SIDELIGHTS ON A PUBLIC CHARACTER
Mr. Samuel Stillbottle, notebook in hand, with a look of professional
severity upon his pinched features, slowly circumnavigated the
drawing-room, making an inventory of the furniture. He was followed,
step for step, by the deeply interested Caution and Cure, who, finding
the bonds of discipline unusually relaxed, owing to the preoccupation of
their elders, had seized an early opportunity of escaping from the
region belowstairs in which they were supposed to be enjoying their
afternoon siesta, in order to pursue their acquaintance with the
gentleman whom they had christened, on sight, "the funny man." They had
encountered Mr. Stillbottle in the kitchen, and had conceived a liking
for him at once. As appraisers of character their point of view was
circumscribed and their judgment immature; but Mr. Stillbottle's
performance at dinner had won their unqualified respect and admiration.
They had accordingly decided to spend the rest of their lives in his
company, and with that intent in view had laboriously scaled the
staircase, and were now doing their best, by a series of ill-timed
demonstrations of cordiality, to obstruct their new friend in the
execution of his duty.
"Chesterfield sofa--two castors loose--one-fifteen," murmured Mr.
Stillbottle, plying his pencil. ("Run away, that's good children.)
Me'ogany whatnot"--he slipped his hand round behind the piece of
furniture in question--"with deal back, two-ten. Armchair, with off
'ind leg cracked, twelve-and-six. (Run away, that's little dears. Run
away and drown the kitten, or give the canary a shampoo; but don't stand
there starin' at me like a pair of images. I don't like it, so don't do
it.) Now for the 'arpsichord!"
The harassed Mr. Stillbottle began to examine the Welwyns' piano. The
Cure turned to The Caution.
"Funny man!" she reiterated ecstatically.
"Yesh," assented The Caution, who suffered from a slight palatal
affection. "Funny man! Lesh fight him a little bit!"
As an intimation that the approaching combat was to be of the
friendliest description, he first smiled seraphically upon Mr.
Stillbottle (who was looking the other way at the moment), and then
dealt that gentleman a well-directed blow in the back of each knee
simultaneously with his pudgy fists. Mr. Stillbottle, who, owing to his
ignorance of infantile patois, was entirely unprepared for this
onslaught, promptly fell head-first into the arm-chair with the damaged
hind leg, reducing its value by a further one-and-ninepence. Before he
could extricate himself his enraptured admirers had conceived and
partially put into execution the happy design of tickling him to death.
"Now, look 'ere," he exclaimed indignantly, when he was sufficiently
recovered from the suddenness of this outrage to resume an upright
position, "you must drop it! Pop off! I won't 'ave it! If I ketch
'old of either of you--if I ketch--all right, say no more about it! I
believe that little girl 'as got the evil eye," he muttered weakly to
himself. Mr. Stillbottle's nerves were not in good order, and The Cure
had regarded him with unwinking steadfastness for something like five
minutes. "Go and play over there," he urged, almost piteously, "and let
me do my job. Now, where was I? Ho, yes--the pianner."
He submitted that venerable instrument to a further scrutiny.
"_Collard and Collard_," he observed. ("A very appropriate title, too,
for this 'ouse!) Date, about seventy-four or five, I should say." He
lifted the lid and struck a few inharmonious chords. "Not been tooned
since bought. Loud pedal broke, and ivories off three keys. Mouse-'ole
in the back. Say thirty-five bob, or two p--Will you _drop_ it?"
Mr. Stillbottle made this request from the floor, upon which he had
suddenly adopted a recumbent attitude. The Caution and the Cure, having
decided to initiate their idol into what they had always considered the
most consummate jest in existence, had placed a heavy footstool close
behind his heels; and Mr. Stillbottle, stepping back a pace in order to
view the _tout ensemble_ of the piano, had carried the joke to a
successful and rapturous conclusion.
Amid appreciative shrieks of merriment from the twins, their fermenting
playfellow rose solemnly to his feet, and was pausing dramatically for
the double purpose of recovering his breath and deciding upon an
effective scheme of reprisal, when he became aware that the door was
open and that the master of the house was smilingly contemplating the
entertainment.
"You three appear to be having a romp," said Mr. Welwyn genially. "You
are evidently a lover of children, Mr. Stillbottle!"
Fortunately for the delicate ears of The Caution and The Cure, Mr.
Stillbottle was still incapable of utterance. By the time that his two
admirers had been escorted to the door by their progenitor and bidden to
return to their own place, his power of speech had returned; but
perceiving that the time for explanation was now past, the misjudged
romper decided to postpone the refutation of the libel until some other
occasion.
"Be seated, Mr. Stillbottle," said Mr. Welwyn politely.
Mr. Stillbottle selected the sofa, which it will be remembered had been
marked as high as one pound fifteen.
"I hope you had a comfortable dinner," continued Mr. Welwyn.
"Thank you," replied Mr. Stillbottle briefly--"I 'ad."
Mr. Welwyn produced half-a-sovereign.
"I make a point of being punctilious over money matters," he said,
handing the coin to the broker's man. "When our little--er--contract
has been carried to a successful conclusion I shall be happy to hand you
another."
