“Well, that’s not Gideon really, but Garrick as Gideon. Very rare. And that with the first fruits is Kean as – is—”
“Yes?”
“As Ever,” I went on hurriedly; “Gideon’s great pal, you know, brother of Always. And Mrs Siddons—”
“Who made her debut six years after Garrick’s farewell… And you’re all wrong about Kean. But don’t let me stop you. Which is Nell Gwynne?”
“Nelly? Ah, no, she isn’t in the picture. But she stopped here once – for lunch – quite by chance and unattended, save for a poor fool she had found in the forest. Hunting she had been, and had lost her horse, and he brought her on her way on a pillion. Be sure he rode with his chin on his shoulder all the time. She never said who she was, but he knew her for some great lady, for all his dullness. Ah, Nell, you – she was very sweet to him: let him see the stars in her eyes, let him mark the blue cloud of her hair, suffered him to sit by her side at their meal, gave him of her fair company, and – and, like them all, he loved her. All the time, too – from the moment when he turned and saw her standing there by the fallen tree in the forest, with her loose hair scrambling over her temples – scrambling to see the stars in her eyes. The day passed, and then another; and then the weeks and months, and presently the years, very slowly. But always the fool saw her standing there in the sunshine, with the dear, faint smile on her lips, and the bright memory of her eyes lighted his path when the way was dark, and he might have stumbled, always, always.”
I stopped. She was looking away out of the latticed window up at the clear blue sky – looking with the look that is blind and seeth nothing. I came round to the back of her chair and put my hands on her shoulders.
“We never finished our scene,” I said gently.
“No?”
“No. You pushed me away.”
“Did I?”
A pause. Then:
“May I finish it now?” I said.
“I expect,” she said slowly, “I expect you know that bit all right.”
“I shall cut it on the night of the performance.”
She leaned right back in her chair and looked steadily up into my eyes. I bent over her.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” she said firmly. “She may be—”
“A goddess. But she won’t be you.”
“No?” she smiled.
“Never, Alice.”
“Promise me you’ll not cut it on the night.”
I groaned.
“But–” I faltered.
“Promise.”
“Oh, all right! But I shall hate it, Alice, hate—”
“A present for a good Hare,” she said softly, and raised her lips to mine.
On examination Pomfret proved to be practically unhurt, and I was able to get some petrol in the village; but naturally I didn’t dare to drive him without seeing to the brakes. It was impossible for my companion to wait while I rectified the trouble, but we managed to raise what had once been a dog-cart, and in that she left for Tendon Harrow. She left, I say, for she would not let me come with her. She was so firm. I implored her, but it was no good. She simply would not be entreated, and I had to content myself with putting her carefully in and watching her drive away in the care of a blushing half-boots, half-ostler, who could not have been more than eighteen.
I got home about six.
“Where on earth have you been?” said Daphne, as I entered the smoking room.
“Ask Pomfret,” said I. “He’s in disgrace.”
“You haven’t hurt him?”
“He nearly killed me.”
“What happened.”
“Lost his temper just because the petrol ran out. Believe me, a horrid exhibition. Absolutely let himself go. In other words, the brakes failed, and I had to run him into the bushes. One lamp and one wing broken, otherwise unhurt. To adjusting brakes – materials, nil; labour, three hours at a drink an hour, three pints ale. Oh, rotten, my dear, rotten!”
I sank into a chair.
“Meanwhile, we’ve had to entertain the Wilson crowd. I suppose you forgot they were coming?”
“I was with you in spirit.”
“In beer, you mean,” said Berry. “Look here, I knew you when you were seven, before you had put off the white mantle of innocence and assumed the cloak of depravity. It has been my unhappy lot to be frequently in your company ever since, and, speaking from a long and distasteful experience of you and your ways, I am quite satisfied that, if you did meet with some slight contretemps, you made no whole-hearted effort to rejoin us in time to degrade your intellect by discussing the sort of topics which appeal to that genus of hopeless wasters which the Wilsons adorn.”
“Was it very bad?” said I.
“Bad?” said Jonah. “Bad? When a woman with six male children leads off by telling you that she keeps a book in which she has faithfully recorded all the amusing sayings of her produce up to the age of seven, it’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”
“Not really?”
“Fact,” said Berry. “She quoted a lot of them. One of the more nutty was a contribution from Albert on seeing his father smoking for the first time. ‘Mother, is daddy on fire?’ Now, that really happened. We had about half an hour of the book. Jonah asked her why she didn’t publish it, and she nearly kissed him. It was terrible.”
“To make things worse,” said Jonah, “they brought Baldwin and Arthur with them, as specimens of what they could do in the child line.”
“How awful!” said I.
“It was rather trying,” said Berry. “But they were all right as soon as we turned them on to the typewriter.”
“What?” I gasped.
“Oh, we had little or no trouble with them after that.”
“Quiet as mice,” said Jonah.
“Do you know that machine cost me twenty-five pounds?” I cried.
“The jam’ll wash off,” said Berry. “You don’t know how easily jam comes off. Why, I’ve known—”
“If I thought you really had turned them on to the typewriter, I should never forgive you.”
