but that flimsy cloak we’ve seen him wearing!”

    “Yes. Just mind you sustain the characterisation, Vic, and don’t let your emotions run away with you when you’re on.”

    “No.” Mr Vanburgh got up suddenly.

    “Going out?” said Mr Deane mildly.

    “No, I want a word with Cook. She is doing him a bite, but— Never mind.” He strode out.

    Mr Deane shook his head slowly. “Over-much sensibility,” he said sadly. “The curse of many a good comic.”

    “Mr Potts,” introduced Mr Porteous. “One of my solicitor’s people, sir.” Mr Potts bowed very low, and waited politely until his master’s clients were seated before modestly seating himself at a little remove from the group.

    General Sir Arthur smiled in an avuncular fashion at Miss Martin: again very neat and pretty, this time with a yellow print gown. –Mrs Hetty had again rifled Mr Hartington’s stores, finding a huge petticoat once worn under a pannier, though before that she thought it might have gone on as something else, and as the front breadth was stained irreparably with what Mrs Wittering thought might be red wine, had proceeded to order the meek little seamstress to cut it up, “regardless.” The pretty bonnet was the one presented by Mr Deane.

    Having asked kindly how Miss Martin had been going on, though with what the watching Mr and Mrs Porteous fancied was a sharp look in his eye, the General then announced that he had her relatives’ direction. And apologised for the delay: his sister’s household had been in a turmoil over a case of measles. Everyone nodded understandingly and General Sir Arthur at last produced a piece of paper with an actual written direction.

    “Devon,” he explained kindly to pretty little Miss Martin’s blank look.

    “I suppose it might have been worse,” noted Mr Porteous heavily. “Could have been Scotland. Or Land’s End.”

    “Er, well, it is on the south coast, I believe,” said the General on an apologetic note. He cleared his throat. “I would strongly advise writing first, Mr Porteous.”

    “Yes, of course,” agreed Miss Martin hastily. She could not quite see why, but clearly Mr Buxleigh had lost his nerve, and was not presenting a very convincing prosperous merchant at all. And Mr Vanburgh’s murmured explanation before they set off in re “second nights” had not clarified the matter.

    “Certainly, Miss Martin, that would be best,” agreed the meek Mr Potts. “And may I say that the firm would be happy to take it upon our shoulders to do it for you.”

    “Yes, well, thank you very much, Mr Potts,” she said somewhat limply. “And I cannot thank you enough, General: you have been so very kind.”

    General Sir Arthur Murray smiled, and got up, saying it had been nothing at all; and showed them out, still avuncular.

    “Phew!” concluded Mr Buxleigh limply on the pavement.

    “Went like a breeze, dunno what you had the wind up for,” said Mrs Hetty nastily.

    “Hold your gab. Where are we?” he said, looking about him feebly.

    “Horse Guards. Same like we was last time!” she said helpfully.

    “Whitehall,” explained Mr Vanburgh.

    “Aye. Well, what now?”

    “I’d go home and look at Harold’s map, if it was me, Beau,” said Mr Vanburgh kindly.

    “And figure out some way to get Miss Cressida down to Devon—which you wasn't to know, deary, but is one of the furthest south parts of the country, and where Sir Francis Drake come from!” said Mrs Hetty, beaming at her.

    “Er—yes. Did he? Mayhap I shall not need to go at all, Mrs Pontifex: I am sure it would be best to write first.”

    “Yes, think so, deary. Proper nobs’ sort of address, is it?” she demanded of the Beau.

    “Eh? Oh. Well, see for yourself.”

    Mrs Hetty read out dubiously: “‘Dearborn House, Sandy Bay, near Sidmouth, Devonshire.’ Well, I s’pose if your house is named after you, it cain’t be small.”

    “Aye, but it’s a bit different from Lord S.’s address, ain't it?” said Mr Buxleigh, nodding portentously. “Seems smoky to me, that they sold up your late pa’s pa’s property.”

    Mrs Hetty exchanged glances with Miss Cressida. It had long since become apparent to both of them that Mr Buxleigh had conceived an unreasonable grudge against the unknown Dearborns for having given up the Kentish property. “Now, come on, lovely fine day. Let’s find a coffee house or some such, eh?”

