THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.
A Story in Scenes
Scene I.—Breakfast-room at No. 92a, Porchester Square, Bayswater. Rhubarb-green and gilt paper, with dark olive dado: curtains of a nondescript brown. Black marble clock on grey granite mantelpiece; Landseer engravings; tall book-case, containing volumes of "The Quiver," "Mission-Work in Mesopotamia," a cheap Encyclopedia, and the "Popular History of Europe." Time, about 9:45. Mr. Montague Tidmarsh is leaving to catch his omnibus. Mrs. T. is at her Davenport in the window.
Mr. T. (from the door). Anything else you want me to do, Maria?
Mrs. T. Don't forget the turbot—and mind you choose it yourself—and the lobster for the sauce—oh, and look in at Seakale's as you pass, and remind him to be here punctually at seven, to help Jane with the table, and say I insist on his waiting in clean white gloves; and be home early yourself, and—there, if he hasn't rushed off before I remembered half——(Mr. T. re-appears at the door.) What is it now, Montague? I do wish you'd start, and have done with it, instead of keeping Jane at the front door, when she ought to be clearing away breakfast!
Mr. T. Very sorry, my love—I was just going, when I met a Telegraph-boy with this, for you, I hope there's nothing wrong with Uncle Gabriel, I'm sure.
Mrs. T. Don't stand there holding it—give it to me. (She opens it.) "Regret impossible dine to-night—lost Great Aunt very suddenly.—Buckram." How provoking of the man! And I particularly wished him to meet Uncle Gabriel, because he is such a good listener, and they would be sure to get on together. As if he hadn't all the rest of the year to lose his Aunt in!
Mr. T. That's Buckram all over. Never can depend upon that fellow. (Gloomily.) Now we shall be thirteen at table!
Mrs. T. Nonsense, Montague—we can't be! Let me see—Uncle Gabriel and Aunt Joanna, two; the Ditchwaters, four; Bodfishes, six; Toomers, eight; Miss Bugle, nine; Mr. Poffley, ten; Cecilia Flinders, eleven, ourselves—we are thirteen! And I know Uncle will refuse to sit down at all if he notices it; and, anyway, it is sure to cast a gloom over the whole thing. We must get somebody!
Mr. T. Couldn't that Miss—what's her name? Seaton—dine, for once?
Mrs. T. The idea, Montague! Then there would be one Lady too many—if you can call a Governess a Lady, that is. And I do so disapprove of taking people out of their proper station.
"Montague, don't say you went and ordered him."
Mr. T. I might wire to Filleter or Makewayt—but I rather think they're both away, and it won't do to run any risk. Shall I bring home Sternstuhl or Federfuchs? Very quiet, respectable young fellows, and I could let one of 'em go off early to dress.
Mrs. T. Thank you, Montague—but I won't have one of your German clerks at my table—everyone would see what he was in a minute. And he mightn't even have a dress-suit! Let me think ... I know what we can do. Blankley supplies extra guests for parties and things. I remember seeing it in the paper. We must hire a man there. Go there at once, Montague, it's very little out of your way, and tell them to be sure and send a gentlemanly person—he needn't talk much, and he won't be required to tell any anecdotes. Make haste, say they can put him down to my deposit account.
Mr. T. I don't half like the idea, Maria, but I suppose it's the only thing left. I'll go and see what they can do for us.
[He goes out.
Mrs. T. I know he'll make some muddle—I'd better do it myself! (She rushes out into the passage.) Jane, is your Master gone? Call him back—there, I'll do it. (She calls after Mr. T.'s retreating form from the doorstep.) Montague! never mind about Blankley's. I'll see to it. Do you hear?
Mr. T.'s Voice (from the corner). All right, my love, all right! I hear.
Mrs. T. I must go round before lunch. Jane, send Miss Seaton to me in the breakfast-room. (She goes back to her desk; presently Miss Marjory Seaton enters the room; she is young and extremely pretty, with an air of dejected endurance.) Oh, Miss Seaton, just copy out these menus for me, in your neatest writing, and see that the French is all right. You will have plenty of time for it, as I shall take Miss Gwendolen out myself this morning. By the way, I shall expect you to appear in the drawing-room this evening before dinner. I hope you have a suitable frock?
Miss Seaton. I have a black one with lace sleeves and heliotrope chiffon, if that will do—it was made in Paris.
