Waiting In The Wings

5

Waiting In The Wings

    Mr Buxleigh peered, cheek flattened to the pane. “Dunno ’im,” he produced.

    Miss Martin, stitching industriously, did not look up. “A dun for Mr Deane?”

    Mrs Pontifex gave a cackle of laugher.

    Mr Buxleigh peered. “No-o… Could be a clerk, something like that… Messenger?”

    “If I were you, I would answer the door,” murmured Miss Martin.

    Mrs Pontifex gave another cackle of laugher, but added: “Has it got a red uniform?”

    “Eh? No!” he said indignantly.

    “Then it may not be from that General Sir Whosis.”

    Looking very indignant, Mr Buxleigh moved ponderously away from the window and went out.

    Mrs Pontifex got up and came to admire the stitchery. “My, them nuns taught you to do a fine darn! But look ’ere, you don’t need to mend every piece of linen in the ’ouse!”

    Miss Martin had discovered, largely by helping Bessy Hinks and one, Mrs Scroggs, who came in to assist with the washing, which did not go out but was customarily strung on a Monday, weather permitting, across the grimy little courtyard at the back of the house, that the household’s linen was very much in want of repair. The Thespian sisters favoured sheets with elaborate crochet edgings and large holes in the region of the feet. Mr Deane’s were even worse: she had ruthlessly ripped most of his sheets apart and “turned” them: her father’s household had for a long period had a provident Dutch maid-of-all-work who had taught his daughters this useful art. Mr Deane had not seemed to notice there was now a seam down most of his sheets.

    Mr Bagshot had appeared not to have any bedlinen so, ruthlessly dragging the blankets from his narrow bed with the aid of the grinning Mrs Scroggs, she had scoured these and hung them out to dry and air over three successive fine days, forcing Mr Buxleigh to disgorge some temporary replacements. Also forcing him to disgorge two sets of sheets for Mr Bagshot to keep. They were of the roughest calico and unhemmed, but she had not been deterred and had first washed the sheets and then ironed and hemmed them carefully. The ironing had caused severe shock to Bessy Hinks’s constitution but the ironer had told her fiercely that Mr Bagshot was as much a human being as any of them. Since then Bessy had informed several members of the household who tended to overlook the silent Mr Bagshot that ’e were a ’uman bean like the rest, so the lesson had not fallen on deaf ears. Subsequently Mr Victor Vanburgh, who had a gift for pencil sketching, and whose mother in his youth had had a thriving vegetable plot, had drawn a little caricature of a tall, thin, stooped runner bean with the features of Mr Bagshot. But at least he had had the grace to present it to Miss Martin in private.

    After laughing very much over it, she had become very thoughtful. Why should not the horrid paving of Mr Buxleigh’s ugly little courtyard be taken up—or most of it, it would be convenient to have some flags left down in the drying area—and a little garden instituted? Not so fine as Niffy-Naffy’s next-door, there was not the room. But certainly that sunny south-facing wall might well support some runner beans! This scheme had not as yet been revealed to the unsuspecting Mr Buxleigh.

    Placidly she returned to Mrs Hetty’s remark: “I think I probably do need to, Mrs Pontifex.”

    Mrs Pontifex inspected the pile next her chair. “Not Daniel’s demned shirts!”

    “Why not?”

    “Because for one thing, he is getting a decent sum for the overlooked son, and can well afford to send ’em out for mending, and for another, if ’e weren't so mean, he could buy himself some new ones!”

    “That would not be prudent, he needs to put some money away for his old age. But I have told him, if he cares to buy the cloth I will certainly make some up. –Shirts are not difficult.”

    “Me love, you’ll be stitching away at them double seams until your eyes fall out!”

    “I enjoy it.  And there is plenty of light in this room.”

    Mrs Hetty sighed, but desisted. “Well?” she said in a bored voice, as Mr Buxleigh came back, looking important.

    “It were a messenger,” he replied loftily. “‘Dear Mr Porteous,’” he read slowly from the sheet of paper in his hand “‘This is to apprise you that I have not yet heard from my sister, who is down in the country. Rest assured you shall have the Dearborns’ direction as soon as I obtain it. Sincerely.’ –It’s from the General,” he explained helpfully.

    “Drat,” returned Mrs Hetty succinctly. “That ain’t no progress.”

    He scratched his chins. “S’pose we could get on down to Orpington, look around, make a few enquiries.”

    “Pudsey. No, we couldn’t, we ain’t got money to chuck away on stages!”

    “No, indeed. I really think it would be best to wait,” agreed the Major’s daughter.

    Mr Buxleigh sighed. Then his eye brightened. “Lovely fine day. Could take a stroll in the Park?”

    “What on earth for?” returned Mrs Hetty.

    “I thought, suppose we winkle Sid out of his bed, and shave him and get him into his blue coat, we might—uh, well, never know who you might come across! Say we bumps into that Sir N., Sid could ask him, just casual-like, if he’s heard any news of the new Lord S—”

    “No,” she said with cold finality.

    “You don’t need to come. But—”

    “Listen to me, Beau Buxleigh!” she said loudly. “You, me, and Sid Bottomley do not know nothing of a Lord Nothing, and what’s more we ain’t never ’eard of General Sir Whosis and never been near the ruddy ’Orse Guards! Get it?”

    “But—” His cheerful, rubicund face fell. “Oh. Um, but how’s Sir N. to know—”

    “NO!”

    The Beau subsided.

    After a moment Miss Martin murmured kindly, since he seemed so crestfallen: “I have a great deal of mending to get through today, sir, but possibly tomorrow, if it is a fine day, we could simply take a stroll in the Park?”

    He brightened.

    “As what, pray?” asked Mrs Hetty arctically. “Just remember, the Park is haunted by nobs. And them who fancies themselves considerable better than what they is,” she noted unkindly.

    “Well, all right, do it as Porteous!” he said loudly, very flushed.