    Mr Buxleigh stared crossly up and down Whitehall.

    “Look, shall we head for the Strand?” suggested Mr Vanburgh on a desperate note. “Then it is not very far to the White Lion, and I did say to Lucky Devine, if he was rehearsing today I might see him—”

    “Vic, we cannot ask Miss Martin to walk I dunnamany miles to demned Drury Lane!” said Mr Buxleigh loudly and angrily.

    “Ssh. It isn’t that far. Dare say we might drop in at a coffee house on the way.”

    “Yes, why not?” agreed Mrs Hetty. “Give Miss Cressida yer arm, Vic: that’s right. Now, come on, Beau.” She took his arm firmly.

    Mr Buxleigh sighed, but allowed himself to be led off. The party proceeded slowly towards the Strand, under a forget-me-not blue May sky.

    … “There, now!” said Mr Vanburgh, quite some time later.

     Having been fortified on the way, once with coffee and once with a drop of rum and a pint of porter, Mr Buxleigh was feeling much more cheerful. “Place is crowded out, don’t these people have no homes to go to? Not to mention, useful employment,” he noted genially. “Very well, then, Vic, find us a quiet table, if you would be so good.”

    The White Lion, at this hour of the day, was not in fact so crowded as all that, and the competent Mr Vanburgh negotiated his party to a quiet table with an excellent view both of the bar and the front door.

    There was no sign of Mr Devine, but Mr Buxleigh ordered drinks happily and, having ascertained that there might well be some pies left over from the midday meal, them as well. They were all hungry after their walk and embarked on them eagerly. After a little Mrs Deane was observed to enter, on the arm of a florid elderly man, and after much vigorous waving her attention was attracted and she came over to them. Introducing the florid person as “Briggsy, and don’t pay him no mind, dears.” Forthwith demanding a guinea of him, which Briggsy was observed to hand over like a lamb. Though it was true he allowed himself the privilege of patting her posterior as he did it. Mrs Deane appeared not to notice the gesture and placed the said posterior on a chair, ordering Briggsy to do likewise.

    “What’ll it be, dears?” she beamed.

    “I wouldn’t half mind a drop of rum, dear, what if they have peppermint, it do cheer it up wonderful,” owned Mrs Hetty.

    Glasses of this strange concoction being speedily procured, Mrs Deane was enabled to explain that they had had a matinée, and Briggsy had come round after and she hadn’t seen him this age. And he was in London on business.

    “May I ask, what is your business, sir?” asked Miss Martin politely, as no-one else seemed interested enough to respond.

    Beaming and winking, Briggsy revealed that he was in buckles, me dear, and had five pretty little granddaughters, what the two eldest were the very spit of her pretty self! Mary and Bessy. And while some maintained the bottom had fallen out of the buckle trade, what with all the ships that was decommissioned and the soldiers gone to their homes or on half-pay at best, and no recruiting neither to speak of, still, for himself he couldn’t complain.

    “I see!” she said in some amaze. “So—so the country’s being at war was very good for commerce, was it, sir?”

    Briggsy winked and nodded, and owned that it had been good for the buckle trade, certainly, me dear. And would you not care for something stronger?

    “Rubbish, Briggsy,” said Mrs Deane. “Said yourself she’s only your granddaughters’ age. And an innocent maid, what is more, and not in the profession,” she noted, fixing him with an eye that was suddenly steely rather than sultry.

    Much abashed, Briggsy removed his hat, bobbed his head, and offered Miss Martin his profound apologies.

    “That’s a good boy,” said Mrs Deane carelessly. “Well, how did it go, me dears? Lord, never tell us you walked all the way from the Horse Guards!”

    “Ssh. Well, why not? Stopped orf on the way. Lovely day,” said Mrs Hetty. “He had the address, all right and tight, but it’s nigh to Land’s End! Well, like about where Sir Francis Drake was used to live, dear.”

