Beatrice had not judged amiss when she thought charade-acting an
amusement likely to take the fancy of her cousins. The great success of
her boot-jack inspired both Frederick and Henrietta with eagerness to
imitate it; and nothing was talked of but what was practicable in the
way of scenes, words, and decorations. The Sutton Leigh party were
to dine at the Hall again on Thursday, and it was resolved that there
should be a grand charade, with all the splendour that due preparation
could bestow upon it. “It was such an amusement to grandpapa,” as
Beatrice told Henrietta, “and it occupied Fred so nicely,” as she
said to her father; both which observations being perfectly true,
Mr. Geoffrey Langford was very willing to promote the sport, and to
tranquillise his mother respecting the disarrangement of her furniture.
But what should the word be? Every one had predilections of their
own--some for comedy, others for tragedy; some for extemporary acting,
others for Shakespeare. Beatrice, with her eye for drawing, already
grouped her dramatis personae, so as to display Henrietta’s picturesque
face and figure to the greatest advantage, and had designs of making her
and Fred represent Catherine and Henry Seyton, whom, as she said, she
had always believed to be exactly like them. Fred was inclined for
“another touch at Prince Hal,” and devised numerous ways of acting
Anonymous, for the sake of “Anon, anon, sir.” Henrietta wanted to
contrive something in which Queen Bee might appear as an actual fairy
bee, and had very pretty visions of making her a beneficent spirit in a
little fanciful opera, for which she had written three or four verses,
when Fred put an end to it be pronouncing it “nonsense and humbug.”
So passed Tuesday, without coming to any decision, and Henrietta was
beginning to fear that they would never fix at all, when on Wednesday
morning Beatrice came down in an ecstasy with the news, that by some
chance a wig of her papa’s was in the house, and a charade they must and
would have which would bring in the wig. “Come and see it,” said she,
drawing her two cousins into the study after breakfast: the study being
the safest place for holding counsel on these secret subjects. “There
now, is it not charming? O, a law charade we must have, that is
certain!”
Fred and Henrietta, who had never chanced to see a barrister’s wig
before, were greatly diverted with its little tails, and tried it on in
turn. While Henrietta was in the midst of her laugh at the sight of
her own fair ringlets hanging out below the tight grey rolls, the door
suddenly opened, and gave entrance to its owner, fiercely exclaiming,
“What! nothing safe from you, you impertinent kittens?”
“O, Uncle Geoffrey, I beg your pardon!” cried Henrietta, blushing
crimson.
“Don’t take it off till I have looked at you,” said Uncle Geoffrey.
“Why, you would make a capital Portia!”
“Yes, yes!” cried Queen Bee, “that is it: Portia she shall be, and I’ll
be Nerissa.”
“Oh, no, Queenie, I could never be Portia!” said Henrietta: “I am sure I
can’t.”
“But I have set my heart on being the ‘little scrubby lawyer’s clerk,’”
said Busy Bee; “it is what I am just fit for; and let me see--Fred shall
be Antonio, and that will make you plead from your very heart, and you
shall have Alex for your Bassanio.”
“But the word. Do you mean to make it fit in with Falstaff and Catherine
Seyton?” said Henrietta.
“Let me see,” said Beatrice; “bond--bondage, jew--jeweller, juniper,--”
“Lawsuit,” said Fred. “Ay, don’t you see, all the scenes would come out
of the ‘Merchant of Venice.’ There is ‘law’ when the old Jew is crying
out for his ducats, and--but halloo!” and Fred stood aghast at the sight
of his uncle, whose presence they had all forgotten in their eagerness.
“Traitor!” said Beatrice; “but never mind, I believe we must have let
him into the plot, for nobody else can be Shylock.”
“O, Bee,” whispered Henrietta, reproachfully, “don’t tease him with our
nonsense. Think of asking him to study Shylock’s part, when he has all
that pile of papers on the table.”
“Jessica, my girl, Look to my house. I am right loth to go; There is
some ill a-brewing to my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night.”