    Mrs Hetty sniffed, but as Miss Cressida was now looking at her pleadingly, conceded grudgingly “All right. But just remember, none of us, Porteous or not, knows nothink of Sare Park or Lord Sare. –He never told us,” she reminded them heavily.

    This time, both their faces fell. “Oh,” they said sheepishly. “No.”

    Mrs Pontifex took a very deep breath indeed. “Hopeless,” she said to Troilus Martin.

    Troilus was asleep in a patch of sun. Bessy had donated half of Mrs Margery’s uneaten breakfast to him this morning before anyone had spotted what she was up to. As Mr Deane, who had not fancied food either, had also given him his, on top of course of his own meaty petit déjeuner, Troilus was now presenting the appearance of a very tightly-stuffed sausage indeed. And was duly sleeping it off. His tail twitched slightly but otherwise he did not stir.

    “Not as much sense between them,” elaborated Mrs Hetty bitterly, “as a decent dawg!”

    Silence fell, apart from Troilus’s light snoring. Miss Martin stitched industriously. Mrs Hetty took up a holed pillowcase and in an abstracted way began mending it. Mr Buxleigh sat back in his big chair, staring into space...

    April wore on. The weather continued generally mild, although there were plenty of April showers. Mr Runcorn got caught in one, came home soaked, and suffered the indignity of being forcibly stripped by Mrs Hetty and Bessy Hinks, and forced into a mustard bath—having injudiciously announced publicly that his own remedy was going to be a large rum. Presumably the treatment was efficacious: he did not come down with a cold. Mr Lefayne tried a new tailor, a Mr Green (no relation to Mr Vanburgh) who had been recommended by a gentleman friend, and had a fight with him over the buttons. Mr Lefayne wanting large mother-of-pearl and the tailor not. Mr Deane frugally bought a length of shirt linen but then rather spoilt the picture by purchasing a frivolous bonnet for Miss Martin as a thank-you present. It was a delightful bonnet, in perfect taste, but that was not the point. She would have forced him to return it to the shop, but relented on the actor’s telling her mournfully that if he and Lilian had stuck together, she might have been his own daughter. –Rather failing to take into account the influence of his current rôle.

    Fred Hinks was brought home, one dreadful day, by an officer of the law. Caught with his head stuck in the area railings of a gent’s house, and best not to ask what he had imagined he was up to. And lucky he was, not to be in Newgate as they spoke. The household trembled: this was only too true. Master Hinks wailed: “I fort I seen a sausage dog like Trellis!” but no-one particularly believed this, though the officer conceded, on being given a view of Troilus, that the story was so odd it might just be true. And if he was his, he’d whack him. Mr Buxleigh, having forced a florin into the officer’s not wholly reluctant hand, duly whacked him. Mrs Harmon then also whacked him. And did not relent in the matter of tasting the soup and such-like, for two whole days.

    Miss Martin and Mr Buxleigh (in the person of Mr Porteous) took several genteel strolls in the Park. On one particularly fine day they were gratified by the notice of a laughing, dark-eyed, voluptuous lady in a barouche with three other ladies, all frilled and feathered and carriage-rugged, as Mr Buxleigh later put it, to the eyes. The lady greeted them with: “Why, it’s Roland’s darling old Beau!” And insisted on introducing them to the barouche, rolling her eyes terrifically every time she repeated Mr Buxleigh’s forename. She then urged them to pass on a message to Mr Lefayne that “darling Dicky” had utterly promised them a box, and so, even though they had all seen it—the ladies all nodding agreement, with gales of giggles—they would without fail be there this very night! Which part of this encounter was the most depressing it would have been hard to say.

    “Lady Nob,” Mr Buxleigh identified on a sour note as the barouche drove off at last, all of the ladies waving madly and giggling.

    “Yes,” she agreed, equally sour.

    “Drat,” he concluded in the accents of Mrs Pontifex.

    There was still no sign of Mr Hartington, and Mrs Mayhew became restless, but was somewhat appeased by the arrival of a letter from a place called Hull. No-one claimed to know it, though Mr Lefayne thought it might not be far from Mr Hartington’s brother’s farm, which was near Whitby. This was not enlightening but no-one mentioned the fact. The letter was the merest note, saying only that the tour was going well and that the actor-manager would be with them ere long, and had some promising ideas for the summer season. Mr Buxleigh noted drily that he always did have, but appeared pleased by the post-scriptum, which urged him not to re-let Mr Hartington’s rooms on any account.

    The splendid Mr Reginald Grantleigh caused an upset by mistakenly paying court to a Miss Boodle, whose father was a respectable draper. And came after him with a whip. The which, as he had not got anywhere with the young lady, was really quite undeserved. And after he had paid out all that gelt for a real gold bracelet, too! –Mrs  Hetty noted succinctly in Miss Cressida’s ear: “Brass,” but she did not, really, need telling.

    Mr Ardent fell into love—ardently—with an unknown young lady glimpsed in the Park. This amour was composed of nothing more than a great deal of sighing and what Mrs Hetty described as “mooning”, and the composition of some dreadfully bad verse. Plus very frequent strolls to the Park in the hopes of seeing her again. Initially Miss Martin kindly agreed to accompany him on the strolls, but as it was very boring walking with a young gentleman whose head was continually on the swivel and who was incapable of any conversation other than: “Could that be she?” and “Do you suppose we might see her today?”, soon stopped.

    A Mr Ferdinand Forsythe caused some excitement by taking Mr Buxleigh’s second-floor back, failing to pay his first month’s rent in advance, and being summarily thrown out again. A Mr Peregrine Pettigrew and a Mr Alan Adale applied jointly for the same set of rooms but as Mr Buxleigh was aware that their season with Mr “Lucky” Devine in A Maiden Heart had come to an end and even at its height had consisted of little more than “Madam, the carriage awaits” and supply your own costumes, their application was refused. Mr Buxleigh fell into a gloom over his second-floor back but no-one’s withers were particularly wrung over this.

