"AFTER YOU."
Thanks to youth and strong constitutions, Arthur and Dig escaped any
very serious consequences from their night's exposure at Wellham Abbey.
They slept like dormice from eight in the morning to six in the
afternoon, and woke desperately hungry, with shocking colds in their
heads, and with no inclination whatever to get up and prepare their work
for the following day. The doctor came and felt their pulses, and
looked at their tongues, and listened to their coughs and sneezes, and
said they were well out of it. Still, as they assured him with loud
catarrhic emphasis that they felt rather bad still, and very shaky, he
gave them leave to remain in bed for the rest of the day, and petrified
them where they lay by the suggestion of a mustard poultice a-piece.
They protested solemnly that the malady from which they suffered was
mental rather than physical, and required only rest and quiet to cure
it. Whereat the doctor grinned, and said, "Very well." They had leave
to stay as they were till the morning; then, if they were not recovered,
he would try the mustard poultices. To their consternation and horror,
after he had gone, they suddenly remembered that to-night was the night
appointed for the first grand rehearsal of a performance proposed to be
given by the Comedians of the house on the eve of speech-day at the end
of the term.
The Comedians were a time-honoured institution at Grandcourt. Any
casual visitor to the school from about the middle of April onwards
might at any time have been startled and horrified by finding himself
suddenly face to face in a retired corner with some youthful form
undergoing the most extraordinary contortions of voice and countenance.
Railsford himself used to be fond of recounting his first experience of
this phenomenon. He was going down early one morning to the fields,
when on the shady side of the quadrangle he encountered a boy, whom he
recognised after a little scrutiny to be Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet.
The reason why he did not immediately grasp the identity of so familiar
a personage was because Sir Digby's body was thrown back, his arms were
behind his back, his legs were spread out, and his head was thrown into
the air, with an expression which the Master of the Shell had never seen
there before, and never saw again. There was but one conclusion to come
to: the baronet had gone mad, or he would never be standing thus in the
public quadrangle at seven o'clock in the morning.
The supposition was immediately confirmed by beholding the patient's
face break slowly into a horrible leer, and his mouth assume a diagonal
slant, as he brought one hand in front, the index finger close to his
nose, and addressed a lamp-post as follows:--
"When Abednego Jinks says a thing, Tommy, my boy, you may take your
Alfred David there's more in it than there is in your head."
Railsford, in alarm, was about to hasten for professional assistance for
what he considered a very bad case, when Dig, catching sight of him,
relieved him inexpressibly by dropping at once into his ordinary sane
manner, and saying, with a blush of confusion,--
"Oh, Mr Railsford, I didn't know you were there. I was mugging up my
part for the Comedians, you know. I'm Abednego Jinks, not much of a
part, only you can get in a little gag now and then."
Railsford, after what he had witnessed, was prepared to admit this, and
left the disciple of the dramatic Muse to himself and the lamp-post, and
secretly hoped when the performance of the Comedians came off he might
get an "order" for the stalls.
Although the Grandcourt House Comedians were an old institution, they
had not always been equally flourishing. At Railsford's, for instance,
in past years they had decidedly languished. The performances had
possibly been comic, but that was due to the actors, not the author, for
the scenes chosen were usually stock selections from the tragedies of
Shakespeare; such, for instance, as the death of King Lear, the ghost
scene in Hamlet, the conspirators' scene in Julius Caesar, and the
banquet in Macbeth. But as soon, as the irrepressible Wake got hold of
the reins, as of course he did, the old order changed with startling
rapidity. The new director made a clean sweep of Shakespeare and all
his works.
"What's the fun of doing Roman citizens in Eton jackets and white
chokers," said he, "and sending everybody to sleep? Let's give them a
change, and make them laugh."
As if everybody hadn't laughed for years at the Roman citizens in Eton
jackets!
So he hunted about and made inquiries of friends who were supposed to
know, and finally submitted to the company a certain screaming farce,
entitled, _After You_! with--so the description informed him--two funny
old gentlemen, one low comedian, two funny old ladies, and one maid-of-
all-work, besides a few walking gentlemen and others. It sounded
promising, and a perusal of the piece showed that it was very amusing.
I cannot describe it, but the complications were magnificent; the two
old gentlemen, one very irascible the other very meek, were, of course,
enamoured of the two old ladies, one very meek, and the other very
irascible; the low comedian was, of course, the victim and the plague of
both couples, and took his revenge by the usual expedient of siding with
each against the other, and being appointed the heir to both. The
walking gentlemen were--need it be said?--the disappointed heirs; and
the maid-of-all-work, as is the manner of such persons, did everybody's
work but her own.
