A Man's Man Part 40

"Is it business?" enquired Mrs. Gaymer with a touch of hostility.

"Yes," said Hughie.

Mrs. Gaymer surveyed him curiously. To most people she would have said flatly and untruthfully that her husband was unfit to see any one, for she had her own reasons for discouraging visitors to Balham just now.

But she had always cherished a weakness for Hugh Marrable. He treated her exactly as he treated all women--with a scrupulous courtesy which, while it slightly bored frivolous damsels of his acquaintance, was appreciated at its true value by a lady whose social status was more than a little equivocal. It is only when one has secret doubts about being a real lady that one appreciates being treated as such.

"Could you come to-morrow?" she said at last.

"I have to get back to Manors to-night," said Hughie. "Might I come out to Balham this afternoon? Or, better still, will you come and lunch with me somewhere now, and we can drive out there afterwards? Or must you get back to the invalid?" he added, with just a suspicion of hopefulness.

Mrs. Lance, however, expressed her willingness to come and lunch, but insisted on being allowed to precede Hughie to Balham by at least one hour. The house was _that_ untidy! she explained.

Accordingly Hughie, having decided in his mind upon an establishment where he would not be likely to encounter any of his own friends, and which would yet conform with Mrs. Gaymer's notions of what was sufficiently "cla.s.sy," conveyed his fair charge thither in a hansom; and presently found himself engaged in that traditional _ne plus ultra_ of dissipation--the entertainment of another man's wife to a meal in a public restaurant.

Mrs. Lance, after she desisted from her efforts to impress upon her host the fact that she was quite accustomed to this sort of thing, was amusing enough. She addressed the waiter--an inarticulate Teuton--as "Johnny," and made a point of saying a few words to the manager when he pa.s.sed their table. She smoked a cigarette after lunch, and was good enough to commend Hughie's taste in champagne--a brand which he had hazily recognised in the wine-list as being the sweetest and stickiest beverage ever distilled from gooseberries. (It was the sort of champagne which goes well with chocolate creams: "Chorus Girls' Entire," he remembered they used to call it.) At any rate it met with Mrs. Lance's undivided approval, and Hughie realised for the first time that a University education can after all be useful to one in after-life.

Suddenly Mrs. Lance enquired:--

"Do you know any theatrical managers, my dear boy?"

Yes, Hughie had come across one or two. "Why?"

"Well," said Mrs. Lance expansively, "you've always treated me like flesh and blood, which is more than what some of your relations have done; so I'll tell you. After all, I've got me feelings, same as--"

"What about the theatrical managers?" inquired Hughie tactfully.

"Oh, yes. Do you think you could ask one of 'em to give me a shop? The chorus would do. I was in it before," said Mrs. Gaymer candidly.

"Why do you want to go back there?"

"I--I've got a fancy for it--that's all," replied Mrs. Gaymer in a thoroughly unconvincing tone.

Hughie wondered if Lance and his wife were beginning to tire of one another.

"I do know one or two men," he said, "who are interested in some of the musical-comedy syndicates. Shall I try them?"

"Will you reelly? You'll be a duck if you do," said Mrs. Gaymer.

After the deliverance of this unsolicited testimonial Hughie's guest observed that she must be getting home, and Hughie, having put her into a cab and paid the driver, retired to his club, clogged with viscous champagne and feeling excessively unwell, to wait until it should be time for him to follow her.

To look at the double row of eligible residences which composed Talbot Street, Balham, you would hardly have suspected that any of them would support what the Inland Revenue Schedule calls a "male servant." And yet, when Hughie rang the bell of Number Nineteen, the door was opened by such an appanage of prosperity. He was an elderly gentleman with a rheumy but humorous eye, and a nose which suggested the earlier stages of elephantiasis. He wore a dress-coat of distinctly fas.h.i.+onable cut (which, needless to say, did not fit him) and the regulation white s.h.i.+rt and collar, the latter quite two sizes too small; but his boots and trousers apparently belonged to a totally different cla.s.s of society.

"Name of Marrable?" he enquired, smiling benevolently upon Hughie.

"Yes."

"Step in. We've been expectin' of you for 'alf-an-hour. Don't wipe your boots on that mat. It's worth one-and-eight."

After this somewhat remarkable confidence, the Gaymers' major-domo conducted the visitor upstairs. Here he threw open a door with truly theatrical grandeur, and announced,--

"'Ere's the young toff for you, my de--"

"Thank you, James: that will do," interposed Mrs. Lance Gaymer, with a very fair imitation of the manner of a musical-comedy d.u.c.h.ess. "How do you do, Mr. Marrable?"