    Mrs Clarissa Campion was reported to have sacked her faithful maid and dresser when in a tantrum but as this happened about every two months, no-one except Miss Martin was much surprised or disturbed by it. And sure enough, after she had spent a week worrying whether Miss Pitchley would ever find another place, for she had a widowed mother in poor health and five little brothers and sisters at home to support, Mrs Campion took her back again.

    Mrs Campion was also reported to have “got off-side” with “him”, but as this report was from Mrs Trueblood, and as everyone knew that in addition to a natural dislike of Mrs Campion, Mrs Trueblood’s mother’s heart was very much wrung over Miss Trueblood’s not having captured a similar gentleman, or even any gentleman, no-one believed it. Much though they would have liked to.

    Master Trueblood, very, very mistakenly, attempted to represent to Mr Lefayne’s and Mrs Campion’s management that the piece would be much improved by the addition of a small rôle for an infant. Which might be the son of the lovely widow and sit on her knee! There was a terrible scene, Mr Lefayne fully supporting Mrs Campion throughout, for he was as capable as any man in London of recognising a thin end of a wedge when he saw one, and Master Trueblood was sent about his business. With the dire threat that if there was another peep out of him, he would be banned from the dressing-rooms! A terrible threat indeed, for Mrs Trueblood would then have had to pay a whole sixpence a night to one, Mrs Emory, to keep an eye on him. To say nothing of the immense amounts of Mrs Trueblood’s tea that Mrs Emory was guaranteed to drink up as she did it.

    What with on the one hand the frustration of waiting to hear from General Sir Arthur Murray and on the other hand the uncertainty about her own future, Major Martin’s daughter was very glad indeed to accept the distractions of invitations to see Mrs Lilian Deane’s and Mr Victor Vanburgh’s plays. They had to wait until a suitable box could be procured for the latter, which was proving quite a hit with the upper classes, although the gods and the pit were not so enthusiastic; but it was not long before Mrs Lilian, an unaffected beam replacing the customary pout, produced tickets.

    “It’ll be awful,” warned Mrs Hetty glumly, as Mr Pommeroy once more operated on Miss Cressida’s curls. Not such a complex task, now that they were properly cut.

    She had been about to invite the little coiffeur warmly to accompany them. She gulped, and said nothing.

    If the piece was not precisely awful, it was certainly melodramatic, featuring one wicked baronet, one exceedingly wicked duke, two wicked lawyers, one wicked duchess, one ruined lady (Mrs Lilian), and one innocent astray, in imminent danger of corruption by almost any one of the above. The ending featured the innocent one throwing herself off a cliff rather than succumb to the demands of the wicked duke. And floods of repentant tears from the rest of the cast. The house fluttered its handkerchiefs wildly, so presumably the thing was to the taste of the majority. As the storm of applause when the actors took their bows certainly indicated.

    “See?” said Mrs Hetty as the curtain came down at last.

    “Er—yes,” conceded Miss Martin.

    Very fortunately the tragedy was followed by a farce, so their party was able to laugh their heads off, and felt much revivified.

    After that, life resumed the even tenor of its way. Two more one-line actors and one out-of-work actor having applied to take Mr Buxleigh’s second-floor back, the landlord was driven to proclaim that he would give it to the next Tom, Dick or Harry, so long as he was not a theatrical! Everyone ignored this heresy. But the long arm of coincidence then enabled Mr Buxleigh to keep his word.

    “That,” he said, his cheek in the usual position, “cain’t be a dun.”

    “Daniel’s paid orf most of what he owed,” allowed Mrs Hetty.

    “Yes,” Mr Deane agreed with a yawn, stretching his feet to the little fire in Mr Buxleigh’s grate.

    “And that new tailor ain’t started dunning Sid yet,” she added.

    “I said: it cain’t be a dun! –Very mild-looking feller.”

    “Perhaps it is another great comic, like Mr Vanburgh!” said Miss Martin eagerly.

    Mr Buxleigh looked down at her tolerantly. “In the first place, you ain’t see him act yet, me dear, and in the second place, it ain’t: I know ’em all.”

    “Perhaps it’s a messenger from that dratted general, at last,” suggested Mrs Hetty.

    “Ye-es… Could be a father.” Mr Buxleigh had not himself been the fool who had let Mr Boodle (and his whip) in, but nevertheless he was being all the more cautious on account of it.

    Mrs Hetty came to flatten her cheek near his. “Rats. Not old enough.”

    “Forty-five if he’s a day!” he retorted huffily.

    She peered. “Rats. Thirty-five.” The Beau began to do elaborate sums on his fingers, breathing hard, but she dug him violently in the rubs and shouted: “Go and answer the blamed DOOR!”

    Looking very injured, Mr Buxleigh went, closing the sitting-room door pointedly after him. A short altercation in the hall with Bessy Hinks might have been heard, in which Bessy was reminded that she was not to open the door to no unknown feller AGAIN, and then the door might have been heard to open.

    A prolonged consultation then apparently took place. Mrs Hetty was driven to flatten her cheek to the pane again but to no result. Mr Deane gave in entirely and went and put his ear to the crack of the sitting-room door. “I can hear Beau. Think it’s something about the second-floor back.”

    “Not again!” cried the ladies simultaneously. They looked at each other and laughed.

    Mr Deane came back to the fire. “Can't hear him. Must be a very soft-spoken fellow.”

    The second of his new shirts was just being tried on him, Mrs Hetty assisting Miss Cressida with the pins, when the door opened and Mr Buxleigh said unctuously: “Do pray, go before me, Mr Peebles, and you shall see the domestic comforts what we can offer you.” Mr Peebles then entering to the certainly domestic sight of Mr Deane, whose chest more than met the promise of his dark blue chin, half out of his shirt.

    “What I’m sure as any gent would excuse the sight, acos Miss Martin, here, what sews beautiful, has kindly volunteered to make the fellow a decent shirt to his back,” said Mr Buxleigh hurriedly. “Not a service what is general extended to the lodgers,” he added even more hurriedly, as it dawned that Mr Peebles might expect his rent to encompass such.

