TABLEAUX VIVANTS.
After a day of rush and bustle for every one in the house alike, the
hour of eight, at which the guests have been invited, at length
arrives, and whilst Mrs. Merivale receives them herself on the first
staircase landing, a man-servant conducts them to the school-room,
where they are placed in their seats by two maids dressed in neat
black dresses and dainty little lace caps and aprons. These damsels
present each guest with the prettiest of programmes, which sets forth
a sufficiently attractive list of _Tableaux Vivants_, finishing up
with the information, "At the piano, Miss Denison and Miss Mary
Merivale."
These two are already seated at the piano, waiting with exemplary
patience for the signal to begin the overture. There have been
extensive practisings going on for some time between the two, and now
the "ballet music" from Gounod's "Faust" is spread open before them,
and Molly is leaning back in her chair gazing abstractedly at the
curtain, while Miss Denison is making futile efforts to shield one of
the candles which shows a disposition to gutter.
Suddenly the little bell is rung, rousing Molly from her reverie, and
the sweet strains of the above-mentioned music soon reduce the
audience to a state of quietude and attention.
Molly, thorough musician that she is, plays on with such rapt
attention to the music and naught else that a gradually increasing
agitation of the curtain at the nearest wing is entirely lost upon
her. Quite forgetful of the fact that she is bound to make a
precipitate retreat the moment the final chord is struck, in order to
swell the number of the children belonging to the lady who resided in
the shoe, she plays on until she becomes aware of Miss Denison's
voice whispering in her ear "They are _ready, Molly_, and we must
hurry the end of this."
Still Molly only half catches the words, till suddenly Dick, reduced
to desperation, puts his head out from behind the curtain, and after
making frantic signs to cease, says in an audible whisper, "That's
enough, Molly, we're all ready and waiting for you."
This peremptory summons recalls the girl to the business of the
evening, and giving a quick nod of comprehension to her governess,
they both hurry through the few remaining bars, and finishing up with
two or three banging, crashing chords, as Molly puts it, she pushes
back her chair and promptly disappears.
There is only a delay of a few seconds before the little bell tinkles
again, and while Miss Denison plays a soft melody the curtain rises
on the first tableau.
Certainly "There was an old woman who lived in a shoe" was a great
success.
Colonel Danvers, arrayed in one of the nurse's cotton gowns, with a
little shawl pinned over his shoulders and a large poke-bonnet, looks
the character of the "old woman" to perfection, as with one hand he
grasps Honor's arm with a firm grip, whilst a formidable-looking
birch is raised threateningly over her with the other. The rest of
the children are all seated round and about the shoe in various
attitudes; some half in and half out of it. All are supplied with
basins, popularly supposed to contain broth, and Molly, well to the
fore, with bare feet and rumpled head, is pausing in the act of
carrying her spoon to her mouth, with a distinct expression of "Will
it be _my_ turn next?" in her wide-open blue eyes.
The curtain goes down amidst a storm of applause; and it being
arranged that no encores will be accepted, there is instantly a rush
of pattering feet across the stage, accompanied by much giggling and
whispering, and then a mysterious sound of pushing and dragging,
which duly announces the removal of the shoe.
Honor's "Mother Hubbard" comes next, and Molly once more takes her
place at the piano, her presence not being required again on the
stage until the end of the first part of the programme, where her
much-dreaded part of the "Maiden all forlorn" comes on. Molly is
anything but happy in her mind about this part of the programme, she
having grave misgivings as to Hugh's intentions in the matter.
"Look here, Hugh," she says, when his services not being in request
elsewhere he strolls into the room and hangs over the piano,
nominally to turn over the music, "I shall ask Colonel Danvers to
make our picture awfully short. I don't know, I'm sure, how you mean
to manage about that stupid kiss; but it is very certain you can't
keep on kissing me all the time; and another thing is, if you have
your face so close to mine I _know_ I shall be tempted to bite you.
I shouldn't be able to help it, I am sure."
"Well, I suppose I must risk that," laughs Hugh good-naturedly; "and
I don't suppose you would bite very hard either."
