Foggerty's Fairy and Other Tales/Maxwell and I
MAXWELL AND I.
It was a dull Christmas night that Ted Maxwell and I were spending, boxed up in our chambers on a top-floor of Garden Court, Temple. Not but that we had plenty of friends in London who were keeping it up merrily that night—friends whose merriment was tempered by the fact that circumstances beyond our control required that we should spend the afternoon and evening in chamber solitude. But that Grand Fairy Christmas Extravaganza, the One-Eyed Calendars, Sons of Kings; or, Zobeide and the Three Great Black Dogs, was due on the boards of a minor metropolitan theatre by ten o'clock on the following night, and there were two scenes still unfinished, and three or four songs still unwritten.
For we were dramatic authors, Maxwell and I. Of course we were a great many other things besides, for dramatic authorship in England is but an unremunerative calling at the best of times; and Maxwell and I were mere beginners. We wrote for magazines, we were dramatic critics, we were the life and soul (such as they were) of London and provincial comic papers, we supplied "London Letters," crammed with exclusive political secrets, and high-class aristocratic gossip, for credulous country journals; we wrote ballads for music publishers, and we did leaders and reviews for the weeklies. I had almost forgotten to add that we were barristers-at-law of the Inner Temple, esquires, because that fact was only brought under our notice twice a year; once when the treasurer of the Inn applied to us for our term fees, and once when the Directories and Court Guides made ironical application to us for information concerning our titles and country seats.
There had been an aggravating rehearsal of our extravaganza that morning. It was then discovered that a "carpenter's scene" must, absolutely, be introduced in order to allow time for the elaborate "set" with which the piece was to conclude. The last scene was, as a matter of course, unfinished; the chorus that opened the piece had not yet been written; and several "cuts" had to be made in our favourite scene. Moreover, the leading lady, Miss Patty de Montmorenci, had expressed her intention of ruining everything if she were not permitted to introduce the "Miserere" from the "Trovatore," after the comic duet between Mesrour and Zobeide; and Mr. Sam Travers, the leading low comedian, had insisted on our finding occasion for him to get over a brick wall with glass on the top of it for him to stick in.
Three or four hours' incessant work enabled us to overcome these difficulties with greater or less success. The "carpenter's scene" was written (goodness only knows what it had to with the plot!); the opening and final choruses were determined on, the necessary cuts were made, and the excised good things carefully stowed away for our next production. Miss de Montmorenci had her "Miserere," Mr. Sam Travers his broken glass.
"Now," said Maxwell, "let's see how that bit goes, after Travers' scene—the bit between Scherazade and Zobeide, I mean."
Scher. One morning early when I sought my bower
Without spec-tater just to cull-a-flower,
I found my cavalier astride the wall,
And in the glass entangled, cloak and all.
And then I heard the wretched youth, alas!
Casting some strong reflections on the glass;
And, after having to perdition booked it,
He first unhooked his cloak, and then—he hooked it!
Zo. You did not see his face!
Scher.Alas! he fled
Ere I could make remarks upon that head;
But as I scanned the footsteps in the mould
With eager curiosity, behold
I found—
"Open the door! For God's sake, open the door!"
Maxwell and I started to our feet. We had "sported our oak," as we did not want to be disturbed, and the voice (a woman's) was accompanied by a violent knocking, as if the applicant were beating at the door with her open palm.
We ran to the door, and as soon as we had opened it a couple of women rushed violently past us into our sitting-room.
"Shut the door—don't stop to ask any questions—shut the door, I say!"
We closed it in mute astonishment. One of the women, the younger, had fallen on the hearthrug in a swoon; the elder was leaning against the mantelpiece, her head resting in her right hand, and her left hand pressed to her side. Both were soaked with rain and splashed with slushy mud, but they appeared to be dressed in clothes of good quality, and made with some taste. The elder woman, as she stood against the mantelpiece, appeared to be about forty years of age, tall, thin, and notwithstanding her pitiable condition, ladylike. The younger woman was evidently her daughter, and appeared, as well as we could judge as she lay crouched upon the hearthrug, to be about sixteen or eighteen years old.
"I beg your pardon for entering your rooms so unceremoniously," said the elder woman, as soon as she had recovered her breath. "If you will allow me to sit down for a few moments, I will explain all."
Maxwell placed her in a comfortable armchair near the fire, and then busied himself in getting out the brandy. I prepared, in a confused sort of way, to pick up the young girl who had fainted, and who, by this time, gave some evidence of returning consciousness. After two or three attempts, I contrived, rather clumsily I am afraid, to get her on to the sofa; and by that time she had so far revived as to be able to express her thanks for the attention. I then saw that the estimate I had formed of her age was rather over than under the mark, for she was not more than fifteen or sixteen at the utmost. She was very pale, and apparently in delicate health; her features were pretty, without being strictly handsome; and she had a quantity of light yellow hair, which fell in masses over her shoulders as I loosened the strings of her bonnet.
"Now," said Maxwell, as he placed a steaming tumbler of brandy and water before each of the women, "put that away, and then tell us all about it."
"I thank you very much," said the elder woman. "We—"
"I'll not hear a word while there's a drop of brandy left in that tumbler. Drink it off directly."
But that was clearly impossible, for he had mixed it on the Jack-tar principle of "half-and-half." So on my representing this to him, he was pleased to pass a more lenient sentence, and to reduce the punishment, in each case, by one half.
"I am very grateful to you for your kindness," said the elder woman. "My daughter and I have fled from the violence of my infuriated husband, who, but for your kindness would certainly have killed us."
"May I inquire the particulars?" said he.
"My husband is a master mariner, and we occupy a house in Essex Street, Strand, where I let apartments. He is a dreadfully violent man, and this evening he was brought home, after an absence of three days, by two policemen, quite drunk. He insisted upon having more drink as soon as they had left, and he gradually worked himself into a frenzy of excitement. It unfortunately happened that one of our lodgers left yesterday without paying his rent, and as soon as this fact came to his knowledge he flew into a violent rage, and struck me here," laying her hand upon her side. "He then seized a life-preserver, and, in an agony of terror, Emmie and I rushed into the street, with the intention of seeking shelter from his violence in my nephew's chambers, which are nearly opposite this house. In my excitement, I could not find them for some time, and we wandered about the Temple for, I should think, a quarter of an hour, before we found Garden Court; and when at length we did find it, we discovered to our great sorrow, that his chambers were closed, and a notice posted on his door to the effect that he had gone out of town for a week. I heard my husband's voice in the immediate neighbourhood, and seeing only one window with a light in it (owing, I suppose, to its being Christmas-day), my daughter and I made our way to it as quickly as we could, and effected the unceremonious entrance for which we have to offer you our humblest apologies."