Such was Uncle Geoffrey’s reply; his face and tone so suddenly altered
to the snarl of the old Jew, that his young companions at first started,
and then clapped their hands in delighted admiration.
“Do you really know it all?” asked Henrietta, in a sort of respectful
awe.
“It won’t cost me much trouble to get it up,” said Mr. Geoffrey
Langford; “Shylock’s growls stick in one’s memory better than finer
speeches.”
“Then will you really be so very kind?”
“Provided you will leave the prompter of Monday night on the table
this morning,” said Uncle Geoffrey, smiling in that manner which, to a
certain degree, removed any feeling of obligation, by making it seem as
if it was entirely for his own diversion. Nor could it be denied that he
did actually enjoy it.
The party took up their quarters in the study, which really was the only
place fit for consultations and rehearsals, since Fred and Alex
could not be taken to the maids’ workroom, and none of the downstairs
apartments could be made subject to the confusion incidental to their
preparations. Henrietta had many scruples at first about disturbing
Uncle Geoffrey, but his daughter laughed at them all; and they were soon
at an end when she perceived that he minded their chattering, spouting,
and laughing, no more than if they had been so many little sparrows
twittering on the eaves, but pursued the even tenor of his writing
uninterruptedly, even while she fitted on his head a yellow pointed cap,
which her ingenious fingers had compounded of the lining of certain ugly
old curtains.
His presence in this silent state served, too, as a protection in Mrs.
Langford’s periodical visitations to stir the fire; but for him, she
would assuredly have found fault, and probably Beatrice would have
come to a collision with her, which would have put an end to the whole
scheme.
It formed a considerable addition to Henrietta’s list of his avocations,
and really by making the utmost of everything he did for other people
during that whole week, she made the number reach even to seventy-nine
by the next Thursday morning. The most noted of these employments were
the looking over a new Act of Parliament with the county member, the
curing grandmamma’s old gander of a mysterious lameness, the managing
of an emigration of a whole family to New Zealand, the guessing a riddle
supposed “to have no answer,” and the mending of some extraordinary
spring that was broken in Uncle Roger’s new drill. Beatrice was charmed
with the list; Aunt Mary said it was delightful to be so precious to
every one; and grandpapa, shaking his head at his son, said he was
ashamed to find that his family contained such a Jack of all trades; to
which Uncle Geoffrey replied, that it was too true that “all work and no
play make Jack a very dull boy.”
The breaking up of the frost, with a succession of sleet, snow and
rain, was much in favour of Beatrice and her plans, by taking away
all temptation from the boys to engage in out-of-door amusements; and
Antonio and Bassanio studied their parts so diligently, that Carey
was heard to observe that it might just as well be half year. They had
besides their own proper parts, to undertake those of the Princes of
Arragon and Morocco, since Queen Bee, willing to have as much of Nerissa
as possible, had determined to put their choice, and that of Bassanio,
all into the one scene belonging to “suit.” It was one of those
occasions on which she showed little consideration, for she thus gave
Portia an immense quantity to learn in only two days; persuading herself
all the time that it was no such hard task, since the beautiful
speech about mercy Henrietta already knew by heart, and she made
no difficulties about the rest. Indeed, Beatrice thought herself
excessively amiable in doing all she could to show off her cousin’s
beauty and acting, whilst taking a subordinate part herself; forgetting
that humility is not shown in choosing a part, but in taking willingly
that which is assigned us.
Henrietta was rather appalled at the quantity she had to learn, as well
as at the prominent part she was to take; but she did not like to spoil
the pleasure of the rest with objections, and applied herself in good
earnest to her study. She walked about with a little Shakespeare in her
hand; she learnt while she was dressing, working, waiting; sat up late,
resisting many a summons from her mother to come to bed, and long before
daylight, was up and learning again.
