CHAPTER VII

The 'leading juvenile'-His social popularity-His wiles-His trysts His imagination-The Thames Valley-A colony of dipsomaniacs-A young man who lived by his wits.

THE 'leading juveniles' of twenty years ago were a wonderful study. We once had two in the Haymarket company at the same time. Mr. Lancelot had been a 'juvenile' for a good many years-about fifteen, perhaps—whereas Mr. Beaumains had only recently left one of the learned professions to adorn the stage. Accordingly, he watched every action of Mr. Lancelot, even off the stage, in order to learn how to comport himself as a leading romantic West End actor should. If Mr. Lancelot chanced to exhibit a peeress's card amongst the invitations which proclaimed his social popularity from the frame of his dressing-glass, Mr. Beaumains would follow suit to the best of his ability by displaying in the margin of his mirror a request for his company from, say, the lady of a City knight. If Lancelot, during his 'wait,' stood in the prompt entrance, becomingly dressed in sky-blue satin breeches and a laced

ballet-shirt (we were playing a 'powder' piece just then), apparently watching the scene, and all unconscious that he was the cynosure of three pairs of bright eyes in the royal box, Beaumains would appear the following evening in the opposite prompt first entrance, attired in olive silk breeches and a shirt of soft white batiste, and angle for a glance from the corresponding stage-box on the other side.

Once, when we were all assembled in the greenroom, Lancelot burst in with an anxious brow. 'Has anyone seen an envelope,' he inquired, ‘addressed to me in a lady's handwriting? There's nothing in it, only there's a d-d great coronet which somebody might recognise. It's not the sort of thing one wants to leave lying about.' It was never found. But a short time afterwards Beaumains made a similar entrance. Has anyone seen an envelope lying about addressed to me in a feminine hand?' he asked eagerly. It's nothing of importance, only there's an infernal great coat-ofarms outside, and one doesn't want to set people gossiping.' This compromising pièce de circonstance was never forthcoming, either. A minor member of the company wasted the whole of the next afternoon in manufacturing an enormous sort of pantomime envelope, about 30 inches by 18, which he emblazoned with the royal arms in heraldic colours. He chose a moment when both our 'juveniles' were

A CHIVALROUS JUVENILE

127

in the green-room to drop this work of art on the carpet, and then appealed to the company. 'Has anyone seen an envelope addressed to me with a devilish great big sort of escutcheon thing on it? I wouldn't have it create a false impression for the world.' Most of us were amused, but neither Lancelot nor Beaumains took the poor man's jest at all in good part.

One night we were all smoking in Lancelot's dressing-room (in defiance of regulations and fire assurance companies), when his dresser appeared. 'Could I speak to you a moment, sir?'

'Well?'

'It's it's a private message, sir.'

Never mind, you idiot! What is it?'

'Mrs. Overvie-Tracy's compliments, sir, and her brougham will be waiting for you at the corner of Suffolk Street at a quarter-past eleven.'

'You infernal fool!' cried Lancelot. 'How dare you blurt out a private ! Get out!' Then, turning to us: 'I shall have to sack that scoundrel. Conceive his coming and bellowing out a poor devil of a woman's name like that!'

One of the comedians slipped out of the room for a minute, and then came back. Presently his dresser put in his head.

'Could I 'ave 'alf a word with you, sir, on a private matter?'

'Nonsense, you infernal rascal! Never mind these gentlemen. Out with it at once!' cried his master, rakishly cocking his three-cornered hat.

'The Duchess of Redcliffe's compliments, sir, and I was to remind you that the last Putney bus leaves Piccadilly Circus at ten minutes to twelve.'

Lancelot smiled at the wit, but never forgave the satire.'

The unfortunate Mr. Beaumains came to a tragic end. He fell upon bad times some years ago, and, sooner than accept the managerial valuation of his services, he put an end to his life. Poor Lancelot is now so invalided that he gets, I am afraid, but little enjoyment out of life. It seems a very few years ago (and yet it is over twenty) that we were all living in the Thames Valley. Beaumains had a house-boat, so nicely poised that I remember when Corney Grain and I once called upon him he had to shift the refrigerator and buffet to the port side of the saloon before we could sit safely to starboard. Lancelot had a little eight-roomed cottage near Shepperton Station. But he had an imagination which must have been given him by a fairy godmother. The cottage was called 'Montressor Villa.' Lancelot dropped the 'Villa,' and 'Montressor' immediately became-in his mind's eye, Horatio— a turreted, ivy-covered family mansion standing in the centre of a well-timbered estate, with a trout

A DIPSOMANIAC COLONY

129

stream; while at the same moment the neighbouring hired loose-box where he kept his pony became 'my stables,' and the tool-shed where he kept five unruly cross-bred collies 'my kennels.' I one day met Mr. Thurston, the landlord of the Woburn Park Hotel, who pulled up his dogcart and accosted me. 'I beg your pardon, Mr. Brookfield,' he said, 'but I've had a letter from Mr. Lancelot asking me to come over to Montressor" to give him an estimate for thoroughly stocking his wine-cellars. I don't know really where "Montressor" lies, as I haven't been settled in this part of the country long. Could you give me any rough idea as to the extent of the cellarage there?' Well,' I said, 'it all depends whether Mr. Lancelot intends to use the cupboard in the scullery or the cupboard under the stairs. But neither would hold, I should say, more than a dozen and a half.' I believe the ultimate order was for six bottles of whisky, six bottles of claret, a bottle of brandy, and six siphons.

I had a small furnished cottage at Halliford, a tiny hamlet that joins on to Shepperton, on the Thames. In the bar-parlour of the Ship Hotel there used to foregather a wonderful little band of stanch old purple-faced dipsomaniacs-Mr. Fuller (steward over much of the neighbouring property), Captain Tanner, R.N. (retired), Major Belcher (retired), and Dr. Botting (retired, I think, owing