Mr. Stillbottle pocketed the money.
"When may I expect the other?" he enquired.
"If all goes well, about six o'clock this evening."
"I see," said Mr. Stillbottle comprehendingly. "Carriages at
five-forty-five--eh?"
"Precisely," said Mr. Welwyn. "You have hit off the situation to a
nicety." He laughed, in high spirits. His resilient nature had
entirely recovered from the humiliation of the morning. "Meanwhile"--he
produced a sheet of note-paper--"I shall be obliged if you will kindly
commit these notes to memory."
Mr. Stillbottle laboriously perused the document.
"Lord love a duck!" he observed in a dazed voice--"What's this?"
"A list of--let us say, your entrances and exits this afternoon,"
explained Mr. Welwyn smoothly. "You understand theatrical terms, I
believe."
He had struck the right chord. Mr. Stillbottle's rheumy eye lit up.
"Entrances and ex-- oho! Now I begin to take you," he said. "We 're
agoin' to do drawing-room theatricals, are we? Kind o' benefit
matinee--eh?"
"In a sense, yes," replied Mr. Welwyn. "Are you endowed with the
dramatic instinct?"
"Come again!" said Mr. Stillbottle politely.
"Could you play a part, do you think?"
"Could I play a part?" repeated Mr. Stillbottle witheringly. "Could a
duck swim? Why, I was _in_ the profession, off and on, for a matter of
fourteen years."
"In what capacity?" asked Mr. Welwyn, much interested.
"Well, I've bin a good many things," said the versatile Stillbottle,
putting his feet up on the sofa. "I've bin a guest in the palace of the
Dook of Alsatia; I 've bin the middle bit of the sea-serpent--what you
might call the prime cut--in a ballet of fish; and I was once the second
wave on the O.P. side of the storm what wrecked Sinbad the Sailor."
Mr. Welwyn smiled sympathetically. Here was another rolling stone.
"What made you abandon such a promising career, Mr. Stillbottle?" he
asked.
The late prime cut of the sea-serpent shook his head gloomily.
"The old story," he said--"professional jealousy. It started with my
bein' cast for the front legs of a elephant in a pantomime. That was
the stage-manager's bit of spite. My usual place is the _'ind_
legs--and that takes a bit of doing, I can tell you. (The 'ind legs 'as
to wag the tail, you see.) If I was to tell you the number of 'ind legs
I'd played, you'd be surprised," he continued, plunging into an orgy of
irrelevant reminiscence. "Why, I recollect in eighty-four, at the Old
Brit., 'Oxton way--"
"But what was the matter with the front legs you were speaking of?"
enquired Mr. Welwyn opportunely.
"The matter," replied Mr. Stillbottle testily, "was that they was n't
_'ind_ legs. Not bein' used to them, I stepped in wrong way round on
the first night. We got shoved on the stage somehow, but every time we
started to move I ran straight into the 'ind legs. In the end we broke
the elephant's back between us. What was more, we spoiled the Principal
Boy's best song. The audience was much too occupied watchin' a elephant
givin' a imitation of a camel to listen to _'er_. Besides, she was
sittin' on the elephant 'erself at the time, and bein' rather stout, 'ad
'er work cut out to 'old on. She got me fired next day. Said I was n't
sober."
"That was a libel, of course," said Mr. Welwyn soothingly.
"In a manner of speakin'," replied Mr. Stillbottle guardedly--"yes." He
took up Mr. Welwyn's sheet of note-paper again.
"What is all this?" he enquired rather querulously. "Stage directions,
or cues, or what?"
"Everything," said Mr. Welwyn. "Your lines and business, in fact."
Mr. Stillbottle nodded comprehendingly, and proceeded to read aloud:--
"_When front-door bell rings, answer door and show party up, asking
their names and announcing them distinctly._"
"You can do that?"
"I'll 'ave a dash for it, anyway. Then: _Bring in tea and put it on
tea-table_."
Mr. Stillbottle's unsteady gaze wandered round the apartment until it
encountered the table.
"Tea-table, left centre," he remarked to himself. "_Then, at irregular
intervals, come in and make the following remarks to me_:--that's you, I
suppose?"
Mr. Welwyn nodded, and Mr. Stillbottle read the paper aloud to the end.
Then he slowly folded it up, and remarked, not altogether unreasonably,
that he was damned. He added a respectful rider in the French tongue,
to the effect that Mr. Welwyn was _tres moutarde_.
"You understand," said his employer with great seriousness--he had
crossed the Rubicon now, and was determined to risk nothing by imperfect
rehearsal--"you must use your own discretion as to when you come in with
your messages. About once every ten minutes, I should say."
"Don't you think, governor," suggested Mr. Stillbottle, almost timidly,
"that that last stretcher--the one about the shover--is just a bit _too_
thick? Suppose your guests start askin' to see the car--what, then?
You'll be in the cart, you know!"
"It is all right," said Mr. Welwyn. "I am giving the car up, on account
of recent taxation, and so on. It is in the market now, and may be sold
at any moment--to-day, perhaps."
