The Cast Assembled

2

The Cast Assembled

    “Mr Daniel Deane,” introduced Mr Buxleigh.

    Mr Deane bowed low over Miss Martin’s hand. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

    She responded somewhat limply—the accent was execrable, and Mr Deane himself presented an extraordinary appearance, the chin being very blue, and the head being tied up in a striped silk kerchief: “Bonjour, monsieur.”

    “Lord, deary, don’t speak French to ’im! He don’t know but half a dozen words and those, you may be very sure, he picked up from someone else’s part what he was only the feed for!” cried Mrs Margery Mayhew shrilly.

    Mrs Lilian Deane gave a husky laugh and agreed: “That is for certain sure! –Say good-day nicely like a Christian, Daniel!” –Mrs Hetty had earlier explained that they were married, yes, but in name only, the pair long since having come to an agreement that their ways lay along different paths. Mr Deane in consequent had the ground-floor back, not as commodious as it might sound, for there wasn’t much left what with Mr Buxleigh’s rooms and the necessity for one ground-floor room being set aside for one, Mr Bagshot. And Mrs Lilian had one of the third-floor backs what she shared with Mrs Margery Mayhew: they were sisters, dear, you see.

    Miss Martin had now met the sisters and had discovered that where Mrs Margery Mayhew veered between the shrill and the over-refined, Mrs Lilian Deane could only have been described as sultry. In appearance as well as voice: her luxuriant hair was very black and so were her brows and lashes, and her customary expression was a pronounced pout, incorporating the lowering of the eyelids to a quite remarkable extent. Mrs Margery had a mass of unruly light brown curls, worn very much up but with rather a lot tumbling about the neck also, and in the house she wore a small cap adorned with crocheted lace of the most frilled kind, a pink ribbon, and an artificial rose. This last somewhat crushed and verging on the frowsty; but given that the combined age of the sisters must be four score, Major Martin’s daughter had silently commended her for the effort.

    At first glance they did not appear in the least alike, but if you looked closely at their features—not altogether easy, what with the clouds of ringlets and the artful painting—you perceived that they were very similar indeed: round faces and short, undistinguished noses, with bowed Cupid’s mouths. Mrs Lilian’s pout of course disguised the latter, as did the large beauty spot which she wore at the right of the upper lip. Miss Martin at first thought it must be a mole, for ladies had not worn beauty spots in her lifetime; but as it moved slightly from one day to the next, she was to decide it could not be. They both had very pale blue eyes, the which must have rendered the blackness of Mrs Deane’s sultry locks and lashes somewhat suspect, if her age had not already performed that service.

    Mr Deane did not appear put out by being publicly reproved by both his sister-in-law and his estranged wife; he said impressively: “Miss Martin, I stand before you a disappointed man.”

    “Here, Daniel, pour this down the throat of a disappointed man, and cease disconcerting poor Miss Martin,” said Mr Lefayne briskly, handing him a brimming glass.

    “The thing is, dear, he brings his parts home and always did,” explained the husky-voiced Mrs Lilian.

    “Oh,” said Miss Martin uncertainly.

    Mr Deane bowed again, sighing deeply. “A younger brother who was continually overlooked, Miss Martin, in spite of his solid virtues, in favour of the older and entirely prodigal son. –Le fils prodigue,” he sighed.

    “Well done, Daniel, that sounded almost French!” said Mr Lefayne with a laugh, patting him on the shoulder. “Now just go and sit quietly over there and drink it!”

    “Mon frère, you are not kind,” he said sadly, shaking his head.

    “Oh!” cried Miss Martin, her eyes sparkling. “I see! You are Mr Lefayne’s brother in the play, is that it, sir?”

    “I have that dubious honour, Miss Martin,” he said sadly.

    “Quite a large part, and the pay is not half bad, that management’s quite generous,” said Mrs Hetty briskly. “We was in weekly repertory together once, my dear, what we actors call the rep, you know, and what with the changes in the mood, one hardly knew whether one was coming or going!”

    “A provincial theatre, Miss Martin. Not Drury Lane,” said Mr Deane sadly.

    “Er—yes, I see.”

    “Overlooked,” said Mr Deane sadly, drifting off.

    She gulped and tried to smile.

    “Ignore ’im, my dear. Played an executioner, once: now, that was a time of trial if you like,” said Mr Buxleigh. “Yes, yes, all right!” he added testily to a fair-haired young man who was plucking at his sleeve. “Miss Martin, may I present Mr Antony Ardent? –Miss Martin, and don’t you dare to slobber on her hand,” he added severely. “He chose it for himself, Miss Martin,” he said as the red-faced Mr Ardent, who could scarcely be older than the Major’s daughter herself, bowed over her hand: “against all advice.”

    “How do you do, Mr Ardent?” she said feebly. “I—I think it is a lovely name.”

    “Your most devoted servant, gracious lady,” replied Mr Ardent fervently—nay, ardently.