The great evening had come, and the audience were thus arranged:
grandmamma took up her carpet-work, expressing many hopes to Aunt Roger
that it would be over now and out of the children’s heads, for they
turned the house upside down, and for her part, she thought it very like
play-acting. Aunt Roger, returning the sentiment with interest, took out
one of the little brown holland frocks, which she seemed to be always
making. Uncle Roger composed himself to sleep in the arm-chair for want
of his brother to talk to; grandpapa moved a sofa to the front for Aunt
Mary, and sat down by her, declaring that they would see something very
pretty, and hoping it would not be too hard a nut for his old wits to
crack; Jessie, and such of the boys as could not be persuaded to be
magnificos, found themselves a convenient station, and the scene opened.
It was a very short one, but it made every one laugh greatly, thanks to
Shylock’s excellent acting, and the chorus of boys, who greatly enjoyed
chasing him across the stage, crying, “The law, his ducats, and his
daughter!”
Then, after a short interval, appeared Portia, a silver arrow in her
hair, almost lovely enough for the real Portia; though the alarmed
expression in her glowing face was little accordant with the calm
dignified self-possession of the noble Venetian heiress. Nerissa, a
handkerchief folded squarely over her head, short petticoats, scarlet
lambswool worked into her stockings, and a black apron trimmed with
bright ribbon, made a complete little Italian waiting-maid; her quick,
pert reply to her lady’s first faltering speech, seemed wonderfully to
restore Portia to herself, and they got on well and with spirit through
the description of the suitors, and the choice of the two first caskets.
Portia looked excessively dignified, and Nerissa’s by-play was capital.
Whether it was owing to Bassanio’s awkwardness or her own shyness,
she did not prosper quite so well when the leaden casket was chosen;
Bassanio seemed more afraid of her than rejoiced, and looked much more
at Nerissa than at her, whilst she moved as slowly, and spoke in as
cold and measured a way, as if it had been the Prince of Morocco who had
unfortunately hit upon the right casket.
In the grand concluding scene she was, however, all that could be
wished. She really made a very pretty picture in the dark robes, the
glowing carnation of her cheek contrasting with the grey wig, beneath
which a few bright ringlets still peeped out; one little white hand
raised, and the other holding the parchment, and her eyes fixed on the
Jew, as if she either imagined herself Portia, or saw her brother in
Antonio’s case, for they glistened with tears, and her voice had a
tremulous pleading tone, which fairly made her grandfather and mother
both cry heartily.
“Take, then, thy bond; take thou thy pound of flesh!”
The Duke (little Willy) was in an agony, and was forcibly withheld by
Bassanio from crying “No, he shan’t!” Nerissa was so absorbed as even to
have forgotten herself; Shylock could hardly keep his countenance up to
the necessary expression of malice and obduracy; even Johnny and Dick
were hanging with breathless attention on the “but,” when suddenly there
was a general start throughout the party; the door opened; Atkins, with
a voice and face full of delight, announced “Master Roger,” and there
entered a young man, in a pea jacket and worsted comforter.
Such confusion, such rapture as ensued! The tumultuous welcomes and
handshakings before the sailor had time to distinguish one from another,
the actors assuming their own characters, grandmamma and Mrs. Roger
Langford asking dozens of questions in a breath, and Mr. Roger Langford
fast asleep in his great arm-chair, till roused by Dick tugging at his
arm, and Willy hammering on his knee, he slowly arose, saying, “What,
Roger, my boy, is it you? I thought it was all their acting!”
“Ah! Miss Jessie,” exclaimed Roger; “that is right: I have not seen such
a crop of shining curls since I have been gone. So you have not lost
your pink cheeks with pining for me. How are they all at home?”
“Here, Roger, your Aunt Mary,” said his mother; and instantly there
was a subduing of the young sailor’s boisterous mirth, as he turned
to answer her gentle welcome. The laugh arose the next moment at the
appearance of the still half-disguised actors: Alex without Bassanio’s
short black cloak and slouched hat and feather, but still retaining his
burnt cork eyebrows and moustache, and wondering that Roger did not know
him; Uncle Geoffrey still in Shylock’s yellow cap, and Fred somewhat
grim with the Prince of Morocco’s complexion.