"O, wouldn't I though! my teeth are as sharp as anything. You have
no idea what they can do when they give their mind to a thing. Hush!
here is Doris's 'Mary, Mary.' Doesn't she look pretty?"
And so she does. A chintz with a green ground has carried the
day,--green being, Doris had declared, the colour best suited to
Mary's contrariness of nature. So green it is, even to the neat
little high-heel shoes of which Doris is not a little proud.
A miniature garden has been quickly improvised for this picture; and
the girl standing in the middle of it, with finger on pouting lip and
a general air of discontent and vexation, looks natural and well.
Truth to tell, the pouting expression is not altogether foreign to
Doris's face; and while the audience is thinking how well she has
assumed the contrariness, Dick whispers to his sister, "I say, Honor,
Doris's pouting propensities have come in useful at last, haven't
they?"
There is only one more picture now before the end of the first part,
so Molly once more disappears, and is in time to help in placing
Daisy in position as "Miss Muffit," with her companion the spider, of
which she feels rather a wholesome dread. Unfortunately for her
feelings, Regy, who has manufactured it, has made one of the
creature's legs a shade shorter than the rest. The consequence is
that, when the spider is standing, this short leg dangles loosely and
suggestively, inspiring poor Daisy with genuine terror. The best
side is, of course, turned towards the audience, and when the curtain
goes up the little girl is discovered in a very natural attitude of
fright, as she shrinks away from the monster, with her cup of
curds-and-whey in one hand and her spoon in the other. Molly emerges
from the dressing-room just as a storm of vociferous applause informs
her that the curtain has descended on the much-appreciated picture of
"Little Miss Muffit." As she passes into the school-room behind the
huge screen which hides the actors and actresses from view as they
enter, she meets Hugh, who is evidently feeling as forlorn as the
"maiden" herself in his ragged and tattered garb. He is keeping well
in the shadow at present, and only steps forward as Molly comes up.
"You don't look very handsome," she remarks laconically; "and--yes, I
verily believe your face is dirty."
"Yes," says Hugh guiltily, "I'm afraid it is. The fact is, I smudged
it with a bit of burnt cork. I was going to wash it--I was indeed,"
he adds hastily, "but we heard the applause beginning for 'Miss
Muffit,' and Colonel Danvers said there wasn't time, and declared it
was not the least likely that the 'Man all tattered and torn' would
have a clean face. I can go and wash it now," he says humbly, "if
you think it will do to keep everybody waiting."
"O, no!" says Molly hastily, "we can't do that, of course; but do for
goodness' sake give it a rub with your handkerchief. Have you got
one?" she adds, looking doubtfully at him; "perhaps you haven't even
got a pocket in that tattered old coat. Well, here's mine;" and
diving into the depths of the capacious pocket which is hidden away
in the folds of the still-room maid's cotton dress which she is
wearing, she produces a small dainty cambric affair, which Hugh, with
a mixture of amusement and awe, accepts gratefully. At this moment
Colonel Danvers hurries up.
"Come, you two," he says, "they will be tired of waiting. Now, you
sit here on this stool, Molly. That's right--capital! Show your
face a _little_ more to the audience; now lean it on your hand--so,
and twist up your apron with the other. I'll see to the 'man'--don't
you move on any account now, there's a good girl. Now, Hugh, just
here. All right! you'll remember the sign, and don't fall over the
pail;" and before Molly has time to ascertain his whereabouts the
bell tinkles, and up goes the curtain.
It is a pretty picture enough; for a neat little rustic scene has
been painted for the back of the stage, in which the refractory cow
may be seen grazing, rather peaceably perhaps considering its
reputation for bad temper. A sun-bonnet is lying on the green baize
in front of Molly, and at her side is a genuine milking-pail borrowed
from the dairy. Molly herself is staring straight before her in a
truly dejected manner, while Hugh has the appearance of having crept
up stealthily till within about half a yard of her. The seconds
creep on, and as Hugh has not moved an inch Molly reassures herself
with the thought that after all it was only his nonsense about being
obliged to give the kiss. She congratulates herself too soon,
however, for as the bell rings for the curtain to descend, Hugh
suddenly darts forward and kisses her lightly on the cheek just as it
is about half-way down.