    “Lord! ’E won’t never learn!” said Mr Buxleigh impatiently, giving him a push. “Get orf her, Tony, for the Lord’s sake! Harmless, harmless, Miss Martin, but not all that easy to take,” he said heavily as the blushing Mr Ardent retreated and allowed Mr Lefayne, now looking extremely dry, to hand him a glass of refreshment.

    “Er—no.”

    “He’s in it. Non-speaking,” explained the landlord.

    “I am not!” cried Mr Ardent crossly.

    “Two lines, Miss Martin: ‘Monsieur, the carriage awaits,’ and ‘Madame, the carriage awaits’,” explained Mr Lefayne, straight-faced. “Speaks ’em quite nicely, considering.”

    She swallowed, but smiled gamely. “I am sure.”

    Mr Buxleigh then observed testily that the rest of them was late, and they would not wait dinner for them, for they had been warned, but at that moment the door opened to admit a bunch of them, and more introductions were hastily performed, while Bessy was summoned by Mr Lefayne in the usual manner and told to bring it up before they all starved.

    “Mr Pommeroy.” A tiny, thin figure bowed deeply. He was entirely elegant in a suit of black clothes, enlivened by a glowing violet taffety waistcoat, the which assorted somewhat oddly with his amazing mop of coppery curls—very much the colour and style of the Martin children’s Petite Maman’s curls, indeed. His thin little face was lined, so he was clearly not a young person; as he smiled at her she saw that he was very lightly painted. And registered that he was very much scented—quite deliciously so, indeed.

    “Mr Pommeroy is not in the profession, but a neighbour, and, dare I say it, close friend,” pronounced Mr Buxleigh. “An unrivalled touch with a lady’s hair, and once dressed the coiffure of the great Mrs Siddons herself!”

    She duly expressed great pleasure at meeting Mr Pommeroy; though in truth, he directed such a hard and critical gaze at her head that pleasure could not have been said to be her dominant emotion.

    “Mr Victor Vanburgh.” Mr Victor Vanburgh’s real name, as Mrs Hetty had already revealed, was Vic Green, his father having been a tailor in a respectable way out at Windsor, but he had changed it to Vanburgh as being more artistic. Unrivalled in the great comic rôles; why, he had played everything from your Jacques to your Bourgeois Gentleman and back! And Mr Kean himself had asked for him to play the Fool! –A prior engagement unfortunately necessitating his having to disappoint. The Major’s daughter was thus expecting something of very humorous appearance indeed, or at the least comically ugly, perhaps gnome-like, and was disconcerted to find Mr Victor Vanburgh a thin, pale, sad-looking man of medium height, in a snuff-coloured suit: somehow he gave the impression, for his skin was somewhat sallow and his hair inclined to the dull side of brown, of being snuff-coloured all over. He greeted her most politely and said he hoped she would be happy in their house. And to pray allow him to present his young connection, Mr Reginald Grantleigh.

    Mr Grantleigh was a very fine young man indeed, most unlike Mr Vanburgh in appearance, being tall and upstanding with an impressive pair of shoulders, a splendid embroidered waistcoat, a choking neckcloth and a head of glowing, burnished brown curls. He looked down his fine straight nose at the shabby Miss Martin, infinitesimally adjusted a curl above his right eyebrow, and drawled: “Chawmed, Ay’m shah.”

    “Had he but the diction for it, he would take my part in an instant,” explained Roland Lefayne, coming up with two glasses, “but as it is, he supports Tony’s efforts. His two lines are ‘Your cloak, monsieur,’ and ‘Your cloak, madame.’”

    “Oh, fray’flay wittay, sah,” retorted Mr Grantleigh. “’Low me to present may friend, Da’d Darl’urst, ma’am.”

    “Mr David Darlinghurst,” said Mr Lefayne clearly as a pleasant-looking young man with brown curls almost as wonderful as Mr Grantleigh’s smiled shyly and bowed. “The lads share one of the attic rooms, so you should not be bothered by them, but any time the mist, or rather miasma, of Reggie’s pomade should show signs of filtering down the stairs and throttling you, ma’am, pray fling your window wide and scream for help; any one of us will come.”

    “Ay say, fray’flay unfay-ar, sah!” spluttered Mr Grantleigh, as Mr Darlinghurst collapsed in giggles, gasping: “Yes! He has you there, Reggie!”

    Miss Martin had gone rather pink, trying not to laugh, and was wondering what to say next, but fortunately, Mr Antony Ardent then coming up with a brimming glass for her, she was spared the necessity of saying anything by Mr Lefayne’s articulating clearly: “No. This is not an actress. Young ladies do not drink beakers of strong liquor. Neither in the afternoon nor at any other time. Got it?”

    “Noddy,” agreed Mr Buxleigh, turning from a consultation with Mr Vanburgh and Mr Deane and removing the glass gracefully from the crestfallen Mr Ardent’s hand in one easy movement. “Aah!” he reported, draining it. “Now, is we all here, at last?”