“How d’ye do, Phil?” said Roger, returning his cousinly shake of the
hand with interest. “What! are not you Philip Carey?”
“O, Roger, Roger!” cried a small figure, in whom the Italian maiden
predominated.
“What, Aunt Geoffrey masquerading too? How d’ye do, aunt?”
“Well done, Roger! That’s right! Go on!” cried his father, laughing
heartily.
“Is it not my aunt? No? Is it the little Bee, then? Why you are grown as
like her! But where is Aunt Geoffrey then? Not here? That is a bore. I
thought you would have all been in port here at Christmas. And is not
this Philip? Come tell me, some of you, instead of laughing there. Are
you Fred Langford, then?”
“Right this time,” said Fred, “so now you must shake hands with me in my
own name.”
“Very glad to do so, and see you here at last,” said Roger, cordially.
“And now tell me, what is all this about? One would think you were
crossing the Line?”
“You shall hear what it is all about, and see too,” said Mr. Langford.
“We must have that wicked old Jew disappointed, must not we, Willy? But
where is my little Portia? What is become of her?”
“Fled, I suspect,” said her mother, “gone to turn into herself before
her introduction.”
“O, Roger, it was so jolly,” Carey was now heard to say above the
confusion of voices. “Uncle Geoffrey was an old Jew, going to cut a
pound of flesh out of Fred, and Henrietta was making a speech in a
lawyer’s wig, and had just found such a dodge!”
“Ha! like the masks in the carnival at Rio! Ferrars and I went ashore
there, and--”
“Have you been at Sutton Leigh, Roger?”
“Have you dined?”
“Cold turkey--excellent Christmas pie, only too much pepper--a cup of
tea--no, but we will have the beef in--”
Further conversation was suspended by these propositions, with the
answers and thanks resulting therefrom, but in the midst grandpapa
exclaimed, “Ah! here she is! Here is the counsellor! Here is a new
cousin for you, Roger; here is the advocate for you when you have a
tough law-suit! Lucky for you, Master Geoffrey, that she is not a man,
or your nose would soon be put out of joint. You little rogue! How dared
you make your mother and grandfather cry their hearts out?”
“I was very glad to see you as bad as myself, sir,” said Mrs. Frederick
Langford. “I was very much ashamed of being so foolish, but then, you
know, I could hardly ever read through that scene without crying.”
“Ah! you are a prudent mamma, and will not let her be conceited. But
to see Geoffrey, with his lips quivering, and yet frowning and looking
savage with all his might and main! Well, you are a capital set of
actors, all of you, and we must see the end of it.”
This was the great desire of Beatrice, and she was annoyed with
Henrietta for having thrown aside her borrowed garments, but the Fates
decreed otherwise. The Christmas pie came in, grandpapa proceeded to
carve it, and soon lost the remembrance of the charade in talking to
his eldest grandson about his travels. A sailor just returned from
four years on the South American coast, who had doubled Cape Horn, shot
condors on the Andes, caught goats at Juan Fernandez, fished for sharks
in the Atlantic, and heard parrots chatter in the Brazilian woods, could
not fail to be very entertaining, even though he cared not for the Incas
of Peru, and could tell little about the beauties of an iceberg; and
accordingly everyone was greatly entertained, except the Queen Bee, who
sat in a corner of the sofa, playing with her watch-chain, wondering
how long Roger would go on eating pie, looking at the time-piece, and
strangling the yawns induced by her inability to attract the notice of
either of her squires, whose eyes and ears were all for the newcomer.
She was not even missed; if she had been, it would have been some
consolation; but on they went, listening and laughing, as if the course
of the Euphrosyne, her quick sailing, and the adventures of her crew,
were the only subjects of interest in the world. He was only at home for
a week, but so much the worse, that would be till the end of Beatrice’s
own visit, and she supposed it would be nothing but Euphrosyne the whole
time.
