The Frobishers/Chapter 23
LAVENDER LODGE
Lavender Lodge, the residence of the manager of Fennings' bank, where he lived along with his widowed mother, was not a large house, for, indeed, in this pottery town there were few large houses; but it was distinguished from the habitations of the artisans by having a window on each side of a central door, and the doorway was decorated with a pair of pilasters, and a pediment, painted drab, and repainted annually to preserve them from absolute nigritude.
It had an upper storey with three windows. The house was set back from the street, as though it had withdrawn itself in conscious superiority, leaving an oblong open space between the front of the house and the street from which it was railed off.
This space, supposed to be a garden, contained two quadrangular beds of black soil composed of fragments of tile and cinders, and a modicum of earth in worm-cast, with a pyramid of clinkers in the midst of each, serving as rockeries, in which, however, no green thing grew except chickweed, which will grow anywhere, and which adorns nothing, and a solitary tuft of hart's-tongue fern that was only kept alive by Mrs. Mangin sponging the fronds every week.
In a pottery town everything that elsewhere is constructed of or laid in stone is dealt with in earthenware. Accordingly, the footways are paved with tiles, and kerbs of steps are of the same material.
From the iron gate, the iron of which was diseased and broke out in rusty sores through the paint, such a tile-paved path led to the front door, bordered by terracotta edgings, of a florid character—the only florid thing about a flowerless garden.
Joan ascended a couple of steps, and put her hand to the knocker. By the time she had wiped her fingers free from the dirt adhering to the hammer a maid appeared, who asked what she wanted. Joan replied, and was invited to enter the lobby, and the servant spoke with Mrs. Mangin through a side door into one of the sitting-rooms.
Then a stiff old lady, tall and hard in face, came out, looked scrutinisingly at Joan, and having apparently satisfied herself, asked what she required.
"I have come here to see Mr. Mangin about a small matter."
"He is out, but expected shortly. Can I take a message?"
"I wish particularly to give it to him myself."
Again the widow studied Joan, and said, "If you like, you may come into the room and sit down. It is chilly in the passage, and I daresay Mr. Fenning will not object."
She led the way into a little parlour, that served for a dining-room, as might be judged from the existence of a cruet-stand on a sideboard, and from a general flavour of stale meals that clung to the atmosphere. The walls were covered with leather paper. Against that, opposite the window, and above the sideboard and cruets, hung in heavy tarnished gold frames the portraits of the late Mr. Mangin and of his wife, taken ten years previously.
The painting was hard and unidealised.
The pictures were calculated to strike the impartial observer with wonder that the late Mr. Mangin should ever have been drawn by tender feelings towards so wooden and grim a lady, and that the lady could ever have been induced under any consideration to swallow such a pill as the late Mr. Mangin.
By the table sat an elderly gentleman, leaning his elbow on it, and with his chin in his hand.
"You will not mind, Mr. Fenning, if I let this young lady sit here? She wishes to speak with my son."
"Not at all. He will be here soon, I think you said?"
"I trust so. If you had written word, he would have made a point of conscience to await you."
"A bit of business was thrust on me—one does not expect orders to rain in on Christmas and Boxing Days. I drove over at once on receipt of a letter by the evening delivery. I can wait a few moments."
He looked at Joan, who had taken a seat near the door. Mrs. Mangin misinterpreted the look, and said—
"Of course she shall wait your convenience, till you have had your interview with Charles."
"Not at all. Ladies take precedence." Then a little doubtfully, "You are not in any way concerned in our business—Fennings' bank?"
"Yes, sir, I am in it—in the painting-room," and Joan rose from the chair to make answer.
"Sit down, sit down!" said he emphatically.
"Oh, I am so sorry!" exclaimed Mrs. Mangin. "I did not for a moment suppose—in fact, I thought that she was a—a"—
"It is all right," interrupted Mr. Fenning. "Let her remain. She is what you thought, a lady."
Mrs. Mangin, however, went up to Joan, and in a hard voice, and with cast-iron features, said—
"I have little doubt that I can do what you want. My son will have business that is sure to occupy him for some time, and I cannot have him interfered with. Mr. Fenning is very good to waive his right, but in my own house I insist on such order as approves itself to my mind and to my sense of fitness. I have no idea of a 'hand' taking priority over a 'head.' I suppose your matter is a small one."
"It is so, madam."
"Well, let me manage it for you."
