The 'Mind the Paint' Girl, Arthur Wing Pinero [librera reader .TXT] 📗

see Jeyes, you won’t——?

Farncombe.

Not a word.

Roper.

Rising and walking away to the left. I’ve warned the others. Returning to Farncombe who has also risen. By-the-bye, if Lily should mention the supper in the course of conversation, remember, she’s not in the conspiracy.

Farncombe.

Conspiracy?

Roper.

To shunt Nicko. We’re letting her think there are to be no outsiders.

Farncombe.

Becoming slightly puzzled by Roper’s manner. Why, would she very much like Captain Jeyes to be asked?

Roper.

Rather impatiently. Haven’t I told you, once you’re a friend of Lil’s——! Looking towards the door. Is this Ma? Mrs. Upjohn enters. Hul-lo, Ma!

Mrs. Upjohn.

A podgy little, gaily dressed woman of five-and-fifty with a stupid, good-humoured face. ’Ullo, Uncle!

Roper.

Lord Farncombe——

Mrs. Upjohn.

Advancing and shaking hands with Farncombe. Glad to see you ’ere again. You ’ave been before, ’aven’t you?

Farncombe.

Last week.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Of course; you came with Mr. Bertie Fulkerson. But somebody or other’s always poppin’ in. Pleasantly. Lil sees too many, I say. It’s tirin’ for ’er. Won’t you set?

Roper.

Lord Farncombe’s brought Lily some flowers, Ma. To Farncombe. Where are they?

Farncombe.

Who, after waiting for Mrs. Upjohn to settle herself upon the settee in front of the writing-table, sits in the chair at the end of the settee—pointing to a large basket of flowers. On the piano.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Barely glancing at the flowers. ’Ow kind of ’im! Sech a waste o’ money too! They do go off so quick.

Roper.

Reading the cards attached to the various floral gifts. Where is Lil?

Mrs. Upjohn.

She’s settin’ to a risin’ young artist in Fitzroy Street—Claude Morgan. She won’t be ’ome till past five. So tirin’ for ’er.

Roper.

Never heard of Morgan.

Mrs. Upjohn.

No, nor anybody else. That’s what I tell ’er. Why waste your time givin’ settin’s to a risin’ young artist when the big men ’ud go down on their ’ands and knees to do you? But that’s Lil all over. She’s the best-natured girl in the world, and so she gets imposed on all round.

Farncombe.

Gallantly. I prophesy that Mr. Morgan’s picture of Miss Parradell won’t have dried before he’s quite famous.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Turning a pair of dull eyes full upon him. ’Ow do you mean?

Farncombe.

Disconcerted. Er—I mean—

Mrs. Upjohn.

Why won’t it ’ave dried?

Farncombe.

I mean he will have become celebrated before it has dried.

Mrs. Upjohn.

’Is pictures never do dry, you mean?

Roper.

No, no, Ma!

Mrs. Upjohn.

’Owever, it doesn’t matter. ’E isn’t even goin’ to put ’er name to it.

Roper.

Why not?

Mrs. Upjohn.

You may well ask. ’E’s bent on callin’ it “The ‘Mind the Paint’ Girl.”

Roper.

What’s wrong with that? Everybody’ll recognise who that is.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Unconvinced. ’Er name’s printed on all ’er photos.

Farncombe.

The first time I had the pleasure of seeing your daughter on the stage, Mrs. Upjohn, a man next to me said, “Here comes the ‘Mind the Paint’ girl.”

Mrs. Upjohn.

Cheering up. Oh, well, p’r’aps young Morgan knows ’is own business best. Let’s ’ope so, at any rate.

Roper.

By the tea-table, beckoning to Farncombe. Farncombe——

Farncombe.

To Roper. Eh? To Mrs. Upjohn, rising. Excuse me.

Farncombe joins Roper, whereupon Mrs. Upjohn goes to the writing-table and, seating herself there, examines the jewellery delightedly.

Roper.

To Farncombe, in a whisper. Do me a favour.

Farncombe.

Certainly.

Roper.

Looking at his watch. It’s only half-past four. Take a turn round the Square. I’ve some business to talk over with the old lady.

Farncombe.

Nodding to Roper and then coming forward and addressing Mrs. Upjohn. I—er—I think I’ll go for a little walk and come back later on, if I may.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Contentedly. Oh, jest as you like.

