CHAPTER XVI
IN WHICH CHARITY SUFFERETH LONG, AND JOAN MISSES HER CUE
Hughie spent the next few months chiefly in wondering.
He wondered what Mr. Haliburton's game might be. What was he doingbehind Lance Gaymer? That the latter might consider himself justified inpoking his nose into his only sister's affairs was understandableenough--but why drag in Haliburton? Was that picturesque ruffian agenuine friend of Lance's, enlisted in a brotherly endeavour to readjustJimmy Marrable's exceedingly unsymmetrical disposition of his property,or was he merely a member of that far-reaching and conspicuously ablefraternity (known in sporting circles as "The Nuts"), to whom allmankind is fair game, and whose one article of faith is a trite proverbon the subject of a fool and his money, pursuing his ordinary avocationof "making a bit"? In other words, was Lance Gaymer pulling Haliburton,or was Haliburton pushing Lance Gaymer?
Hughie also wondered about a good many other things, notably--
(_a_) Joan.
(_b_) More Joan; coupled with dim speculations as to how it was allgoing to end.
(_c_) More Joan still; together with a growing desire to go off again tothe ends of the earth and lose himself.
But for the present life followed an uneventful course. Since Lance'sdisplay of fireworks at Hughie's luncheon-party, Hughie's friends hadstudiously avoided the mention of the word money in their late host'spresence; and Master Lance himself, evidently realizing that, howeverexcellent his intentions or pure his motives, he had made an unmitigatedass of himself, avoided Hughie's society entirely.
Of Joan Hughie saw little until the beginning of October, when hearrived at Manors to shoot pheasants.
He was greeted, almost with tears of affection, by John Alexander Goble,who had been retained by Jack Leroy as butler when Hughie relinquishedhis services; and found the house packed with young men and maidens, thebilliard-room strewn with many-hued garments, and the atmosphere chargedwith the electricity of some great enterprise in the making.
"Theatricals!" explained Mrs. Leroy resignedly, as she handed himhis tea. "Tableaux, rather. At least, it is a sort of varietyentertainment," she concluded desperately, "in the Parish Hall. In aidof some charity or other, but that doesn't matter."
"Joey's latest, I suppose?"
"Yes; the child is wild about it. What, sweet one?" (This to the infantHildegard, in an attitude of supplication at her side.) "Cake? certainlynot! You are going out to tea at the Rectory in half an hour. Do youremember what happened the last time you had two teas?"
Stodger reflected, and remembered; but pleaded, in extenuation,--
"But I did it _all_ at the Rectory, mummy."
"She was sick," explained her sister, turning politely to Hughie.
"Twice!" corroborated Stodger, not without pride.
"Yes; in a decent basin provided by the parish," continued Duckleshazily. She had recently begun to attend church, and her reading duringthe sermon had opened to her a new and fertile field for quotation.
"Tell me more about the tableaux, Jack," said Hughie hastily, as Mrs.Leroy accelerated her ritualistic progeny's departure upstairs.
"They're spendin' lashings of money on them. Won't make a farthingprofit, I don't suppose; but the show should be all right. They'regetting a 'pro.' down to stage-manage 'em."
"My word, they are going it! Hallo, Joey!"
Miss Gaymer's entrance brought theatrical conversation up to fever heat;and for the rest of the meal, and indeed for the next few days, Hughielived and breathed in a world composed of rickety scenery, refractorypulleys, and hot size, inhabited by people who were always talking,usually cross, and most intermittent in their feeding-times.
One afternoon Joan took him down to the Hall, ostensibly as a companion,in reality to shift some large flats of scenery, too wide for femininearms to span.
Captain Leroy had already offered himself in that capacity, but hisservices had been brutally declined, on the ground that the scenery wasnot concave.
"The programmes are being printed to-day. We are going to have thetableaux in the first half," Joan rattled on, as they walked through theplantations. "Well-known pictures, you know. Some of them are perfectlylovely. I am in three," she added, rather naively.
Hughie asked for details.
"Well, the first one is to be The Mirror of Venus--a lot of girlslooking into a pool."
"Are you in that?"
"Not much! _That_ is for all the riff-raff who have crowded in withoutbeing invited--the Mellishes, and the Crumfords, and the Joblings. (Youknow the lot!) There's another tableau for their men: _such_ horrors, mydear! But that disposes of them for Part One: they don't have to appearagain until the waxworks. Then there's a perfectly sweet one--TheGambler's Wife."