"If your story is true," said Maxwell, "(and I see no reason to doubt it), you shall have an asylum here until we can place you beyond the reach of your husband's violence. But you are wet through. How in the world are we to remedy that?"
"I have it," said I. "I'll run round to Mrs. Decks, and get a change of some kind for these ladies,"
Mrs. Decks was one of that remarkable and much-abused class of women, the Temple laundresses. She was a pleasant, cheery little old woman, with a quiet chirruping voice, and so big a heart, that you wondered how she could find room for it in her particularly little body. She had "done for" us during the three years we had lived in the Temple, and had nursed me through two severe illnesses. She was our adviser in all circumstances of social difficulty, and the present embarrassment appeared to be, pre-eminently, a case for her interference. So Maxwell agreed that we could not do better than take counsel with her immediately; and I started off to lay the delicate circumstances of our case before her without a moment's delay.
I hurried through the half-melted slush, and driving rain, to Gate's Court, Clement's Inn, where the old lady lived. She was entertaining a select company of launresses and their "good gentlemen," and seemed to be enjoying the gentility of her position as hostess so completely, that I felt I was doing a brutal thing in interrupting her proceedings. It was a case of urgency, however, which could not wait, so I did not hesitate to lay the particulars before her, and claim her assistance.
The old lady had herself had some experience of conjugal existence under difficulties, for the late Mr. Deeks, of no occupation worth mentioning, was much given to knocking her down and dancing upon her, during the twenty years of their married life. His chief cause of complaint was that she was "much too good for him," but a merciful Providence, pitying his conscientious difficulties, had eventually removed him to a sphere in which he probably had no difficulty in meeting with congenial companionship. By virtue of her personal experiences with Mr. Deeks, and the fact that she had lived for many years in a neighbourhood where gentlemen of his stamp are common, she set herself up as a judge of bad husbands, and in that capacity entered with considerable zeal into the study of the case I placed before her.
The old lady made up a bundle of dry clothes with all expedition, and, after apologizing to her guests, started off with me to the chambers.
Our visitors were still drying themselves by the fire, and overwhelmed me with their thanks when I entered with Mrs. Deeks. Maxwell and I then made a hollow feint of having important business in a man's chambers in the immediate neighbourhood, which would detain us half-an-hour or so, and left the two ladies and Mrs. Deeks to their devices.
It was still pouring with rain, so Maxwell and I sat on the bottom step of the staircase, and took counsel together.
"Now, Ted, my boy, what are we to do?"
"This," said Maxwell, who had a turn for stating cases, "is a case of peculiar delicacy. Here we have two bachelors in chambers, to whom, in the dead of night, enter two sopping females—one middle-aged and not otherwise remarkable; the other very young, and I think I may add interesting."
"Decidedly interesting," said I.
"And decidedly interesting. They come round with an account of themselves, which on the one hand, may be as true as gospel, and, on the other, may be a story of a cock and a bull."
"That's not likely," said I.
"I did not say it was likely. I am not dealing with probabilities, I am dealing with facts. Whether it is true or not, the fact remains that two sopping females have quartered themselves on two dry bachelors."
"One dry bachelor and one wet one," was my rather captious amendment.
"Now, don't interrupt me unnecessarily; they were both quite dry when the women entered. The fact that one of them has since been out in the rain cannot be taken to act retrospectively. The two sopping females quartered themselves upon two dry bachelors."
"Be it so."
"The question then arises," said Maxwell, dropping the argumentative form in which he had opened the case, "what the devil are we to do?"
"Precisely. And what do you suggest?"
"There are three courses open to us: firstly, to allow these ladies to occupy our chambers until we can dispose of them satisfactorily, and get rooms at Sams' Hotel for ourselves: secondly, to allow them to occupy our chambers and not get rooms at Sams' Hotel for ourselves—to occupy them conjointly in short; and thirdly, to wash our hands of the whole affair, and, by placing the sopping ladies on the landing and once more sporting our oak, reduce the present complicated state of things to its normal simplicity."
I am bound, in justice to Maxwell, to admit that I believe that he placed his last course before me, simply that the beauty of his argument might not be impaired by the omission of any of its features. As he himself expressed it in reply to my expostulations, he did not suggest it as a prudent course—he simply threw it out for my consideration.
It did not take us long to determine that the first and second propositions alone demanded our serious attention.
"You see," said Maxwell, "you get two ladies and two gentlemen on the one hand, and a sitting-room and a double-bedded bed-room on the other. There is an utter want of proportion between the two groups, to say nothing of the fact that a cold and critical society is looking quietly on, eager to pounce upon and make the most of any step which is not characterized by the nicest discrimination."
"The upshot of all this would seem to be, that we had better let them occupy our rooms until to-morrow, and that the best thing we can do is to go and secure a couple of beds at Sams'."
"That is the conclusion to which I should haye come in time, if you had allowed me to argue it out my own way," said Maxwell, rather pettishly; "but I suppose we had better let our guests know what we propose to do, before we take any further steps in the matter."
So we went upstairs again, and finding from Mrs. Deeks that the ladies were in as presentable a condition as circumstances would permit, we walked in with the intention of obtaining their agreement to our suggestion.
They were sitting by a blazing fire, comfortably wrapped up in shawls and flannel petticoats, while the dresses they had taken off were steaming away on the backs of two chairs. There was a quiet, cosy look about the old chambers, which was partly due to the fact that Mrs. Deeks had laid a substantial supper, partly to the presence of the ladies themselves under circumstances which generated mutual communicativeness, and partly to the contrast that the room afforded to the miserable splashing pavement which we had been contemplating for the last half hour. I daresay that the appearance presented by our visitors, muffled up as they were in Mrs. Deeks's underclothing, would have been sufficiently ridiculous, if it were hot that their pale appealing faces, thinned as they were by hard usage and insufficient food, their utter helplessness in our hands, and an exaggerated sense of the intrusion of which they had been guilty, brought the pathetic side of their case so forcibly before us that even Mrs. Deeks's flannel petticoats were glorified by their association with it.