    Mr Peebles was a very meek-looking man who might have been any age between thirty-five and forty-five. The which did not positively rule him out of the question for the rôle of father. He was, however, merely in search of rooms. The address had been recommended to him by a man in an inn, he said, looking very shy.

    “Which inn?” asked Mrs Hetty instantly.

    Mr Buxleigh glared: he had been coming to that.

    “Oh, well, actually, it was an inn near Gray’s Inn!” said Mr Peebles with a nervous laugh.

    “Amusing, if not a classic quip, sir,” noted Mr Deane, resuming his old shirt.

    “Er—no,” agreed Mr Peebles, eyeing him uncertainly.

    “We is all theatricals here, sir,” explained Mr Buxleigh weightily.

    “I see: yes. You would certainly know all the classic quips, then.” Helpfully Mr Peebles named the inn in question. Mr Buxleigh owned it could have been anyone. Mr Peebles looked at him expectantly.

    “Um, well, what might your own line of work be?” asked the landlord cautiously.

    “I am with Hartley, Hartley, Fitch and French in a very humble capacity, which in the law is called outside clerk, sir. Largely entailing the safe delivery of documents, but might include the consulting of a deed, will, or record, as required. –Solicitors at law, sir. Very well thought of, and number numerous of the nobility and gentry amongst their clientèle.”

    “Which you gets to see every day,” agreed Mrs Hetty in a hard voice, eyeing him with dislike.

    “Er—no, indeed, ma’am!” he said with his nervous laugh.

    “We don’t want no lawyers ’ere,” she said grimly to the Beau.

    “Hetty, he is not a lawyer, he’s only a clerk. It’s like blaming, if you will pardon the metaphor, sir,” said the Beau at his loftiest, “the kitchenmaid because her master drives a curricle.”

    “Er—yes,” agreed Mr Peebles politely.

    “We-ell… Dinner’s at two, mind.”

    “I shall not need dinner, except on Sundays if possible. And we normally work Saturday mornings only, so if I should be able to make it back by two—”

    “You have to make an arrangement,” said Mr Buxleigh flatly.

    “Oh,” he said, looking bewildered.

    Kindly Mr Deane explained: “You pay Cook direct, in especial if you want a nice chop, or such, and she makes sure them others don’t get down on it. And watch out for that Margery Mayhew, she eats like a horse. –Disadvantaged,” he muttered, lapsing into his part.

    “The tenants,” said Mr Buxleigh loftily, “make their own arrangements.”

    “Which depending on what he asks, sir, you are entitled to decent bedlinen,” noted Mrs Hetty suddenly.

    “I see. Thank you, ma’am.” He looked meekly at Mr Buxleigh.

    “Lor’, ask him straight out, sir! Acos he won’t never offer!” she cried.

    “Er—oh. I see. Does the sum”—here he named it and Mrs Hetty gasped—“entitle me to bedlinen, sir?”

    “Sir,” said Miss Martin firmly, making up her mind to speak, even though there had been no suggestion of introductions, “at that price I think you are entitled to ask for all found, fully furnished, and the best china every night; not to say, dinner when you wish for it.”

    “I see,” he said tranquilly. “Thank you, Miss.” He thereupon tranquilly made the Beau a counter-offer, and Mrs Hetty, smacking her knee, went into a delighted spluttering fit.

    Mr Buxleigh went over to the door, looking very judicious. “You had best come and see it, sir.”

    And Mr Peebles, very meek, followed the Beau out.

    …“I suppose he’ll do,” conceded the landlord, having let the apartment on the reception of two months’ rent in advance. At a price considerably below the one he had first suggested and only a little above Mr Peebles’s counter-offer. Sunday dinner included.

    “So long as he don't turn out to have a wife and six bawling brats,” noted Mrs Hetty pointedly.

    “No, he’s a bachelor.”

    “He looks it,” she owned.

    “I thought he seemed quite pleasant,” ventured Miss Martin.

    “’Armless, like as not: yes,” owned the robust actress.

    Bessy Hinks had come in with Mr Buxleigh, on what errand was not clear, and now volunteered: “What if ’e don’t like little dawgs?”

    “Then we’ll chuck him out on his ear!” said Mr Deane with a sudden laugh. He bounced up. “Come along, my dear Miss Martin, let us try it on again!” he said gaily.

    Smiling, she let him try his new shirt again—though there was no need, the adjustments were well in hand.

    “Have you got a new part?” asked Mr Buxleigh suspiciously.

    “No, Beau; I am merely enjoying the thought of hearing no more moans and groans about the everlasting second-floor back!” he explained, positively grinning.

    “H’and so says all of us!” agreed Bessy Hinks very loudly, just as Mrs Hetty was going to.

    Mr Buxleigh glared, as the company collapsed in helpless laughter; and took himself off to make quite sure there was nothing left in the cupboards and armoires that were to be Mr Peebles’s to which the new tenant might lay illegal claim.

    And life resumed the even tenor of its way. Or, as Mrs Hetty put it, if the message from the General didn’t come soon, she was going to strangle someone. Very probably Niffy-Naffy next door or the mooning Mr Ardent, she cared not which, but someone!

    April was going out in a last frantic burst of showers when Major Martin’s daughter at last nerved herself to propose the digging up of his basse-cour to Mr Buxleigh. She was the more nervous about the proposal as she was not sure what to call the little courtyard in English: there didn’t seem to be a special word. Mrs Harmon referred to it as “out the back”, and Bessy echoed her. Mrs Margery referred to it in refined accents as “the draying green, and may I beg you, if heading in that direction, my dear Miss Martin, to fetch any small items of mine which may be depending in the breeze.” Mrs Hetty, much more succinctly, called it “the lines.” Fred Hinks didn’t seem to have a name for it but was scared to go out there alone in the dark.

    “Eh?” said Mr Buxleigh, goggling at her.