The peals of laughter which, with the applause, ring through the room
testify to the audience's thorough appreciation of the joke; but
Molly as she rises expresses extreme indignation at what she called
Hugh's "horrid meanness," throwing dark hints over her shoulder as
she marches from the room as to all favours being discontinued for
the remainder of the evening. Hugh looks so disconsolate that
Colonel Danvers slaps him on the shoulder, saying with a hearty
laugh, "Come, cheer up, man! the fun of the picture was in the kiss,
you know, and Molly doesn't mean what she says. You leave her little
ladyship to me and I'll see that it's all right; she is only put out
for the moment. Now clear the stage for the first scene of 'The
queen was in the parlour.' Where is the queen? Oh, here you are,
Doris! Yes, you will do very well; but your crown is all on one
side, and the effect is rakish in the extreme. Come here, and let me
straighten it."
"O, for goodness' sake mind the honey!" cries Doris excitedly. "It's
trickling down the sides now, I do believe!" and she holds up the pot
down the side of which a thin stream of the sticky substance is
steadily making its way. "I found Teddy and Dick at it, you know,"
she continues, deliberately drawing one finger up the side of the pot
to stay the stream; "and in the scuffle it got knocked over, and
before I could rescue it of course some must needs run over. I have
stuck to it ever since though!" she adds triumphantly.
"It seems to me that it has stuck to _you_," says the colonel dryly.
"How in the world can you endure to have such sticky fingers?"
"O, I don't mind," says Doris carelessly. "I shall require to have
some of it spread upon bread by and by, you know, and I shall be sure
to smear myself then. I always do with honey or jam or anything of
that kind. Besides, having once got the pot I don't intend to put it
down again. Oh, good gracious, Bobby, you're standing on my train!
_Do_ pull him off, Colonel Danvers!" The stage-manager does as he is
desired, and Master Bob is led off by the ear mildly protesting at
the indignity offered him.
Molly has long ago returned to her duties at the piano, for during
the "interval of ten minutes" the audience must, of course, be
sufficiently amused.
That over, the three pictures of "The queen was in the parlour,
eating bread and honey," "The king was in his counting-house,
counting out his money," and "The maid was in the garden, hanging out
the clothes," rapidly follow, with Doris as queen, Regy Horton as
king, and Honor as the maid, a stuffed magpie having been engaged for
the role of the blackbird.
Directly the curtain descends on the last of these three Molly once
more leaves Miss Denison at the piano, it being imperative that she
shall increase the number of domestics appertaining to the kitchen in
which the Queen of Hearts is discovered making tarts.
Honor is the queen on this occasion, and Dick personates the knave in
the second scene. Great care and thought have been expended on the
dressing of this set of pictures, and in the last, when a goodly
crowd, all representing the suit of hearts, is collected on the
stage, the effect is really good. Hugh manages to get up the bland,
vacant kind of expression in which the kings of a pack of cards
generally rejoice, and Honor, after the manner of cardboard queens,
looks decidedly cross, presumably at the abduction of her tarts;
while Dick has the debonair, impudent manner peculiar to the knaves.
If anything mars the effect of this last tableau it is the painful
fact that the knave of hearts, as he stands with his arms folded,
scornfully glancing down at the dish of tarts, shows distinct signs
of having tasted as well as purloined those dainties; for his flushed
countenance is embellished here and there with little streaks of jam,
which if not becoming are at least highly suggestive.
This last picture brings the dramatic portion of the evening to a
close, and the actors and actresses dash madly from the room,
regardless of the dire confusion left behind them; for in another
moment the audience will be making their exit by the same door on
their way to the study, where light refreshments are being served
before the next business of the evening, namely the dancing, begins.