    “We are now,” admitted Mr Lefayne as the door opened again, to admit a panting Bessy with the announcement: “’Ere they is, and ’e were asleep under the stairs, and it ain’t my blame!”

    And a laughing soprano voice said: “Indeed, here we are, my darlings, and it cannot be possibly Bessy’s blame, and we have washed and brushed him till he is nigh perfect, have we not, Baggy, my love?” And in came the most enchantingly pretty lady that the Major’s daughter had ever laid eyes on. Great wide blue eyes and a bow of a mouth, set in a heart-shaped face, and a froth of very blonde curls under the bonnet. “Dearest Beau, one’s abject apologies; are you waiting dinner on tiny me?” she trilled, holding out both hands to him.

    Mr Buxleigh bowed with a grace quite astounding in one of his bulk but admitted: “No, we ain’t, we’ve told Bessy to dish up.”

    The lady merely laughed and patted his cheek, trilling: “Traitor! And one had thought you were my ever devoted. –Roland, darling!” she cried, holding out her hand to him with the most artless grace imaginable. Miss Martin’s eyes quite frankly bolted from her head, though at the same time she was conscious of a sort of sinking feeling as the conviction that this must be, if not positively Mrs Lefayne, then a very close friend indeed, possessed her mind.

    Roland Lefayne, however, did not appear impressed: he bowed over the hand, but not as if he cared, one way or the other, and said: “It’s not plovers’ eggs or roast pheasant, Clarissa, I warn you.”

    “Silly boy!” she cried, laughing very much, and divesting herself of an amazingly fluffy fur muff. –The day had not been especially warm, but as they were now well into April, Major Martin’s daughter could not help feeling that possibly the muff had not been needed. Though if she herself had been the possessor of such a fur, she would have found it very hard to have to leave it at home, true.

    The lady now stood revealed as petite in stature but definitely—well, mature, was probably the best word to describe her figure. The high-waisted pelisse, very much emphasising the bust, was of a dark pink shade, the stuff being used to great effect in the intricate decoration at the hem, where a band of narrow strips criss-crossed one another in a lattice-like effect. The long sleeves were puffed above, then tightly vertical below. It was very much the sort of style that the Martins’ Petite Maman had been wont to wear, and so also was the bonnet, a delicious creation of fawn silk heavily adorned with bows and pink feathers. The lady untied this bonnet and tossed it at a chair with a careless gesture, crying as she did so: “But Roland, darling! Introduce tiny me to your pretty new lodger!”

    “Certainly. Miss Martin, allow me to present Mrs Clarissa Campion. Cressida Martin, Clarissa, and try not to tease, she ain’t used to actresses,” he said on a dry note.

    “Tease! Tiny me?” she protested, laughing. “—My dear Miss Martin, I am delighted, and pray allow me to say it, that face has potential!”

    “Thank you. How do you do, Mrs Campion?” she said shyly, with a bob.

    “My dear child, that will never do, has no-one ever taught you to curtsey?” Without waiting for an answer, she performed the most graceful one imaginable.

    “Yes, wholly admirable, had Miss Martin been the Duchess of Whosis,” allowed Mr Lefayne.

    “Pooh! –Ignore him utterly, Miss Martin, my dear,” she said in a confidential tone, patting her arm. “Men have no notion really, even the best of them. Though I am not claiming,” she said, rolling her eyes at him, “that Roland be that!”

    “Where’s Bagshot?” he replied unemotionally.

    Mrs Campion uttered a little scream. “Baggy, darling, you must come in instantly, this new little girl is the most harmless creature you ever laid eyes on!” She rushed over to the door and positively dragged in a very odd figure indeed. It was tall and gaunt, and of indefinable age: the nose very broken, the cheeks unshaven but nonetheless adorned with a dusting of powder and an application of rouge. The head sported an old-fashioned tie-wig of the most obvious sort: very stiffly curled and a pale fawn in shade. The figure’s shoulders were shrouded in a grey shawl, under which it seemed to be wearing a neat if shabby suit of dark clothes; but the most amazing thing about it was that it had a peg-leg! Was the man perhaps a retired sailor or soldier who had suffered in one of the battles of the late conflict? He limped forward and, with a hand that noticeably shook, raised a quizzing glass to his right eye.

    “He don’t speak,” said Mr Lefayne briefly. “Bagshot,” he said more loudly, “this is Miss Martin; she is quite harmless and will not pester you.”

    “Good afternoon, Mr Bagshot,” she said shakily, curtseying.

    “That’s it, good girl,” said Mr Lefayne cheerfully, as Mr Bagshot made a creaky bow.

    “Good boy, Baggy!” cried Mrs Campion, patting his arm. Mr Bagshot’s face twitched and he blinked, but stood his ground.