    Going very red, she pursued: “It does get the sun, sir, and we might plant beans or some such, and possibly a few marigolds and green herbs, and—and it would be such a nice outlook for Mrs Harmon!”

    There was a short pause.

    “And for that ruddy Bagshot, hey? Not to mention that demned cat of his. It’ll dig up anythink at all what you plants, mark my words, Miss Martin: there is nothing like blamed cats for a-scratching and a-digging. And come the summer, the lot of ’em’ll be fighting over who’s to sit out there sunning theirselves! But do it if you want, me dear, by all means.”

    “Thank you very much, sir,” she said somewhat feebly. For he had immediately enumerated more objections, and much more sensible objections, than she could possibly have thought up for herself.

    “Only you’ll have to get a strong back to do it, me dear: them stones is heavy.”

    “Er—yes.”

    Looking at his most judicious, Mr Buxleigh waved her away.

    She retreated silently. Oh, dear, he was right about the stones: who could she ask? Mr Bagshot might once have had the physique for it, but he was a ruin, poor fellow. And had the greatest difficulty in bending. Mr Deane, Mr Lefayne and Mr Vanburgh all had typical actors’ physiques: well shaped, but not particularly burly. Mr Grantleigh could probably have done it without even breaking out in a sweat but in addition to paying no heed to the humble Miss Martin he was so vain of his appearance that anything that might ruffle his hair or crease his neckcloth was not to be thought of. Mr Darlinghurst and Mr Ardent were far too slight. And Mr Runcorn, who certainly had the physique, was barely aware that Miss Martin was alive: she had not the sprightly, witty teasing manner nor the striking looks of Mrs Campion. Not to say that lady’s beckoning maturity. She went and looked sourly at herself in Mrs Hetty’s rather spotted mirror. “Useless,” she said, poking out her tongue at her reflection.

    Thus it was, the following Sunday, that the meek Mr Peebles, quietly enjoying breakfast alone, for the actors were sleeping late, was confronted by a panting, desperate-looking Mr Bagshot.

    “What is it?” he said calmly, laying his napkin aside and rising to his feet.

    Mr Bagshot panted, and pointed, and made a desperate noise.

    “Yes; I’m coming: show me,” said Mr Peebles, laying a cool hand on his bony shoulder.

    Limping as fast he could, Mr Bagshot led the way to the back door. Where they were just in time to see Miss Martin, having inserted a pointed instrument between two of the flags, heave on it from an unladylike squatting position and topple right over on her back. Very fortunately she was wearing her old chip hat and so her head did not make actual contact with the flags.

    Mr Peebles did not give the impression of moving very fast, but he was by her side in an instant. “Miss Martin, may I ask what you are doing?” he said mildly, as she sat up, very flushed.

    “Taking up the stones! I’m making a garden!” she panted. “To plant beans and green herbs, and some marigolds to brighten it up!”

    He put a supporting arm round her. “Are you all right? Did you hurt your head?”

    “No,” she said, pushing the hat forward and rubbing her head. “Not really. –Mr Bagshot, you mustn’t worry, I am perfectly all right,” she said as he limped up, making horrible faces.

    “Pray allow me.” Gravely Mr Peebles assisted her to her feet. “I will take up the flags, Miss Martin.”

    The slightly stooped Mr Peebles did not at all present the appearance of one who could shift stones which must have been there since the Romans founded London town. “No, sir!” she gasped.

    Mr Peebles ignored her protest, stripped off the shabby brown coat which he wore on his days off from his place of employment, handed it to Mr Bagshot, rolled up his shirt-sleeves and set to. Under his worn old waistcoat the muscles could be seen to tense all across his slim back, and the shirt to strain at his shoulders. She gulped, and looked to see if Mr Bagshot was sharing her anxiety, but his face was completely expressionless.

    Mr Peebles ceased heaving on the implement and she cried: “There! It is too heavy for you, Mr Peebles; please do not try!”

    “Not at all, Miss Martin; it requires,” he said calmly, “the h’application of science.” Forthwith he inserted the instrument at the next edge of the large flag and began loosening it with a series of sharp motions. The same operation was then repeated on the remaining two sides. Finally he went back to the original side, and heaved again. Miss Martin was silent, although biting her lip, as the shabby waistcoat again tightened across his back

    “There!” said Mr Peebles, breathing only slightly harder, as the stone came up. He shifted it rapidly aside and began work on the next. “No, leave it, Bagshot; I’ll do it,” he said as Mr Bagshot, passing on the brown coat to Miss Martin, came to shift it out of the way. “You stand ready to start work with the pickaxe. This ground is like iron; dare say it hasn’t been dug since the Romans laid these down!”

    “That is just what I was thinking!” cried Miss Martin with a laugh. “Are you sure you can manage, sir?”

    “Why, yes,” said Mr Peebles, looking shy again and giving an awkward little bow. “It do require science, rather than the brute strength, h’if I may so observe, Miss Martin.”

    Miss Martin had nothing to do but stand aside while Mr Peebles dug out the rest of the flags and piled them against the wall under Niffy-Naffy’s overhanging damson tree. Mr Bagshot, moving along in his wake, swung the pickaxe ferociously. The which he could quite well, his one good leg taking most of his weight and the peg-leg being used for balance.

    “I cannot thank you enough, Mr Peebles,” she said as the task was finished and the last flag laid on its neat pile.

    Mr Peebles straightened, produced a neatly folded handkerchief from his breeches pocket, and mopped his brow. Which to say truth was not streaming so much as all that. “My absolute pleasure, Miss, and may I say I am ’umbly at your service, whenever required? And please do not take such a task upon yourself again,” he added with an anxious look.

    “Well, I shall not, for I have discovered the limits of my capacities,” she admitted on a rueful note. “Oh—your coat!” she remembered. She held it out and Mr Peebles turned his back on her.

    She blinked, but helped him silently into it. The which operation was accomplished far more easily than the insertion of her late papa into his expensive, beautifully tailored, and largely unpaid-for outer garments.