The parts were allotted with due care and discrimination. The two funny
old gentlemen were undertaken by Sherriff and Ranger, the two funny old
ladies by Dimsdale and Maple, the low comedian by Sir Digby Oakshott,
and the maid-of-all-work by Arthur Herapath. As for the walking
gentlemen, cabmen, detective, _et hoc genus omne_, they were doled out
to anyone who chose to take them. There had been no regular rehearsals
yet, but private preparation, of the hole-and-corner kind I have
described, had been going on for a week or so. The actors themselves
had been looking forward with eagerness--not to say trepidation--to the
first rehearsal, which was appointed to take place this evening in the
Fourth class-room, in the presence of Wake and Stafford, and a few other
formidable critics of the upper school. Great, therefore, was the
dismay when it was rumoured that the low comedian and the maid-of-all-
work were on the sick list with a doctor's certificate.
The first impulse was to postpone the date, but on Wake representing
that there was no evening for ten days on which they could get the use
of the room, it was resolved to do the best they could with the parts
they had, and read the missing speeches from the book. Although the
house generally was excluded from the rehearsals, the Fourth-form boys
managed to scramble in on the strength of the class-room in which the
performance was to take place being their own. And besides the invited
guests named above, it was frequently found, at the end of a
performance, when the gas was turned up, that the room was fuller of
Juniors and Babies than it had been when the curtain rose.
On the present occasion, not being a full-dress rehearsal, there was no
curtain, nor was there anything to distinguish the actors from their
hearers, save the importance of their faces and the evident nervousness
with which they awaited the signal to begin.
And here let me give my readers a piece of information. A screaming
farce is ever so much more difficult to act than a tragedy of
Shakespeare. Any--well, any duffer can act Brutus or Richard the Third
or the Ghost of Banquo, but it is reserved only to a few to be able to
do justice to the parts of Bartholomew Bumblebee or Miss Anastatia
Acidrop. And when one comes to compare the paltry exploits and dull
observations of the old tragedy heroes with the noble wit and sublime
actions of their modern rivals it is not to be wondered at! So it
happened on the present occasion.
_After You_ was far too ambitious a flight for the Comedians at
Railsford's; they had far better have stuck to _King Lear_. In the
first place, none of the characters seemed to understand what was
expected of them. Sherriff, the funny, irascible old gentleman, skulked
about in the back of the scene, and tapped his fingers lightly on the
top of his hat, and stamped his foot gently, with the most amiable of
smiles on his countenance. His one idea of irascible humour seemed to
be to start every few moments to leave the room, and then stop short
half-way to the door, and utter a few additional remarks over his
shoulder, and then to make again for the door with a noise which sounded
half-way between a sneeze and the bleating of a goat.
Maple also, who personated Miss Olive Omlett, the meek, elderly lady,
appeared to have come with a totally erroneous conception of the _role_
of that inoffensive character. He delivered his speeches in a voice
similar to that in which boys call the evening papers at a London
railway station, and lost no opportunity of clutching at his heart--
which, by the way, Maple wore on his right flank--and of rising up from,
and sitting down on, his chair at regular intervals while anybody else
was addressing him.
Then, greatly to the chagrin of the director, the jokes which seemed so
good in print never came off right in the speaking. Those which were
delivered right, nobody--least of all the actors--seemed to see, and the
others came to grief by being mauled in the handling. When, for
instance, on the meek gentleman observing, "Oh, my poor head!" Miss
Acidrop ought to have made a very witty and brilliant point by
retorting, "There's nothing in that!" she entirely spoiled the fun by
saying, "That's nothing to do with it!" and when loud laughter should
have been created by the irascible man walking off with the meek man's
hat on his head, they both quitted the scene with no hats on their heads
at all.
This was dispiriting, and the absence of the low comedian and the maid-
of-all-work tended still further to mar the success of the rehearsal.
For Wake had to read these parts from the book, and at the same time
coach the other actors. Thus, for instance, in the famous speech of
Abednego Jinks the low comedian already cited, it rather broke up the
humour of that masterpiece of declamation to hear it delivered thus:--
"When Abednego Jinks--(Oh, that won't do, Ranger! Take your hand out of
your waistcoat and look more like a fool. Yes, that's better. Now,
where's the place? Oh yes)--when Abednego Jinks says a thing, Tommy, my
boy (Oh, no, no, no! Didn't I tell you you needn't start up from your
chair as if I was going to cut your throat? Sit steady, and gape at me
like an idiot! That's the style!)--Tommy, my boy, Tommy, my boy,
To--(Where on earth's the place? Oh yes)--when Abednego Jinks says a
thing, Tommy, my boy--"
"Oughtn't you to look funnier than that, yourself?" interposed Ranger,
relaxing his own expression to ask the question.