We sat down to supper; Maxwell doing the host in a pleasant, cheery, country gentleman sort of way, intended to convey the impression that we were not at all taken aback by the events of the evening, and that, in point of fact, this sort of thing happened to us three times a week, or so.
"I beg your pardon," said Maxwell, "may I venture to ask whom I am addressing?"
"Talboys, sir—Mrs. Talboys; and this is my daughter Emmie Talboys. I should have told you our names before, but in the excitement of the events that brought us into your chambers, I forgot to do so."
"Pray don't mention it. I am Maxwell, my friend here is Bailey—Bob Bailey; and now that we all know one another, I'll tell you, Mrs. Talboys, what we—that is, Bailey and I—propose to do. We propose to give up our chambers to you for the night—Mrs. Deeks will see to the necessary alterations—and to take up a temporary abode in an adjoining hostelry—at Sams', in fact. Now, Mrs. Talboys, have you, or has Miss Talboys, any objection to urge to this arrangement.
Mrs. Talboys was, of course, exceedingly and unnecessarily grateful to us for our hospitality, and as the only objection she could urge was the sorrow she should feel at putting us to so much trouble, the matter was soon decided, and Mrs. Deeks received instructions to make our room as suitable to the necessities of two ladies as circumstances would allow, while we finished supper.
We soon became very pleasant and chatty together, a state of things for which, I believe, we were in no small measure indebted to the fact that tea formed one of the items in our repast, and that Mrs. Talboys presided at the tea-pot. There are no circumstances better calculated to make an Englishwoman look and feel thoroughly at home, under difficulties, then the sitting at the head of a table pouring out tea. It is a position that comes naturally to her, and she fits into it as a ball fits into a socket. She handles your tea-pot, and your milk-jug, and your sugar-basin, and your cups and saucers with an air of understanding their various relations, properties, and proportions, to which no bachelor—or married man, for matter of that—was ever known to attain. It puts her on good terms with herself and her surroundings, and Maxwell and I agreed that tea in chambers, presided over by a lady, although in Mrs. Deeks's underclothing, was as different a thing altogether to tea under bachelor circumstances as rum-punch to curds and whey.
Maxwell and I took our leave of Mrs. and Miss Talboys with as much ceremony as if they had been our hostesses and we their guests, and started off for Sams', which then stood opposite King's College. After passing an unsatisfactory night at that dingy establishment, we returned to our chambers to breakfast. Mrs. Talboys and her daughter had, it appeared, passed as comfortable a night as circumstances would permit, and after a pleasant breakfast, we took further counsel with our protegées as to what was to be done.
It appeared from Mrs. Talboys' statement, that her impulsive husband was expected to leave London for Melbourne the next day; so Maxwell and I determined that our course, as far as Mrs. Talbot and her daughter were concerned, was to afford them the protection of our chambers for another night; after which they would be enabled to return to their house without dread of further molestation. This arrangement appeared to set the mind of Mrs. Talboys completely at rest, and she overwhelmed us with expressions of gratitude. She expressed herself, however, with so much anxiety as to the condition of her husband, the lodgers, and the furniture, after the fracas, that Maxwell and I determined to call at the house in Essex Street on our way to rehearsal, and, in the assumed character of intending lodgers, ascertain whether any harm had resulted to the establishment or its inmates in consequence of the previous night's disturbance.
CHAPTER II.
The rehearsal was called for eleven o'clock, and as we had upwards of an hour to spare, Maxwell and I made our way at once into the heart of Captain Talboys' social privacy. The house in Essex Street had all the appearance of a carelessly conducted lodging-house. The windows were dirty, the blinds were awry, one of the area railings was broken, and the place generally conveyed an impression of insolvency, which the presence of a canary in the parlour window did little to remove. The street-door was open, for a drabby girl of fourteen, in ragged brown stockings, was cleaning the steps, and a rusty cat sat by her side, looking up and down the street wistfully with an expression of countenance that seemed to say, "This is a very hopeless concern of ours; I wonder if there's an opening for me at No. 15." That there was at least one inmate, however, whose spirits were not damped by this state of things, was testified by a huge voice that came rolling out at the open door, bearing upon it the refrain of some old-fashioned nautical song, and which ran, I think, as follows:—
"Oh, Jenny, she cock'd her eye at me,
A long time ago!
A long time ago, you lubber!
A long time ago, you lubber!
A long time ago!"
Maxwell and I listened a few minutes, and eventually the singer stopped, and applause, as from a solitary tumbler, appeared to reward his efforts. We then asked the wretched servant-girl, as a matter of form, if Mrs. Talboys was at home?
"No, sir, missis is just gone out, sir. Is it about the lodgings?"
"Yes, it's about the lodgings."
"Master's in sir," said she, "I'll tell him, and p'raps he'll show 'em."
The unhappy girl, who appeared to be suffering from a chronic cold, which she relieved from time to time on the back of the hearth-stone, gathered herself together, and limped into the dining-room, whence the sounds of revelry proceeded. She came out almost immediately, with a ducking, dodging action, as if something had been thrown at her, and told us to step in.
We obeyed her instructions, not without much misgiving, and, passing two corded chests, labelled "Captain Talboys, ship Heart's Content, Limehouse Reach," which stood in the hall, we found ourselves in the presence of the carousers whose voices we had heard in the street. One, evidently Captain Talboys, was a big, muscular, hairy sailor, with a low square brow, a bull neck, great brown hands, and shoulders of enormous breadth. His coat was off, and was lying on a chair hard by. He wore square-cut black trousers, a black satin waistcoat, and thick square-toed Wellington boots. His companion was a small, unwholesome-looking, fat, Jew, with a pasty complexion, black moustache and whiskers, a massive gold chain, and several thick rings on his dirty squabby fingers.
"Come in shipmet," said Captain Talboys, in a thick husky voice, "come in; and what'll yer take? Here's brandy, rum, whiskey, gin, anything. Help yourself shipmet! Yo ho! help yourself!"
