CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SUNDAY-NIGHT SUPPERS AT THE WESTS'.

In due time I was introduced to other members of the West family, and grew so much attached to them, and so enamoured of their ways, that I spent nearly all my leisure in their company. Uncle Bryan seemed to resent this, growling that 'new brooms swept clean,' and asking me sarcastically if I intended to adopt the fashion through life of throwing over old friends for new ones. Jessie stepped in to defend me, and said boldly that uncle Bryan was not so fond of our society as to have reasonable cause to grumble at our absence.

'How do you know that?' asked uncle Bryan sharply. 'You want people to be like peacocks or jackdaws, always showing their feathers or chattering about themselves.'

The cause of this little disturbance was that we often stayed at the Wests' until eleven or past eleven o'clock at night.

Now that I have you to take care of me, Chris,' said Jessie, we need not be so particular.'

'You had better live with your new friends altogether,' observed uncle Bryan.

'I will, if you wish me to,' replied Jessie indignantly; 'I know that I'm a burden to you.'

'No, no, my dear,' interposed my mother; 'uncle Bryan does not mean what he says.'

And indeed uncle Bryan was silent, and retired from the contest. These little quarrels were always smoothed over by my mother, and Jessie herself not unfrequently played the penitent, and atoned indirectly to uncle Bryan for the sharp words she used. It is needless to say that I took sides with Jessie in the sometimes noisy, but more often quiet warfare, which existed between her and uncle Bryan. As I grew older, I recognised the helplessness of her position in uncle Bryan's house, and I found bitter fault with him for his manner towards her. It was wanting not only in tenderness, but in chivalry, and were it not for the respect and consideration he showed for my mother, I have no doubt I should have quarrelled with him openly. As it was, I looked forward to the time when I should be able to offer my mother a home of my own, where she and Jessie and I could live together in harmony. With the Wests I became a great favourite. My talent as an artist contributed to this result, and I drew innumerable sketches of them in their various capacities. Miss West's Christian name was Josey (short for Josephine), and by that familiar title she insisted that I should address her. So it was Jessie and Josey, and Turk and Brinsley and Chris, with us in a very short time, as though we had been on the most intimate terms for years. The walls of all the rooms in the house, with the exception of the kitchen, were soon adorned with portraits and character sketches, with the artist's initials, C. C., in the corner. The portrait of Josey West, as the Witch of the Blasted Heath, as played by her &c. &c.; the portrait of little Sophy West, as Celandine, in the _Fairy Dell_, as played by her &c. &c.; the portrait of Augustus West, as Claude Melnotte (I would not take him as Orlando), as played by him &c. &c.; the portrait of Brinsley West, as Tom Shuffleton, as played by him &c. &c.; the portrait of Turk West, as The Thug, as played by him &c. &c.; and numberless others, were shown to admiring visitors, and contemplated by the admiring originals, to the glory of 'the eminent young artist,' as Miss West called me. It is necessary to add that in most of the superscriptions at the foot of the pictures the word 'eminent' did good service. It was the eminent tragedian, the eminent comedian, the eminent character actor; and so on. Certainly the name of the West family was legion. Three of them were married, and seemed from appearances to be emulative of the example of their parents in the matter of children. Sometimes on a Sunday evening the entire family would be assembled in the one house, and as the married folk brought their broods with them--the youngest three of which invariably were babies in arms--the total number of brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts was something alarming. The house was overrun with them.

'If we go on like this for a hundred years,' Miss West said to me, in confidence, 'we shall become an institution. Sheridan has seven already, and his wife is quite a young woman; J. H. has five, and Clarance four--and more coming, my dear!'

That was the chronic condition of the wives. There were always more coming. Sheridan, J. H., and Clarance were the eldest of Josey West's brothers, and were well known to the British theatrical public in our quarter of London. In the commencement of our intimacy the constant introduction of members of the family, of whose existence I had been previously ignorant, was very confusing to me, especially as Miss West, without preliminary explanation, spoke of all her relatives by their Christian names, and placed me on a footing of personal intimacy with them. I used to write lists of the names, with descriptions appended, and privately study them, so that I might not make mistakes in addressing them, but some of them were always in a tangle in my mind. The Sunday-night suppers were things to remember; every available article of crockery in the house was pressed into service, and as even the youngest members of the family were accustomed to late hours and late suppers, the result may be imagined. Those for whom there was no room at the table had their supper on chairs, on stools, or on their laps as they sat on the ground. It was very rough and undignified, but it was delightfully enjoyable. The chatter, the laughter, the ringing voices of one and another trying to make themselves heard, the good humour, the free-handed and free-hearted hospitality of those merry meetings are present to me, as I recall the reminiscence. There was always plenty to talk about, and plenty of words spoken that were worth listening to. A theatre in which one of the family was engaged was doing a bad business, and the actors were compelled to work on half salaries; one or two others were going on a provincial tour; another was out of an engagement; a manager had failed and the theatre was closed; and so on, and so on.

'There's always something,' said Miss West. Directly one saves a bit of money--it's precious little one has the opportunity of saving--something happens that sucks it up. But, bless your heart! what else can be expected with such swarms of children as we've got in the family!'

'If a legitimate actor,' said Turk moodily, 'could be certain of a regular engagement, it would be all right; but the public taste is vitiated--vitiated! They want novelty; they're not satisfied with legitimate business. Why, if any one of us had happened to be born covered from head to foot with red pimples, with a green sprout sticking in the middle of each of them, he could command his fifty pound a week, while a man of sterling talent is compelled to vegetate on a paltry fifty bob!'

This sally was received with screams of laughter, and cries of Bravo, Turk!'