"Who is she to be?"
"Sylvia Tarrant. She sits under a tree in an old garden, looking sad,"gabbled Joan without pausing, "while her husband gambles with some othermen on the lawn behind. You'll cry! I come after that--Two Strings toher Bow. A girl walking arm-in-arm with two men. She looks quite pleasedwith herself: the men have both got camelious hump."
"Who are they?"
"It's not quite settled yet. I told them they could fight it out amongthemselves. I expect it will be Binks and Cherub, though. But they mustdecide soon, because time is getting on, and Mr. Haliburton says--"
"Who?"
"Mr. Haliburton."
"Haliburton?" said Hughie, stopping short.
"Yes. Didn't you know? He is stage-managing us. He came down thismorning."
"Is he staying in the house?" was Hughie's next question.
"No: we couldn't get him in. He's putting up at The Bull, in thevillage," said Joan. "I wish we could have found room for him," sheadded, with intention. She knew that most men neither loved Mr.Haliburton nor approved of their girl friends becoming intimate withhim; and this alone was quite sufficient to predispose her in thatmisjudged hero's favour.
In her heart of hearts Miss Gaymer was just a little _eprise_ with Mr.Haliburton, and, as becomes one who is above such things, just a littleashamed of the fact. She had found something rather compelling in hisdark eyes and silky ways, but, being anything but a susceptible youngperson, rather resented her own weakness. Still, the fact remained. Shehad seen a good deal of Mr. Haliburton in London--how, she could hardlyexplain, though possibly Mr. Haliburton could have done so--and hadlistened, not altogether unmoved, to tales of a patrimony renounced forArt's sake, of an ancestral home barred by a hot-headed but lovable "oldpater"; and to various reflections, half-humorous, half-pathetic, on thesubject of what might have been if this world were only a juster place.
Joan, who did not know that Mr. Haliburton's ancestral home had beensituated over a tobacconist's shop somewhere between the back of OxfordStreet and Soho Square, and that his "old pater" had but lately retiredfrom the post of head waiter at a theatrical restaurant in Maiden Lane,in order to devote his undivided attention to the more perfect colouringof an already carnelian proboscis, felt distinctly sorry for herromantic friend. When a young girl begins to feel sorry for a man, theposition is full of possibilities; and when heavy-handed and purblindauthority steps in and forbids the banns, so to speak, the possibilitiesbecome probabilities, and, in extreme cases, certainties.
Joan glanced obliquely at Hughie. That impassive young man was advancingwith measured strides, frowning ferociously. She continued, notaltogether displeased:--
"The next tableau is Flora Macdonald's Farewell--very Scotch. A man in akilt stands in the centre--"
She babbled on, but Hughie's attention wandered.
Haliburton again! He did not like the idea. Consequently it was notaltogether surprising if, when Joan paused to enquire whether heregarded Queen Elizabeth or a suffragette as the most suitable vehiclefor one of Mrs. Jarley's most cherished "wheezes," Hughie should havereplied:--
"Joan, how did that chap come here? Was he engaged by you, or did heoffer
himself?"
"He offered himself--very kindly!" said Joan stiffly.
"I suppose he is being paid?"
"Yes, of course--a guinea or two. It's his profession," said Joanimpatiently. "Do you object?"
The occasion called for considerable tact, and poor heavy-handed Hughiesighed in anticipation. Joan heard him.
"What _is_ the trouble?" she asked, more amused than angry. "Out withit, old Conscientiousness?"
"Joey," said Hughie, "I don't like the idea of your taking up with thatchap."
On the whole, it could not have been put worse.
"It seems to me," said Miss Gaymer scornfully, "that it's not women whoare spiteful, but men. I wonder why every male I know is so down on poorMr. Haliburton. Silly children like Binks and Cherub I can understand,but _you_, Hughie--you ought to be above that sort of thing. What's thematter with the man, that you all abuse him so? Tell me!"