"I beg pardon," said Mr. Stillbottle humbly. "I see I can teach you
nothing." Then he added, conversationally: "Did you ever know a Captain
Slingsby, by any chance?"
"No. Who was he?"
"Another of the lads, like yourself. I thought perhaps you might have
been workin' with him at some time. I came acrost him once or twice. He
was a pretty tough nut. His line was to dress up as a curate and get
himself adopted by rich widders; but he was n't the artist you are, sir.
He 'ad n't your education, I should say. Are the whole family in this,
may I enquire?"
"Er--yes," replied Mr. Welwyn helplessly.
"Ah!" Mr. Stillbottle nodded his head. "I thought somehow that I had
come on a happy visit to the Nut Family as soon as I got acquainted with
your two youngest. Well, it's a pleasure to work with people at the top
of their profession, and I'll see you through."
Mr. Welwyn thanked him, almost inaudibly.
"But when do you suppose," pursued Mr. Stillbottle, transferring his
feet from the sofa to the floor, "that I shall get out of this Dramatic
Academy of yours? I 'ave n't come 'ere for a _course_, you know. Are
you going to touch the tea-party for the money, or let me distrain on
the furniture, or what?"
"I can't tell you at present," said Mr. Welwyn; "but I will endeavour to
arrange something by the evening."
"Well, let me know soon, ole sport," said Mr. Stillbottle--"that's all.
I 'ave my arrangements to make, too, remember. My _word_, look at
Mother!"
This interjection was occasioned by the entrance of Mrs. Welwyn and
Amelia, dressed for the party. Mrs. Welwyn was arrayed in a quieter and
more tasteful fashion than might have been expected. Her costume, which
had been designed and constructed by her eldest daughter, would have
struck an impartial critic as one which made the very best of her age
and figure. Amelia wore a short white frock, with a blue sash. Her long
coppery hair flowed to her waist, and her hazel eyes were aglow with
excitement.
"Father dear, what do you think of the way Tilly has turned me out?"
enquired Mrs. Welwyn gaily.
For the moment her troubles were behind her. For once she was
suitably--and to the outward eye expensively--attired; and the knowledge
of the fact had induced in her humble but feminine soul that degree of
minor intoxication which the materially-minded male usually achieves,
more grossly but less extravagantly, by means of a pint of champagne.
Slowly gyrating for the delectation of her husband, Mrs. Welwyn
unexpectedly encountered the unsympathetic gaze of Mr. Stillbottle. She
blushed red, and ceased to revolve.
"Oh, that you?" she exclaimed, in an embarrassed voice.
"Yes, it's me--what's left of me," replied Mr. Stillbottle lugubriously.
"Wearing me out, this job is."
He displayed his paper of cues.
Mrs. Welwyn regarded him severely.
"It's time you dressed yourself," she said. "I have put my son's
evening clothes out for you--in the bathroom," she added pointedly.
"You had better go and put them on. He is bigger than you, but you'll
manage."
Mr. Stillbottle acquiesced.
"Very good," he remarked graciously. "Wardrobe mistress must be obeyed,
I suppose. I'm beginning to warm up to this part. I shall surprise you
all yet."
"I hope not," murmured Mr. Welwyn devoutly.
"Did you tell him about the name, Father?" prompted Amelia.
"No, I forgot," said Mr. Welwyn. "Mr. Stillbottle, I think this
afternoon that we had better address you by some other name than your
own."
"What," enquired Mr. Stillbottle, with a touch of hauteur, "is the
matter with me own little patteronymic?"
"Just to sustain the character, you know," urged Mr. Welwyn.
Mr. Stillbottle sighed, in humorous resignation.
"All right," he said. "Confer the title."
Mr. Welwyn turned to his wife.
"What do you say to 'Howard,' Mother?" he asked.
"Nothing with an H in front of it for _me_, dearie, if you please,"
announced Mrs. Welwyn firmly. "I can see enough rocks of that kind
ahead of me this afternoon as it is."
"Why not 'Russell'?" suggested Amelia. "Russell Square, you know."
Mrs. Welwyn stroked her resourceful little daughter's hair gratefully.
"That will do finely," she said. "You are Russell," she announced
briefly to Mr. Stillbottle.
The newly christened infant acquiesced listlessly, and rose from the
sofa.
"Now I must tear myself away," he said, "to don me trunks and 'ose and
get up this patter. I'm a slow study. No promptin', I presume?"
"No," said Mr. Welwyn.
"Gaggin' permitted?" enquired Mr. Stillbottle, without much hope.
"Certainly not."
"Very good. So long, everybody. _Exit Russell_, door in back."
With a theatrical gesture, the ci-devant impersonator of elephants' hind
legs disappeared. The Welwyns regarded one another apprehensively.
"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Welwyn.
"We must make the best of him, Martha," said her husband. "After all,
we did not invite him here of our own accord: he _has_ to be present in
the house in some capacity. Still, I admit he is the weak spot in our
enterprise--the heel of Achilles, so to speak."
But Mr. Welwyn was wrong.