Farncombe.

Moving towards the door. In about a quarter-of-an-hour.

Mrs. Upjohn.

If we don’t see you again, I’ll tell Lil you’ve been ’ere.

Farncombe.

At the door. Oh, but you will; you will see me again.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Well, please yourself and you please your dearest friend, as Lil’s dad used to say.

Farncombe.

Thank you—thank you very much.

He disappears, closing the door after him.

Mrs. Upjohn.

To Roper, looking up. I b’lieve you gave that young man the ’int to go, Uncle.

Roper.

I did; told him I wanted to talk business with you.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Business? Resuming her inspection of the trinkets. This is a ’andsome thing Mr. Grimwood’s sent ’er.

Roper.

His hands in his trouser-pockets, contemplating Mrs. Upjohn desperately. Upon my soul, Ma, you’re a champion!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Now wot ’ave I done!

Roper.

Well, you might spread yourself a little over young Farncombe.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Spread myself! Why should I?

Roper.

Lord Farncombe!

Mrs. Upjohn.

I treat ’em all alike; so does Lil. ’E’s not the first title we’ve ’ad ’ere, not by a dozen.

Roper.

No, but damn it all—! I beg your pardon——

Mrs. Upjohn.

Beaming. So you ought—swearin’ like a trooper.

Roper.

This chap’s in love with her.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Oh, they’re all in love with ’er; or ’ave been, one time or another.

Roper.

Yes, but they’re not all Farncombes and they’re not all marrying men. I’m prepared to bet my boots that if Lil and young Farncombe could be thrown together——! Sitting on the settee in front of the writing-table as Mrs. Upjohn rises and comes forward. Here! Do talk it over.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Placidly. Where’s the use o’ talkin’ it over? It’s wastin’ one’s breath. Moving to the settee by the piano. My Lil doesn’t want to marry—any’ow not yet awhile; she’s ’appy and contented as she is. Sitting and smoothing out her skirt. When she does, I s’pose it’ll be the Captain.

Roper.

Between his teeth. The Captain! Quietly. Ma, the day Lil marries Nicko Jeyes, you and she’ll see the last o’ me.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Oh, don’t say that, Uncle.

Roper.

I do say it. The disappointment ’ud be more than I could stand. Selfish, designing beggar!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Now, no low abuse.

Roper.

A fellow who gets on the soft side of Lil before she’s out of her teens—before she’s made any position to speak of; and when she has made a position, and he’s practically on his uppers, sticks to her like a limpet!

Mrs. Upjohn.

She sticks to ’im, too. It meant a deal to Lil in ’er ’umble days, reck’lect—receivin’ attentions from a gentleman in the army. She doesn’t forget that.

Roper.

Jumping up and walking about. It’s cruel; that’s what it is—it’s cruel. Here’s Gwennie Harker and Maidie Trevail both married to peers’ sons, and Eva Shafto to a baronet—all of ’em Pandora girls; and Lil—she’s left high and dry, engaged to a nobody! It’s cruel!

Mrs. Upjohn.

She’s not ackshally engaged.

Roper.

Ho, ho!

Mrs. Upjohn.

The ideer was, when ’e shirked goin’ to India an’ gave up soldierin’, so as to be near ’er, that ’e should get something to do in London; then they were to be engaged.

Roper.

Sarcastically. Oh, to be just, I admit he’s in no hurry. He’s been a whole year looking for something to do in London—looking for it at Catani’s and at the Pandora bars!

Mrs. Upjohn.

’E ’as to be on the spot at night, to bring Lil ’ome after ’er work.

Roper.

Exactly! And when a decent, eligible young chap comes along, and means business, he’s choked off by finding Nicko Jeyes in possession. Stopping before Mrs. Upjohn. But, I say!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Wot?

Roper.

Farncombe hasn’t tumbled to it yet.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Indifferently. ’Asn’t ’e?

Roper.

Bertie Fulkerson’s held his tongue about it; so have the other boys who’re friends of Farncombe’s. They see he’s hard hit. Enthusiastically. Oh, they’re good boys; they’re good, loyal boys! There’s not one of them who wouldn’t throw up his hat if Nicko got the chuck. Suddenly. Ma!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Startled. Hey?

Roper.

