LONDON
LAVENDER
AN ENTERTAINMENT
BY
E. V. LUCAS
AUTHOR OF "OVER BEMERTON'S,"
"MR. INGLESIDE," ETC.
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1912
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1912,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1912.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
A CHOICE OF MOTTOES
"... across the field of vision ..."--_Optician's Catalogue_.
"Nothing doing."--_Stock Exchange Bulletin_.
"It is almost impossible to exclude truth altogether.'"--_Observer's
Corner_.
"The mixture as before."--_Dr. William Osler_.
NOTE
Try as I might to prevent it, certain characters from _Listener's
Lure_, _Mr. Ingleside_, and particularly _Over Bemertons_, would keep
breaking into this book.
I have to thank Mr. Cecil Sharp for permission to reproduce the music
on pages 26, 27, and 276. That on pages 143 and 144, also due to his
courtesy, is now published for the first time.
E. V. L.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. In which a new home is found, and the status of anthropoid apes is
carefully determined
II. In which the four gentlemen above us obtain their characters, and
Primrose Terrace is rudely disturbed
III. In which a visit is paid to a red-haired lady, and certain
members of London's foreign population are enumerated
IV. In which I am forbidden to be idle, and therefore find congenial
employment
V. In which we find lovers of two kinds, and meet with a poignant
invention
VI. In which we meet the first-floor-back, and find that the milk of
human kindness still runs
VII. In which Mr. Dabney warms his house with a discussion, and I am
glad to get home
VIII. In which an honest couple who never did anyone any harm are
seen on the brink of the struggle with prosperity
IX. In which the top-floor-back turns out to be an acquaintance, and
schemes are unfolded for the salvation of an effete race
X. In which we find ourselves in the bosom of an English family, and
watch a Utopian in love
XI. In which there is trouble in the house of Wiles owing to a
husband once again getting his own way
XII. In which the first-floor-front unfolds, and some of the secrets
of a remarkable modern invention are laid bare
XIII. In which Mrs. Duckie discusses the duties of life, and Mr.
Bemerton introduces me to certain village pessimists
XIV. In which a jovial party joins England's annual Saturnalia, and a
new Knight philosophizes on his greatness
XV. In which I am initiated into the mysteries of the ring, and am
more bewildered than usual by my countrymen's avoidance of facts
XVI. In which four-legs make much anxiety for two-legs, and Sir
Gaston develops occult gifts
XVII. In which an old gambler (retired from business) tells of a
triumph, and the younger generation in love comes under review
XVIII. In which Sussex voices are raised in melody, Uncle Jonah gives
his memory play, and we meet a Napoleonic Quaker
XIX. In which inadvertently I become a public character and, also
inadvertently, give an opportunist an idea
XX. In which a number of craftsmen discuss their practices, and Mr.
Lacey defines the things that matter
XXI. In which we watch an impulsive good Samaritan's deeds and hear
his self-reproaches
XXII. In which the Wynnes and ourselves make a journey to Italy, and
find the Middle Ages
XXIII. In which we luxuriate in a tideless sea and witness a
bloodless battle
XXIV. In which an experiment is made in quickening the intelligence
of the young, with distressing results
XXV. In which we make the mistake of preferring "rich eyes" to
comfort, and taste the questionable pleasures of a minute Republic
XXVI. In which two modern lovers lay their cases before me, and I do
nothing for either
XXVII. In which a company of intelligent, and, for the most part,
conceited, men meet more than their match
XXVIII. In which we lose a few centuries, and find a living-picture
by Sir David Wilkie
XXIX. In which Naomi communicates a tremendous piece of news, and
"Placida" fights it out with "Lavender" and loses
XXX. In which we journey to the north by nefarious means, and Naomi
and I stumble on a precisely similar feeling
XXXI. In which we meet a Warden and her charges, and hear two or
three stories of stormy voyages on life's waters before haven was
reached
XXXII. In which I at last become acquainted with the top-floor-front
and hear his romantic story
XXXIII. In which I become the very opposite of a thief, yet feel all
a thief's sense of guilt
XXXIV. In which I bring together three men who were due to meet, and
a novel and beneficial scheme is decided upon
XXXV. In which Lavender Falconer enters this life and meets with
general approval
XXXVI. In which Mrs. Duckie employs an annihilating phrase which so
rankles that it seems almost absurd to go on at all
XXXVII. In which a trying ceremony goes for nothing, and a father
puts down his foot
XXXVIII. In which farewell is said to Primrose Terrace, and the earth
finds a new axis
SOME OF THE PEOPLE IN THIS BOOK
ANNIE. An adopted child.
BARBARA. An ourang-outang.
BEMERTON, Joseph. A second-hand bookseller.
