MISS LESTER, OF THE PATENT THEATRES.
Besides Mrs. Potter, to whom she was warmly attached, Antonia had one
friend, an actress at Drury Lane, who had acted in Mr. Thornton's
comedy of _How to please her_, and who had made his daughter's
acquaintance at the wings while his play was in progress. Patty Lester
was, perhaps, hardly the kind of person a careful father would have
chosen for his youthful daughter's bosom friend, for Patty was of the
world worldly, and had somewhat lax notions of morality, though there
was nothing to be said against her personally. No nobleman's name had
ever been bracketed with hers in the newspapers, nor had her character
suffered from any intrigue with a brother actor. But she gave herself
no airs of superiority over her less virtuous sisters, nor was she
averse to the frivolous attentions and the trifling gifts of those
ancient beaux and juvenile macaronis who fluttered at the side-scenes
and got in the way of the stage-carpenters.
Thornton had not reared his daughter in Arcadian ignorance of evil, and
he had no fear of her being influenced by Miss Lester's easy views of
conduct.
"The girl is as honest as any woman in England, but she is not a lady,"
he told Antonia, "and I don't want you to imitate her. But she has a
warm heart, and is always good company, so I see no objection to your
taking a dish of tea with her at her lodgings once in a way."
This "once in a way" came to be once or twice a week, for Miss Lester's
parlour was all that Antonia knew of gaiety, and was a relief from the
monotony of literary toil. Dearly as she loved to assist her father's
labours, there came an hour in the day when the aching hand dropped on
the manuscript or the tired eyes swam above the closely printed page;
and then it was pleasant to put on her hat and run to the Piazza,
where Patty was mostly to be found at home between the morning's
rehearsal and the night's performance. Her lodgings were on a second
floor overlooking the movement and gaiety of Covent Garden, where the
noise of the waggons bringing asparagus from Mortlake and strawberries
from Isleworth used to sound in her dreams, hours before the indolent
actress opened her eyes upon the world of reality.
She was at home this windy March afternoon, squatting on the hearthrug
toasting muffins, when Miss Thornton knocked at her door.
"Come in, if you're Tonia," she cried. "Stay out if you're an odious
man."
"I doubt you expect some odious man," said Tonia, as she entered, "or
you wouldn't say that."
"I never know when not to expect 'em, child. There are three or four of
my devoted admirers audacious enough to think themselves always welcome
to drop in for a dish of tea; indeed, one of 'em has a claim to my
civility, for he is in the India trade, and keeps me in gunpowder and
bohea. But 'tis only old General Granger I expect this afternoon--him
that gave me my silver canister," added Patty, who never troubled about
grammar.
"I would rather be without the canister than plagued by that old man's
company," said Tonia.
"Oh, you are hard to please--unless 'tis some scholar with his mouth
full of book talk! I find the General vastly entertaining. Sure he
knows everybody in London, and everything that is doing or going to be
done. He keeps me _aw courrong_," concluded Patty, whose French was on
a par with her English.
She rose from the hearth, with her muffin smoking at the end of a
long tin toasting-fork. Her parlour was full of incongruities--silver
tea-canister, china cups and saucers glorified by sprawling red and
blue dragons, an old mahogany tea-board and pewter spoons, a blue satin
_négligé_ hanging over the back of a chair, an open powder-box on
the side table. The furniture was fine but shabby--the sort of fine
shabbiness that satisfied the landlady's clients, who were mostly from
the two patent theatres. The house had a renown for being comfortable
and easy to live in--no nonsense about early hours or quiet habits.
"Prythee make the tea while I butter the muffins," said Patty. "The
kettle is on the boil. But take your hat off before you set about it.
Ah, what glorious hair!" she said, as Antonia threw off the poor little
gipsy hat; "and to think that mine is fiery red!"
"Nay, 'tis but a bright auburn. I heard your old General call it a trap
for sunbeams. 'Tis far prettier than this inky black stuff of mine."