Honor and Doris are soon ready to join the throng below, for it has
been arranged that they shall keep to their last dresses in the
tableaux for the remainder of the evening. Molly, however, is to
wear the new white silk which is to do duty for the round of
Christmas parties which the girls are generally in request for. It
is some time, therefore, before she makes her appearance in the
drawing-room. The dancing has already commenced, but Doris and Honor
are still standing, the centre of a congratulatory group, and it is
only when their respective partners come forward to claim them that a
truce is given to the compliments which might have turned the heads
of any less sensible girls than they.
When Molly at length appears she feels, to use her own expression,
rather "out of it," for during her absence engagements have of course
been made for the first one or two dances, so she leans rather
disconsolately against a doorway from which the door has been
removed, and half hidden by a curtain she looks on at the gay scene
before her. She is just answering some energetic signs from Alick
Horton, and telegraphing back her willingness to finish the dance
with him if he can safely pilot himself round to her retreat without
being run down by the many couples now whirling round the room, when
her shoulder is touched from behind, and Colonel Danvers puts back
the curtain, saying as he does so, "Now, Miss Molly, I have brought a
penitent sinner with me who is desirous of having the honour of
dancing with you."
Molly glances up, and seeing Hugh standing beside the colonel with a
crestfallen and guilty appearance, looks down again saying, "I am not
going to dance this time, thank you; or if I do," she adds hastily,
seeing Alick approaching slowly and surely, "it will be with Alick; I
have promised him."
The mention of his brother's name appears to have an irritating
effect on Hugh, for he says hastily, and not without some temper, "O,
Alick is nobody! he can wait. Come now, Molly, you promised me, you
know."
But Molly shakes her head.
"Well, but you know, Molly, that kiss could not be helped," puts in
the colonel at this juncture; "and for my part I think Hugh managed
it in a highly commendable manner. Besides, poor boy, he is really
dreadfully put out at having been compelled, as it were, to annoy
you, and I am sure he will never dream of doing such a thing again;
will you, Hugh?" and he turns towards the young man with a roguish
twinkle in his eye.
Hugh does not respond, but he looks pleadingly towards his little
favourite, and holding out his hand says, "Come, Molly, won't you?"
Molly considers a moment, then slowly moving towards Hugh she says,
"Just this one dance then, Hugh, as Colonel Danvers wishes it."
"And plenty more when that one's done!" calls the Colonel after them,
as he goes off with Alick to find another partner for him.
The evening goes on merrily and fast, and Molly's programme is
speedily filled up, the initials H. H. figuring pretty often in it
notwithstanding her previous displeasure. Doris and Honor are heard
to confess more than once during the evening that they are sorry they
were tempted by feelings of vanity to keep on their regal attire, the
trains thereof constantly tripping them up and embarrassing them
generally, to say nothing of an unfortunate habit, which their
respective crowns possess, of tumbling off on the slightest
provocation. Thus they are seen to look envyingly from time to time
at Molly, who in all the independence of short skirts and crownless
head, is enjoying herself thoroughly.
Most of the guests have departed, and only a few familiar friends are
still standing about the staircase and hall when Hugh goes up to
Molly, who, now completely tired out, is sitting on one of the hall
chairs, gazing abstractedly into the dining-room opposite.
"Good-night, Molly," he whispers, "and I wanted to tell you that
to-morrow will be the first day of my hard work: _real hard_ work,
you know, that even _you_ would approve of. I haven't very much more
time at home now, but I mean to make the most of it, and when once I
get back to Sandhurst I shall work like a nigger if I can feel that
you are trusting me."
"O, I am so glad, Hugh!" says the girl, looking up brightly at the
handsome, earnest face above her; "because I know you will do so well
if you only give yourself a fair chance, and do not give way to that
wicked laziness. I do so want you to be famous and distinguished and
all that sort of thing when you go out to India, if you do go."
"I don't know exactly what I am to distinguish myself in, unless it
is pig-sticking or some other pursuit of that character," laughs
Hugh; "but seriously, if I do get on well out there, or anywhere else
indeed, I know whom I shall have to thank for it. And now good-night
again, Molly; sleep well, and if it is still fine and frosty
to-morrow, I'll come and take you for a spin on the ice."