"Thank you, I don't think we'll drink anything," said I, as I stumbled over the coal-scoop, which appeared to have been the missile with which the announcement of our appearance by the drabby servant girl was greeted. "We have come about some apartments which you advertise in your window."
"Here, you gal!" shouted Captain Talboys.
The drabby girl made her appearance at the door.
"'Partments. Take 'em up," was the brief form of words in which he explained the object of our visit to the servant.
The fat Jew had been staring at Maxwell and at me rather anxiously for a minute or two, and just as we turned to leave the room he said, "Beg pardon, gents, but I think I'm speaking to Messrs. Maxwell and Bailey, ain't I?"
We had determined on two imaginary names, which we had arranged to give if any names had been demanded of us; but as the small Jew appeared to know us, we were fain to admit the truth of his assertion.
"I thort so. Here, Captain, these gents is Maxwell and Bailey, the dramatic horthers. You've 'eard on 'em, Captain; don't say yer ain't 'eard on 'em! Saw that farce o' yourn, 'Up in the World,' gents. Best thing eversornalmilife! best thing eversornalmilife! You know, Captain; chap up the chimney—you know!"
"Oh, ah!" said the Captain, "I know fast enough."
"Very 'appy to make your acquaintance, gents. I'm Mister Abraham Levy, of the Parnassus Music Hall; p'raps you may have 'eard on me. Any night you like to look in upon me, your card's quite sufficient, gents; either on you, or any friends o' yourn."
I said some matter-of-course words, to the effect I should be delighted, I was sure.
"By the way, p'raps we can do some business together; who knows? Yer 'avent got anything in the comic duologue line on yer hands, 'ave yer? Somethin' that would suit my Bob Saunders and little Clara Mandeville, yer know. You know the sort of thing I mean."
Maxwell and I regretted that we had nothing on hand that would suit him. An impatient growl from Captain Talboys warned us that he considered that the audience had lasted quite long enough; so we beat a rapid retreat, and proceeded, in company with the servant, to go through the hollow form of inspecting the apartments.
I am sorry to say, that the rooms to which our attention was principally directed were at that moment in process of being vacated by a gentleman, who had given notice of his intention to quit on the preceding evening, immediately after, and in consequence of, the disturbance between Captain Talboys and his unhappy wife. There was only one other lodger, an undesirable Irish tenant, whom Mrs. Talboys had made repeated but fruitless efforts to get rid of.
We mumbled out something to the servant about returning to-morrow, and giving a definite answer, and then made the best of our way to the theatre. The rehearsal was unsatisfactory; no one was perfect, or anything like it; properties had to be made, music to be scored and learnt, and comic dances to be decided on. At two o'clock we were all cleared off in order that the rest of the afternoon might be devoted to the last scene—a complicated absurdity, that took ten minutes to develope, and looked, eventually, more like a gorgeous valentine than anything I ever saw. The stereotyped assurance that everybody gave us, that "it would be all right at night," afforded us but little consolation, for we had often heard it before, in cases where it was very far indeed from being all right at night. So we returned to the Temple in evil spirits.
We gave Mrs. Talboys and her daughter an account of Captain Talboys' then condition, and we told her of the first floor's indignant departure. I am afraid that the result of our mission did little in the way of raising her spirits. The fact, however, that the captain's luggage was prepared for sea revived her a little; and it was settled that, if, on our calling the next day, we found that he had joined his ship, Mrs. Talboys and her daughter were to return home. As the day wore on our respective spirits revived; and, after a pleasant makeshift dinner, which we ordered in from the "Cock," we began to look upon our respective prospects with more hopeful eyes. We had a piano in the chambers, and Emmie Talboys sang some simple old English ballads, with a delightful untutored pathos which was inexpressibly charming. Maxwell, who had a fine baritone voice, also employed it to the best advantage; and so with songs and quiet chat we passed the afternoon and evening, until it was time for us to go to the theatre. We left the two ladies in possession of our chambers, and betook ourselves to the first representation of the Grand Fairy Extravaganza of "The One-Eyed Calendars, Sons of Kings; or, Zobeide and the Three Great Black Dogs."
My private impression of the One-Eyed Calendars "is that it was irreclaimable nonsense; but, as everyone had the necessary number of verbal contortions to deliver, and as every song was followed up by a nigger "breakdown," and as the management had the combined maximum of (stage) beauty with the minimum of petticoat, it was practically a great success. The authors were honoured with the customary "call," and the papers on the ensuing day endorsed (as they usually do) the opinions expressed by the audience. It is true that our satisfaction at the favourable character of the notices was somewhat damped by finding ourselves invariably alluded to as "those twin sons of Momus;" but, on the whole, we had no reason to complain of the manner in which we were treated.
The next day on my inquiring in Essex Street, I found that Captain Talboys, his Jew friend, and the two big boxes had taken themselves off. The drabby servant was in a terrible state of mind at the non-appearance of her mistress, who (she now told me) had been absent with Miss Emmie ever since Christmas night. "She was a good missis to her," she said, "and so was Miss Emmie, right good; and she'd go right off to the pleece and have them looked for, if she'd only someone to mind the house for a quarter of an hour." But the woman who usually came to cook had been drunk ever since Christmas Day, and she was at her wits' end to know what to do. And the poor little drab, who had made many gulpy attempts to keep the tears down (for she was a brave little drab), fairly gave way, as her responsibilities stood forth in all their naked magnitude before her, and cried away as if her heart would break.
Maxwell and I made the best of our way back to the Temple, and placed the facts of the little servant's anxiety and helplessness before Mrs. Talboys and Emmie who lost no time in putting on their bonnets and returning to Essex Street, after thanking us most emphatically for our kindness and hospitality. She sincerely hoped that we would kindly call on her from time to time; Emmie and she were always at home in the evening, and they would be most happy if, when we had an evening to spare, we would spend it with them.