    Mrs Hetty bustled forward. “He lives in the back room, dear, and doesn’t have no truck with females. –Puts up with her,” she added, directing a glance of disfavour at Mrs Campion, “because she’s his niece; never think it to look at them, eh?”

    “Yes, and one is so grateful to dearest Beau for looking after him!” she trilled.

    “Lives in the nicest set of apartments you could possibly imagine, herself: two bedrooms, lovely little sitting-room, all found, not to mention that creature that maids her. Very choice situation, found, to say no more, on her behalf by a gentleman friend,” explained Mrs Hetty. “But there ain’t no room for ’im, there.”

    “Tiny me is on the third floor, it would be quite ineligible with poor darling Baggy’s L,E,G,” explained Mrs Campion composedly.

    No-one else replied to this, so Miss Martin stuttered: “Yuh-yes, of course, Mrs Campion.”

    “Nice work, if you can get it,” said the sultry Mrs Lilian Deane sepulchrally.

    Opening her huge blue eyes very wide at Mrs Deane, Mrs Campion trilled: “Darling Lilian! But one is told that, in the by-and-by, you did have it, dear!”

    “Give Mrs Campion a glass, Tony, before they comes to blows!” ordered Mr Buxleigh loudly.

    No-one objecting that strong liquor was not fit for Mrs Campion, the blushing Mr Ardent obliged, and the company then went in to dinner. And after a short fight between Mr Ardent and Mr Grantleigh for the place at Mrs Campion’s left hand had been settled by Mr Buxleigh’s grasping Mr Ardent by the elaborate neckcloth and shouting at Mr Grantleigh: “Get orf! She'd eat two like you with ’er morning chocolate and never notice it, yer noddy!” and taking the place himself, they all sat down to it.

    Mrs Hetty had kindly taken Miss Martin by the hand and sat her down next to herself. And at her other hand sat a timid little person whom Mrs Hetty had earlier introduced as: “Mrs Wittering. She sews a treat, and has dressed ’em all, up to Mrs Siddons herself, in her day! –One of the attics, dear.” Mrs Wittering was rather wrinkled and very faded, and dressed all in sober black. And had not so far spoken above a whisper. The robust Mrs Hetty had privily divulged that she was a maiden lady, the “Mrs” being a courtesy title only. “Like a cook, dear.” Very puzzled, Miss Martin had ventured: “So is there no Mr Harmon, then?” but had been speedily put right on that one. Mr Harmon had been a bad lot and had ended his days in the Fleet, though deserving of Newgate, as Cook herself freely admitted.

    Very much to Miss Martin’s surprise Mr Lefayne did not take the seat at Mrs Campion’s other hand: that was occupied by the portly third-floor front: a Mr Runcorn. Mrs Hetty had explained that he was a heavy, the which did not very much enlighten her. Mr Runcorn’s waistcoat was even more wonderful than Mr Grantleigh’s and his curls were even more splendid, being of a particularly bright gold. He had spoken kindly but loftily to Miss Martin, very clearly not being interested in her. His manner to Mrs Campion was much more eager: indeed, both eager and fawning. The gay Clarissa seemed to take this quite as her due, largely ignoring him but from time to time dropping him a little crumb of a smile or a touch on the arm.

    Miss Martin had been allowed to help Mrs Harmon and Bessy with the dinner, so she knew that the first course would consist of a thick broth, largely composed of beef bones and barley, a large rabbit stew, the which Mrs Harmon had owned she could call ragoût de lapin if she liked, but rabbit stew were what it were, a selection of what the cook had called “spring greens”, and which the newcomer had been unable to identify, a gigantic bowl of whipped potatoes, and a pair of roast chickens. These last were to be put in front of Mr Lefayne and not to let that Runcorn nor Mr B. nowheres near ’em. Miss Martin bit her lip a little as Bessy was observed obediently to put the platter of chicken before Mr Lefayne. Mrs Harmon’s prediction that “that woman” would ask for white meat only was immediately fulfilled: she had not specified who “that woman” was, but sure enough, Mrs Campion trilled: “White meat only for tiny me, dearest Roland!”

    “We know,” said Mr Lefayne calmly, carving. “Pray pass up your plate, Mrs Wittering.” Mrs Wittering, blushing fierily all over her faded, wrinkled little face, did so, and Mr Lefayne, his features unmoved, placed some choice pieces of white meat on it. The plate was passed back to Mrs Wittering, now blushing more than ever, and Mr Lefayne said politely: “May I have your plate, Clarissa?” Miss Martin bit her lip again and stared fixedly at hers as the actress, appearing as unmoved as Mr Lefayne himself, passed her plate.