Hughie's reply to this tirade was lame and unconvincing. The modernmaiden is so amazingly worldly-wise on various matters on the subject ofwhich she can have had no other informant than her own intuitions, thatshe is apt to scout the suggestion that there are certain phases of lifeof which happily she as yet knows nothing; and any attempt to hint thesame to her is scornfully greeted as a piece of masculine superiority.Consequently Joey thought she knew all about Mr. Haliburton; wherein shewas manifestly wrong, but not altogether to be blamed; for when yourknowledge of human nature, so far as it goes, is well-nigh perfect, itis difficult for you to believe that it does not go all the way.
It was a most unsatisfactory conversation. All Hughie did was toreiterate his opinion of Mr. Haliburton without being able (or willing)to furnish any fresh facts in support of it; and the only apparentresult was to prejudice Joan rather more violently in Haliburton'sfavour than before, and to make Hughie feel like a backbiter and abusybody. It was a relief when Joan abruptly changed the conversation,and said:--
"Hughie, have you seen anything of Lance lately?"
No, Hughie had not. "Why?"
"I'm bothered about him," said Joan, descending from her high horse andslipping into what may be called her confidential mood. "He used towrite to me pretty regularly, even after he married that freak, and wewere always fond of one another, even though we quarrelled sometimes.But he seems to have dropped out of things altogether lately. Do youknow what he is doing?"
"Can't say, I'm sure," said Hughie.
"Could you find out for me?"
"Of course I will," said Hughie, quite forgetting the presentawkwardness of his relations with Lance in the light of the joyous factthat Lance's sister had just asked him to do her a service. "I'll go andlook him up. He may be ill, or short of cash. But can't you get news ofhim from--from--"
He stopped suddenly. He had been about to ask a question which had juststruck him as rather ungenerous.
"You mean from Mr. Haliburton?" said Joan, with her usual directness. "Idid ask him, but he says he has seen nothing of Lance for quite a longtime; so I'm afraid I must bother you, Hughie. I don't like to, becauseI know you won't want to go out of your way on his account, after--"
"Never mind that!" said Hughie hastily. "I'll go and look him up."
Joan turned to him gratefully.
"You're a good sort, Hughie," she said. "I don't know what I should dowithout you."
Hughie glowed foolishly. Her words did not mean anything, of course;still, they warmed him for the time being. He never thought of makingcapital out of Joan's impulsive outbursts of affection. He regarded themas a sort of consolation prize--nothing more. He had never attempted tomake love to her since his first rebuff. The memory of that undignifiedsquabble still made him tingle, and in any case it would never haveoccurred to him to renew the attack. Man-like, he had taken for grantedthe rather large proposition that a woman invariably means what shesays. To pester Joan with further attentions, especially in hisexceptional position, savoured to him of meanness.
For all that, the girl and he seemed of late to have adjusted theirrelations with one another. Joan never played with him now, encouraginghim one moment and flouting him the next, as in the case of most of herfaithful band. Her attitude was that of a good comrade. She was contentto sit silent in his company, which is a sound test of friendship; shebrought to him her little troubles, and occasionally ministered to his;and in every way she showed him that she liked and trusted him. A vaineror cleverer man would have taken heart of grace at these signs. Hughiedid not. He was Joan's guardian, and as such entitled to her confidence;also her very good friend, and as such entitled to her affection. Thatwas all. It was rotten luck, of course, that she was not sufficientlyfond of him to marry him, but then rotten luck is a thing one must beprepared for in this world. He would get accustomed to the situation intime: meanwhile there must be no more castles in the air.
"I'll tell you what," he continued presently. "I shall be in town onWednesday. I'll go and look Lance up then."
"But, Hughie," cried Joan in dismay, "Wednesday is the day of theentertainment. You _must_ come to that. What is your engagement, if it'snot indiscreet to inquire?"
"Dentist," said Hughie lugubriously.
"Dentist?" Joan laughed, or rather crowed, in her characteristicallychildlike way. "Hughie at the dentist's! It seems so funny," sheexplained apologetically.
"It will be the reverse of funny," said Hughie severely, "when he getshold of me. Do you know how long it is since I sat in a dentist's chair?Eight years, no less!"
"You'll catch it!" said Miss Gaymer confidently. "But you simply mustnot go on that day. I want you at the show. Can't you change the date?"
"The assassin gave me to understand," said Hughie, "that it was a mostextraordinary piece of luck for me that he should be able to take me atall; and he rather suggested that if I broke the appointment I need notexpect another on this side of the grave. Besides, next Wednesday isabout our one off-day from shooting. I also--"
Miss Gaymer fixed a cold and accusing eye on him.