"Oh, of course; only I'm reading just now. Oakshott will have to get
that up, of course. Now begin again. Go on; look a fool.--That'll
do.--When Abednego Jinks says a thing, Tommy, my boy--(I say, screw your
chair round a bit, and face the audience)."
"For mercy's sake," said Stafford, who was getting rather tired of the
whole thing, "do tell us what happens when Abednego Jinks says a thing!"
"Tommy, my boy, you may take your Alfred David--(Do look rather more
vacant, old man)."
"My dear fellow," once more interposed the prefect, "Ranger could not
possibly look a more utter idiot than he looks this minute. What is he
to take his affidavit about? I do so want to know."
"You may take your Alfred David, Tommy, my boy (Oh no, that's wrong)--
Tommy, my boy, you may take your Alfred David."
"Yes, yes--go on," urged Stafford.
"There's more in it than there is in your head."
"More in what? the affidavit?" asked Ranger solemnly.
"No, that's not what you say; you say, `You don't say so.'"
"I think," said Stafford, "that what he did say was a good deal funnier
than what he ought to say. What's the good of saying, `You don't say
so,' when everyone of us here can swear you did? I don't see the joke
in it myself. Do any of you?"
"No; was it meant for one?" asked someone gravely.
"It's not written down in the book that anyone's to grin," said Maple,
hastily referring to his copy.
"Oh, that's all right--only I wish you'd look alive and get to some of
the jokes. I thought you said it was a funny piece."
"So it is," replied Wake, rather dismally; "it's full of points."
"They must all be crowded up to the end, then," said Stafford.
If Wake had not had a soul above difficulties he might have been tempted
to abandon his labour of Hercules on the spot; and, indeed, it is
probable his "troupe" would have struck, and so saved him the trouble of
deciding, had not an extraordinary and dramatic change suddenly come
over the aspect of affairs. The rehearsal was dragging its slow length
along, and everybody, even the amiable Stafford, was losing his temper,
when the door flew open, and two young persons entered and made their
way boldly up to the stage.
As all the room was dark except the part allotted to the actors, it was
not till these intruders had mounted the platform and honoured the
company with two ceremonious bows that their identity became apparent.
Arthur and Dig, after twelve hours in bed, had become weary unto death;
and when, presently, from the room below arose the voices and laughter
of the Comedians, they kicked the clothes off them, and mutually
agreed--colds or no colds--they could stand, or rather lie, it no
longer.
"Wouldn't they grin if we turned up?" said Arthur; "I vote we do."
"All serene," said Dig; "we may as well get up."
Dig meant the term "get up" in the professional sense. He accordingly
arrayed himself, to the best of his lights, in the garb of a low
comedian; that is, he put on a red dressing-gown, flannel drawers, and a
very tall collar, made out of cardboard; and blacked a very fine
moustache on his lip with a piece of coal. Arthur, meanwhile, had a
more delicate task to perform in extemporising the toilet of a maid-of-
all-work. An ulster belonging to Tilbury supplied him with a dress, and
by turning up the sleeves, and arranging his night-dress apron-wise over
the front, he managed to give a fair idea of the kind of character he
aimed to personate. He then ruffled up his hair, and brought as much of
it as he was able down in the front for a fringe, surmounting it all
with a handkerchief shaped to represent a cap. Finally, he smudged his
face over with coal dust, and secured one of Mrs Hastings's mops and a
pail from the cupboard at the end of the corridor, and pronounced
himself ready for the fray.
It need hardly be said that the apparition of these two extraordinary
figures created a sensation among the jaded Comedians and their friends.
The sudden restoration to health of the two invalids was less
astonishing, perhaps, than their strange get-up, or the spirit with
which they proceeded to throw themselves into their respective parts.
Wake, with a smile of relief, shut up his book and retired among the
audience.
Dig knew his part well, and acted it with such a depth of low comedy
that it mattered little what mistakes or blunders the funny irascible
and the funny meek gentlemen and ladies made. He uttered the greatest
commonplaces a leer and a wink, which imported a vast deal of meaning
into the words, and had evidently so well studied his part that he could
not even sit down on the chair or walk out of the room without tumbling
on all fours or upsetting one or two of the other actors.
Wake suggested mildly that he was overdoing it, but was voted down by an
indignant chorus of admirers, who urged the low comedian on to still
further extravagance, until, had his part been that of a clown, he could
scarcely have thrown more dramatic intensity into it.
He was ably and gallantly backed up by the maid-of-all-work, who was
evidently convinced that the main duty and occupation of such
functionaries is to upset everything; to clatter up and down the rooms
in hob-nail boots; to flourish her mop in her master's and mistress's
faces, and otherwise assert her noble independence of the ordinary laws
governing domestic servants. In these ambitions she succeeded to a
moral; and when, in addition, thanks to the cold in her head, she
pronounced all her m's b's and her n's d's, the result was exhilarating
in the extreme.
