An' besides, Miss - I hope you'll forgive me, but I want to do the right thing if I can - I've not give up carpenterin' and took to the styge without learnin' somethin' of the ways of the quality. I was in the Dook o' York's Theatre when they had a ply what showed as how in high society if a man gets a girl into any trouble, no matter how innocent, but so as how she's chaffed by her pals, he's got to marry her to put it right. An', ye see, Miss, as how bein' married already I couldn't do the right thing ... so I've resigned, and must look for another shop."
''Ow would a dead byby suit you to hear on?' asked the Sewing Woman, with an interrogative glance round the company. 'I know of one that was simply 'arrowing.' The ensuing silence was expressive.
No one said a word; all looked at the fire meditatively. The Second Low Comedian sighed. In a half-reflective, half-apologetic way she went on, as if thinking aloud rather than speaking:
'Not that I know overmuch of bybies, anyhow, never havin' 'ad none of my own, though that's partly due that I was never married. Any'ow, I never 'ad the chances of some - married or onmarried.'
The Wardrobe Mistress, known in the Company as 'Ma,' here felt it incumbent on her, as the ostensible matron of the party, to say something on such a theme:
'Well, bybies is interesting things, alive or dead. But I don't know whether they're the cause of most noise alive or dyin' or dead. Seems to me that we've got to have it out either in screaming or sobbing or mourning, whatever you do. So, my dears, it's just as well to take things as they come, and make the best of them.'
'You may bet your immortal on that!' said the Second Low Comedian. 'Ma's head is level!' With the instinct of the profession, they all applauded the 'point,' and Ma beamed round her. Applause given to herself was a rare commodity with her.
'All right! then we'll drive on,' said the bustling MC. 'You choose your own topic, Mrs Wrigglesworth - or, rather, Miss Wrigglesworth, as I should say after your recent confession of spinsterhood.' The Sewing Woman coughed, cleared her throat, and made those other preparations usual to the inexperienced speaker. In the pause the Tragedian's deep voice resounded:
'Dead babies are always cheerful. I love them on the walls of the Academy. The Christy Minstrels' deepest bass as he trills his carol, "Cradle's Empty; Baby's Gone", fills me with delight. On such a night as this, surrounded as we are by the profound manifestations of Nature's feller forces, the theme is not uncongenial. Methinks the very snow-wreaths with which the driving tempest smites the windows of our prison-house are the beatings of dead baby fingers as they clamour to lay ice-cold touches on our hearts.' The Company, especially the women, shuddered, and the comments were varied.
'Lor'!' said the Wardrobe Mistress.
'Bones!' - the slang name of the Tragedian - 'never beat that in his nach. He'll be wanting to have a play written round it,' said the Low Comedian. The Tragedian glared and breathed hard, but said nothing. He contented himself with swallowing at a gulp the remainder of his whiskey-punch.
'Refill the Death Goblet!' said the Second Low Comedian in a sepulchral voice. 'Here, Dandy' - this to the Leading Juvenile - 'pass the whiskey.'
The servile desire to please, habitual to her, animated the Sewing Woman to proceed on her task:
'Well, Mr Benville Nonplusser,' she began, 'and Lydies and Gentlemen, which I 'opes you'll not expect too much from me in the litery way. Now, if it was a-sewin' on of buttons - no matter wherever placed! An' many a queer tale I could tell you of them if I could remember 'em, and the lydies wouldn't object - though blushes is becomin' to 'em, the dears! Or if I could do summat with a needle and thread, even in a 'urry in the dark and the styge a-waitin' of -' She was interrupted by the Low Comedian, who said insinuatingly:
'Go on, my dear. This ain't the time nor place for one to object to anything. The ladies' blushes will do them good, and will make us all feel young again. Besides' - here he winked round at the Company - 'the humour, conscious or unconscious, off the various situations with which your episodical narrative must be tinged will give an added force to the gruesomeness which is attendant on the defunct homunculus.'
'You are too bad, Mr Parmentire,' whispered the Singing Chambermaid to him. 'If she makes us blush you will be responsible.'
'I accept the responsibility!' he answered gallantly to her, adding sotto voce to the Prompter: 'And I won't need any cut-throat insurance at Lloyd's to protect me against that hazard.' The Sewing Woman went on:
'Well, as to the dead byby, which it makes me cry only to think of it, and its poor young mother growin' colder and colder in spite of 'ot poultices -'
Her voice was beginning to assume that nasal tone which with a woman of her class is at once a prelude to and a cause of tears.