    “Eh? Oh, yes: Harold did him, half a dozen years back, was it? He wasn’t the hero; think that was Sir Walter Something? Sid played that part. The fellow what chucked his good cloak over the puddle for the Queen. Harold’s part played bowls, that’s right. Missed the night where ’e lost control of them and they rolled into the orchestra—pity!” She winked.

    “Sir Francis Drake was a Devon man, like myself, Miss!” said Briggsy proudly.

    “There, now, good boy,” said Mrs Deane tolerantly. “’E does come from somewheres peculiar,” she owned, “and the accent would be quayte useful, dears, if one took comic rôles, the which, I personally am thankful to say, one is no longer obliged. What all the good ones is writ for the men,” she noted, directing a very black glare at Mr Vanburgh.

    “Yes, very few decent comic rôles for women. Unless you fancy the Bard’s Merry Wives.”

    “I don’t,” she said succinctly.

    “School for Scandal hash exshellent rôles for the women, Lilian,” objected Mrs Hetty somewhat thickly through the last pie.

    “I wouldn’t say that. –Any more of them? Briggsy, go and find the waiter and ask, there’s a good boy.”

    Briggsy trotted off beaming, and Mrs Deane was just noting: “But one isn’t yet ready for a Mrs Malaprop, dear, and say what you like all them other female parts of Mr Sheridan’s are nothing but ingénues, dressed up,” when Mr Vanburgh cried: “What ho! There he is, by Jove! I say, Peebles!” And, standing up, waved madly.

    And, sure enough, there was the meek clerk with a great bundle of documents under his arm, looking very hesitant.

    “I did just venture to look in,” he said, having come up shyly, exchanged greetings, and been urged to a seat. “On the off-chance, Mr Vanburgh, sir, seeing as how you did mention it was a place where you might be found.”

    “Of course, Mr P.!” cried Mrs Deane, giving him a kindly pat on the shoulder. “Where we might all be found, supposing as we had a piece on in the vicinity! –Cook was right: wiry fellow, ain’t he?” she observed admiringly, palpating the shoulder.

    Mr Peebles choked, and Miss Martin’s face turned puce, and even Mr Buxleigh observed weightily: “Hold on, Lilian; he ain’t used to the profession, you know.”

    “They mean nothing by it, for their persons are the tools of their trade, Mr Peebles,” said Miss Martin hurriedly, still very flushed.

    “Yes, of course, Miss Martin,” he agreed, avoiding her eye.

    “Look here, Peebles, old man, have you had your dinner yet?” demanded Mr Vanburgh cheerily.

    He stuttered and stammered but was eventually forced to reveal that he had not managed to fit it in, because there had been a document for X, and another document for Y—

    “Right,” said Mr Vanburgh, rising and whisking away a plate of small pies which had just been set before Mrs Lilian. “Eat up.”

    “Yes, go on, Mr P.; me and Briggsy have ate, actual,” she owned, patting her chest genteelly after Mrs Hetty’s fashion.

    Eventually he did eat, having been urged thereto by the entire company. As he did so Mrs Hetty and Mr Buxleigh imparted the full details of the visit to the Horse Guards. Mr Buxleigh thereupon, under the influence of a large gin kindly offered by Briggsy, suddenly flowering with a lifelike imitation of General Sir Arthur Murray. At which they all laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks, even Mrs Deane, Briggsy and the meek clerk, who had never met him.

    After that Mr Peebles recollected with horror that he was on his employers’ time, and gathering up his documents, shot out. So fast, indeed, that he forgot his hat, but Miss Martin snatched it up and ran after him, reaching him just as he had stopped on the pavement and was ascertaining that he was without it. “Your hat, Mr Peebles!” she gasped.

    “Thank you very much, Miss Martin,” he said, bowing, and accepting it, but not putting it on.

    “Put it on, you do not want to run the risk of losing it again!” she said gaily.

    Meekly Mr Peebles resumed his hat.

    “Wasn’t it jolly?” she beamed. “I am so glad we bumped into you!”

    “Yes, indeed, Miss Martin. I, too,” he said bowing again. “A most relaxed atmosphere and very pleasant company, if I may be so bold.”