CARSTAIRS, John. A recluse.
COLE, Miss. An arbiter.
DABNEY, Mr. A London editor.
DEVON, John. A novelist.
DIMMAGE, James. A carpenter.
"DIRECTOR, The." A folk-song enthusiast.
DRAX, Martha. An inmate of the Pink Almshouses.
DUCKIE, John. A waiter.
DUCKIE, Martha. His wife.
ENGLISHMAN, The. An Italian bathing man.
FALCONER, Kent. The narrator of this story.
FALCONER, Naomi. His wife.
FALCONER, Lavender (Nan). A mite.
FARRAR, Algernon. A young motorist of means.
FARRAR, Gwendolen. His wife.
FREELAND, Nancy. Robert Spanton's _fiancée_ (for a time).
FURLEY, Sam. A maker of cinema films.
GOLDEN EAGLE, The. An innkeeper.
HARBERTON, Edith. Lynn Harberton's wife.
HARBERTON, Lynn. A rural dilettante, her husband.
HAYES, Eli. }
HAYES, Jack. } Ancient Morris dancers.
HEATHCOTE, Adolphus. A young man about town.
INGLESIDE, Ann. Engaged to Adolphus Heathcote.
INGLESIDE, Sir Gaston. A civil servant.
LACEY, Nathan. A good-natured man.
LEIGH, Starr. A novelist.
LOUISA. A Chimpanzee.
MITT, Miss Lydia. The Warden of the Pink Almshouses.
MUGGERIDGE, James. A pipe and tabor player.
MURCHISON, James. See Carstairs.
PACKER, Emma. }
PACKER, Laura. } Twins and landladies.
RUDSON-WAYTE, Mr. A politician.
SANKVILLE, Matthew. A novelist.
SPANTON, Robert. A Socialist.
SPEYDE, William. A novelist.
STILL, Selina. An inmate of the Pink Almshouses.
SURELY, Jonah. A shepherd.
WILES, Mordecai. A keeper at the Zoo.
WILES, Susan. His wife.
WYNNE, Mrs. Frank. A mother.
LONDON LAVENDER
LONDON LAVENDER
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH A NEW HOME IS FOUND AND THE STATUS OF ANTHROPOID APES IS
CAREFULLY DETERMINED
Having once decided--very much against my will (such as it is)--to
leave my old single rooms at Mrs. Duckie's, the question where to
live was before us. Far enough away to make a good walk in fine
weather, was a point on which Naomi insisted first of all, and,
indeed, it was because Mrs. Duckie's house was too near Queen Anne's
Gate that her hostility to it was so firm.
"It's no nearer than it was before we were married," I pointed out.
"In fact, just the same distance."
"Yes," said Naomi, "and look how you suffered for want of exercise."
(Did I?) "No, we must live farther away from it all. That's
absolutely necessary."
By "it" she meant her father's house in particular; Pall Mall; and an
area bounded by the Haymarket Theatre in the South, Kreisler and
Casals in the North, and Bond Street in the West; but we were to be
not so far as to be more than one and tenpence (the frugal young
woman's limit, with twopence for the blackguard chauffeur) in a taxi;
we were to have contiguity to an open space; nice rooms; and a
comfortable landlady who could cook. For we agreed that we wanted no
oven responsibilities of our own, although a chafing dish was to
fortify the menu on occasion.
These were not very exacting conditions, and at 7 Primrose Terrace,
close to Regent's Park, we found as complete an approximation as this
vale of tears and disappointment is equal to offering, the rooms
being large and just vacated by an old occupant with a very high
standard of comfort: a self-protective gentleman of means whom the
gods had, mercifully for us, visited with a nervous breakdown, making
two years' travel in warmer climes an obligation. As that
sententious amateur, Herbert Trist, says, "The art of life is to
succeed a good tenant."
Our landlady is a twin--two sisters, the Misses Laura and Emma
Packer, unmarried, very refined, fragile, and Victorian, who are
assisted in the duties of the house by a worthy rotund woman named
Mrs. Wiles. One of my earliest proceedings after becoming the tenant
having been to take the steps necessary for election to a fellowship
of the Zoological Society of London, you may judge of my satisfaction
to learn that Mrs. Wiles' husband was no other than the head keeper
of the ape house. Here was a friend at court who had it in his power
to make even the Zoo more agreeable.
But, once again to prevent misunderstanding, let me remark that when
we say ape--Mrs. Wiles and I--we mean ape and ape only. For there
are, it seems, persons so lost to nice feelings and etymological
exactitude that they speak of apes and monkeys indiscriminately as
though they were the same, whereas, of course, monkeys are only
monkeys--gibbering unreticent shameless travesties of the worst kind
of man--while apes are without tails, and have a certain patient
dignity, and lay serious claim to the attention of the theorizing
biologist.