"Confess, miserable shuffler!" she said. "You arranged that date withthe dentist on purpose, so as to escape the theatricals."
"Guilty, my lord!" replied the criminal resignedly.
"Well, you are let off with a caution," said Joan graciously, "butyou'll have to come, all the same. You _will_, won't you, Hughie?"
"Will my presence make so much difference?" said Hughie, rather boldlyfor him. He was inviting a heavy snub, and he knew it.
Joan raised her eyes to his for a moment.
"Yes," she said, rather unexpectedly, "it will."
"Then I'll come," said Hughie, with vigour. "I go to the dentist at ten.I'll get that over, ask Lance to lunch, and come down by the afternoontrain. What time does the show begin?"
"Eight."
"The train gets in at seven-fifty. I'll come straight to the ParishHall--"
"You'll get no dinner," said Joan in warning tones.
"Never mind!" said Hughie heroically. "There's to be a supperafterwards, isn't there?"
"Yes."
"I'll last out, then. By the way, does it matter if I'm not in eveningkit?"
"Not a bit, if you don't mind yourself. Of course the front rows will befull of people with their glad rags on," said Joan. "But if you feelshy, come round behind the scenes. Then you'll be able to keep an eye onme--and Mr. Haliburton!" she added, with a provocative little glance.
* * * * *
Hughie duly departed to town, promising faithfully to come back for thetheatricals, and wondering vaguely why Joan had insisted so strongly onhis doing so. Joan felt rather inclined to wonder herself. She was alittle perplexed by her own impulses at present. But her mind wasoccupied by some dim instinct of self-preservation, and she felt somehowdistinctly happier when Hughie promised to come.
However, there was little time for introspection. Rehearsals--"with theaccent on the hearse," as Mr. Binks remarked during one protractedspecimen--were dragging their slow length along to a conclusion; ticke
tswere selling like hot cakes; and presently the great day came.
Amateur theatricals are a weariness to the flesh, but viewed in theright spirit they are by no means destitute of entertainment. Thedrama's laws, as interpreted by the amateur, differ materially fromthose observed by the professional branch--the members of which, it mustbe remembered, have to please to live--in several important particulars;and with these the intending playgoer should at once make himselfconversant.
Here is a _precis_:--
(1) Remember that the performance has been got up entirely for thebenefit of the performers, and that you and the rest of the audiencehave merely been brought in to make the thing worth while.
(2) Abandon all hope of punctuality at the start or reasonability in thelength of the intervals. Amateur scene-shifters and musicians do notrelish having their "turns" curtailed any more than the more conspicuousmembers of the cast.
(3) Bear in mind the fact that the play is _not_ the thing, but theplayers. The most thrilling Third Act is as dross compared with theexcitement and suspense of watching to see whether Johnny Blank will_really_ kiss Connie Dash in the proposal scene, or whether the fact(known to at least two-thirds of the audience) that they have not beenon speaking terms for the past six months will result in the usualamateur _ne plus ultra_--a sort of frustrated peck, falling short byabout six inches. Again, the joy of hearing the hero falter in astirring apostrophe to the gallery is enhanced by the knowledge that heis reading it from inside the crown of his hat, and has lost the place:while the realistic and convincing air of deference with which thebutler addresses the duchess is the more readily recognized andappreciated by an audience who are well aware that he happens in privatelife to be that lady's husband.
The entertainment to which we must now draw the reader's unwillingattention was to consist of three parts. First, the TableauxVivants--thirty seconds of tableaux to about ten minutes of outerdarkness and orchestral selection; then a comedietta; and finally, Mrs.Jarley's Waxworks.
The largest room behind the scenes had been reserved for the lady_artistes_; a draughty passage, furnished chiefly with flaring candlesand soda-water syphons, being apportioned to the gentlemen. The _logedes dames_ was a bare and cheerless apartment, but tables and mirrorshad been placed round the walls; and here some fifteen or twenty maidensmanoeuvred with freezing politeness or unrestrained elbowings (accordingto their shade of social standing) for positions favourable toself-contemplation.
Joan and Sylvia Tarrant foregathered in the middle of the floor.