Mrs. T. You are fortunate to be able to command such luxuries. All my dresses are made in the Grove.
Miss Seat. (biting her lip). Mine was made when we—before I—— [She checks herself.
Mrs. T. You need not remind me quite so often that your circumstances were formerly different, Miss Seaton, for I am perfectly aware of the fact. Otherwise, I should not feel justified in bringing you in contact, even for so short a time, with my relations and friends, who are most particular. I think that is all I wanted you for at present. Stop, you are forgetting the menus.
[Miss Seaton collects the cards and goes out with compressed lips as Jane enters.
Jane. Another telegram, if you please, M'm, and Cook would like to speak to you about the pheasants.
THE POET LAUREATE OF THE MUSIC HALLS. A STUDY. [See [p. 33.]
Mrs. T. Oh, dear me, Jane! I wish you wouldn't come and startle me with your horrid telegrams—there, give it to me. (Reading.) "Wife down, violent influenza. Must come without her, Toomer." (Resentfully.) Again! and I know she's had it twice since the spring—it's too tiresomely inconsid—no, it isn't—it's the very best thing she could do. Now we shall be only twelve, and I needn't order that man from Blankley's, after all. Poor dear woman, I must really write her a nice sympathetic little note—so fortunate!
Scene II.—Mrs. Tidmarsh's Bedroom—Time 7:15. Mrs. T. has just had her hair dressed by her Maid.
Mrs. T. You might have given me more of a fringe than that, Pinnifer. You don't make nearly so much of my hair as you used to! (Pinnifer discreetly suppress the obvious retort.) Well, I suppose that must do. I shan't require you any more. Go down and see if the lamps in the drawing-room are smelling. (Pinnifer goes; sounds of ablutions are heard from Mr. T.'s dressing-room.) Montague, is that you? I never heard you come in.
Mr. T.'s Voice (indistinctly.) Only just this moment come up, my dear. Been putting out the wine.
Mrs. T. You always will leave everything to the last. No, don't come in. What? How can I hear what you say when you keep on splashing and spluttering like that?
Mr. T.'s Voice (from beneath a towel.) That dozen of Champagne Uncle Gabriel sent has run lower than I thought—only two bottles and a pint left. And he can't drink that Saumur.
Mrs. T. Two bottles and a half ought to be ample, if Seakale manages properly—among twelve.
Mr. T.'s V. Twelve, my love? you mean fourteen!
Mrs. T. I mean nothing of the sort. Mrs. Toomer's got influenza again—luckily, so of course we shall be just twelve.
Mr. T.'s V. Maria, why didn't you tell me that before? Because I say, look here!——
[He half opens the door.
Mrs. T. I won't have you coming in here all over soap, there's nothing to get excited about. Twelve's a very convenient number.
Mr. T.'s V. Twelve! Yes—but how about that fellow you told me to order from Blankley's? He'll be the thirteenth!
Mrs. T. Montague, don't say you went and ordered him, after I expressly said you were not to mind, and that I would see about it myself! You heard me call after you from the front door?
Mr. T.'s V. I—I understood you to say that I was to mind and see to it myself; and so I went there the very first thing. The Manager assured me he would send us a person accustomed to the best society, who would give every satisfaction. I couldn't be expected to know you had changed your mind!
Mrs. T. How could you be so idiotic! We simply can't sit down thirteen. Uncle will think we did it on purpose to shorten his life, Montague, do something—write, and put him off, quick—do you hear?
Mr. T.'s V. (plaintively). My love, I can't write while I'm like this—and I've no pen and ink in here, either!
Jane (outside). Please, Sir, Seakale would like a word with you about the Sherry you put out—it don't seem to ta—smell quite right to him.
Mrs. T. Oh, never mind Sherry now. (She scribbles on a leaf from her pocket-book.) Here, Jane, tell Seakale to run with this to Blankley's—quick.... There, Montague I've written to Blankley's not to send the man—they're sure to keep that sort of person on the premises; so, if Seakale gets there before they close, it will be all right.... Oh, don't worry so.... What? White ties! How should I know where they are? You should speak to Jane. And do, for goodness sake, make haste! I'm going down.
Mr. T. (alone). Maria! hi.... She's gone—and she never told me what I'm to do if this confounded fellow turns up, after all! Hang it, I must have a tie somewhere!
[He pulls out drawer after drawer of his wardrobe, in a violent flurry.
