THERE was to be a grand entertainment in the assembly room of the ‘Crown
and Sceptre’ in aid of the County Hospital. Mrs Martin, widow of one of
the late partners in the bank, lived in a large house near Fenmarket, and
still had an interest in the business. She was distinctly above anybody
who lived in the town, and she knew how to show her superiority by
venturing sometimes to do what her urban neighbours could not possibly
do. She had been known to carry through the street a quart bottle of
horse physic although it was wrapped up in nothing but brown paper. On
her way she met the brewer’s wife, who was more aggrieved than she was
when Mrs Martin’s carriage swept past her in the dusty, narrow lane which
led to the Hall. Mrs Martin could also afford to recognise in a measure
the claims of education and talent. A gentleman came from London to
lecture in the town, and showed astonished Fenmarket an orrery and a
magic lantern with dissolving views of the Holy Land. The exhibition had
been provided in order to extinguish a debt incurred in repairing the
church, but the rector’s wife, and the brewer’s wife, after consultation,
decided that they must leave the lecturer to return to his inn. Mrs
Martin, however, invited him to supper. Of course she knew Mr Hopgood
well, and knew that he was no ordinary man. She knew also something of
Mrs Hopgood and the daughters, and that they were no ordinary women. She
had been heard to say that they were ladies, and that Mr Hopgood was a
gentleman; and she kept up a distant kind of intimacy with them, always
nodded to them whenever she met them, and every now and then sent them
grapes and flowers. She had observed once or twice to Mrs Tubbs that Mr
Hopgood was a remarkable person, who was quite scientific and therefore
did not associate with the rest of the Fenmarket folk; and Mrs Tubbs was
much annoyed, particularly by a slight emphasis which she thought she
detected in the ‘therefore,’ for Mr Tubbs had told her that one of the
smaller London brewers, who had only about fifty public-houses, had
refused to meet at dinner a learned French chemist who had written books.
Mrs Martin could not make friends with the Hopgoods, nor enter the
cottage. It would have been a transgression of that infinitely fine and
tortuous line whose inexplicable convolutions mark off what is forbidden
to a society lady. Clearly, however, the Hopgoods could be requested to
co-operate at the ‘Crown and Sceptre;’ in fact, it would be impolitic not
to put some of the townsfolk on the list of patrons. So it came about
that Mrs Hopgood was included, and that she was made responsible for the
provision of one song and one recitation. For the song it was settled
that Frank Palmer should be asked, as he would be in Fenmarket. Usually
he came but once every half year, but he had not been able, so he said,
to finish all his work the last time. The recitation Madge undertook.
The evening arrived, the room was crowded and a dozen private carriages
stood in the ‘Crown and Sceptre’ courtyard. Frank called for the
Hopgoods. Mrs Hopgood and Clara sat with presentation tickets in the
second row, amongst the fashionable folk; Frank and Madge were upon the
platform. Frank was loudly applauded in ‘_Il Mio Tesoro_,’ but the
loudest applause of the evening was reserved for Madge, who declaimed
Byron’s ‘_Destruction of Sennacherib_’ with much energy. She certainly
looked very charming in her red gown, harmonising with her black hair.
The men in the audience were vociferous for something more, and would not
be contented until she again came forward. The truth is, that the wily
young woman had prepared herself beforehand for possibilities, but she
artfully concealed her preparation. Looking on the ground and
hesitating, she suddenly raised her head as if she had just remembered
something, and then repeated Sir Henry Wotton’s ‘_Happy Life_.’ She was
again greeted with cheers, subdued so as to be in accordance with the
character of the poem, but none the less sincere, and in the midst of
them she gracefully bowed and retired. Mrs Martin complimented her
warmly at the end of the performance, and inwardly debated whether Madge
could be asked to enliven one of the parties at the Hall, and how it
could, at the same time, be made clear to the guests that she and her
mother, who must come with her, were not even acquaintances, properly so
called, but were patronised as persons of merit living in the town which
the Hall protected. Mrs Martin was obliged to be very careful. She
certainly was on the list at the Lord Lieutenant’s, but she was in the
outer ring, and she was not asked to those small and select little
dinners which were given to Sir Egerton, the Dean of Peterborough, Lord
Francis, and his brother, the county member. She decided, however, that
she could make perfectly plain the conditions upon which the Hopgoods
would be present, and the next day she sent Madge a little note asking
her if she would ‘assist in some festivities’ at the Hall in about two
months’ time, which were to be given in celebration of the twenty-first
birthday of Mrs Martin’s third son. The scene from the ‘_Tempest_,’
where Ferdinand and Miranda are discovered playing chess, was suggested,
and it was proposed that Madge should be Miranda, and Mr Palmer
Ferdinand. Mrs Martin concluded with a hope that Mrs Hopgood and her
eldest daughter would ‘witness the performance.’