There was at last a change: Roger had half a hundred questions to ask
about his cousins and all the neighbours.
“And has Philip Carey set up for himself at Allonfield? Does he get any
practice? I have a great mind to be ill; it would be such a joke to be
doctored by Master Philip!”
“Ah! to think of your taking Mr. Frederick for poor Philip,” said
Jessie. “I assure you,” nodding to Fred, “I take it as a great
compliment, and so will Philip.”
“And is Fanny Evans as pretty as ever?”
“Oh! grown quite fat and coarse,” said Jessie; “but you may judge
for yourself on Monday. Dear Mrs. Langford is so kind as to give us a
regular Christmas party, and all the Evanses and Dittons are coming. And
we are to dance in the dining-room, the best place for it in the
county; the floor is so much better laid down than in the Allonfield
assembly-room.”
“No such good place for dancing as the deck of a frigate,” said Roger.
“This time last year we had a ball on board the Euphrosyne at Rio. I
took the prettiest girl there in to supper--don’t be jealous, Jessie,
she had not such cheeks as yours. She was better off there than in the
next ball where I met her, in the town. She fancied she had got rather
a thick sandwich at supper: she peeped in, and what do you think she
found? A great monster of a cockroach, twice as big as any you ever
saw.”
“O, you horrid creature!” cried Jessie, “I am sure it was your doing.
I am sure it was your doing. I am sure you will give me a scorpion, or
some dreadful creature! I won’t let you take me in to supper on Monday,
I declare.”
“Perhaps I won’t have you. I mean to have Cousin Henrietta for my
partner, if she will have me.”
“Thank you, Cousin Roger,” faltered Henrietta, blushing crimson, with
the doubt whether she was saying the right thing, and fearing Jessie
might be vexed. Her confusion was increased the next moment, as Roger,
looking at her more fully than he had done before, went on, “Much
honoured, cousin. Now, all of you wish me joy. I am safe to have the
prettiest girl in the room for my partner. But how slow of them all
not to have engaged her before. Eh! Alex, what have you to say for
yourself?”
“I hope for Queen Bee,” said Alex.
“And Jessie must dance with me, because I don’t know how,” said Carey.
“My dears, this will never do!” interposed grandmamma. “You can’t all
dance with each other, or what is to become of the company? I never
heard of such a thing. Let me see: Queen Bee must open the ball with
little Henry Hargrave, and Roger must dance with Miss Benson.”
“No, no,” cried Roger, “I won’t give up my partner, ma’am; I am a
privileged person, just come home. Knight Sutton has not had too much of
Henrietta or me, so you must let us be company. Come, Cousin Henrietta,
stick fast to your engagement; you can’t break the first promise you
ever made me. Here,” proceeded he, jumping up, and holding out his hand,
“let us begin this minute; I’ll show you how we waltz with the Brazilian
ladies.”
“Thank you, Cousin Roger, I cannot waltz,” said Henrietta.
“That’s a pity. Come, Jessie, then.”
If the practice of waltzing was not to be admired, there was something
which was very nice in the perfect good humour with which Jessie
answered her cousin’s summons, without the slightest sign of annoyance
at his evident preference of Henrietta’s newer face.
“If I can’t waltz, I can play for you,” said Henrietta, willing not to
seem disobliging; and going to the piano, she played whilst Roger and
Jessie whirled merrily round the room, every now and then receiving
shocks against the furniture and minding them not the least in the
world, till at last, perfectly out of breath, they dropped laughing upon
the sofa.
The observations upon the wild spirits of sailors ashore then sank into
silence; Mrs. Roger Langford reproved her son for making such a racket,
as was enough to kill his Aunt Mary; with a face of real concern he
apologised from the bottom of his heart, and Aunt Mary in return assured
him that she enjoyed the sight of his merriment.