    “Thank you kindly, Miss,” he said politely.

    “Er—no, thank you.”

    Mr Peebles gave his shy bow and retreated into the house.

    The Major’s daughter looked limply around the embryo garden. Mr Bagshot was swinging the pickaxe with such a will that almost half the exposed dirt was now broken up. “Um—Mr Bagshot!” she cried. “I shall fetch you a cup of tea!”

    She tottered into the kitchen. Mrs Harmon was at the bench under the window. “Did you see that, Mrs Harmon?” she said feebly.

    “Ah.” Mrs Harmon turned slowly. “Stronger than what ’e looks, eh?”

    She nodded limply.

    “Ah.” Mrs Harmon considered it. “Slim, Miss, but wiry. The late ’Armon, for all ’is faults, were the same type. Looked nothink much, in ’is clothes.”

    Inexplicably Miss Martin turned scarlet, but nodded very hard. Bessy Hinks, chopping vegetables at the table, gave a loud laugh.

    “You ’old yer noise,” said the cook tolerantly. “Pretty pair of shoulders on that Peebles, Miss, when you looks at ’im.”

    “Yes. I—I wonder if we might have a pot of tea?”

    “What, for that Bagshot?” snorted the cook.

    “He likes tea.”

    “I know ’e likes it, Miss! Oh, go on, s’pose ’e’s earning it,” she conceded.

    “Thank you so much, Mrs Harmon!” she beamed.

    Cook eyed her drily, but said only: “Ah.”

    Back in the dining-room, Mr Peebles reseated himself tranquilly and slowly recommenced eating his neglected breakfast. His face was as meek as ever, but there was an odd look in his eye. Though this might have been due to the fact of the breakfast’s consisting of slightly stale bread and butter with cold potato and a very meagre piece of cold boiled bacon.

    He had almost finished when Bessy rushed in. “’Ot sausages!” she panted.

    Mr Peebles could see that. He blinked mildly.

    “Go on: they’re for you!” Bessy congratulated him, crashing the dish down before him.

    “I did not ask for these,” said Mr Peebles mildly. “I think there must be some mistake.”

    “No!” said Bessy, panting and grinning. “Cook said, you’re to ’ave’ em, wevver or not! Wiv ’er best!”

    Mr Peebles looked thoughtfully at the sausages. “Best what?”

    “Get orf!” she said with a loud laugh. “Wiv er best, Mr Peebles! And to just ask, if yer wants anyfink at all! What there won’t be no extra charges, acos some as could ’ave done it,” she said, bending down and approaching her red-cheeked face very close to his mild one, “is a-snorink in their beds as we speaks! Nor ain’t been known never to do a ’and’s turn about the place! And soon as the gooseberries comes in, what Cook says won’t be long, just to say, acos green gooseberries wiv mackerel is ’er special!” She panted and beamed.

    “I see. Please give Cook my thanks, Bessy.”

    “Ah!” said Bessy, rather in Cook’s own manner. “I will that!” She went over to the door. “’Ere!” she loudly.

    Mr Peebles jumped.

    “Don’t you dare to give none to that there Trellis! Cook just give ’im a great marrer bone!”

    Mr Peebles’s meek grey-blue eyes twinkled, but he agreed he would not donate any sausage to Trellis.

    Bessy nodded and grinned, and went out.

    Mr Peebles ate hot sausage with a thoughtful look on his meek face.

    The garden was soon looking quite like a real garden, after all this strenuous effort and the strenuous digging-in by Mr Bagshot, with some rather tepid help from Mr Deane, of much horse manure. The which had been gathered from the streets by Fred Hinks with Miss Cressida’s help, until Mrs Hetty spotted her doing it and put a summary stop to it as unbefitting a lady. Mr Vanburgh urged her to wait for the manure to “mature” until she put in any seedlings. Though conceding that seeds might be all right. So, many seeds were planted and many anxious hours spent watering the same, watching for them to sprout, and erecting intricate tangles of string to keep Mr Bagshot’s little cat off.

    Mr Lefayne came home very merry from a late party one evening and the next morning blooming flowers were observed to have sprouted in what was supposed to be Miss Martin’s marigold bed, but after he had been shouted at, severally or in chorus, by Mrs Hetty, Mrs Mayhew, Mrs Lilian Deane, Mr Deane, Mr Vanburgh, Cook, Bessy and Fred, the last waxing very shrill indeed (for it was a great joke and he only wished he had thought of it) and finally reproved by Mr Buxleigh at his most judicious, a humble apology was made and Mr Lefayne donated a great trayful of seedlings to the enterprise. Subsequently it was revealed that he had sent Bessy out to purchase them, but as the thought must count for something, even Mrs Hetty allowed, though grudgingly, that he might be forgiven.

    The night of Mr Vanburgh’s play came round and still the General had not sent a message with the Dearborns’ direction! And as by this time they certainly, according to Mrs Hetty, needed the distraction, quite a crowd assembled that evening.

    Miss Martin was again in the white spider-gauze over the yellow, with the gold ribbons. Mr Lefayne, with a very low bow but a humorous twinkle in his eyes, had humbly offered a posy before he left for the theatre; so Mrs Hetty, helpfully explaining that the creature meant well and these was hot-house, and not noticing an odd look on Miss Martin’s face as she said so, fixed a few tiny blooms carefully in the curls with the pin donated by Mrs Mayhew, and allowed Miss Martin to carry the rest. She herself was again very grande dame in her ruffled black silk with the touches of mauve. Mrs Wittering was again in her simple but elegant black, tonight with a very fine black shawl. Most gratified by Miss Cressida’s admiration of this last, Mrs Wittering revealed that it was knitted, in the round, like a stocking, and she was sure she could teach her to do it. As the Major’s daughter had never attempted so much as a scarf, she was pretty sure she could not; but thanked her warmly for the offer.