"I think we'd better dress here, dear," said Joan cheerfully, "and leavethe nobility and gentry to fight for the dressing-tables. After all,"she added complacently, "you and I need the least doing up of any ofthem."
The tableaux on the whole were a success, though it was some time beforethe audience were permitted to inspect them. The musical director, anervous individual with a _penchant_ for applied science, had spent thegreatest part of two days in fixing up an electric bell of heroicproportions controlled from the conductor's desk, and ringing into theear of the gentleman in charge of the lighting arrangements. A carefullytype-written document (another by-product of the musician's versatility)apprised this overwrought official that one ring signified "stage-lightsup," and two rings "stage-lights down."
Just before the curtain rose for the first tableau the conductor pressedhis button once. After an interval of about two seconds, since thestage-lights showed no inclination to go up,--as a matter of fact thecontroller of illuminants was tenderly nursing a hopelessly perforatedeardrum,--the agitated musician, convinced that the bell had not rung,rang it again. Consequently, just as the curtain rose, every single lampon the stage, from the footlights to the overhead battens, was hastilyextinguished. Confusion reigned supreme. The conductor pressed hisbutton frantically and continuously; the electrician lost his headcompletely, and began to turn off switches which controlled the lightsin the dressing-rooms and the hall itself; while the faithful orchestra,suddenly bereft of both light and leadership, endeavoured with heroicbut misguided enthusiasm to keep the flag flying by stridentimprovisations of the most varied and individual character.
The audience, who had come prepared for anything, sat unmoved; butdolorous cries were heard from the dressing-rooms and vestibule. Aboveall rose the voice of the conductor, calling aloud for the blood of theelectrician and refusing to be comforted. The first _tableau vivant_partook of the nature of an "extra turn," and was not foreshadowed inthe programme. It took place in the middle of the stage, and depictedtwo overheated gentlemen (one carrying a _baton_ and the other _endeshabille_) explaining (_fortissimo_) the purport of a type-writtendocument to a third (who caressed his right ear all the time) by thelight of a single wax vesta.
After this gratuitous contribution to the gaiety of the proceedings theofficial programme came into force, and various attractive and romanticvisions were unfolded to the audience. Certainly the tableaux were wellmounted. The success of A Gambler's Wife and Two Strings to her Bow wasbeyond question. Haliburton, too, made a striking appearance inOrchardson's Hard Hit--the famous gambling picture with the countlesspacks of cards strewn upon the floor--wherein the broken gamester turnswith his hand on the door-handle to take a last look at the three menwho have mastered him.
There were minor blemishes, of course. The composure of the beauteousband who were discovered--when the conductor had been hounded back tohis stool and the bemused electrician replaced by a man of more enduringfibre--contemplating their own charms in The Mirror of Venus was utterlywrecked--yea, transformed into helpless giggles--by a totally unexpectedejaculation of "Good old Gertie!" proceeding from a young man in thefront row--evidently a brother--chiefly remarkable for a made-up tie anda red silk handkerchief, and directed apparently (if one may judge byconsequences) at a massively-built young woman kneeling third from theend on the prompt side. During another tableau, as Prince Charles stoodrigid in the embrace of Flora Macdonald, the audience sat spellbound forthirty breathless seconds, what time the unhappy prince's tartanstockings slipped inch by inch from the neighbourhood of his knees, pastthe boundary line where artificial brown left off and natural whitebegan, right down to his ankles--a _contretemps_ which, as Mr. D'Arcyremarked to Mrs. Leroy, added a touch of animation to what wouldotherwise have been a somewhat lifeless representation.
The comedietta was not an unqualified success. It was one of thosecharacteristic products of what may be called the Back-Drawing-RoomSchool, in which complications begin shortly after the rise of thecurtain with the delivery and perusal of a certain letter, and areautomatically adjusted at the end of about thirty-five minutes by theintroduction of another, which explains everything, settles differences,precipitates engagements, and brings the curtain down upon all thecharacters standing in a row in carefully assorted couples.
This somewhat trite and conventional plot was agreeably varied by thevagaries of the talented gentleman who played the footman responsiblefor the delivery of the letters. He brought on the second letter first,with the result that the heroine found herself exclaiming: "How foolishI have been! Gerald had been true to me through all! I must go to him atonce! We can be married to-morrow!" after the drama had been in progresssome three minutes,--a catastrophe only tided over by some perfectlyNapoleonic "gagging" by the comic man and an entirely unrehearsedentrance (with obvious assistance from the rear) of the footman, withthe right letter.