Grandmamma announced in her most decided tone that she would have no
waltzes and no polkas at her party. Roger assured her that there was no
possibility of giving a dance without them, and Jessie seconded him as
much as she ventured; but Mrs. Langford was unpersuadable, declaring
that she would have no such things in her house. Young people in her
days were contented to dance country dances; if they wanted anything
newer, they might have quadrilles, but as to these new romps, she would
not hear of them.
And here, for once in her life, Beatrice was perfectly agreed with her
grandmamma, and she came to life again, and sat forward to join in the
universal condemnation of waltzes and polkas that was going on round the
table.
With this drop of consolation to her, the party broke up, and Jessie,
as she walked home to Sutton Leigh, found great solace in determining
within herself that at any rate waltzing was not half so bad as dressing
up and play-acting, which she was sure her mamma would never approve.
Beatrice came to her aunt’s room, when they went upstairs, and
petitioned for a little talk, and Mrs. Frederick Langford, with kind
pity for her present motherless condition, accepted her visit, and even
allowed her to outstay Bennet, during whose operations the discussion of
the charade, and the history of the preparations and contrivances gave
subject to a very animated conversation.
Then came matters of more interest. What Beatrice seemed above all
to wish for, was to relieve herself by the expression of her intense
dislike to the ball, and all the company, very nearly without exception,
and there were few elders to whom a young damsel could talk so much
without restraint as to Aunt Mary.
The waltzing, too, how glad she was that grandmamma had forbidden it,
and here Henrietta chimed in. She had never seen waltzing before; had
only heard of it as people in their quiet homes hear and think of the
doings of the fashionable world, and in her simplicity was perfectly
shocked and amazed at Jessie, a sort of relation, practising it and
pleading for it.
“My dear!” said Beatrice, laughing, “I do not know what you would do
if you were me, when there is Matilda St. Leger polka-ing away half the
days of her life.”
“Yes, but Lady Matilda is a regular fashionable young lady.”
“Ay, and so is Jessie at heart. It is the elegance, and the air, and
the society that are wanting, not the will. It is the circumstances that
make the difference, not the temper.”
“Quite true, Busy Bee,” said her aunt, “temper may be the same in very
different circumstances.”
“But it is very curious, mamma,” said Henrietta, “how people can be
particular in one point, and not in another. Now, Bee, I beg your
pardon, only I know you don’t mind it, Jessie did not approve of your
skating.”
“Yes,” said Beatrice, “every one has scruples of his own, and laughs at
those of other people.”
“Which I think ought to teach Busy Bees to be rather less stinging,”
said Aunt Mary.
“But then, mamma,” said Henrietta, “we must hold to the right scruples,
and what are they? I do not suppose that in reality Jessie is less--less
desirous of avoiding all that verges towards a want of propriety then we
are, yet she waltzes. Now we were brought up to dislike such things.”
“O, it is just according to what you are brought up to,” said Beatrice.
“A Turkish lady despises us for showing our faces: it is just as you
think it.”
“No, that will not do,” said Henrietta. “Something must be actually
wrong. Mamma, do say what you think.”
“I think, my dear, that woman has been mercifully endowed with an
instinct which discerns unconsciously what is becoming or not, and
whatever at the first moment jars on that sense is unbecoming in her
own individual case. The fineness of the perception may be destroyed by
education, or wilful dulling, and often on one point it may be silent,
though alive and active on others.”
“Yes,” said Henrietta, as if satisfied.
“And above all,” said her mother, “it, like other gifts, grows
dangerous, it may become affectation.”
“Pruding,” said Beatrice, “showing openly that you like it to be
observed how prudent and proper you are.”
“Whereas true delicacy would shrink from showing that it is conscious
of anything wrong,” said Henrietta. “Wrong I do not exactly mean, but
something on the borders of it.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Mary, “and above all, do not let this delicacy show
itself in the carping at other people, which only exalts our own opinion
of ourselves, and very soon turns into ‘judging our neighbour.’”
“But there is false delicacy, aunt.”
“Yes, but it would be false kindness to enter on a fresh discussion
tonight, when you ought to be fast asleep.”