    Even to one who was not particularly shy by nature, being seated in the midst of such a large, chattering crowd might naturally be supposed to be something of an ordeal: Major Martin’s daughter at first did not look up very much. Gradually, however, as it dawned that the actors were very much more interested in the meal than they were in her humble self, she began to look about her. Only slightly disconcerted by Mrs Hetty’s patting her arm, and encouraging her with: “That’s right, dear! They ain’t ’ere to eat you, you know!” The feast was disappearing at an amazing rate, most especially in the direction of the splendid Mr Grantleigh, the elegant Mr Darlinghurst, and the pretty Mr Ardent, all three of whom were eating like starving wolves. Two huge platters of bread had been brought in, one for each end of the long table, and the one nearest to the young actors was nigh emptied already. The which did not prevent their also absorbing amazing amounts of the whipped potatoes with their stew.

    “What it is, you see,” said Mrs Hetty helpfully: “lads of their age needs filling. Only in the profession, you don’t always get the chance of a decent dinner, so every so often, Sid makes Beau invite ’em.”

    “I see!” she said eagerly, smiling.

    “Well, a pound or two of spuds and another rabbit to the stew don’t mean nothing to Sid, and he were young once, himself. He ain’t all bad,” elaborated the actress, helping herself to more stew. “Have some more, me dear?”

    There was positive gallons of the stew, as also of the soup, but she had more than sufficient, so she refused politely, and watched in some amaze as Mrs Hetty, calling loudly to Mr Lefayne not to waste none of that on them lads, then demanded a leg of the chicken. The which being speedily added to her plate, she then fell on like—well, like a starving wolf!

    In between the eating the conversation was all of personalities and it gradually dawned on Miss Martin that the world of the theatre must be a very closed one, for the actors all seemed to know all of the names, and no-one introduced any other topics at all. Nor did they talk about their art, as such, except adversely to criticise so-and-so’s performance. After quite some time, as the references flew thick and fast, she thought she had worked it out, and said in a low voice to Mrs Hetty: “So, are they all in Mr Lefayne’s play, then?”

    “Not quite, dear. Mrs Deane, she’s in another piece, a real good part, think I mentioned it before. And Mrs Mayhew’s resting, only she don't need the work just at the moment, acos she worked all winter. Not that one would refuse a part, if offered. Speaking, out of course. –Oy! Them as don’t pay their slate, don’t get to eat all the BUTTER!” she cried, pitching her voice to the back of the house. Mr Deane glared, but his hand retreated from the butter. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, Daniel’s in it, of course.” She eyed him hard, but he did not venture on the butter again, and her face relaxed. “Them three boys is in it. David, he’s the junior lead, he’s starting to develop into quite a decent juvenile, only ’e won’t go far: nothing atween the ears to support it, dear. That’s where Sid has the advantage: bright with it, you see. Mr Runcorn, he plays the father—well, dare say there ain’t only a few years atween him and Sid, but in the theatre it’s what you can do, that counts.”—Miss Martin looked uncertainly at Mr Lefayne, blushed a little, and murmured: “Yes.”—“There ain’t no comic part, so Vic, he’s not in it: with Mr Brentwood at the moment. Mr Quipp, he normally takes the comic parts for Brentwood’s, only this new piece, it’s got two. A good piece, in its way, not what you’d expect from that management. Now, The Bride and The Bear, that’s more in Percy Brentwood’s line: it were a great hit last year, dear, even with the boxes, as well as the pit and the gods.”

    “The gods? Oh, why yes, le paradis!” she said, smiling and nodding. “So is Mr Vanburgh’s present piece not doing very well, ma’am?”

    “Well enough,” she allowed grudgingly, “but they ain’t sold out for the season, nor nothing like it. –Pass me them potatoes, thank you, Beau, give some of the rest of us a chanct, do!” Unasked, she put a massive amount of whipped potato on Miss Martin’s plate before serving herself even more liberally. “Cook don’t half do a magical whipped potato,” she explained.

    “Yes, indeed, I have never tasted them done like this! Has she added chopped shallot, do you think?”

    Shaking her head, Mrs Hetty replied thickly: “Dunno. Norra cook. –Never had the time to learn, let alone the opportunity, dear,” she explained, swallowing.

    Miss Martin nodded obediently, and watched somewhat limply as Mrs Hetty, unasked, then put a huge helping on the plate of the quiet little Mr Pommeroy, at her farther side. “Mr Pommeroy don’t act, out of courshe,” she noted, returning to the potato. “He’sh got his own profession.”

    Mr Pommeroy was peering round Mrs Hetty, at, or Miss Martin was very much mistaken, her own head. “No, I see,” she murmured.

    The plump actress swallowed potato. “She’s in it. Female lead,” she added, directing a vicious look at the laughing Mrs Campion. “Only reason she come. –Well, that and she wants to keep Beau sweet, on account of Mr Bagshot.”

    “Yes, I see,” she said uncertainly.

    “He has his little pension, you see, acos when ’e run over the leg, ’is late master were generous enough to admit it was all his fault,” said Mrs Hetty, eating stew with an air of complete unconcern.

    “Yuh—yes! So he is not a former soldier, then?” she gasped.