Fortunately these divergences from the drama's normal course were lostupon the majority of the audience; for the actors, whether fromnervousness or frank boredom, were inaudible beyond the first three rowsof seats. Even here the feat of following the drift of the dialogue wasrendered almost impossible by the persistent and frantic applause of twoobvious "deadheads" in the front row,--poor relations of the gentlemanwho played the footman,--who, since they occupied free seats, evidentlyconsidered it their bounden duty to applaud every entrance and exit oftheir munificent relative, even when he came on with the wrong letter orwas elbowed off to
fetch the right one. The only member of the companywho performed his duties with anything like thoroughness was theprompter, a retired major with lungs of brass. He had evidently decided,with the true instinct of a strong man, that if you want a thing welldone you must do it yourself. Consequently his voice re-echoed throughthe hall in an unceasing monologue which, while it lacked the varietyinseparable from the deliverances of a whole company, did much to keepthe occupants of the back benches _au fait_ with the intricacies of theplot. The best laugh of the evening, however, was aroused by thetemerity of one of the actors, who suddenly interrupted the prompter toremark mildly but distinctly: "All right, old man, I know this bit!"
Then came Mrs. Jarley's Waxworks. The curtain rose upon the usual groupof historical and topical characters, seated round the stage in asemicircle, most of them twitching with incipient hysteria, and allresolutely avoiding the eye of the audience. Presently Mrs. Jarley(Binks), accompanied by Master Jarley (Cherub, in a sailor suit andwhite socks), made her appearance, and plunged into a slightly labouredmonologue, what time her offspring walked round the stage, and, by dintof dusting, oiling, and other operations, stimulated any of the figureswhich could possibly have been mistaken for waxworks into a fittingdisplay of life and activity.
One "Mrs. Jarley" is very like another, and the audience, who werebeginning to suffer from a slight attack of theatrical indigestion, werea little slow in responding to Binks's hoary "wheezes" and unfathomabletopical allusions. It was not until a bench at the back of the stage,occupied by Oliver Cromwell, General Booth, Dorando, and a Suffragette,suddenly toppled over backwards, and discharged its tenants, with fouralarming thuds, into the chasm which yawned between the back of thestaging and the wall, that the entertainment could be said to havereceived a proper fillip. After the first sensation of surprise andresentment at finding themselves reposing upon the backs of their necksin the dust, the four gentlemen affected (who, it is to be feared, hadbeen priming themselves for this, their first appearance on any stage,in the customary manner) accepted the situation with heroic resignation.Remembering that they were waxworks, and for that if for no other reasonincapable of getting up, they continued in their present posture,invisible to the naked eye except for their legs, which stuck straightup into the air. The flagging audience, imagining that the entiredisaster was part of the performance, applauded uproariously, and Mrs.Jarley seized the opportunity to deliver a pithy _extempore_ lectureupon character as read from the soles of the feet.
The performance concluded with a song and chorus, specially composed forthe occasion, and sung by Mrs. Jarley and her exhibits in spasmodicantistrophe. Mrs. Jarley began,--
"Some ladies have one figure--one, home grown! But I have quite a lot, like Madam Tussaud. And whatever sort of one you'd like to own, Just order me to make it, and I'll do so. I can make you waxen figures that can walk, Or wave their arms, or turn and look behind 'em--"
Here, in attempting to suit the action to the word, the singer trippedheavily over her own train, and was only saved from complete_bouleversement_ by the miraculously animated and suddenly outstretchedarm of Henry the Eighth, who was sitting close behind. Binks continued,quite undisturbed,--
"And some of them (the female ones!) can talk, And it's wonderful how useful people find them.
"So send for Mrs. Jarley on the spot! And she'll reproduce each feature that you've got. It will save a deal of trouble If you have a waxen double, Which will do your work when you would rather not!"
"Now then, waxworks! All together! Give them a lead, Sousa!"