    Mrs Mayhew tonight did not wear the scarlet: the undergown was a striking shade of blue, though the overdress was the same black gauze, with the scarlet bows replaced by large knots of blue ribbon. The head sported a single black plume, but it was enlivened by a large knot of blue ribbon and a clip which sparkled exceedingly. Tonight she was officially escorted by Mr Prettyjohn, though previously warning the company that it did not mean a thing: merely, a lady liked to feel herself escorted to a privileged entertainment. Her friends had not been able to work out what, precisely, she meant by “privileged” but they had all very quickly worked out that, declarations to the contrary, she must be softening towards Mr Prettyjohn.

    Mr Buxleigh was again very fine, the curls frolicking, the quizzing glass and the waistcoat well to the fore. Mr Bagshot was also of the party, at Miss Martin’s insistence. His black coat was exceeding frocked, his black knee-breeches were rather rubbed and of very old-fashioned cut indeed, and a neckcloth had been forcibly borrowed off Mr Buxleigh for him; but Mr Pommeroy having kindly given the fawn wig a few touches before hurrying off to do a fine lady’s hair, he looked, as Mr Buxleigh muttered in Mrs Hetty’s ear, “almost human.”

    The final member of the party was the meek Mr Peebles. As Mrs Hetty had said: “We got a box, and can always cram in one more. And the only feller in the house what takes his coat orf and gets down to it of a Sunday morning deserves a treat. And he can always sit at the back if he ain’t got nothing decent to wear.” Mr Peebles had waxed very shy when she forthwith issued the invitation; and Miss Martin, Mr Buxleigh and Mr Bagshot, being the only other members of the theatre party instantly available, had had to be brought in to convince him. Mr Bagshot had only nodded his head hard at him and Miss Martin had only said: “Please do come, Mr Peebles,” but Mr Buxleigh had been very eloquent indeed. So doubtless it was that which had persuaded him.

    Mrs Hetty’s prediction proved correct, and he did not have an evening coat. But the coat he customarily wore to the law offices was black and decent enough. Likewise the pantaloons. Mrs Hetty had suggested to Mr Lefayne that the loan of a smart evening waistcoat might not come amiss, but the actor had returned drily: “A gent don’t accept the loan of his clothes from another gent, Hetty, whatever may be the custom in the profession.” Very red, Mrs Hetty had protested that Mr Peebles was only a clerk, not a gent, but had been ignored. So Mr Peebles was wearing his own best waistcoat. It was fawn silk and although clean enough, distinctly worn as to the edges, and faded unevenly as to the body. And very old-fashioned in cut. He had, however, manifestly done his best, by adding a black-spotted muslin neckcloth, tied in a huge bow, to his outfit. And by flattening his dark hair terrifically with pomade into the severest Brutus imaginable. Rather in the style, indeed, of the late Emp—Boney. Miss Martin’s gravity was very nearly overset as the meek clerk was observed to be standing with one hand inside his coat, in the well-known pose of l’Empereur himself; but comforted herself with the reflection that none of the English persons here present would make the connection.

    “You will do, Peebles,” said Mr Buxleigh kindly, patting his shoulder. “And I would cover that waistcoat up as much as possible—yes.”

    “Certainly, sir,” he said meekly.

    And with that it was Ho! for the playhouse.

    The actor-manager, Mr Perseus Brentwood, was known for his successful melodramas and more farcical pieces, last year’s The Bride and The Bear being a case in point, as Mrs Hetty had already mentioned. It was, explained Mr Buxleigh, quite a change to see him producing a piece which had gained the approval of the critics, Miss Martin: quite a change.

    She was dazedly examining her programme. Could it be some sort of—of mad coincidence? The author of the play was a Mr Sidney Pugh. And she knew that Mr Lefayne’s brother, born Joe Bottomley, now called himself Bottomley-Pugh, the change being due, as the actor had cheerfully revealed, to the pretensions to gentility of Joe’s late wife. …Er: no. It must be a coincidence!

    “He don’t bruit it about,” said Mr Buxleigh cheerfully over her shoulder, “but that is Sid: yes.”

    Jumping, she gasped: “I see!”

    “He offered it to Harold, but the fool turned it down. Said it would not take, with the groundlings. The which it ain’t done,” he noted judiciously, “but they ain’t all as matters, when a management has its name to establish.

    The boxes were crowded with fashionables: “No, indeed,” she agreed.

    The play was called Mixed Feelings and the plot, which tended to the farcical, and involved two sets of couples, was not the point. In expression it was the most delicate of social comedies, rivalling, indeed, said Miss Martin, clapping madly as the first act came to an end, the work of the great M. Marivaux himself! To which the box assented politely, if blankly. Except for Mr Peebles, who was found once more to be occupied with his waistcoat. He duly apologised and admitted sadly that he did not recognise the name. At which Mr Buxleigh informed him severely that he was not supposed to. And could he see from back there? To which Mr Peebles replied meekly that he had an excellent view, thank you, sir. And thereupon proved it by offering the opinion that Mr Vanburgh’s performance as one of the fathers was, if he might venture, a most delicate piece of comedic work indeed. The which caused Mr Vanburgh’s friends to beam upon him and Mr Buxleigh to say with approval, rising: “Come along, then, you may assist me to bring the ladies refreshment.”

    Mr Peebles got up, looking rather scared. “Yes, sir. Er—what should I— I mean, where—”

    “Lord, man, come along!” Mr Buxleigh grasped his arm and steered him out bodily, remarking condescendingly that one would think that he had never set foot in a playhouse before, and if he had never been in a box, which he personally did not doubt, there was no need to shout it abroad. And he, Beau Buxleigh, would very happy to put him in the way of things.

    “The poor little man!” concluded Miss Martin with a laugh.

    “Well, Beau don’t mean no harm,” said Mrs Hetty on a tolerant note. “And if the critter ain’t up to snuff—which Lord knows, he should be, at his age, only Nature makes ’em in all sorts and sizes, me dear—he might as well put him in the way of things. And there ain’t that many as would bother.”

    The box agreed that that was very true. And settled back to enjoy itself thoroughly.