“You oughtn’t to say a thing like that, even in jest,” said Berry; “it isn’t Christian. I tell you for your good.”
“Seriously, you didn’t do such a wicked thing? Hullo, where is it?”
“They’re going to bring it back on Wednesday. I said they couldn’t have it more than a week.”
I glanced at Jill, who was standing by the window. Her left eyelid flickered, and I knew it was all right.
“Well, I can’t help it,” I said, sinking back into my chair and lighting a cigarette.
“Poor old chap!” said Daphne. “I believe you thought we had done you down.”
“Of course I didn’t. Is it tomorrow you’ve got to go up to Town, Jill?”
“Yes, Boy. Are you going up, too?”
“Must. I’ll give you lunch at the Berkeley if you like, dear.”
Jill came across and laid her cheek against mine.
“I always like Boy, because he’s grateful,” she said gently.
Three days later our fellow mummers began to arrive. A deep melancholy had settled upon me. I cursed the play, I cursed the players, I cursed my part, and most of all I cursed the day which had seen me cast for Buckingham. Whenever I picked up the book, I saw my queen, Alice, standing there by the fallen tree or sitting looking up at me as I bent over her chair in the parlour of ‘The Old Drum’. And now her place was to be taken, usurped by another – a Miss Tanyon – whom I hated terribly, though I didn’t know her, and the very idea of whom was enough to kill any dramatic instinct I once seemed to possess. Whenever I remembered my promise to Alice, I writhed. So odious are comparisons.
When Daphne announced that the wretched woman was coming by the five-fourteen, and that she should go with the car to meet her, and added that I had better come, too, I refused point-blank.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with you,” said my sister. “Don’t you want to see the girl you’ll ha
ve to play the love scene with?”
This about finished me, and I laughed bitterly.
“No,” I said, “I’m damned if I do.”
When Daphne pressed her point as only Daphne can, I felt really too timid and bored with the whole affair to argue about it, so I gave way. Accordingly, at ten minutes past five, I stood moodily on the platform by my sister’s side. The train steamed in, and the passengers began to alight. Daphne scanned them eagerly.
“I don’t see her,” she said half to herself.
We were standing halfway down the platform, and I turned and looked listlessly towards the front of the train. That end of the platform was empty except for two people. One was a stoker who had stepped off the foot-plate. The other was Alice. She was in blue still – a blue coat and skirt, with a fox fur about her shoulders. A small, blue felt hat was somewhat shading her eyes, but I could see she was looking at me and smiling. I forgot all about Miss Tanyon – she simply didn’t matter now.
Involuntarily:
“Why, there’s the Queen!” I cried, and started towards her.
“Where?” said Daphne.
“Here,” I flung over my shoulder.
A four-wheeled truck of luggage, propelled by a porter across my bows, blocked my way for a moment, and Daphne overtook me.
“So it is,” she said. “But how did you know?”
12: The Order of the Bath
Berry blotted the letter with maddening precision. Then he picked it up tenderly and handed it to me.
“How will that do?”
“Read it aloud,” said Daphne.
I did so.
“Dear Sir, – In the interests of personal cleanliness, we have – not without considerable hesitation – decided to install a fourth bathroom at our historic home, ‘White Ladies’. This decision will necessitate the loss or conversion of one of the dressing-rooms, a fact which fills us with the gravest misgivings, since there are only eleven in the whole mansion. At the same time, the conventions of a prudish age make it undesirable that a second bath should be installed in one of the rooms already existing for that purpose. We think the fourth room on your right, as you leave the back stairs, going south. This is locally known as the Green Room and takes its name, not, as you may imagine, from the fact that the late Sir Henry Irving once slept there, but from the hue of the rodents, said there frequently to have been observed by the fourth Earl. Please execute the work with your customary diligence. We should like to pay on the hire system, i.e., so much a month, extending over a period of two years. The great strides, recently made in the perilous art of aviation, suggest to us that the windows should be of ground glass. Yours faithfully, etc. P.S. – If your men drop the bath on the stairs, the second footman will at once apply for a warrant for their arrest.”
Jill buried her face in the sofa cushions and gave way to unrestrained merriment. Jonah laughed openly. I set my teeth and tried not to smile. For an instant the corners of Daphne’s mouth twitched. Then:
“Wretched ass,” she said.
“The truth is,” said her husband, “you don’t know literature when you see it. Now that letter—”
“I suppose I shall have to write to the man,” said I.
“There you are,” said Berry. “Insults at every turn. I was about to say that I regarded that letter as one of the brightest jewels in an already crowded diadem.”
“Give me the writing block,” I said shortly, producing my fountain pen. I turned to Daphne. “What sort of a bath d’you want?”
“Porcelain-enamel, they call it, don’t they?” she replied vaguely, subjecting a box of chocolates to a searching cross-examination.
Berry rose to his feet and cleared his throat. Then he sang lustily:
“What of the bath?
The bath was made of porcelain,
Of true ware, of good ware,
The ware that won’t come off”
A large cushion sailed into his face. As it fell to the ground, Berry seized it and held it at arm’s length.
“Ha,” he said rapturously. “A floral tribute. They recognize my talent.”