Mr. Sousa (second from the end, o. p. side) obediently began to agitatehis _baton_, partially scalping Sunny Jim in the process, and thewaxworks sang out, _fortissimo_, with a distinct but unevenlydistributed _accelerando_ toward the end,--
"Then send for Mrs. Jarley on the spot! And she'll reproduce each feature that you've got. All your business she will see to, Black your boots, and make your tea, too, If you'll only put a penny in the slot!"
The tune was good, and the chorus went with a swing. But now adifficulty arose. The second verse should have been sung by one of thelate occupants of the back bench--Dorando, to be precise; and Mrs.Jarley, realizing the circumstance, was on the point of beginning itherself, when a muffled voice, proceeding apparently from the infernalregions, struck into the opening lines. Dorando, faint yet pursuing, wasevidently determined to fulfil his contract, even if he had to do it onhis head. For various reasons (chiefly dust and incipient apoplexy), hisarticulation was not all that could be desired, and the verse, whichtold of the ingenious device of one Tommy Sparkes, who, faced by theprospect of corporal punishment,
"Sent for Mrs. Jarley on the spot, And explained that he was going to get it hot"--
whereupon that resourceful lady
"Made a figure, small and ruddy, To be Tommy's understudy; And the figure got--what Tommy should have got!"
was lost upon the audience. But every one took up the chorus with awill, and the third verse entered upon its career under the happiestauspices.
On this occasion the lines were distributed among the figuresthemselves.
"Now Mrs. Bumble-Doodle gave a ball"--
began Queen Elizabeth;
"But twenty-seven men all wired to say"--
continued Peter Pan;
"That they very much regretted, after all"--
carolled Sunny Jim;
"To find they simply _couldn't_ get away!"--
bellowed a voice (Oliver Cromwell's) from under the platform.
"Said Mrs. Bumble-Doodle, in despair"--
resumed Master Jarley, after a yell of laughter had subsided;
"The ball will be a failure--not a doubt of it!"
announced a Pierrette, with finality.
"The girls won't find a single partner there"--
wailed a waxwork in a kilt (possibly Rob Roy or Harry Lauder)--
There was a break. The piano paused expectantly, and all the waxworksturned their heads (most unprofessionally) to see what had happened toCherry Ripe, whose turn it was to sing the next verse. Apparently thatlady had permitted her attention to wander, for she was scrutinising theaudience, to the neglect of her cue. The sudden silence--or possibly theattentions of Master Jarley, who bustled up and assiduously oiled hermouth and ears--seemed to recall her errant wits.
"Sorry!" she remarked calmly, and sang in a clear voice,--
"Oh, what a mess! How are we to get out of it?"
"She sent for Mrs. Jarley on the spot!"
declaimed that lady triumphantly,
--"And the girls were quite content with what they got. True, a dummy cannot flirt; But he does not tear your skirt, Or say that he can dance when he can not!"
"Now, then, _all_ together!"
Mrs. Jarley, waxworks, and audience swung into the final chorus. Eventhe four inverted Casabiancas at the back assisted by swinging theirlegs.
"She sent for Mrs. Jarley on the spot! And the girls were quite content with what they got. They were spared that youth entrancing, Who says: 'I don't much care for dancing, But I don't mind sitting out with you--eh, what?'"
But Cherry Ripe was not singing. She was saying to herself,--
"Not in the hall, and not behind the scenes! I wonder where he can havegot to! He _may_ have missed his train, of course; but then he couldhave wired, hours ago. Well, Hughie, _mon ami_, if that's the way youtreat invitations--"
But the curtain had fallen, and all the waxworks were scuffling offtheir high chairs and trooping to the dressing-rooms. Cherry Ripe,following their example, put an arm round Pierrette, and said:--
"Come along, Sylvia! Home, supper, and a dance! That's the programmenow."
On reaching Manors, Joan enquired of Mr. Goble,--
"Is Mr. Hughie back, John?"
"'Deed, no, mem."
&
nbsp; "Any telegram, or anything?" asked Joan carelessly.
"Naething whatever! He'll no be back till the morn, I doot," said Mr.Goble.
Two hours later, when supper was over and the dancing at its height, Mr.Haliburton approached Joan.
"Our dance, I think, Cherry Ripe?" he said.
Cherry Ripe concurred.
"Will you come and sit in the conservatory?" continued Haliburton. "Iwant to say something particular to you."
Joan regarded him covertly for a moment.
"All right!" she said.