She was attired in the faded glories of a tea-gown, of a material more pretentious than durable; and in the half-light of the drawing-room--the blinds were partially lowered--looked extremely handsome in a tawdry way.

She apologised for her retainer's familiarity. Mr. Marrable would doubtless know what old servants was. Still, James must certainly be spoke to about it.

"You'll drink a cup of tea with me," she continued, "and then we'll pop up and see Lance, pore boy! Ring the bell, please."

Hughie did so, and a rather laborious quarter-of-an-hour followed. He ploughed his way through a mora.s.s of unlikely topics, while Mrs. Lance, who was obviously perturbed at the non-appearance of tea, replied in _distrait_ monosyllables. Hughie was conscious about half-way through the conversation of a faint crash in the lower regions, and wondered dimly whether calamity had overtaken the afternoon meal. If so, he had no doubt as to which of the domestic staff of Number Nineteen was responsible.

At last the door opened, and the inestimable James appeared.

"You done it this time!" he remarked severely. "The 'andle of that tea-pot 'as came right away in me 'and. It must have been that way this long while. You won't get no tea now. Wot's more, that tea-pot will 'ave to come off the invent--"

By this time Mrs. Lance Gaymer, with dumb but frenzied signallings, was herding her censorious hireling through the door, and his concluding remarks were lost in the pa.s.sage outside.

Presently she returned, smiling bravely. Hughie experienced a sudden pang of pity and admiration. Lance's wife was the right sort of girl after all.

"I _reelly_ must apologise--" she began.

But Hughie interrupted her. He rose, and looked her frankly in the face.

"Mrs. Gaymer," he said, "please don't bother about keeping up appearances with me. I never cared a hang about them, and never shall.

Tell me, what are you doing with a bailiff in the house?"

Mrs. Lance broke down and cried,--more from relief than anything else,--and presently Hughie, much to his surprise, found himself sitting beside her, patting her large but shapely hand, and uttering words of comfort and encouragement into her ear.

Half an hour later he concluded an interview with Mr. Albert Mould, broker's man,--late James, the butler,--in the dingy dining-room downstairs. The latter gentleman, the more gorgeous items of his apparel now replaced by garments of equal social standing with his boots and trousers, was laboriously writing a receipt with Hughie's fountain-pen, following the movements of the nib with the end of a protruding tongue.

Presently he finished.

"There you are, sir," he said, breathing heavily upon the paper to dry the ink. "Twenty-seven, fifteen, eight--and thank you! What beats me,"

he added reflectively, "is 'ow you spotted me. What was it give me away?

Seems to me I _looked_ all right. I was wearin' the young feller's evenin' coat and one of 'is s.h.i.+rts, and I thought I was lookin' a treat all the time. Was it me trousis?"

To avoid wounding his guest's feelings, Hughie agreed that it _was_ his trousis.

"It's a queer trade, this of yours," he said.

"You got to earn a livin' some'ow," said Mr. Mould apologetically, "same as any other yewman bean. It's not a bad job, as jobs go. They carry on a lot, o' course, when you're first put in, and usually the wife cries; but they soon finds out as you won't do 'em no 'arm. You makes your inventory and settles down in the kitching, with a pint o' somethink in your 'and an' a pipe in your face, and in less than 'alf a tick you're one o' the family, a'most. Why, I've 'elped wash the baby afore now."

"Don't you ever get thrown out?" asked Hughie.

"I _'ave_ bin," replied Mr. Mould, in a tone which gently reproved the tactlessness of the question, "but not often. After all, I only come _in_ agin; and it's a matter of seven days for a.s.sault, p'raps, on top o' the distraint. Most of 'em 'as the sense to remember that, so they humours me, as it were. They speak me fair, and give me jobs to do about the house. Still, it were a bit of a surprise when 'er ladys.h.i.+p comes 'ome to-day about two o'clock and asks me would 'arf-a-crown be any good to me, and, if so, would I mind playin' at bein' a butler for a hour or two. I felt a fool, like, dressed up that way, but I always was one to oblige a bit o' skirt. Been weak with women," he added autobiographically, "from a boy. This fer me?" as Hughie opened the street-door and sped the parting guest in a particularly acceptable manner. "Thank you, Captain! _Good_ day!"