'I've got an idea,' cried Josey West; 'why don't we start a theatre ourselves, on the sharing principle? Here we are, all ready-made: leading man, walking gentleman, low comedy, genteel comedy, new style of acting, old style of acting, old men and women, heavy villain' (a general laugh at Turk, who joined in it readily), 'chambermaids, and ballet, all complete.'

'It's all very well,' interposed Gus West, but where's the theatre?'

'It's all very well,' added Turk, but where's the capitalist?'

'Advertise for one,' said Miss West. '"Wanted, a capitalist with five thousand pounds to undertake the management" (tickle him with that, eh, Turk?)--"to undertake the management of a highly talented theatrical family, nearly forty in number (and more on the road), who can play tragedy, comedy, melodrama, farce, ballet, burlesque, and pantomime in an unrivalled manner. They are furnished with well-stocked wardrobes, including wigs, and they will be happy to give private exhibition of their abilities, in proof of their competency. Included in their number is a dramatic author, who will be willing to supply new pieces, if desired, to suit the capacity of the company. As a proof that they are not pretenders, they have all been born in the profession" (listen to that, Turk)--"they have all been born in the profession. No objection to travel. In India and Australia they would astonish the natives, and would be sure to create an immense sensation. A certain fortune. Competition invited and defied." There! would that catch a capitalist?'

'And what should I do,' asked Jessie, laughing, if the capitalist were to come and carry you all away?'

'Come out with us as leading lady, to be sure,' replied Josey West promptly; 'and Chris can come as scene-painter, and there we are, all complete. Quite a happy family, my dear!'

We made very merry over the fancy, and extracted many amusing pictures from it. I was sorry when Josey West called to us that it was late and time for us to go. It was a fine night, very quiet and very still, and Jessie and I lingered and talked of the Wests and their merry light-hearted ways.

'They have plenty of trouble, though,' said Jessie; 'all that glitters isn't gold.'

'I have never seen any one happier than they are,' I said. 'Suppose they had all the money in the world, could they have spent a merrier evening?'

'What makes you mention money, Chris?'

'I don't know exactly, except that it came into my head to-night, that if everybody had just a little more, everything would be right. But then I suppose when they had just that little more, they would want just a little more?'

'That is in uncle Bryan's style. Chris, I think you are clever!'

'I don't know, Jessie; Mr. Eden is pleased with me, and says I shall get along very well. I would like to; I would like to be rich.'

She mimicked uncle Bryan: 'You would like to be rich! You would like the moon! Open your mouth, and what you would like will drop into it.'

I laughed at the imitation, which was perfect, and said, 'Well, I suppose it is all nonsense--wishing, wishing! Uncle Bryan would be right if he said that, Jessie, and it's just what he _would_ say, if he had the opportunity. Most of the great men I've read about had to work and wait for success. The other night, when uncle Bryan was in one of his amiable moods, he said that success was like the robbers' cavern in _The Forty Thieves_, and that there was one magic key which would always open it. When I asked him what that key was, he said, Earnestness.'

'That's one of the things that uncle Bryan would never give me credit for.'

'Uncle Bryan is very unjust and very unkind. Let us turn back and walk a little. The night is so beautiful and I feel so happy at this minute that I should like it to last for ever.' Jessie's hand stole into mine, and I held it close; the silence that followed was broken by Jessie.

'Why would you like to be rich, Chris?'

'For your sake, Jessie, more than for my own. If I could give you all that you desired, I shouldn't wish for anything more.'

'You are very good to me, Chris. Why?'

'Because I love you, Jessie,' I replied.

'Really and truly?' she exclaimed, half tenderly, half tantalisingly.

'With all my heart and soul,' I said, in a low passionate tone.

'When one loves like that' (she was speaking seriously now), 'what does it really mean?'

'I can only speak of myself, and I know that there is no sacrifice I would not make for you. I am sure there is nothing you could ask me to do that I would not do; if I could die to make you happy, I would do so gladly, Jessie.'

'But I don't want you to die, Chris; what should I do without you? Then when one loves really and truly, and with one's heart and soul, there is no selfishness in it? One doesn't think of oneself?'

'I think of nothing but you, Jessie. I should like to be successful, for your sake; I should like to be rich, for your sake. Now do you understand?'

She did not reply, and when presently I ventured to look into her face, I saw that there were tears in her eyes.

'You are not angry with me, Jessie?'

'I should be an ungrateful girl indeed, if I were. No, Chris. I love to hear you speak to me as you have done. I was only thinking that I wished others were like you.'

'You mean uncle Bryan,' I said, with a quick apprehension of the direction of her thoughts. 'But he takes pains to make people dislike him. Besides, he is at war with everything--he is, Jessie! He never goes to church; he never opens a Bible. I believe,' I added, my voice sinking to a whisper, 'that he is an atheist.' (And I said to myself mentally, as I gazed into Jessie's sweet face, If he does not believe in God, it is less strange that he does not believe in you.')

I had given no thought to time, and now, when the church bells struck one o'clock, I was startled at the lateness of the hour. With a guilty look at each other, Jessie and I hurried home; before I could knock at the street-door, it was opened for us by my mother. She put her finger to her lips.

'I heard your steps, my dear,' she said, with anxious tenderness; 'hush, don't make a noise. You might wake your uncle.'

'We had no idea of the time, mother,' I said; 'it isn't Jessie's fault. I kept her talking, and really thought it was no more than eleven o'clock. I am so sorry we have kept you up! See what a lovely night it is.'

We stood at the door for a little while, my mother in the centre, with her arms round our waists. When she kissed me and wished me good-night, I saw that she had been crying; but her pale face brightened as I put my arms about her neck, and held her to me for a few moments. When I released her, I found that we were alone; Jessie must have stepped upstairs very quietly, for I did not hear her leave the room.