    “Yes, are they not? –Is not Mr Briggsy a strange character?” she hissed, her eyes sparkling.

    “Strange indeed, Miss Martin,” he agreed gravely. “Er, Miss, may I ask, do they bring you ’ere much?”

    “Oh, no, I have only been here once before. We had our dinner here one day: Mr Lefayne and Mr Deane had taken me to see the theatre when it was empty except for a rehearsal.”

    “I see. You wouldn’t be so silly, if h’I may make so bold, h’as to enter such a public hostelry on your ownsome, would you, Miss?”

    “No, indeed!” she said with her warm smile. “Why, a girl on her own would be accosted immediately! But when one is with kind friends, you know, it is quite safe.”

    “Kind friends.  Aye,” he said slowly.

    “You had best hurry off, Mr Peebles, you have a great pile of documents to deliver,” she prompted him kindly.

    “Yes, Miss Martin. Thank you, Miss!” he said jerkily; bowing yet again, and suddenly starting off at a great pace.

    She smiled a little, but sighed a little, too, and went slowly back into the inn.

    “Didn’t slobber over yer ’and, did ’e?” asked Mrs Hetty muzzily as she sat down.

    “No, indeed, ma’am! He is no Antony Ardent!” she said with feeling .

    “Ah. You was a time. Was hoping he did, in a way,” she noted heavily.

    Miss Martin’s cheeks flamed. She made no response.

    “What—Hic! Pardon, I’m sure,” said Mrs Deane, leaning forward with one of her most sultry looks. “What, if he could bring himself to act like a man, he would be quite a man, Miss Cressida. Cook was for certain-sure right about them mus—Hic! Muscles.”

    Miss Cressida’s cheeks were redder than ever, but she managed to reply levelly: “I know what you mean, Mrs Deane, but I must take issue with you. Manners do not make the man, and having the manner of a man should not be the measure of one. I think truly manly behaviour must lie in caring for those around us who are less fortunate or weaker than ourselves. In the which case, Mr Peebles must measure quite high!”

    “Well said. –Offered to pay for Ba’shot’s sausages. Deshent instincts,” murmured Mr Vanburgh somewhat indistinctly. He had injudiciously let himself be persuaded by Briggsy to try a mixture of Briggsy’s own, much favoured down in Devonshire, or such was his claim. Cider well laced with gin.

    “Yes, and did you know he reads to him?” said Miss Martin eagerly.

    “Who reads to whom, Miss Martin?” asked Mr Vanburgh in a very stately way. He picked up an imaginary quizzing glass and eyed her haughtily through it.

    “Mr Peebles very often reads to Mr Bagshot in the evenings, when you are all out at the theatre,” she explained, looking at him uneasily.

    “Ah. A worthy creature.”

    “Yes, but a woman what is a woman,” said Mrs Deane earnestly, “wants a man what is a man, not a moushe. Reading and shaushages and paving-stones or not. Though the paving-stones bit was good, wish I’d of seen it.” She yawned widely and slowly closed her sultry eyes.

    “Mind you, Miss Cressida, deary, there ain’t nothing wrong with hic! Ba’shot’sh eyesh. Parm me. Eyezzz,” said Mrs Hetty solemnly.

    “Mrs Pontifex, he cannot read. Or no more than his name,” she returned, though without any hope that it would register. Oh, dear! They were all drunk! Mr Buxleigh, now she came to look closely at him, though seeming upright and respectable, was actually asleep. How was she to get them home? None of them gave the appearance of being capable of hailing a hackney carriage; in fact most of them gave the appearance of being incapable of getting into one, unassisted!

    The same thought occurred to the meek Mr Peebles as he made his way through the press of persons near the Law Courts. He stopped dead on the pavement, biting his lip. But eventually, although he hesitated for some time, he did not rush back to the White Lion. Perhaps Mrs Deane’s summation of his character was nearer to the mark than Miss Martin’s, after all, and he was more of a mouse than a man, and simply did not have the courage to neglect his documents any longer.

