THE TABLEAUX.
Friday night, the work of the week being ended, was given to the young
ladies as a holiday evening, which, within bounds, was entirely at
their disposal. No study was required of them, and it was generally
occupied by diversions of one kind and another, in which the whole
school were at liberty to join. Sometimes it was a dance, the teachers
enjoying it as heartily as their pupils; sometimes it was a concert,
and generally it was well worth hearing, for this academy was noted
for its skilled musicians. Again, it would be a play, even Antigone
not being too ambitious for these amateur actors or _tableaux
vivants_, which never failed to be amusing.
This night was one chosen by the Demosthenic Club for their secret
meetings. As its members did not like to lose any of the social fun,
these meetings were held so secretly that every one in the building
knew of their time and place, much to the annoyance of the club; and
no one, so far, not even the club itself, was better informed of what
was done and said there than Miss Ashton. It seemed to her a harmless
sort of an affair. There was no difference in the scholarship of its
members, the sessions were short, no mischief followed them, and if it
made the girls contented and happy it was all right.
How she came to have this perfect understanding it would be difficult
to tell, only she was found, in some unknown and mysterious way, to
always have the reins in her own hands, no matter how restive the
colts she had to control.
The club had grown from the original number of seven, to twelve, the
new members having been chosen from among the brightest and most
mischievous girls in school. This made Miss Ashton wonder at their
uniformly quiet behavior, and increased the vigilance of her watch.
About three weeks after the visit of Cousin Abijah, it was announced
that a series of tableaux would be given on Friday evening,
illustrating a poem written by Miss Kate Underwood.
Kate's poetical abilities were well known and greatly admired by the
school, even the teachers gave her credit for a knack at humorous
sketches rather unusual. She was to be, perhaps, a second John Saxe,
possibly an Oliver Wendell Holmes, who could tell? The gift was worth
cultivating, particularly as it did not interfere with Kate's soberer
and more disciplinary studies.
Miss Ashton did not think it necessary to see the poem. It was
probably witty, if not wise, and wisdom need not intrude its grave
face always into the freedom of the Friday nights; indeed, she rather
winked at the performance, as she and her associate principal were to
be out of town on that night, and "high fun" in the hall served to
keep the girls from any more serious mischief.
All the club were pledged to the most profound secrecy as to what the
tableaux were to be; and, for a wonder, there were no revelations
made, even to the "dear, intimate friend," who was not a member, and
who generally shared the most "profound secret," no matter from what
source it emanated.
After evening prayers, the hall was given to the club, and as every
arrangement had been made previously for the decoration of the stage,
the work was completed and the doors thrown open at an early hour.
The hall was soon filled, and the buzz of expectation began long
before the curtain was raised; when it was, it showed an interior of a
farm kitchen of the olden times. Clothes-bars had been skilfully
placed so as to represent a low ceiling, and from them depended hams
wrapped in brown paper coverings, sausages enclosed in cloth bags,
herbs tied in bunches and labelled in large letters, "Sage, Camomile,
Fennel, Dock, Caraway."
There were ears of corn, sweet, Indian, pop, likewise labelled;
tomatoes, strung in rows to dry, and strings also of newly sliced
apple.
Under this motley ceiling the room showed plainly it was the
living-room of the house. There was a large cooking-stove that shone
so you might have seen your face in it, a row of wash-tubs, leaning
bottom side up against the wall, two wooden pails and three tin ones,
standing on a shelf over the tubs, and these in close proximity to the
only window in the room. Just before this window was a small table
with a Bible, a well-worn one, on it, and a pair of steel-bowed
spectacles. One yellow wooden chair, and what was called "a settle"
near the stove, a large cooking-table, and one more chair, made the
furniture of the room.
Before this table sat an old woman, dressed in a black petticoat, and
a red, short gown that came a little below her waist. She wore a cap
that fitted close to her head, made of some black cloth, innocent of
bow or frill; from under it, locks of gray hung down about her face
and neck. She had a swarthy skin, two small eyes, hidden by a large
pair of glasses, a mouth that kept in motion in spite of the necessity
of stillness which a tableau is supposed to demand, as if she were
reading the letter she held in her hand aloud. The laugh and clapping
which this scene called forth had hardly subsided when, from behind a
hidden corner of the stage, a sweet, clear voice began to read the
descriptive poem.
"It's Kate Underwood herself," was whispered from seat to seat.
"There's no other girl in school that can read as well as she can."
The poem gave a brief description of the kitchen as it appeared on the
stage, then a more lengthy one of the old woman, with the contents of
the letter she was reading. It was from a niece at a boarding-school,
who proposed, in a brief and direct way, to visit this aunt during her
coming vacation. The tableau was acted so well, and with such
piquancy, that claps and peals of laughter from the audience, and
finally calls for "Kate Underwood," who demurely makes her appearance
from behind the curtain, drops a stage courtesy, and disappears. The
poem had been (this audience constituting the judges) excellent, the
very best thing Kate ever wrote; and as for the tableaux, were there
ever any before one-half so good?
Now, while to almost all in the hall there had been nothing said or
done that could injure the feelings of any one, to Marion Parke it
seemed an unkind take-off of her cousin during his recent visit to
her.
Something in the tall, gaunt girl, in her rough, coarse dress, in the
grotesque awkwardness of her movements, reminded Marion of Cousin
Abijah; and while she had laughed with the others, and had refused to
allow her feelings to be hurt, she left the hall uncomfortable and
unhappy, wishing he had never come, or that all the school had shown
the kind consideration of Miss Ashton; nor was she helped in the least
when she heard Susan telling in great glee how the whole plan had come
to them after the visit of that uncouth old cousin of Marion Parke.