Dropping his voice. This little spree to-night at the theatre—Lil thinks it’s to be merely among the members of the Company.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Ain’t it?

Roper.

Sitting beside her. You keep quiet, now. No, it isn’t.

Mrs. Upjohn.

’Oo——?

Roper.

The boys—and Farncombe.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Disturbed. Gracious! There’ll be an awful fuss with the Captain to-morrer.

Roper.

Snapping his fingers. Pishhh!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Rising and walking away to the right. ’E’s so ’orribly jealous. When Lil tells ’im ’oo was at the party, there’ll be a frightful kick-up!

Roper.

Falling into despondency. Oh, I dare say I’m a fool for my pains, Ma. Nothing’ll come of it. Rising and pacing the room again. Farncombe’s as shy as a school-girl; he’d be on a desert island with a pretty woman for a month without squeezing her hand.

Mrs. Upjohn.

In an altered tone. Uncle.

Roper.

Hullo!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Thoughtfully. I shouldn’t raise any objection, bear in mind, if Lil could be weaned away from the Captain and took a fancy to young Farncombe.

Roper.

Objection!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Sitting on the settee in front of the writing-table. All said an’ done, to be Lady F., with no need to work if you’re not disposed to, is better than bein’ Mrs. Captain Jeyes an’ ’avin’ to linger on the stage, p’r’aps, till you drop, to ’elp keep the pot a’ boilin’. Opening her eyes widely. Lady F.!

Roper.

Coming to her. And Countess of Godalming when his father dies.

Mrs. Upjohn.

I s’pose there’d be any amount of unpleasantness with the fam’ly?

Roper.

Disdainfully. The family!

Mrs. Upjohn.

There’s generally a rumpus in sech cases.

Roper.

Why, Ma, these tiptop families ought to feel jolly grateful that we’re mixing the breed for them a bit. Look at the two lads who’ve married Gwennie Harker and Maidie Trevail—Kinterton and Glenroy; and Fawcus—Sir George Fawcus—Eva Shafto’s husband; they haven’t a chin or a forehead between ’em, and their chests are as narrow as a ten-inch plank.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Quite true.

Roper.

Farncombe himself, he’s inclined to be weedy. I maintain it’s a grand thing for our English nobs that their slips of sons have taken to marrying young women of the stamp of Maidie Trevail and Gwennie Harker—or Lil; keen-witted young women full of the joy of life, with strong frames, beautiful hair and fine eyes, and healthy pink gums and big white teeth. Sneer at the Pandora girls! Great Scot, it’s my belief that the Pandora girls’ll be the salvation of the aristocracy in this country in the long run!

Captain Nicholas Jeyes lounges in. He is a man of about five-and-thirty, already slightly grey-haired, who has gone to seed. Roper sits in the chair in the middle of the room rather guiltily and Mrs. Upjohn puts on a propitiatory grin.

Jeyes.

Nodding to Mrs. Upjohn and Roper as he closes the door. Afternoon, Mrs. Upjohn. How’r’you, Roper?

Mrs. Upjohn.

Ah, Captain!

Roper.

Hullo, Nicko!

Jeyes.

Advancing. Lily not in?

Mrs. Upjohn.

No; she’s in Fitzroy Street, settin’ to Morgan.

Jeyes.

Frowning. Why didn’t she ask me to go with her?

Mrs. Upjohn.

Dun’no, I’m sure. She’s took Miss Birch.

Jeyes.

With a grunt. Oh? Looking round. Flowers.

Mrs. Upjohn.

’Eaps of ’em, ain’t there?

Roper.

Jerking his head towards the writing-table. Yes, and some nice presents over here.

Mrs. Upjohn.

She’s beat ’er record this year, Lil ’as, out an’ out.

Jeyes goes to the writing-table and Roper and Mrs. Upjohn rise and wander away, the former to the conservatory, the latter to the settee by the piano.

Jeyes.

Scowling at the presents. Very nice. Picking up a case of jewellery. Ve-ry nice. Throwing the case down angrily. Confound ’em, what the devil do they take her for!

Roper.

At the entrance to the conservatory. I may remark that one of those gifts is from me, Jeyes.

Jeyes.

Oh, I’m not alluding to you.

Roper.

Stiffly. Much obliged.

Jeyes.

Coming