    “So in the end,” said the Major’s daughter to Mr Bagshot with a laugh as the two worked together in the garden, “I simply asked the waiter for help! And he was so good! He ran out and got me a hackney carriage, and then helped me put them all in it—for by that time, Mr Briggsy had become so vague that he did not recall where he was staying! And even ascertained that I had enough money to pay the driver. Which of course I did not.”

    Mr Bagshot looked at her anxiously.

    “It was all right, for although Mr Vanburgh had no money left and Mr Buxleigh refused to give me any of his—I think he thought I was a cut-throat, or possibly a beggar—and Mrs Hetty said that no-one was going to assault her person nor her pocket, and Mr Briggsy was very naughty and said he would only give me a guinea if I permitted him a liberty which I shall not spell out, I remembered that Mrs Deane had put a guinea in her pocket! She could not remember, but was very generous about letting me look, and sure enough, there it was! And a penny, which I was enabled to give to the waiter. So we came home all safe!” Smiling, she dug a little hole and put in a lettuce seedling.

    “Exactly what was this liberty?” demanded a grim voice from the back door.

    She gasped, and hurled the old broken knife which she was using to dig lettuce holes high in the air.

    Mr Peebles came quietly to retrieve it.

    “Thank you,” she said limply. “I didn’t realise you were there, Mr Peebles.”

    Instead of lowering his eyes shyly, as was his wont, Mr Peebles looked straight into her face. “What liberty?”

    “What? Oh; Mr Briggsy? Well, the same liberty which he took earlier with Mrs Deane, sir!” she admitted with a twinkle.

    “I do not think I observed any particular liberty.”

    “But— Oh, no. I think that was before you arrived. Um, well, it was not a liberty which I would ever have permitted him; but it was not very terrible.”

    Mr Peebles continued to look at her grimly.

    “He put his hand on her seat, sir,” she said limply.

    Mr Bagshot made a shocked noise, and shook his head in its faded old striped kerchief.

    “I should never have left you,” said Mr Peebles in a tone of remarkable grimness.

    “Dear sir, as I have just been telling Mr Bagshot, there was no need to worry at all, for the waiter was so very, very kind!”

    Mr Bagshot gave Mr Peebles an anguished look.

    “Bagshot is in the right of it. Totally ineligible for a young lady, and I apologise most sincerely, Miss Martin,” said Mr Peebles in a hard voice.

    “Mr Peebles, you have nothing to apologise for. They were all more or less all right when you left. Well, I think Mr Buxleigh might have been asleep, but he certainly did not appear so.”

    “That is no excuse. I was at fault. I ask your pardon, Miss Martin.” He bowed very stiffly and went indoors again.

    She looked limply at Mr Bagshot. He nodded encouragingly at her. “Wuh-well, I do not think it is such a great matter,” she said feebly.

    Mr Bagshot shook his head, and grunted.

    She swallowed. “What did he come out here for?” she said lamely.

    Mr Bagshot just shook his head, very, very slowly.

    It was not Mr Lefayne’s habit to breakfast downstairs, and certainly not on a Sunday—unless perchance there should be a sweet young maiden, whether or not in charge of a sausage dog, in Mr Buxleigh’s dining-room. But on this particular Sunday he was down very early, for him. And finding none but the law clerk sitting in the dining-room, greeted him politely, sat down, and called for Bessy in the usual manner.

    “There is fried potato this morning, sir,” said the clerk shyly. “What I think as they might be cold and then she fries them up again.”

    “Oh, aye?” Mr Lefayne yawned widely. “Like bubble and squeak, without the squeak? Or is it without the bubble?”

    Mr Peebles just looked bewildered.

    Smiling a little, Mr Lefayne murmured: “Hear you bawled Vic out good an’ proper.”

    There was a short silence.

    “I would not go that far, sir.”

    “Well, he’s been going about very shamefaced. So it must have hit home, whatever it was.”

    Mr Peebles took a deep breath. “I took it upon myself to mention the ineligibility of a set of older persons, gentlemen in especial, what sets out to take care of a young lady, getting drunk and h’incapable in a public ’ouse, and leaving it to her to get them all home again!”