    “Bless you, no, never left his native shores. He were a footman to a grand lord, for he had the looks and the figure to work in the great houses; and up behind, you see, when the master overturned the carriage, springing ’is ’orses on a bad road.”

    She shuddered and nodded.

    “Some would ’ave forgot all about ’im, onct ’e couldn’t work no more, but lucky for him, this lord had a conscience. –Well, s’pose there ’ad to be one, in the whole of England, hey?” she noted in a hard voice. “Have some greens, dear, greens is good for the digestion.”

    Obediently she took some greens.

    “So the little pension, it goes straight to Beau for his keep,” finished Mrs Hetty.

    “She does not contribute,” whispered Mrs Wittering suddenly.

    Miss Martin had been wondering about that. She glanced dubiously at Mrs Campion.

    “’Er presence, you see, is worth more than rubies,” said Mrs Hetty with huge irony.

    Mrs Wittering gave a muffled squeak, and shook all over her thin frame. At the far side of Mrs Hetty, Mr Pommeroy emitted a snigger. Miss Martin bit her lip. “Mm.”

    “Looks,” concluded Mrs Hetty very firmly: “ain’t everything. –Pass me the bread, Lilian, if you please!” she called.

    They might not be everything but they were, very clearly, a good deal. At the far end of the table Mr Lefayne, Mr Buxleigh, Mr Runcorn and even the quiet Mr Vanburgh were now laughing very much over some sally of Mrs Campion’s, and she was giggling terrifically.

    “Miss Martin, may I say you would repay h’elegant dressink?” whispered little Mrs Wittering.

    “Why, thank you, Mrs Wittering,” she replied, smiling at her. “But as I have no money for elegant dressing, I fear the theory cannot be put to the test!”

    “Don’t worry, we’ll contrive,” said Mrs Hetty cheerfully. “For this evening, dare say we’ll find something in Harold’s wardrobe. –Lilian ain’t got nothing that’s decent for a girl of your age, and Margery’s too big around.”

    Miss Martin looked at her uncertainly.

    “Well, Sid’s been and gorn and got you a box, didn't think we’d let you sit in it in your print, did you? And Mr Pommeroy’s a-going to do your hair!”—Mr Pommeroy nodded and beamed.—“Now, eat up, for there’s the second course yet!”

    Dazedly she ate up.

    The second course, with its fried cutlets, its fine eel pie, its large treacle tarts and delicious burnt cream, the which was placed before Mr Buxleigh by Mrs Harmon herself, had all vanished, as had the greater portion of a large cheese into which Mr Buxleigh had at some earlier stage poured a goodly measure of port wine, and the gentlemen were sitting back replete over the brandy—as, also, indeed, were certain of the ladies; and Mrs Hetty, patting her chest in her genteel fashion, announced: “Now, Miss Martin, deary, we’ll be orf and wash and dry it, and then Mr Pommeroy will cut it for you!”

    Limply she followed her out.

    Mr Pommeroy had not only cut, he had curled and brushed, and brushed again, and curled again… Major Martin’s daughter stared dazedly at the result: a pile of tiny, burnished ringlets tumbling from a frivolous knot at the top of the head, more ringlets glowing at each side… Petite Maman to the life. At her most frivolous, what was more. It lacked but the pearl pin in the curls—the which Papa had sold, with the matching necklace and earrings, to defray some of the bills. True, the dress left something to be desired, but no matter; Mrs Hetty and Mrs Wittering had that well in hand! A key being swiftly produced from the recesses of Mrs Hetty’s person, Mr Hartington’s apartments were speedily invaded…

    “I see!” she gasped as one of the large wardrobes was thrown open to reveal massed ranks of feminine apparel. Some of the most theatrical kind imaginable, some that you might have worn on the street without occasioning remark, and some downright rags.

    “The Lost Heiress,” explained Mrs Pontifex, fingering a set of grey and black rags. “Artistic, that were. Harold nearly burst when Madam wanted to wear a diamond bracelet from ’er latest with it. –No taste, dear, if she ’as got the looks.”

    “Mrs Campion,” explained Mrs Wittering.

    Mrs Hetty sniffed richly. “Aye. Lacking, is what she is. Now, this Russian gown is very fine: walking dress, you see, worn by the Countess in The Russian Avenger. Mr Hartington wanted her to be holding two big dogs on their leads, dear, for he said that was a most Russian effect, but couldn’t find none that would stand still. Well, an animal what is bred to the life always does better than one brung in from outside. Though the Avenger’s horse behaved itself, I’ll say that for the brute. –Blue. Frogged.”

    “Yes,” she agreed feebly, perceiving this last to refer to the walking-dress.

    “These is pretty,” noted Mrs Wittering, fingering two exiguous gold gauze garments.

    “Aye. Dunno what they was for. Matching, eh? Maybe a fairy piece. Or Classical, like as not. Let’s see… This pink is pretty, but not your colour, dear.”