"It is this," said Joan, and the colour rose and then died out of her face. "Mr. Mangin has been good enough to offer a couple of tickets for an entertainment to my sister and a friend of hers, and I have come to return them, as neither can avail themselves of his courtesy."
"I can tell him that. Let me have the tickets."
"I should much prefer putting them into his hand. It seems so rude, after a civility, not to explain the refusal ."
Mrs. Mangin shrugged her shoulders, then turned to Mr. Fenning and explained.
"A meeting of the Philanthropical Society comes off to-night, and my son is on the committee. There is to be a lecture on public bathing establishments and wash-houses. Statistics have been gathered as to the number of persons of the lower class who have made use of the baths. It is interesting to know to what extent the working classes appreciate cleanliness, and whether the desire for the outward application of water is on the increase among them. I have heard my son dilate on this topic. Of course it is important that those of the class whom it is desired to benefit should be induced to take an interest in the matter, to whichever sex they belong. I believe that the Philanthropical Society intends to approach the Town Council with a memorial to induce it to establish public baths; but first of all it is requisite to have statistics, plans, elevations, and estimates."
"I should hardly have supposed that tickets would have been required for admission to such a meeting," said Mr. Fenning. "Is there such avidity among the operatives of both sexes to hear statistics and consider estimates, that this is rendered imperative?"
"There is no telling," answered Mrs. Mangin, in her hard, unsympathetic voice. "This is Boxing Night; the room might on such a season be invaded by a rabble inclined to uproar, who would pass counter resolutions. It might be eminently unpleasant. My son and others who think seriously considered it advisable on this evening to provide some wholesome attraction of an improving nature that might withdraw the higher principled and right-thinking young people from the pantomime and other frivolous, not to say dangerous, entertainments of the night."
"Indeed. How good of him, and how enticing the counter-attraction offered seems to be."
"Look here," said Mrs. Mangin to Joan. "I cannot see that there is the slightest necessity for you to remain. Give me the tickets, and I will make excuses for you that shall suffice."
Joan hesitated.
"If you will allow me—they are in an envelope."
She drew forth the envelope, moistened and sealed it, then saw that she was being intently observed by Mr. Fenning.
"Perhaps you will kindly allow me," she said, still colouring in flushes, and with quivering eyelids. "I see a pen and ink on the table. I should wish to address them, and to write a few words of apology. One naturally shrinks from the semblance of ingratitude. My sister could not accept. It is not three months since our father died."
"But surely a philanthropic gathering concerning public baths is not so jocular an entertainment as to oblige you to stay away," said Mr. Fenning. "Let me look at the tickets."
"I have fastened up the envelope," answered Joan hastily.
She had by this time addressed the cover, and had written on it a few words.
The proprietor drew the envelope to him and looked intently at the penmanship. It need hardly be said that it was that of a lady.
"What is your name?" he asked. "You have signed with initials only."
Joan replied, affording him the information he desired. He repeated the name: "Frobisher! There was a Martin Frobisher, a navigator. I shall not forget it, or you."
At that moment the front door opened, and in the next Mr. Mangin entered. He started with surprise at the sight of his employer, and then looked at Joan with an expression of annoyance.
"I am really astonished to see you, sir, at this time and on such a day," said Mr. Mangin, turning to Mr. Fenning.
"Business," replied the proprietor. "I had a letter from the Rudyards, so I thought best to come over immediately. But I can wait. This lady has some communication to make to you."
"It is but this," said Joan, who had risen. She held out the envelope to him. "You were so generous as to send to my sister and Caroline Grosser cards of admission. My sister is sorry to decline; neither of us can go anywhere in our bereavement, and Caroline, like a good soul, elects to remain with my sister."
"Perhaps I can relieve you of the tickets," said Mr. Fenning, with a half-smile. He had been observing the look of alarm and confusion that had come over the face of his manager.
"I have explained," said Mrs. Mangin, "that they give admission to the Philanthropic Society conversazione or meeting, whichever it be."
"Quite so," observed Mr. Fenning. "I should much like to be there. I may be able to do a stroke of business, and secure the order for the bath fittings." He put out his hand, but Mangin tore the envelope and its contents into many pieces, and threw the fragments into the fire.
"Sir," said he, "you require no card of admission. We shall be but too proud to have you on the platform."
Joan saw that it was time for her to withdraw. She bowed respectfully to Mr. Fenning and to Mrs. Mangin, and turned to the door. As she did so the proprietor of the bank gave her a kindly nod, that seemed to convey to her a confirmation of his assurance that he would bear her in mind.