******
By degrees Maxwell and I became very intimate with Mrs. Talboys, and we took an interest in assisting her with our counsel, whenever she found herself entangled in a social difficulty with which she was unable to grapple single-handed. For I am afraid that no course of training under the sun could possibly have made a good manager of Mrs. Talboys. She was a mild, weak, good-hearted, unsystematic woman, who was as unfit to manage a London lodging-house as Maxwell and I were to command a man-of-war. A very short experience of the nature of the difficulties with which the poor lady was surrounded, convinced us that she was more or less the dupe of everyone with whom she had dealings. We contrived, in course of time, to establish a system of check upon her lodgers and her tradespeople, we lent her a little money to make a few indispensable additions to her stock of furniture, and we procured her a tenant for her drawing-room floor. In a couple of months after Captain Talboys' departure, matters had so far improved that Mrs. Talboys was in a position to substitute a permanent cook for the intermittent functionary who had hitherto been in the habit of looking in from time to time to ascertain whether her services were required.
We passed a great many pleasant evenings with the Talboys, to the enjoyment of which little Emmie's unpretending musical powers contributed in no slight degree. I have not dwelt at any length on Emmie Talboys' appearance and characteristics, for, when I first knew her, she did not make any very decided impression on me. She had a quiet, retiring, assuming way with her, that appeared rather to shun observation than to court it; and, at first, her extreme nervousness made us feel that the ordinary matter-of-course attentions which we should have paid to any other young lady, would have frightened the poor little woman out of her senses. But as she came to know us more intimately, her extreme shyness wore off, and we found beneath it a sweetness of disposition, combined with a simple unaffected pleasure in our society, which to me was irresistibly charming. She was not absolutely pretty, but her big blue eyes, her thick yellow hair, and the bright smile with which she welcomed us when she came to know us well, stood her in good stead of the advantages which mere regularity of feature would have conferred upon her. I am afraid that I must own that before I had known the little woman many weeks, I fell desperately in love with her. As I have already implied, it took some little time to bring this about; for her beauties of disposition broke upon us so gradually that to have fallen in love with her, at first sight, would have implied the possession of a discrimination of character to which I lay no claim.
They were very pleasant evenings, those that Maxwell and I spent with the Talboys. Maxwell, I think, enjoyed them almost as much as I did. He was not a man who was given to falling easily in love, and, although he was about my own age—that is to say eight-and-twenty, or thereabouts—he had a fatherly protecting way of treating little Emmie Talboys that was really very amusing. He looked upon her as a mere child, and bought playthings and sweetmeats without number for her. He had no hesitation in calling her by her Christian name, as soon as he knew what it was; and his elderly didactic manner caused her to look upon his doing so as a matter of course. We used to sit by the fire-light on the long winter evenings, and Mrs. Talboys would take counsel with Maxwell on such points of domestic economy as had turned up to perplex her during the day, while I sat by the battered old piano, and listened to Emmie's pure and gentle voice, as she sang "On the Banks of Allan Water," "The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington," or some other simple plaintive ballad which lay within the compass of her unpretending powers. Maxwell and I used often to take them to the theatre, to which we had no difficulty in obtaining free admission; and it was refreshing to a couple of battered theatrical hacks like ourselves, who had seen every piece that had been produced in London during the last ten years or so, to witness the childlike interest that the little woman took even in the common-place hackneyed incidents of the wretched farce that played the audience out. At other times, Mrs. Talboys and Emmie would spend the evening with us at our chambers; on which occasions we would ask Cranley of the Home Circuit, O'Byrne of the Advertiser, and one or two other fellow-Templars, to drop in; and then we always wound up the proceedings with an oyster or lobster banquet from Prosser's. We always gave out that Mrs. Talboys was the wife of Captain Talboys (impliedly of the Royal Navy), now at sea; concerning whose health and prosperity, by-the-bye, O'Byrne invariably made well-meant but most awkward inquiries of Mrs. Talboys whenever he met her.
This sort of thing went on for about twelve months. The more I saw of little Emmie Talboys, the more desperately I loved her. I don't think I ever hinted to the little woman in the most remote manner at the existence of this attachment, but I cannot suppose she was ignorant of it. In point of fact I am sure it was marked by Mrs. Talboys, and I am equally sure that she placed no impediment in the way of our being together. I had almost made up my mind to speak openly to Emmie, when an event occurred which upset all my plans.
One morning (it was in the January twelve-month after our first meeting with the Talboys) Maxwell and I returned to London after a fortnight's absence in Liverpool, where we had been to superintend the production of a Christmas piece. Among the letters that awaited us was one addressed to Maxwell from Mrs. Talboys, with a date a week old. He opened it, read it, and handed it to me. It was to the following effect:—
Essex Street, 30th Dec., 1859."My dear Mr. Maxwell,—I have grievous news to tell you of myself. My husband contracted a great many debts before he left England, and as he has not been heard of for twelve months, his creditors have become most impatient. You will be distressed to hear that all my furniture has been seized under a bill of sale, that my tenants have been obliged to leave the house in consequence, and that Emmie and I are absolutely ruined. We start for Chester to-day—we used to have friends there, who may still remember us, and place us in the way of earning a respectable living; God only knows what is to become of us should they fail. Forgive me, dear Mr. Maxwell, for taking this course without consulting you or Mr. Bailey. After your exceeding kindness to me and mine, I am afraid that you will think I am acting most ungratefully in thus leaving London without speaking to you on the subject. But, when I tell you that I do so because I know that your generous nature would have prompted you to offer further assistance if I had placed our case before you, I am sure you will see that I could not, with propriety, have acted otherwise than I have done. If my husband should return soon, my present difficulties may be got over, for he will receive a large sum of money on his arrival; but, in the meantime, Emmie and I must do our best to earn a living by ourselves. Trusting that a very short time will elapse before we meet again, and with the deepest gratitude to both of you for your extreme and, to me, unaccountable kindness, believe me to be, my dear Mr. Maxwell, ever yours, most thankfully,
"Emily Talboys."We were thunder-struck at the contents of the letter: in point of fact, I had to read it two or three times before I could grasp its contents. Some minutes elapsed before either of us spoke. I sank on my armchair, completely overwhelmed at the misfortune that had happened to them and to me. At length Maxwell broke the silence.
"We must take steps to find them instantly!"
"But what, in Heaven's name, can we do," said I.
"Advertise; we will also write to the post-office at Chester—it is not improbable that they will think it likely that we have written there, and will make inquiries accordingly."
"But they don't want to hear from us."
"Yes, they do. Besides, if a woman knows, or believes, that a letter is waiting for her at a post-office, she will go and apply for it, whether she wishes to hear from the writer or not."