    “Oh, quite ineligible, aye. Thing was, they were relaxing after the performance.”

    “So I gathered.”

    Mr Lefayne eyed him in some amusement and murmured: “‘Drunk and incapable’, hey? Vic wouldn’t have liked that.”

    Mr Peebles ate potato. “Don’t think he did: no.”

    The actor’s long, mobile mouth twitched. He gave him a curious look and said lightly: “Well done. –What part of the country are you from, Peebles?”

    “Me, sir? My mother’s people, they come from down in Derbyshire, sir.”

    “Oh, yes?” Mr Lefayne hesitated, for in his walk of life he had come across not a few persons who did not lay claim to a father. “What about your father?”

    “Original, sir, he come from a village near a place called Swanage. On the coast. I can’t hardly remember it, but I sort of remember my grandfather. Big red-cheeked fellow, he were. Growed apples, I remember them!” said Mr Peebles with sudden relish.

    “I see. And did you grow up there?”

    “No, we come up to London when I was a nipper. My father was a draper’s assistant, sir. A very respectable man, if I may say so. But having grown up by the sea he felt it was his patriotic duty, sir. So ’e went,” he said glumly.

    “Er—went? –Coffee, Bessy, and some of that potato if there’s any going. And if Cook hasn’t given Bagshot my red herrings, tell her I’ll have them—with butter, mind. –Went, Peebles?” he repeated as Bessy sniffed, noted scornfully “Don’t she always put ’em to the fire wiv butter?” and bustled out again.

    “Joined up, sir. And fell at Trafalgar alongside of Lord Nelson, God bless ’im,” said the clerk solemnly.

    “Er—I’m very sorry to hear it,” said Mr Lefayne, somewhat take aback at the vivid picture this presented of a meek, blue-uniformed figure with Peebles-like features standing next the Admiral on the very poop-deck of H.M.S. Victory.

    “Thank you, Mr Lefayne. –My mother never forgive ’im,” he revealed abruptly.

    “Uh—good God. Er—well, I’m afraid that is a very natural reaction, old man,” said Sid kindly.

    “Yes,” he said glumly, eating potato.

    After this, Sid Bottomley could have not said quite why, he insisted that Mr Peebles share his smoked fish.

    “Sir,” said the meek clerk as they ate, “could you not ’elp?”

    “Help to do what?” he murmured.

    “’Elp to keep an eye on ’er, sir!” said Mr Peebles on an anguished note.

    “Ah. Miss Martin, is this? Yes. Well, now, I rather think that she is more than capable of looking after herself. She may be young and innocent—well, she is certainly young and innocent,” he conceded with a smile, “but she has considerable good sense, you know.”

    “That will not help in all situations. Like where she should be protected by a gentleman,” he said grimly.

    Sid Bottomley sat back at his ease, one arm draped along the back of his chair, and sipped coffee slowly. “Very true. –Please, help yourself to coffee, Mr Peebles.”

    “Gratified, I’m sure, sir,” said the clerk, pouring himself a minute portion.

    Sid waited until he was sipping it and then drawled: “Look after her yourself.”

    To his considerable gratification the meek Mr Peebles went very red and said angrily: “I cannot, I am tied up all day!”

    “Mm. Well, I am free for large parts of the day, nominally. But—er—one has a life, y’know!” he said with a smothered laugh.

    Not aware that the actor’s black-fringed, very beautiful long grey eyes were very watchful indeed, Mr Peebles snapped back: “So we’ve gathered!”

    “Mm.” The actor sipped coffee thoughtfully. Then he said lightly: “She's a lady, you know.”

    “Exactly,” said Mr Peebles grimly. “And should be protected.”

    “Oh, quite. But you see, I feel it is not my place to—er—protect her,” he murmured. “And possibly you should be wondering—only for your own comfort, old fellow—you should be wondering whether it is yours.”

    Mr Peebles had gone very red again and his fists had clenched. “I see that,” he said hoarsely. “It was a mistake.”

    “Er—well, I would not say that,” said Mr Lefayne, rather taken aback. “One cannot help a—er—partiality. I just wished to indicate that when one finds oneself hankering after the moon, a prudent man takes the course of—er—avoiding the moon as much as possible.”