“Not at all,” said Jonah. “I only threw that, because the dead cats haven’t come.”
“Exactly,” said I. “We all know you ought to be understudying at the Hoxton Empire, but that’s no reason why we should be subjected—”
“Did you notice the remarkable compass of my voice?” said Berry, sinking into a chair.
“I did,” said I. “I should box it, if I were you, brother. Bottle it, if you prefer.”
“Poor fool,” said my brother-in-law. “For the trumpet notes, to which it has just been your privilege to listen, there is a great future. In short, my voice is futurist. The moment they hear it, the few who have paid for their seats will realize what the box-office will say when they demand the return of their money.”
“And those who have not paid?” said I.
“Oh, they will understand why they were given tickets.”
“Suppose you write that letter,” said Daphne wearily.
I bent over the writing-block.
“You know,” said Berry, “I don’t think this bath’s at all necessary.”
At this there was a great uproar. At length:
“Besides,” said my sister, “we all decided that we must have another bath ages ago. The only question there’s ever been was where to put it.”
“Of course,” said I. “If we don’t, where are we going to dip the sheep?”
“Well, I think it’s a shame to pull the old place about like this. If we’re so awfully dirty, we’d better find another house that’s got four bathrooms already, and sell White Ladies.”
“Sell White Ladies?” cried Jill.
Berry nodded.
“Not only lock and stock, but barrel too. Yes,” he added bitterly, “the old water butt must go.”
“Look here,” said I. “It occurs to me that this isn’t a case for a letter. We ought to go and choose a bath properly.”
“That’s rather an idea,” said Daphne.
“Simply sparkling,” said her husband. “Personally, I’ve got something better to do than to burst down to South London, and stagger round floor after floor, staring at baths.”
“You needn’t worry,” said Daphne coolly. “I wouldn’t go with you for a hundred pounds.”
Berry turned to us others.
“Yet we love one another,” he said, with a leer in his wife’s direction. “In reality I am the light of her eyes. The acetylene gas, as it were, of her existence. Well, well.” He rose and stretched himself. “I wash my hands of the whole matter. Note the appropriate simile. Install what cistern you please. If approached properly, I may consent to test the work when complete. Mind you spare no expense.”
“We don’t propose to,” said Daphne.
Berry regarded her sorrowfully.
“I suppose,” he said, “I suppose you know what word will be found at the post-mortem graven upon my heart?”
“What?” said Daphne, stifling a yawn.
“Plunge.”
It was quite a good day to choose a bath. True, it was winter. But then the sun was shining out of a clear, blue sky, there was a rare freshness in the London air, and beneath me – for I was crossing Westminster Bridge – old Thames marched all a-glitter. I watched his passage gratefully. It was that of a never-ending band. Playing all the way, too, but silently. Yet, the music was there. The pity was that one could not hear it. The pomp, the swagger, the swing of the Guards, the shifting movement, the bright array – all these were unmistakable. The very lilt of the air made itself felt. Very cheery. Certainly, the river was en fête.
It had been arranged that the selection of an appropriate bath should be made by Daphne, Jonah, and me. When I came down to breakfast to find that Jonah had already left for Huntercombe, I was more hurt than surprised. But, when Daphne appeared during the marmalade, clad in a new riding-habit, I made haste to empty my mouth.
�
�You can’t ride there,” I said. “The traffic’s too heavy. Besides, the tram-lines—”
“You don’t want me, old chap,” said my sister, stooping to lay her soft cheek against mine, as she passed to her place.
I drank some coffee with an injured air. Then:
“This,” I said, “is low down. Not nice. I don’t like it in you. It argues—”
“–the confidence we repose in your judgment,” said Daphne.
“Yes, brother,” said Berry, looking up from The Sportsman. “The bath-dressing-gown has fallen upon your rounded shoulders. Ill though it becomes you, I trust that—”
“Enough,” said I. “Alone I will select a bath. Doubtless you will all deplore my choice as bitterly as you will fight with one another for the privilege of using it. However. When I am dead, you will regret—”
“No, we shan’t,” said my brother-in-law. “We shall just bury you under another name and try to keep the obituary notices out of the papers.”
I sat back in my chair and frowned.
“Be good enough to pass the rolls,” said I.
“You’ve only had four,” said Berry, pushing them across. “Mind you get a good lunch at Lambeth. I’m told they do you very well at ‘The Three Balls.’”
“When I’m choosing a bath,” said I, “I always lunch at ‘The Rising Spray.’” And now, here I was, afoot upon Westminster Bridge bound for the warehouse of the firm we proposed to honour with our patronage.
I passed on into the roar of the crowded streets, and a quarter of an hour later I reached the place I sought.
Almost immediately the office boy took me for a commercial traveller and refused point blank to announce my arrival. I told him that I had an appointment.
“Yes,” he said pleasantly. “They all ’as.”
“Friend,” said I, “I see that you are bent on gaining the feathered fowl. In other words, if I’m kept waiting much longer you’ll get the bird.”
“I don’t think,” he replied somewhat uneasily.
“That,” said I, “is what I complain of.”
I seated myself on a table and lighted a cigarette. Then:
Brother of Daphne Page 19