    Mr Vanburgh had insisted on doing the thing properly, and had arranged a little supper afterwards for his friends and fellow-actors. And although the restaurant was not nigh as fine as that favoured by Mr Lefayne’s upper-class connections, the party from Mr Buxleigh’s lodging house enjoyed itself far more than on that previous occasion. Mr Lefayne himself, panting and laughing and with traces of make-up around his eyes, joined them shortly after they had sat down; so Miss Martin, rather flown on the wine which Mr Vanburgh had insisted upon, was able to say with a distinct twinkle in her eye: “We have drunk to the health and continued success of the cast; and now, I rather think we should drink to the author! The author!”

    Those present all being in the secret, they echoed, laughing: “The author!” and drank.

    Mr Lefayne rose gracefully, and bowed. “Thank you. –Bagshot, take that glass off Miss Martin, if you would.” Mr Bagshot duly obeyed, and Sid continued smoothly: “I’m delighted to know you enjoyed the piece. And sincerely trust you will all assist Vic and myself to rub Harold’s nose in it, good and proper, the minute he gets back! Well, here’s to the profession!”

    Forthwith the table rose, almost as one man, echoing, glasses raised: “The profession!”

    “Get up, man, do!” Mr Buxleigh ordered the one man who had not risen.

    Mr Peebles rose hurriedly to his feet.

    “The profession!” said Mr Buxleigh very loudly indeed, with a horrible glare at him.

    “The profession,” echoed Mr Peebles meekly, drinking.

     “—Which,” said Mrs Hetty with a great yawn as they set off homewards, the augmented party having distributed itself between several hackney carriages, “you wasn’t to know, but I should think anybody with any gumption might ’ave guessed: he meant the theatrical profession.”

    “Yes, I do realise that, ma’am,” he said apologetically. “But just at first I was took aback.”

    “Of course you were, sir,” said Miss Martin kindly. “It took me some time, also, when I first came to Mr Buxleigh’s, to realise that that was what was meant.”

    “I see. And may I respectfully inquire, Miss Martin, when that was?”

    “No, you may not!” said Mrs Hetty roundly before she could even open her mouth. “The sauce! –And don’t tell me that ain’t just like a lawyer, Miss Cressida!”

    “Dear Mrs Pontifex, I do not think that that is quite fair. The question was a natural one, after all.” Kindly she told Mr Peebles how long she had been with Mr Buxleigh.

    “Satisfied?” said Mrs Hetty evilly.

    “Out of course. And nothink was meant by it, Miss Martin!” he said quickly.

    “Don’t mention it any more, Peebles, old man, Miss Martin perfectly understands!” said Sid with a kindly laugh. “What did you think of Billy Quipp’s performance, Miss Martin?”

    Mr Quipp had played the second of the fathers belonging to the young couples. There were only two fathers in Mr Lefayne’s piece, both widowers, thus enabling a further complication in that the remaining two mothers were widows. Most of the action, indeed, centring round these relationships, the presence of the young couples being only a plot device.

    “I thought he was wonderful, sir! So very right for the part!”

    “Yes, well, I wrote it for him,” he admitted.  “He does very well in a modern piece, though Brentwood persists in miscasting him in the most frightful melodramas or farces, in which he encourages him to overplay horridly. But he was with me in Richard III last year, playing old Queen Margaret, and though damned Harold encouraged him to overplay that, too, on the whole he made not a bad fist of it. And I once saw him do a most moving Ariel, in his younger days.”

    “I see. Well, your faith in him was certainly justified: that wistful note he gave to his character was most affecting! –And I did so like Mr Vanburgh’s character!”

    “Yes, Vic can impart considerable charm to a part,” said Sid with a smile in his voice.

    “Yes, but it was not merely that; it was the way it was written. At first one thinks he is so strict and conventional, and—and views him through his son’s eyes, as all-powerful and almost invulnerable. And then one perceives that he is merely as human and fallible as the rest of us!” she said eagerly. “And a man of feeling, after all!”

    “Mixed feeling,” said Mr Peebles suddenly.

    “Now, listen to the critter!”’ cried Mrs Hetty on a note of tolerant scorn. “Lor’, Mr Peebles, it’s called Mixed Feelings because of the mix-up where the young couples fancy they have fallen for the wrong ones, not for nothing to do with the fathers!”

    “Oh,” he said meekly. “I see.”

    “Oh, but Mrs Pontifex, I do believe he is right!” cried Miss Martin. “Why, how very subtle, Mr Lefayne! For it is a play on meaning on more than one level!”

    “Is it?” he murmured .

    “Of course! You write so cleverly, how could you neglect your title?”

    “Mm; maybe too cleverly: Harold will have it that it’s my besetting sin.”

    “I do not think so. For certainly in this instance, most of us did not see it. Well done, Mr Peebles!” she said with an excited laugh.

    “Thank you, Miss Martin,” replied the clerk, sounding very disconcerted.

    “Mr Lefayne, you should write more!” she cried.

    “Ah—and act less?” he murmured. “No, well, don’t answer that,” he said, as she was heard to gulp. “It don’t pay, Miss Martin. And I don’t fancy scribbling in a garret.”

    “Buh-but you are an artist, dear sir,” she faltered.

    “No!” said Sid Bottomley with a laugh. “I’m an actor, ma’am!”

    Mrs Hetty at this gave a loud cackle, but Miss Martin was silent, biting her lip.

    “What, were you not aware of my feet of clay?” he said lightly.

    “Do not say that,” she said in a restricted voice. “You underrate yourself, Mr Lefayne.”

    “An artist’s life is not an easy one. Perhaps you was not aware of the consequent reality of such, Miss Martin,” ventured the meek little clerk.

    Miss Martin merely bit her lip again, but Sid Bottomley, though he laughed his careless laugh, gave the meek Mr Peebles a sharp glance, and silently conceded that the fellow was not far wrong. And that possibly there was a little more to him than met the eye.

Next chapter:

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