"No," said Mrs. Wiles, "not monkeys. Not Wiles. I don't say as how
I am overjoiced when I meet a lady, as it might be Mrs. Johnson last
evening, and after she has asked me what my husband does and I've
told her he's an official in the employ of the Zoological Society,
she says, 'Oh, a keeper, I suppose'; and when I say, severe like, 'A
head keeper,' she says, as they all do, the same two things,
sometimes one first and sometimes the other, but always the
same--'Oh, I hope it's not the monkey house,' and 'Could you possibly
give me two tickets for next Sunday afternoon?'"
Mrs. Wiles now and then stops for breath, although, like most
Londoners, she talks without apparently using any, and this, on our
first exchange of confidences on the matter, enabled me to ask why
she thought the monkey-house query was always propounded.
"I don't know," she said, "but I suppose it's because to most people
the Zoo is monkeys first and foremost. It's the monkeys they want to
see. But Wiles has nothing to do with monkeys, nothing whatever.
Wiles has charge of the apes. I won't go so far as to say I don't
sometimes wish it was lions or elephants, but this I will say, that,
good husband as Wiles is, I don't think I could live with him if it
was monkeys pure and simple--although how anyone can call them pure
and simple, I can't think. Apes are different, aren't they, sir?
Wiles says that apes are the next things to us. Wiles says they have
brains and beautiful natures; but what gives me most peace of mind is
knowing that they haven't got tails. Tails would be too much, as I
often tell him. I've got a bit of writing about it which Wiles found
in a dictionary, and if you'll permit me, sir, I'll bring it round
and show it to you to-morrow morning. I always keep it in the Bible,
handy."
Mrs. Wiles unfolded it the next morning and I read aloud these words:
"In common use the word ape extends to all the tribe of monkeys and
baboons, but in the zoological sense" ("Ah!" said Mrs. Wiles,
smoothing her apron) "it is restricted to those higher organized
species of the Linnæan genus _Simla_, which are destitute of a tail,
as the ourangs, chimpanzees, and gibbons."
"There!" she said triumphantly, when I had finished.
Our opportunities for conversation with Mrs. Wiles come after
breakfast, for it is one of her duties to clear away. Wiles and she
appear to live close by, and she moves between the two houses, first
getting Wiles his breakfast, packing him off to his apes, and
"redding up" her own home; then locking her door and "redding up" the
Misses Packers'; then returning to prepare Wiles's and her own
dinner; and in the late afternoon returning to the Misses Packers' to
help them with theirs and ours. Wonderful creatures, women! There
is nothing done by men to put in the balance against such steady
undeviating dreary mule-work as women cheerfully perform. At least,
not in England. On the Continent you get something like it, in the
small hotels where a man does everything; but not here--not in the
land of public-houses.
The Misses Packer, our tutelary twins, although aware that in Mrs.
Wiles they have a treasure, deprecate her volubility in our rooms.
Like all consciously refined persons, they have no appreciation of
character, and both Miss Laura and Miss Emma have separately
apologized to us for their hireling's familiarity and hoped we will
not allow her to impose upon our good nature. What is to be done
with people like this?--and they are everywhere.
Miss Laura (who claims to be the older by half an hour, and has will
power to justify the claim), although she has been in the
lodging-house business for years and years, still affects to be
ashamed of it. "I can't think what father would say if he could know
what we were doing," is the burden of her life-song. "It's the last
thing he would ever have wished his girls to do--keep a
lodging-house." The paternal Packer, it seems, was related distantly
but sufficiently to a City Sheriff, and himself was for many years a
highly respected messenger in one of the older London banks. In
their more daring moments his daughters have, I believe, referred to
him quite easily as a banker, or at any rate have permitted the
impression that he had charge of huge sums of money (as indeed he
had) to go uncorrected, with the suggestion added that events were at
last too much for him, and, owing to financial depression, due to
vague causes, of which an iniquitous Government was the chief, he
came upon heavy losses and poverty. For anyone may have a father who
was a business failure; but no real lady would confess to springing
from a bank messenger's loins.
Miss Emma, although less assertive than her sister (as becomes one
born so long after), bleats a sympathetic chorus to the lament; and
to her sister's amazement at what father would say could he only see
his girls in their degrading situation, has been known to remark,
"But who knows?--perhaps he does see us!" thus calling up a picture
of the vigilant bank messenger at one of heaven's loopholes with but
this drop of bitterness--his daughters' decline from perfect
ladyhood--in an eternal cup of bliss.
They are, however, good women, the Packer sisters, and one of them
cooks excellently, and if some of God's creatures have brains like
dried peas and no imagination at all, the best of us are not so very
wonderful.