Frank joyously consented, for amateur theatricals had always attracted
him, and in a few short weeks he was again at Fenmarket. He was obliged
to be there for three or four days before the entertainment, in order to
attend the rehearsals, which Mrs Martin had put under the control of a
professional gentleman from London, and Madge and he were consequently
compelled to make frequent journeys to the Hall.
At last the eventful night arrived, and a carriage was hired next door to
take the party. They drove up to the grand entrance and were met by a
footman, who directed Madge and Frank to their dressing-rooms, and
escorted Mrs Hopgood and Clara to their places in the theatre. They had
gone early in order to accommodate Frank and Madge, and they found
themselves alone. They were surprised that there was nobody to welcome
them, and a little more surprised when they found that the places
allotted to them were rather in the rear. Presently two or three
fiddlers were seen, who began to tune their instruments. Then some
Fenmarket folk and some of the well-to-do tenants on the estate made
their appearance, and took seats on either side of Mrs Hopgood and Clara.
Quite at the back were the servants. At five minutes to eight the band
struck up the overture to ‘_Zampa_,’ and in the midst of it in sailed Mrs
Martin and a score or two of fashionably-dressed people, male and female.
The curtain ascended and Prospero’s cell was seen. Alonso and his
companions were properly grouped, and Prospero began,—
‘Behold, Sir King,
The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero.’
The audience applauded him vigorously when he came to the end of his
speech, but there was an instantaneous cry of ‘hush!’ when Prospero
disclosed the lovers. It was really very pretty. Miranda wore a loose,
simple, white robe, and her wonderful hair was partly twisted into a
knot, and partly strayed down to her waist. The dialogue between the two
was spoken with much dramatic feeling, and when Ferdinand came to the
lines—
‘Sir, she is mortal,
But by immortal Providence she’s mine,’
old Boston, a worthy and wealthy farmer, who sat next to Mrs Hopgood,
cried out ‘hear, hear!’ but was instantly suppressed.
He put his head down behind the people in front of him, rubbed his knees,
grinned, and then turned to Mrs Hopgood, whom he knew, and whispered,
with his hand to his mouth,—
‘And a precious lucky chap he is.’
Mrs Hopgood watched intently, and when Gonzalo invoked the gods to drop a
blessed crown on the couple, and the applause was renewed, and Boston
again cried ‘hear, hear!’ without fear of check, she did not applaud, for
something told her that behind this stage show a drama was being played
of far more serious importance.
The curtain fell, but there were loud calls for the performers. It rose,
and they presented themselves, Alonso still holding the hands of the
happy pair. The cheering now was vociferous, more particularly when a
wreath was flung at the feet of the young princess, and Ferdinand,
stooping, placed it on her head.
Again the curtain fell, the band struck up some dance music and the
audience were treated to ‘something light,’ and roared with laughter at a
pretty chambermaid at an inn who captivated and bamboozled a young booby
who was staying there, pitched him overboard; ‘wondered what he meant;’
sang an audacious song recounting her many exploits, and finished with a
_pas-seul_.
The performers and their friends were invited to a sumptuous supper, and
the Fenmarket folk were not at home until half-past two in the morning.
On their way back, Clara broke out against the juxtaposition of
Shakespeare and such vulgarity.
‘Much better,’ she said, ‘to have left the Shakespeare out altogether.
The lesson of the sequence is that each is good in its way, a perfectly
hateful doctrine to me.
Frank and Madge were, however, in the best of humours, especially Frank,
who had taken a glass of wine beyond his customary very temperate
allowance.
‘But, Miss Hopgood, Mrs Martin had to suit all tastes; we must not be too
severe upon her.’
There was something in this remark most irritating to Clara; the word
‘tastes,’ for example, as if the difference between Miranda and the
chambermaid were a matter of ‘taste.’ She was annoyed too with Frank’s
easy, cheery tones for she felt deeply what she said, and his mitigation
and smiling latitudinarianism were more exasperating than direct
opposition.
‘I am sure,’ continued Frank, ‘that if we were to take the votes of the
audience, Miranda would be the queen of the evening;’ and he put the
crown which he had brought away with him on her head again.
Clara was silent. In a few moments they were at the door of their house.
It had begun to rain, and Madge, stepping out of the carriage in a hurry,
threw a shawl over her head, forgetting the wreath. It fell into the
gutter and was splashed with mud. Frank picked it up, wiped it as well
as he could with his pocket-handkerchief, took it into the parlour and
laid it on a chair.