    Silence fell. Mr Lefayne finished his cup of coffee and tranquilly refilled it. Mr Peebles fiddled with his knife and fork, his mouth very tight.

    “Is it too late?” said the clerk hoarsely at last.

    Sid Bottomley set his cup down slowly. “What, for me? Me and that particular moon?”

    Mr Peebles nodded his head jerkily.

    “My very dear—” The actor broke off. “Sorry, Peebles. Didn’t mean to take that tone; we were speaking man-to-man, after all. Well, it is much too late for me,” he said briskly. “In the first place, the life I lead—and have led—would not do for a young lady. I would never presume to ask her to share it. And in the second place, I’m more than twice her age.”

    Mr Peebles stared at his plate.

    Sid bit his lip, but added: “And besides, I was never from her class. My brother’s done very well for himself, and his daughter’s about to marry a nob, but that’s only because Joe’s fortune has sweetened the pill for the nob’s relations.”

    “Yes. Miss Martin ain’t got a fortune.”

    “No, she’s poor as a church mouse. That has nothing to do with the case, I’m afraid, old man,” he said kindly.

    “No; I see what you mean.”

    “My father was a shopkeeper, too,” murmured Sid.

    “Yes. And you and I must be more or less the same age,” he said bleakly.

    The actor blinked slightly. “Er—well, yes, but that is the least of it.”

    “Yes. Thank you for speaking so frank. I takes your point. And would not presume to lift my eyes. Only, the thing is, there is no-one to take care of her, if Mr Buxleigh cannot be relied upon!”

    “Well, Beau does his best. Let’s hope these damned relations of hers turn up trumps, eh?”

    “Yes,” he said grimly.

    Sid got up. “You’re a damned good man, Peebles.”

    Mr Peebles smiled wanly. “H’if I may be permitted the liberty, you are not so bad yourself.”

    The actor patted his shoulder lightly, and went out, smiling wryly. He was aware he was not all bad. But he was also aware that he could fairly have been described as not fit to touch the hem of an innocent young lady’s garment.

    Mr Peebles sat on alone in the dining-room, a horrible scowl on his normally meek face.

    In the period following this conversation, Mr Lefayne, though his manner was unchanged, did not spend any more nights away from the house and appeared with astonishing regularity for dinner and even breakfast. And even sometimes managed to accompany Miss Martin and Fred in the mornings when they walked Troilus and visited the butcher and baker on behalf of Mrs Harmon. Mr Peebles, always an early riser, began to take longer over his breakfasts, so much so that Mrs Harmon and Bessy both expressed fears that he was making himself late for his office, and Miss Martin was driven to speak kindly to him on the subject. Mr Bagshot, though not uttering, would present himself regularly for duty, brushed, washed and spruced up to the best of his ability, whenever there was a proposal that Miss Martin should exit from the house accompanied by such as Mrs Hetty, Mrs Deane, Mr Vanburgh or Mr Buxleigh. Singly or collectively. His services were not always accepted, for, as the Beau noted, if they was intending to stroll in the Park, his appearance would not lend an air of fashion. And then, the limp, there was no denying it, must slow them down. Had the kind-hearted Miss Martin had her way, he would have been their inseparable companion; but Mr Buxleigh informed her firmly that there was a limit.

    Strangely, however, all these precautions did not seem to be needed. For Mr Vanburgh appeared to have given up strong liquors altogether. And Mrs Deane, presenting Miss Martin with a little netted purse, announced that the gin was ruination to the face and figure both, and she was off it for life. It would be porter for her, in the future. And Miss Martin was to kindly overlook. Mrs Hetty did not offer a purse, but instead, her most sincere apologies. She had forgot herself, in the relief of the performance having gone off so well. And it would not happen again. And—tearfully—them as she said was getting past it, was right. At which Miss Martin hugged her very warmly and told her she was not at all past it, and had been a wonderful Mrs Porteous, and she must absolutely not mention the topic again. Her syntax might not have made it clear which topic she meant but Mrs Hetty understood, and gave her a smacking kiss. Even the Beau made a stately apology, and admitted that it had been the strain of sustaining the part. What he would not take it upon himself to do, in future, without Sid’s support. But only wait—brightening—until Mr Hartington got back! Acos he could do you your Porteous or your Russian major-domo to the life! And laugh it orf after! Miss Martin did not understand the Russian reference but she did understand that this was an apology, and shyly kissed the Beau’s large red cheek. The which went down very well indeed.