Antonia wore no powder, and the wavy masses of her hair were bound
into a scarlet snood that set off their raven gloss. Her complexion
was of a marble whiteness, with no more carnation than served to show
she was a woman and not a statue. Her eyes, by some freak of heredity,
were not black, like her mother's--whom she resembled in every other
feature--but of a sapphire blue, the blue of Irish eyes, luminous
yet soft, changeful, capricious, capable of dazzling joyousness, of
profoundest melancholy. Brown-eyed, auburn-headed Patty looked at her
young friend with an admiration which would have been envious had she
been capable of ill-nature.
"How confoundedly handsome you are to-day!" she exclaimed; "and in that
gown too! I think the shabbier your clothes are the lovelier you look.
You'll be cutting me out with my old General."
"Your General has seen me a dozen times, and thinks no more of me than
if I were a plaster image."
"Because you never open your lips before company, except to say yes or
no, like a long-headed witness in the box. I wonder you don't go on the
stage, Tonia. If you were ever so stupid at the trade your looks would
get you a hearing and a salary."
"Am I really handsome?" Tonia asked, with calm wonder.
She had been somewhat troubled of late by the too florid compliments
of booksellers and their assistants, whom she saw on her father's
business; but she concluded it was their way of affecting gallantry
with every woman under fifty. She had a temper that repelled
disagreeable attentions, and kept the boldest admirer at arm's length.
"Handsome? You are the beautifullest creature I ever saw, and I would
chop ten years off my old age to be as handsome, though most folks
calls me a pretty woman," added Patty, bridling a little, and pursing
up a cherry mouth.
She was a pink-and-white girl, with a complexion like new milk, and
cheeks like cabbage-roses. She had a supple waist, plump shoulders,
and a neat foot and ankle, and was a capable actress in all secondary
characters. She couldn't carry a great playhouse on her shoulders, or
make a dull play seem inspired, as Mrs. Pritchard could; or take the
town by storm as Juliet, like Miss Bellamy.
"Well, I doubt my looks will never win me a fortune; but I hope I may
earn money from the booksellers before long, as father does."
"Sure 'tis a drudging life--and you'd be happier in the theatre."
"Not I, Patty. I should be miserable away from my books, and not to be
my own mistress. I work hard, and tramp to the city sometimes when my
feet are weary of the stones; but father and I are free creatures, and
our evenings are our own."
"Precious dull evenings," said Patty, with her elbows on the table
and her face beaming at her friend. "Have a bit more muffin. I wonder
you're not _awnweed_ to death."
"I do feel a little _triste_ sometimes, when the wind howls in the
chimney, and every one in the house but me is in bed, and I have been
alone all the evening."
"Which you are always."
"Father has to go to his club to hear the news. And 'tis his only
recreation. But though I love my books, and to sit with my feet on
the fender and read Shakespeare, I should love just once in a way to
see what people are like; the women I see through their open windows
on summer nights--such handsome faces, such flashing jewels, and with
snowy feathers nodding over their powdered heads----"
"You should see them at Ranelagh. Why does not your father take you to
Ranelagh? He could get a ticket from one of the fine gentlemen whose
speeches he writes. I saw him talking to Lord Kilrush in the wings
t'other night."
"Who is Lord Kilrush?"
"One of the finest gentlemen in town, and a favourite with all the
women, though he is nearer fifty than forty."
"An old man?"
"_You_ would call him so," said Patty, with a sigh, conscious of her
nine and twenty years. "He'd give your father a ticket for Ranelagh,
I'll warrant."
Tonia looked down at her brown stuff gown, and laughed the laugh of
scorn.
"Ranelagh, in this gown!" she said.
"You should wear one of mine."
"Good dear, 'twould not reach my ankles!"
"I grant there's overmuch of you. Little David called you the Anakim
Venus when he caught sight of you at the side scenes. 'Who's that
magnificent giantess?' he asked."