Maxwell had an intellectual pinnacle of his own, from which he looked down upon woman and her ways. From some cause or other (perhaps owing to its giddy height) it appeared to be unfavourable for minute examination; at all events, woman at large was one of those topics of discussion upon which Maxwell and I seldom agreed. However, I was only too glad to catch at the small crumb of comfort that he offered me, and I agreed that there might be something in that, too.
We hurried off to the house in Essex Street. It was empty, and a torn advertisement pasted near the door, together with the litter and straw on the steps and in the road, spoke of the recent sale. A notice, to the effect that the eligible premises (adapted for a lodging-house) were to let, and that application might be made to the housekeeper within, or to Messrs. Puddick and Crowby, auctioneers and estate agents, in Catherine Street, Strand, adorned the parlour window.
We made application to the housekeeper, as advised, believing that she would be more likely to give us information about Mrs. Talboys' movements, than Messrs. Puddick and Crowby. However, she turned out to be a sodden old lady, who knew nothing more of Mrs. Talboys, except that she was a precious bad lot, as ought to be rope-ended if all on us had their jew. No, she didn't know nothing about no addresses—Mrs. T. took precious good care as nobody should—and for a good reason, too.
We left this impracticable old female in depressed spirits, and turned our attention to Chester generally. We sent carefully-worded advertisements to the Times and to the Chester papers; and Maxwell wrote a long letter to Mrs. Talboys, Post-Office, Chester, begging her to afford us some information as to her proposed movements, if she objected to telling us her address.
Day after day elapsed, but no letter came to us from Mrs. Talboys. I will not attempt to paint my intense grief at losing my little Emmie. Suffice it to say, that, after six weeks' interval of mental depression, which seriously affected my powers as a writer of light literature, I began to recover my usual spirits, and, excepting that I could never make up my mind to leave the Temple at the Essex Gate, or to look down Essex Street as I passed it in the Strand, matters went on pretty well as they did before the events of which these chapters have told.
CHAPTER III.
Two years had elapsed since the disappearance of Mrs. Talboys and little Emmie. During that time neither Maxwell nor I heard anything of either of them, and I am afraid I must own that they had both completely faded from our thoughts. With the exception of an occasional "Wonder what's become of the Talboys?" they were hardly ever alluded to by either of us.
Time had not treated us particularly well. We had long ago attained that well-known five pounds a week that so many writers of light literature attain, and so few go beyond, and at an average of five pounds a week, apiece, our income steadily remained. Not so, however, our expenditure. I am bound in honour to state, that Maxwell and I were both inconveniently in debt. We were not men of decidedly extravagant habits, but each of us had his hobbies, and a hobby-horse is the most expensive riding that a beggar can indulge in. In our cases, our respective hobbies carried us considerably beyond the constable, and we were obliged to accept all sorts of work to enable us to keep our enemies at bay.
One morning, as Maxwell and I set to work, in extreme ill-humour, to complete a series of "Drawing-Room Comic Songs," which we were doing for a cheap music publisher at a guinea per song, we were interrupted by a single knock, which Maxwell rose, impatiently, to answer. He opened the door and found a flabby, shabby-genteel man in rusty black, waiting on the landing
"Mr. Bailey, sir?"
"No—Maxwell."
"That will do, sir. I have come"
"I know. It's steel pens; I don't want any."
"No, sir, it's not steel pens"
"Then it's ketchup. Be off!"
"No, and it isn't ketchup neither," said our visitor, with an impatient air of injury. "A letter, wait for answer."
And, so saying, he put a dirty, thumby envelope into Maxwell's hands. He opened it, and read as follows:—
"Parnassus, Oxford Street, April 4th, 1863."Dear Sir,—I am in want of a short dualog for two people—self and wife—with songs. Something short and smart, to play twenty minutes or thereabouts, with practical fun, such as suits my audience. My terms for such is a ten-pound note, and if either of you got anything to suit, shall be glad. Must have it by the 6th, as we open with it on the 7th. Please send answer by bearer, and beg to remain, yours, etc.,
"Abraham Levy."Owing to the fact that the demands for light farce had not kept pace with our literary fecundity in that respect we had a good deal more theatrical capital lying idle on our hands than we had at the time when we first made Mr. Levy's acquaintance at Captain Talboys'. So we sent an answer by the seedy messenger, to the effect that we had something that would doubtless suit the requirements of a Parnassus audience, and would look in upon Mr. Levy that evening, and talk the matter over with him.
That afternoon, however, we were favoured with a visit from Mr. Levy, who, having occasion to call at his solicitor's in Clement's Inn, to instruct him to defend an action by the Dramatic Authors' Society for an infraction of copyright, availed himself of the fact of his being in our neighbourhood, to look in upon us, and to arrange preliminaries.
We submitted our plot to Mr. Levy. A lady and gentleman, of high rank, who have been betrothed in early infancy (as is customary in the best English families), but who had taken the deepest dislike to each other, owing to the fact that the gentleman was said to possess an inordinate and unnatural passion for baked sheep's head—a dish which the lady held in aristocratic abhorrence—and that the lady was never happy unless she was devouring peppermint—a confection for which the gentleman entertained the profoundest disgust—meet unexpectedly in the centre of the maze at Hampton Court. The mutual embarrassment and annoyance caused by this most awkward rencontre is enhanced by the fact that, owing to the ingenious disposition of the labyrinth, neither of them is able to find a way out of it. Thus thrown together by a fate with which it is impossible to contend, they determine to put up with each other's society as best they may. The limited area at their disposal is divided into two equal parts by an imaginary line, and each undertakes to keep to his or her own territory until such time as somebody shall appear who can give them a clue out of the perplexing labyrinth. The lady thinks she cannot do better than employ her enforced leisure by singing some of the favourite ballads of her early infancy, and the gentleman (whose tastes are more material) proceeds to devote himself to the lunch, which he has brought with him in a basket. The lady's attention is arrested by his movements, and in an agony of dread at the anticipated appearance of the detested dish, implores him (in a parody on "Robert, toi que j'aime") to postpone his meal until she can escape from the maze. In a comic duet (a community of proceeding not forbidden by the terms of their treaty), he declines to entertain her suggestion, and proceeds to lunch off—not a sheep's head, but a magnificent pâté de foie gras. The whole truth flashed upon her in a moment. A wicked marquis, who seeks her hand, has spread the detestable calumny which has caused her detestation for her betrothed lover! She rushes to his arms and embraces him, and the gentleman, as soon as he has recovered from the astonishment with which this proceeding not unnaturally strikes him, is amazed and delighted to discover that the lady is absolutely free from all suggestion of peppermint. He at once perceives that a wealthy (but hideous) duchess, who adores him, is the author of the abominable rumour that has estranged him' from his beloved—an explanation ensues, and matters end as happily as a comic duet can make them.