    “No, too pink,” agreed Mrs Wittering. “And Miss Martin’s too young to wear silk, h’if I may venture, Mrs Pontifex. Not h’in public, what ain’t a performance.”

    “No, you’re right: drat it,” conceded Mrs Hetty. “Well, muslin? Gets frowsty so quick, though. Let’s see…”

    The following half hour was entirely occupied in trying dresses on Miss Martin and viewing the effect in Mr Hartington’s large but greenish cheval-glass.

    “Yes,” decided Mrs Hetty eventually. “The yellow silk underdress, the white spider-gauze on top, and we’ll take these gold velvet ribbons orf this here thing that Lilian had for Mrs Millamant.”

    “Was it?” said Mrs Wittering dubiously.

    “Yes, acos this here’s the mark where Sid got the candle grease all over it. I was not in the house at that period, Miss Martin, but they tells me as life was not worth living here, for some time,” said Mrs Hetty in refined accents.

    Mrs Wittering shuddered, nodding. “H’on the front breadth, Miss Martin,” she whispered.

    “I see. I—I was wondering,” she said in a timid voice, “if perhaps you would both care to call me Cressida, instead?”

    They beamed, but Mrs Hetty explained: “We would be right-down pleased, dear, only you see, you is a lady, and there’s no blinking at facts, we ain’t. And mark my words, Madam Campion will pounce on it like a cat what’s caught a mouse, if we does!”—Mrs Wittering sniffed slightly, and nodded.—“But if you’ll permit the liberty, maybe it could be ‘Miss Cressida’.”

    “Of course, and it is not a liberty at all!” she said eagerly.

    “Good, we’ll do it,” allowed Mrs Hetty, scooping up an armful of garments. “We may as well take this walking outfit, dear, and these two day dresses ain’t doing nothing. That Fever Falconrigg won’t never get into them again, and they’re only going to waste, here. And the old-fashioned petticoat, well, it’s got yards of good chintz in it, and Mrs Wittering, here, will cut you out the most fashionable little morning gown a young lady ever did have!”

    Should she not protest at this robbing of Mr Hartington’s store cupboard? wondered the re-named Miss Cressida silently. But the two ladies, beaming and nodding, closed up the wardrobes again and propelled her out, so she said nothing. It was to be hoped that Mr Hartington was a man of considerable generosity, not to say good humour. And that he would not very speedily return from his tour of the north.

    A steaming kettle was brought up to Mrs Hetty’s apartment by the interested Bessy, the velvet ribbons were freshened by the expert Mrs Wittering, a few adjustments were made to the yellow silk underdress, the irons were applied by Mrs Hetty, a pair of evening slippers which Mrs Deane, a beaming smile replacing the customary pout, produced from her own wardrobe were forced upon the disconcerted “Miss Cressida”, the underdress was on, the freshened gauze was whisked over the curls, a smiling Mr Pommeroy was admitted to make a few last adjustments to the curls, Mrs Margery Mayhew’s kind offer of a little brooch, real gold, was accepted and a last tiny knot of the old-gold velvet fixed in the curls, and finally the concealing shawl was whipped off Mrs Hetty’s mirror…

    “O, mon Dieu,” said the Major’s daughter in a faint voice, as a blushing young lady in the most fashionable of dainty evening gowns stood revealed.

    “See, you look more like your ma than what you imagined, hey?” beamed Mrs Hetty.

    “But—” She broke off, gulping. “I suppose so,” she said lamely. “Um, she had blue eyes, like my brother’s, where mine are this odd yellowish brown.”

    “Ah. Easy to see how the Major fell for ’er. And yer eyes ain’t odd, Miss Cressida, deary. Unusual, mind.”

    “Warm ’oney,” said Mr Pommeroy suddenly. “’Ad the honour onct of doink a lady’s ’air, what were a very great lady h’indeed, ’ad just the same eyes. You look most delightfully h’indeed, Miss Martin, and I congratulates you on it.”

    She laughed. “Thank you, Mr Pommeroy, but a large part of it is due to yourself! You are a positive genius! Thank you so very, very much!”

    “That h’is what they calls transformed, you see, Miss Cressida, me dear,” said Mrs Wittering with considerable satisfaction in her cracked, whispery little voice.

    “I think it is, indeed,” agreed the Major’s daughter somewhat shakily.

    After all this it was a trifle of an anticlimax to come downstairs and find there only a beaming Mr Buxleigh, the still unshaven Mr Deane, in his coat and hat, and a harried Mrs Deane, very striking in purple satin with one wrap of emerald green silk and another of slightly tired brown fur.

    “Which I got to rush off, dear, but I had to stay to see the finished result!” she beamed. “My, you looks a real lady, and pretty enough to do some in the eye!” She laughed hoarsely, winked, embraced her with every appearance of heartiness but not actually touching her painted cheek or her painted lips to Miss Martin’s cheeks, winked again, and rushed out.