"The people of Lilliput took Captain Gulliver for a giant, and the
Brobdignagians thought him a dwarf. 'Tis a question of comparison,"
replied Tonia, huffed at the manager's criticism.
"Nay, don't be vexed, child. 'Tis a feather in your cap for Garrick to
give you a second thought. Well, if Ranelagh won't suit, there is Mrs.
Mandalay's dancing-room. She has a ball twice a week in the season,
and a masquerade once a fortnight. You can borrow a domino from the
costumier in the Piazza for the outlay of half a dozen shillings."
"Do the women of fashion go to Mrs. Mandalay's?"
"All the town goes there."
"Then I'll beg my father to take me. I am helping him with his new
comedy, and I want to see what modish people are like--off the stage."
"Not half so witty as they are on it. Is there a part for me in the new
play?"
Patty would have asked that question of Shakespeare's ghost had he
returned to earth to write a new Hamlet. It was her only idea in
association with the drama.
"Indeed, Patty, there is an impudent romp of quality you would act to
perfection."
"I love a romp," cried Patty, clapping her hands. "Give me a pinafore
and a pair of scarlet shoes, and I am on fire with genius. I hope David
will bring out your dad's play, and that 'twill run a month."
"If it did he would give me a silk gown, and I might see Ranelagh."
"He is not a bad father, is he, Tonia?"
"Bad! There was never a kinder father."
"But he lets you work hard."
"I love the work next best to him that sets me to it."
"And he has been your only schoolmaster, and you are clever enough to
frighten a simpleton like me."
"Nay, Patty, you are the cleverest, for you can do things--act, sing,
dance. Mine is only book-learning; but such as it is, I owe it all to
my father."
"I hate books. 'Twas as much as I could do to learn to read. But
there's one matter in which your father has been unkind to you."
"No, no--in nothing."
"Yes," said Patty, shaking her head solemnly, "he has brought you up an
atheist, never to go to church, not even on Christmas Day; and to read
Voltaire"--with a shudder.
"Do you go to church, Patty? 'Tis handy enough to your lodgings."
"Oh, I am too tired of a Sunday morning, after acting six nights in a
week; for if Bellamy and Pritchard are out of the bill and going out
a-visiting, and strutting and grimacing in fine company, there's always
a part for a scrub like me; and if I'm not in the play I'm in the
burletta."
"And do you think you're any wickeder for not going to church twice
every Sunday?"
"I always go at Christmas and at Easter," protested Patty, "and I
feel myself a better woman for going. You've been brought up to hate
religion."
"No, Patty, only to hate the fuss that's made about it, and the
cruelties men have done to each other, ever since the world began, in
its name."
"I wouldn't read Voltaire if I was you," said Patty. "The General told
me 'twas an impious, indecent book."
"Voltaire is the author of more than forty books, Patty."
"Oh, is it an author? I thought 'twas the name of a novel, like 'Tom
Jones,' only more impudent."
There came a knock at the door, and this time Patty knew it was her old
General.
"Stop out, Beast!" she cried. "There's nobody at home to an old fool!"
upon which courteous greeting the ancient warrior entered smiling.
"Was there ever such a witty puss?" he exclaimed. "I kiss Mrs.
Grimalkin's velvet paw. Pray how many mice has Minette crunched since
breakfast?"
His favourite jest was to attribute feline attributes to Patty, whose
appreciation of his humour rose or fell in unison with his generosity.
A pair of white gloves worked with silver thread, or a handsome ribbon
for her hair secured her laughter and applause.
To-day Patty's keen glance showed her that the General was
empty-handed. He had not brought her so much as a violet posy. He
saluted Antonia with his stateliest bow, blinking at her curiously, but
too short-sighted to be aware of her beauty in the dim light of the
parlour, where evening shadows were creeping over the panelled walls.