"There's dot bady bed dicer-looking that Bister Tobby and Biss Oblett,"
said she, flourishing her mop in Miss Omlett's face.
Whereat, although the remark was a serious one, and not meant to be
facetious, the audience was convulsed.
The second scene was in full swing: Miss Omlett and the funny, meek old
gentleman were taking refuge behind two sofas from the threatened
violence of Mr Bumblebee and Miss Acidrop; the low comedian was having
a kick-up all round, and the maid-of-all-work was putting her pail on
the head of one of the walking gentlemen with the comment--
"Dow, thed, there's goidg to be a dice doise--"
When the door of the room once more opened, and Railsford entered
unobserved in the darkness. He had not come to see the performance,
although he knew it was about to be held, and had indeed allowed the use
of the class-room for the purpose.
But feeling very dejected in the presence of the cloud which had
suddenly fallen on him, he had been unable to work that evening, and had
decided to pay a visit of condolence to his young kinsman and the
baronet, partly in the hope of edifying them by a little quiet talk by
the sick bedside, and partly to satisfy himself that no very alarming
symptoms had resulted from last night's severe exposure.
Picture his astonishment when he found the two beds in the dormitory
empty, and the invalids flown!
He made inquiries of the dame. She had taken them up two eggs a-piece
and some tea and hot buttered toast at six o'clock, which they had
partaken of, and then, informing her that they felt no better, they had
disposed themselves, as she supposed, to sleep.
He looked into their study. They were not there; nor had anyone heard
of them in the preparation room. Finally, he peeped into the Fourth
class-room, and beheld the two invalids masquerading on the stage, and
recognised the voice and sentiments of his kinsman, albeit proceeding
through the nose, as he flourished his (or rather her) mop in the air,
and announced that there was going to be a "dice doise."
The whole scene was so ridiculous that Railsford deemed it prudent not
to discover himself, and withdrew as unobserved as he had entered.
At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that Arthur and Dig were all
right after their adventure; and that, thought he, is the main thing.
Poor Railsford had plenty else to occupy his thoughts that evening. The
interview with the doctor in the morning had seemed to bring him up
short in his career at Grandcourt.
If his enemies had tried to corner him, they could not have done it
better. It was true that he knew the culprits, and by not denouncing
them was, to that extent, shielding them.
But he had come to that knowledge, as the reader knows, by an accident,
of which, as an honourable man, he felt he had no right to take
advantage, even to set right so grievous a wrong as the Bickers mystery.
He might explain, without mentioning names, how he had learned the
facts; but that would be as good as naming the culprit, for Branscombe
had been the only case of serious illness accompanied by delirium at
Grandcourt during the last two terms.
He might write to Branscombe, and tell him his dilemma, and beseech him
to make a confession. And yet what right had he to take advantage of
the boy's unconscious confession to put pressure on him to make it
public?
Other persons less fastidious might do it, but Railsford could not.
The alternative, of course, was that he would in all probability have to
leave Grandcourt. If the matter had rested only between him and the
doctor, he might have made a private communication under pledge of
secrecy, and so induced his principal to let the matter drop. But the
matter did not rest solely between him and the doctor. Mr Bickers and
Felgate, by some means which he was unable to fathom, appeared to have
learned the secret, and were not likely to let it drop. Indeed, it was
evident that, so far from that, they would like if possible to fix a
charge of actual complicity in the outrage on himself.
Railsford laughed contemptuously at the notion, as the wild malice of a
revengeful enemy. But he knew that no explanation would be likely to
put them off the pursuit short of the actual naming of the culprits,
which he was resolved at all risks to refuse.
Was this to be the end of his brilliant school career? After two terms
of hard work and honest battle, was he to be turned away, cashiered and
mined, just because he had stayed to nurse a sick boy and overheard his
delirious confession?
It was no small temptation as he sat in his room that night, to
compromise with honour. He could so easily save himself. He could, by
a word, sweep away the cloud which hung over his future, and not his
future only, but Daisy's. The outrage had been a cowardly one. Two of
its perpetrators at least were worthless boys, and the other was away
from Grandcourt, and might possibly never come back. Was it worth
risking so much for so small a scruple? Did not his duty to Grandcourt
demand sacrifices of him, and could he not that very night remove a dark
blot from its scutcheon!
So the battle went on, and Railsford fought it out, inch by inch, like a
man. He was not single-handed in such matters: he had a Friend who
always wins, and He helped Railsford to win that night.