    “Charming,” said Mr Deane mournfully. “Worth the waiting. I got to go, or Sid’ll have me guts for garters. A tout à l’heure, mademoiselle. Ah, the lot of a younger brother is not an easy one.” And forthwith he hurried out, too.

    “He has got to get shaved afore ’is make-up, you see, my dear. Always leaves it to the last, very wise in a man with a heavy beard what is playing under his natural age,” said Mr Buxleigh portentously. “Now, let’s look at you, Miss Martin! …Ah,” he concluded, sighing deeply. “Said she would come up pretty, did I not?”

    No-one contradicted him and after a short argument with Mrs Hetty over whether a touch of rouge to the cheeks, done very delicate, would improve Miss Martin, which he lost, Mr Buxleigh admitted that she looked very ladylike indeed and that Daniel was not wrong in saying it was worth the waiting. And if she was to experience any trouble at all, even the slightest, from “them boys”, she was to let him know on the instant.

    Mrs Hetty and Mrs Wittering having “flown” upstairs, Mrs Hetty’s expression, to change their dress, the theatre party was soon assembled. Mr Buxleigh was very stately in an evening suit which included a wonderful waistcoat of red brocade re-embroidered with gold thread and crystal beads, a quizzing glass, and innumerable fobs and chains. And a large stickpin in his cravat, the which, though it sparkled very much, did not strike as very likely to contain a real amethyst. His hair, non-existent on the top but most luxuriant and curled round the sides, and an unlikely dark shade, was very much pomaded and stood up in a myriad frolicking curls. His plump fingers were adorned with a cluster of shiny rings and his evening cloak was of the most swashbuckling sort, lined with pink silk. The which, Mrs Wittering confided in a whisper, had come from a petticoat of Mary Queen of Scots. –Red wine on the front breadth, dear Miss Cressida. She managed a feeble nod in response to this: evidently the front breadths of the lodging house customarily went about in the gravest danger!

    Little Mrs Wittering paled into insignificance beside the Beau’s magnificent figure: she was in black silk, most beautifully cut, but very plain, and long-sleeved. By contrast, Mrs Hetty, also in black, featured four flounces at the hem, a very low-cut bodice, and generous puffs of sleeves. Her plump neck was ringed with one wide black ribbon, to which a large mauve silk rose was attached, and one thin mauve ribbon, from which depended a large cameo brooch. Two black plumes and a mauve silk bow adorned her grey curls, now very much up and rivalling Miss Martin’s own in fashionable styling.

    “She can look a lady when she wants to, Miss Martin,” owned Mr Buxleigh, shaking his head admiringly.

    “Indeed; you look wonderful, dear Mrs Pontifex!”

    She bridled and laughed, obviously very pleased, and allowed Mr Buxleigh to help her into a long black velvet cloak. –Mrs Wittering explaining meanwhile that the Russian Avenger had had it, but once they had taken the spoiled breadths out of it—Miss Martin swallowed—it made up good as a lady’s evening cloak. And fortunately Mrs Pontifex was short, so they had been able to cut orf the worn ’em.

    “Now,” said Mr Buxleigh, withdrawing an ornate watch from his pocket and comparing it with the clock on the mantel, “if that blamed Margery would stir her stumps, we might be in time for the second act!”

    “Oh no, we are not late, are we?” cried the Major’s daughter in alarm.

    Mrs Hetty assured her that they were not, and Beau was a fidgeter; nevertheless calling for Bessy to run upstairs and give her a hurry-up. And shortly after the pounding sound of Bessy’s footsteps on the stairs had died away, Mrs Margery Mayhew swept in, in all her glory.

    “Cor,” concluded Mr Buxleigh limply.

    Mrs Margery was splendid—splendid—in a scarlet satin underdress, covered by a black gauze gown, the which featured knots of the scarlet in its flounces and puffed sleeves, and tall scarlet and black plumes—one of each—on the head. Very possibly the necklace was not of diamonds but it flashed and glittered as brightly as Mr Buxleigh’s cravat-pin.

    “Oh, Mrs Mayhew, you look splendid!” cried Miss Martin.

    Mrs Mayhew laughed and tossed her head, and said that she thought she had best return the compliment, for Miss Martin herself was positively fairy-like! Adding that Lilian thought that she could wear scarlet, in the which she was mistook, and that if this outfit did not put Madam’s eye out tonight, they could call her a Dutchman!

    “A Dutchman?” faltered the Major’s daughter.

    “It’s just an English saying, my dear,” said Mrs Margery soothingly. “You wait: you’ll see.” She winked. “Now, I have found this pretty cloak for you, and it’s not my colour, when all’s said and done, but the stuff is still good, so you may as well keep it.” And the startled Miss Martin found herself the possessor of a pretty cream embroidered evening cloak, lined with purple satin. Possibly the purple did not look its best over her yellow effect, but that was a small matter, after all.

    And, the hackney carriage being now champing, as Mr Buxleigh put it, at the bit, off they all went to the play!

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/the-wooden-o.html