Mr. Levy was delighted with the plot, and after suggesting that the gentleman must accidentally sit upon the pie, and put a fork or two into his pocket, and by otherwise misconducting himself contribute to the actual fun of the piece; and impressing upon us that we must on no account go in for "comedy dialogue," he took his departure. The dualogue was duly finished, christened "Love in a Maze," and sent in. By the next post we received a cheque for ten guineas on the Union Bank.
The ensuing morning, as we sat at breakfast, Maxwell, who had been amusing himself with the Times supplement, suddenly sprang to his feet exclaiming,
"By Jove! here's something about the Talboys!" and he handed me the paper, pointing to an advertisement that ran as follows:—
"Talboys or Talbot.—If this advertisement should meet the eye of Mrs. Emily Talboys or Talbot, widow of the late Esau Talboys or Talbot, master mariner, who died in Australia on the 14th or 18th of November last, and late of Essex Street, Strand, she is requested to send her address to Tenby and Campbell, solicitors, Brabant Court, London. Any person who can furnish such a clue to the present residence of Mrs. Talboys or Talbot, as shall lead to her discovery, shall receive a reward of Ten Pounds."
We bolted our breakfast and hurried, as fast as a Hansom could carry us, to Brabant Court. Of course we could give no information as to her whereabouts, but giving our cards, and informing Messrs. Tenby and Campbell that we were intimate friends of the Talboys, they were good enough to tell us that Captain Talboys reached Melbourne in safety, and that he had shortly afterwards made his way to the diggings, where, after several weeks' labour, he had made a find of surpassing magnificence; that he had returned to Melbourne, that he fell overboard as he went up the ship's side in a state of intoxication, that he was drowned, and that his widow was entitled to a sum of seventeen thousand five hundred and sixty-four pounds—the net proceeds of his labour in the gold fields. They further told us that the news only reached them two days since, and that no clue had as yet been afforded as to their present address.
We left the office in good spirits, for the hope that we should eventually hear something of Mrs. Talboys and Emmie revived within us. As we were in the City we made our way to Mr. Levy's bankers, with the view of getting his cheque cashed, for that gentleman's reputation as a pay-master was not so unimpeachable as to warrant our looking upon his cheque as a negotiable security of a wholly unquestionable character. Accordingly, we were not altogether surprised to find it returned to us dishonoured, with the announcement that Mr. Levy had considerably overdrawn his account, and that no further advance would be made to him. So, as we were particularly insolvent at that moment, Maxwell and I repaired the same evening to the Parnassus Music Hall, with the view of inducing him to substitute a cash payment for his worthless cheque.
Mr. Levy was all apology. He had paid a large sum of money in yesterday, and found himself unexpectedly compelled to draw it that morning. But if we would take a seat in his private room, he would see if a sufficient sum of money had been taken at the doors to enable him to settle our claim.
On inquiring he found that up to that time (nine o'clock) only five pounds and some odd shillings had been received, but if we would sit down and make ourselves comfortable, he had no doubt but that he should be able to square it up in half an hour or so. We were fain to agree to this, and placing a bottle of whiskey and some cigars in a tumbler before us, he left us to attend to his duties.
Mr. Levy's private room was situated at the extreme end of the Parnassus, and as the glass door commanded the stage, we amused ourselves by watching the performance until such time as ten pounds should have been taken at the doors.
The principal element of entertainment at the Parnassus Music Hall was comic singing. A stout man, who looked like a churchwarden out of work, occupied the platform as we entered, and sang a series of dismal comic songs, "all of his own composition, sir!" as a waiter informed me.
"I'm told, sir," added my informant, "that that gent is always a-writin' songs in his 'ed. To look at him as he walks through the 'all, talkin' affable to a gent here and a gent there, and a-smokin' with this one and a-drinkin' with that, you'd little think that all the time he was a-composing the verses as he sings five minutes after on the platform. But he is, sir—rhymes and all!"
We listened with increased interest to the singer after this description of his peculiarities. He was extremely political, and was very hard upon Lord Derby, and very patronizing indeed, when he had occasion to allude to the Royal Family—every member of which appeared to enjoy ex officio the advantage of his protection and his encouragement—which was the more remarkable as he was for upsetting every other constituted authority. He touched upon the American differences, and having demolished the North at a blow, proceeded to slap General Garibaldi on the back, annihilate the police system, and to tell us that we had a great many more bishops than was good for us. He was vociferously encored (my friend, the waiter, going into ecstasies over him), and he obligingly favoured us with another of his composition, in which he advised Britons generally to go in for their rights, which he described as,
"A pipe, my brother; a bowl, my brother;
A maiden fair of a beauty rare,
To comfort your jolly old soul, my brother;
Sing cheerily ho! sing ho!"
Then a terrible woman with big bones, a raw brazen voice, and her hair parted at the side, came on to the stage and screamed and roared, and slapped her hands, and danced, and then sang again, and then danced and sang and banged herself once more, which was her energetic way of advising you, under all circumstances of life, to "speak up like a ma-a-n!" And then we had a fiddler who could play under a chair, and over a chair, and through a chair, and on his head, and with his head between his legs, and under all circumstances of contortion under which a man could reasonably be expected to play a fiddle. The fiddler was followed by two Bounding Brothers, who, at first, were so mutually polite (as they bounded about the stage) that you would think they had only been introduced to each other; but when (in the course of the performance) they came to know one another better, you found that the elder brother was haughty, for he repelled the ingenious advances of the younger brother by turning him head over heels in the air. But the younger brother's fraternal love was too strong to be at all affected by these repulses, although as often as he ran up to embrace the elder brother, he was turned about by his unnatural relative in a most distressing manner. Eventually the elder brother began to lose his temper, and seizing the younger brother by the middle, twirled him violently round and round, and eventually threw him over his head, standing over him (as he came down) in a threatening attitude which there was no mistaking. The younger brother, who began to feel that matters were getting desperate, fell on his knees and prayed. The elder brother was softened, relented, clasped the younger brother in his arms, and the two went off, over each other's heads, in a burst of fraternal ecstasy.