Patty set the kettle on the fire and washed out the little china
teapot, while she talked to her ancient admirer. He liked to watch
her kitten-like movements, her trim sprightly ways, to take a cup of
weak tea from her hand, and to tell her his news of the town, which
was mostly wrong, but which she always believed. She thought him a
foolish old person, but the pink of fashion. His talk was a diluted
edition of the news we read in Walpole's letters--talk of St. James's
and Leicester House, of the old king and his grandson, newly created
Prince of Wales, of the widowed princess and Lord Bute, of a score of
patrician belles whose histories were more or less scandalous, and of
those two young women from Dublin, the penniless Gunnings, whose beauty
had set the town in a blaze--sisters so equal in perfection that no two
people were of a mind as to which was the handsomer.
Tonia had met the General often, and knew his capacity for being
interesting. She rose and bade her friend good-bye.
"Nay, child, 'tis ill manners to leave me directly I have company. The
General and I have no secrets."
"My Minette is a cautious puss, and will never confess to the
singing-birds she has killed," said the dodderer.
Tonia protested that her father would be at home and wanting her. She
saluted the soldier with her stateliest curtsey, and departed with the
resolute _aplomb_ of a duchess.
"Your friend's grand manners go ill with her shabby gown," said the
General. "With her fine figure she should do well on the stage."
"There is too much of her, General. She is too tall by a head for an
actress. 'Tis delicate little women look best behind the lamps."
* * * * *
Thornton was fond of his daughter, and had never said an unkind word to
her; but he had no scruples about letting her work for him, having a
fixed idea that youth has an inexhaustible fund of health and strength
upon which age can never overdraw. He was proud of her mental powers,
and believed that to help a hack-scribbler with his multifarious
contributions to magazines and newspapers was the finest education
possible for her. If they went to the playhouse together 'twas she who
wrote a critique on the players next morning, while her father slept.
Dramatic criticism in those days was but scurvily treated by the Press,
and Tonia was apt to expatiate beyond the limits allowed by an editor,
and was mortified to see her opinions reduced to the baldest comment.
She talked to her father of Mrs. Mandalay's dancing-rooms. He knew
there was such a place, but doubted whether 'twas a reputable resort.
He promised to make inquiries, and thus delayed matters, without the
unkindness of a refusal. Tonia was helping him with a comedy for
Drury Lane--indeed, was writing the whole play, his part of the work
consisting chiefly in running his pen across Tonia's scenes, and
bidding her write them again in accord with his suggestions, which she
did with equal meekness and facility. He grew a little lazier every day
as he discovered his daughter's talent, and encouraged her to labour
for him. He praised himself for having taught her Spanish, so that she
had the best comedies in the world, as he thought, at her fingers'
ends.
It was for the sake of the comedy Tonia urged her desire to see the
_beau monde_.
"'Tis dreadful to write about people of fashion when one has never seen
any," she said.
"Nay, child, there's no society in Europe will provide you better
models than you'll find in yonder duodecimos," her father would say,
pointing to Congreve and Farquhar. "Mrs. Millamant is a finer lady than
any duchess in London."
"Mrs. Millamant is half a century old, and says things that would make
people hate her if she was alive now."
"Faith, we are getting vastly genteel; and I suppose by-and-by we shall
have plays as decently dull as Sam Richardson's novels, without a joke
or an oath from start to finish," protested Thornton.
It was more than a month after Tonia's first appeal that her father
came home to dinner one afternoon in high spirits, and clapped a couple
of tickets on the tablecloth by his daughter's plate.
"Look there, slut!" he cried. "I seized my first chance of obliging
you. There is a masked ball at Mrs. Mandalay's to-night, and I waited
upon my old friend Lord Kilrush on purpose to ask him for tickets; and
now you have only to run to the costumier's and borrow a domino and a
mask, and see that there are no holes in your stockings."
"I always mend my stockings before the holes come," Antonia said
reproachfully.
"You are an indefatigable wench! Come, there's a guinea for you;
perhaps you can squeeze a pair of court shoes out of it, as well as the
hire of the domino."
"You are a dear, dear, dearest dad! I'll ask Patty to go to the
costumier's with me. She will get me a good pennyworth."