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.

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH THE FOUR GENTLEMEN ABOVE US OBTAIN THEIR CHARACTERS AND PRIMROSE TERRACE IS RUDELY DISTURBED

One of the first questions which I put to Mrs. Wiles referred very naturally to the other residents of the house. The twins had severally and collectively assured us that they offered hospitality to none but gentlemen, and that four of the nicest gentlemen living were at present under their roof; but the twins have no discrimination. To them a gentleman is a gentleman—that is to say, a trousered creature who lives on bacon, makes (compared with a lady) no trouble at all, and pays his rent. Mrs. Wiles has a more observant eye, and to her, therefore, I resorted for the finer shades. The house, it appears, has three floors and a basement. The first floor is ours; above are four rooms, two of which, at the back, belong to Mr. Lacey and the two in front to Mr. Furley; above these is the top floor with four more rooms, two of which in front belong to Mr. Carstairs and two at the back to Mr. Spanton.

Of all these, Mr. Carstairs most perplexes Mrs. Wiles, and Mr. Lacey most pleases her. Mr. Carstairs, whom she refers to as "a nermit," I occasionally see on the doorstep—a tall, stooping man, once handsome, with a face as profoundly sad as any of Mr. Wiles's charges. "He does nothing," says Mrs. Wiles. "Retired, I suppose. And no one ever comes to see him. But he's always polite and considerate."

What the gentleman has retired from, I gather, has been this many a day and night the question which has occupied the curiosity of the basement; since what is a basement without interest in floors? That there is a mystery is certain, for has he not those two damning provocations to suspicion—a profound reticence and an inner cupboard of which he keeps the key?

From what Naomi tells me of what Mrs. Wiles tells her, the desire of the basement and its particular friend, Miss Cole (who drops in pretty regularly for a cup of tea), to find the key of this cupboard left by accident in the lock amounts to a passion. If they only knew it, they are foolish; for compared with a closed cupboard, all the open cupboards in the world are negligible. Speculation is as much superior to certainty as anticipation to fruition.

Miss Cole, who is one of London's spinster rentiers, with so little life of her own that other people's lives take the first place in her thoughts, and enough of an income to make her envied by her carefully chosen friends—chosen, as is too often our way, because they are humbler and capable of envy—darkly hints at crime itself, her simple line of reasoning being that no honest person has secrets.

But Mrs. Wiles has no patience with such suggestions. "A secret he may have," she says, "but there's no harm in it, I'll be bound. But that Miss Cole always thinks the worst."

"Of course she does, poor woman," I said. "How would she get on if she didn't?" and was promptly rebuked by Naomi for my cynicism.

But Mrs. Wiles, who is an old campaigner, only laughed. "I believe you're right, sir," she said. "We're a funny lot, aren't we?"

And there, perhaps, is as true an epitaph as human nature could get.

Mr. Spanton, who has the next room to Mr. Carstairs, is a young gentleman who calls himself a Socialist. "But do you think," Mrs. Wiles asks earnestly, "that Socialists ought to have silk pyjamas? And his toilet requisites: like a lady's! But quite civil and pleasant spoken, although rather too particular about his things, and sharp with you if you dust the pictures and leave them crooked, as who that is yuman can help doing?"

The Misses Packer evidently have a very soft place in their hearts for Mr. Spanton. "Such a fastidious gentleman, and of the best family. You can tell that by the places where he gets his clothes. All his hosiery from Bond Street itself, and Miss Cole, who is often in the West End of an afternoon, tells us that she has seen the shop, and the Royal arms are over it. How such a gentleman can talk about the country as he does, and take such an interest in the poor, is a marvel; but Miss Cole, who has a friend in the household at Buckingham Palace and hears all kinds of things, says that Socialism is quite a hobby with some of the aristocrats now. And look at Lady Warwick! Such a beautiful place as she has—Warwick Castle, where we went once with our dear father in a char-à-banc from Birmingham, when we were visiting his sister there. And Guy's Cliff, too, you know. And another day we were at Stratford-on-Avon and saw Miss Corelli's house. Such lovely window-boxes; and there, to think that Lady Warwick should be a Socialist!"