A depressed and faded middle-aged lady, dressed in a scanty black silk dress, with a small arrangement of artificial flowers in her bosom, and wearing black mittens on her hands, then stepped nervously on the platform, and began to sing, in a weak faltering voice, a few verses of an Italian song, the purport of which did not reach us at our end of the room. She was suffering from extreme nervousness, and broke down twice or three times in the song she was endeavouring to sing.
I don't think I ever witnessed a more melancholy spectacle. The poor lady was received with an ironical cheer, which, in her innocence, she accepted as a compliment, and every verse was hailed with derisive shouts, which even she was unable to mistake; so uttering an apology to the conductor who appeared to be remonstrating with her in no measured terms, she left the stage amid a whirl of hooting and cat-calls, which did not cease until a Favourite Delineator of Negro Peculiarities appeared, when it changed to a shout of applause.
"Maxwell," said I, "don't you know that poor woman's face?"
"No; I didn't notice her, poor creature."
"It's Mrs. Talboys," said I.
"Impossible!"
"But it is. I'm nearly sure of it. Here, waiter, who was the last singer?"
"What, her as made a mess on it?"
"Yes."
"Bernardini—Madame Bernardini. It's her first night—she's on trial for an engagement. And," he added, "I expect it's her last."
There was little else to be got out of the waiter, so we were compelled to wait until we saw Levy. More comic singers, more acrobats, more niggers, and eventually poor little Emmie Talboys!
She was announced under a different pseudonym to that which her mother had adopted; but I had little difficulty in recognizing her. If anything else were wanted to place it beyond a doubt that Mrs. Talboys and Emmie, mother and daughter, had appeared before me that evening, it would have been found in the fact that the wretched bit of faded finery which Madame Bernardini had worn in her bosom, had been transferred to that of the poor trembling little woman who stood before me.
My heart seemed to rise to my throat as I looked upon the old love I had so long lost. The same gentle timid voice bore the accents of the same old pathetic air to my ears—she was singing, the "Banks of Allan Water"—and the same mild appealing face, sadly changed by privation, looked timidly on the audience as she concluded her song. She was received with insolent cheers, such as had greeted her poor mother half an hour before, and as she left the stage she stumbled, in her nervousness, over a nail in the floor, and fell heavily against the wing.
Maxwell and I started up to seek Levy, and we met him at the door, with our ten guineas in shillings and sixpences in his hand.
"Levy," said Maxwell, "who is that young girl who has just gone off?"
"Ah, Mister Maxwell, what a chap you are!"
"Tell me her name, for God's sake, man!" said Maxwell, stamping with impatience.
"No, no. Mister Maxwell; she's a good girl, she is—I don't like that sort of thing—she's a good girl, and you must leave her alone."
"Confound it. Levy, stop your infernal—no, no, I beg your pardon—there, you're a good fellow, and mean well—I respect you for it, but you mistake my meaning."
"Oh, it's all right, is it, Mister Maxwell? Well, you're a gentleman, and I don't believe you'd do a dirty thing. Her name is Tolboysh—Tolboysh."
"Then she and her mother are old and intimate friends of ours, and they are advertised for in to-day's Times. For God's sake let us go to them!"
"You don't say so! Ve'l now, only to think! Come along with me—come along with me!"
And the good-natured little Jew led the way to the wretched apartment dignified by the title of "Artistes' Room."
It was a square whitewashed room, furnished with a deal table, a small cracked looking-glass, and half-a-dozen Windsor chairs; a pot of coarse rouge with a hare's foot stood upon the mantelpiece, and a well-filled subscription list for an injured acrobat hung upon the wall. The room was strewn with comic hats, banjoes, wigs, and other properties in immediate use by the performers. Poor little Emmie lay on two chairs, nearly insensible, while the vulgar big-voiced woman (who had a big heart too) was bathing a wound in her forehead with a motherly tenderness which would have atoned for her vulgarity twice told. Mrs. Talboys was hovering about her daughter in a helpless anxious way, invoking blessings on the comic lady who had taken the affair into her own hands, and who announced her intention of sending them home in her brougham after it had taken her to do her "turn" at the Polyhymnian.
We were not long in making ourselves known to Mrs. Talboys, and eventually to Emmie. She was at first distressed at our having discovered her under such circumstances, but very delighted to see us notwithstanding. We all went home to her poverty-stricken lodgings in the Camberwell Road together, and when there, we gradually told Mrs. Talboys of the good fortune that awaited her.
It would be affectation to pretend that she felt any sorrow for her husband's death, and we spent a couple of hours that night in mapping out the future which was to be invested with such golden surroundings. They had had a hard time of it since they left London; their friends at Chester had procured her a little employment as a teacher in a National School, but poor little Emmie fell ill of scarlet fever, and Mrs. Talboys lost her situation in consequence. She then advertised as a morning governess, and obtained a little work in that capacity; but she was totally unfitted for the charge of children, and that source of income eventually failed her. Then she obtained a little employment as dresser and wardrobe-woman at a provincial theatre, and eventually little Emmie made her appearance on the stage, but the poor timid little girl failed absolutely. For some months they obtained a precarious living by hanging about theatres and provincial concert-rooms, getting a little employment here, and a little employment there, until at length Mr. Levy, who happened to hear her sing at a provincial music-hall, offered her an engagement in London at one pound ten a week, if, after a week's probation, she should be found up to the requirements of his audience.
That all went merrily with us after this, it is, I suppose, unnecessary to say. We took a pleasant cottage at Twickenham for Mrs. Talboys, with a pretty garden and a lawn sloping down to the Thames, and Maxwell and I used to pull up the river on fine summer evenings after our work was done and take tea with them in the open garden. I leave you to imagine the happiness these evenings afforded me. I leave you to imagine also, that it was not very long before I found out that they afforded equal happiness to little Emmie. And I leave you to imagine how it all ended.