    Of course it was apparent to Miss Martin that they were all ashamed of their behaviour at the White Lion. But on thinking it over, she was not absolutely sure that of their own accord they would have tried to—to mend their behaviour. Well, apologise, perhaps: yes. But even Mr Deane, who had not been there, had given up brandy! Eventually she decided to consult with Mrs Harmon.

    The cook looked at her drily. “What do I think, Miss? Well, I don’t ’ave to think, ’cos I ’eard ’im. Waited up for them as ’ad performances: you was in bed, dear. Then ’e tore a strip orf ’em like what you never ’eard.”

    “Yus!” agreed Bessy with a hoarse laugh, shaking violently all over.

    “’Old yer noise,” ordered Cook automatically. “Mr Vic, Mrs ’Etty, and Mrs Deane,” she said, counting on her fingers. “Mr Deane was there, too, didn’t seem to stop ’im. And ’ad already spoke to Mr B., serve ’im damn’ well right. –Soon as you was gorn up to bed, dear. Well, first I tells ’im what’s what, meself: drunken old fool,” she noted grimly. “Not fit to be h’in charge of Bagshot’s wooden leg, let alone a young lady, and I telled ’im, straight!”

    “Yus!” confirmed Bessy with another hoarse laugh, this time nodding violently rather than shaking.

    “Oh, my goodness, did you, Mrs Harmon? Thank you so much!”

    “Huh!” snorted the cook. “It were my absolute pleasure, Miss!” She gave her a meaning look. “Then Mr Peebles spoke to the lot of them. Well, Mrs ’Etty, ’e didn’t ’ave much of a go at ’er. Proper little gent, ain’t ’e? Beink as what she’s an older woman, you see. And ’e was more polite to that Mrs Lilian than what I would of been, I can tell yer! And yer couldn’t say as ’e was rude, not to say rude, to them others. H’icy, is the h’only word, Miss Cressida.”

    “Yus! H’icy!” echoed Bessy excitedly.

    For once the cook did not reprove her for opening her mouth. “That’s right,” she said tolerantly.

    “I see,” said Miss Martin faintly. “They—they have certainly taken it to heart.”

    “Good. –’E’s in the garden as we speaks,” she noted airily.

    “Oh.” She licked her lips. “Perhaps I should go and—and thank him?”

    “Up to you,” said Cook neutrally, inspecting her soup pot. “Did you put them ’erbs IN?” she demanded terribly.

    Bessy nodded hard.

    “You’re a fool, Bessy ’Inks,” she boomed. “Green ’erbs in a soup? They was for a GARNISHER!”

    Miss Martin slid quietly out of the kitchen as the storm broke over Bessy Hinks’s head.

    … “Did she?” said Cook mildly, some ten minutes later, as Bessy returned from a prolonged errand very close to the back door.

    Bessy shook her head hard. “Nah. Lorst ’er nerve, I reckon!” she explained proudly.

    “Ah.” Mrs Harmon looked drily out of the window, to a view of Miss Martin’s flourishing lettuce seedlings, and Mr Peebles, in the gathering dusk, throwing a small stick for Troilus. “That’d be right. Stage fright, as they calls it in the profession.”

    Bessy looked at her respectfully. “Yus.”

    Cook swallowed a sigh. “Aye. Well, maybe it’s just as well,” she conceded heavily.

    “Mr P. ain’t that old!”

    “’Old yer noise,” she said tiredly. “She’s a lady born, and ’e might be a decent man but ’e ain’t a gent. Got it?”

    Bessy subsided glumly. She’d got it, all right.

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/enter-several-more-ladies-gentlemen.html