But I needn’t tell you what to do, only do it out of hand,
And charge whatever you like to charge, my lady won’t make a stand.
—T. HOOD.
The ladies’ committee could not but meet over and over again, wandering about the gardens, which were now trimmed into order, to place the stalls and decide on what should and should not be.
There was to be an art stall, over which Mrs. Henderson was to preside. Here were to be the very graceful and beautiful articles of sculpture and Italian bijouterie that the Whites had sent home, and that were spared from the marble works; also Mrs. Grinstead’s drawings, Captain Henderson’s, those of others, screens and scrap-books and photographs. Jasper and a coadjutor or two undertook to photograph any one who wished it; and there too were displayed the Mouse-traps. Mrs. Henderson, sure to look beautiful, quite Madonna-like in her costume, would have the charge of the stall, with Gillian and two other girls, in Italian peasant-dresses, sent home by Aunt Ada.
Gillian was resolved on standing by her. “Kalliope wants some one to give her courage,” she said. “Besides, I am the mother of the Mouse-trap, and I must see how it goes off.”
Lady Flight and a bevy of young ladies of her selection were to preside over the flowers; Mrs. Yarley undertook the refreshments; Lady Merrifield the more ordinary bazaar stall. Her name was prized, and Anna was glad to shelter herself under her wing. The care of Valetta and Primrose, to say nothing of Dolores, was enough inducement to overcome any reluctance, and she was glad to be on the committee when vexed questions came on, such as Miss Pettifer’s offer of a skirt-dance, which could not be so summarily dismissed as it had been at Beechcroft, for Lady Flight and Mrs. Varley wished for it, and even Mrs. Harper was ready to endure anything to raise the much-needed money, and almost thought Lady Merrifield too particular when she discontinued the dancing-class for Valetta and Primrose.
“That speaks for itself,” said Mrs. Grinstead.
“I can fancy seeing no harm in it for little girls,” said Lady Merrifield, “but I don’t like giving them a talent the use of which seems to be to enable them to show off.”
“And I know that Lady Rotherwood would not approve,” said Miss Mohun, aware that this settled the matter. “And here’s another outsider, Miss Penfeather, who offers to interpret handwriting at two-and-sixpence a head.”
“By all means,” was the cry. “We will build her a bower somewhere near the photography.”
“I am only afraid,” added Jane, “of her offering to do palmistry. Do you know, I dabbled a little in that once, and I came to the conclusion that it was not a safe study for oneself or any one else.”
“Quite right,” said Geraldine.
“Do you believe in it then?”
“Not so as to practise it, or accept it so far as the future is concerned, and to play at it as a parody of fortune-telling seems to me utterly inadmissible.”
“And to be squashed with Lord Rotherwood’s mighty name,” said her sister, laughing.
Lady Rotherwood would do so effectively. Wherewith came on the question of raffles, an inexhaustible one, since some maintained that they were contrary to English law, and were absolutely immoral, while others held that it was the only way of disposing of really expensive articles. These were two statues sent by Mrs. White, and an exquisite little picture by Mrs. Grinstead, worth more than any one could be expected to give. It was one that she had nearly finished at the time of Mr. Grinstead’s illness—John Inglesant arriving in his armour of light on his wedding morning—and the associations were so painful that she said she never wished to see it again.
There were likewise a good many charming sketches of figures and scenery, over which Gerald and Anna grieved, though she had let them keep all they could show cause for; but drawing had become as much her resource as in the good old days. She was always throwing off little outlines, and she had even begun a grand study, which she called “Safe Home,” a vessel showing signs of storm and struggle just at the verge of a harbour lost in golden light.
And the helmsman’s face?
Clement and Lance neither of them said in words whose it was, as they both stood looking at it, and owned to themselves the steadfast face of their eldest brother, but Clement said, with a sigh—
“Ah! we are a long way as yet from that.”
“I’m very glad to hear you say so,” exclaimed Lance; then laughing at himself, “You are ever so much better.”
“Oh yes, I suppose I am to start again, going softly all my days, perhaps, and it is well, for I don’t think the young generation can spare me yet.”
“Nor Cherry.”
“How thankful I am to have Cherry restored to me I cannot say, and I do not feel convinced that there may not be care at hand with Gerald. The boy is in a reserved mood, very civil and amiable, but clearly holding back from confidence.”
“Does she see it?”
“Yes; but she fancies he bestows his confidence on Dolores Mohun, the girl from New Zealand, and resigns herself to be set aside. It is pretty well time that we went to meet her.”
For there was to be a dress rehearsal in the pavilion, to which certain spectators were to be admitted, chiefly as critics.
“Do you walk up the hill, Clem?”
“Yes, as long as I don’t go too fast. Go on if you are wanted, and I will follow. Cherry has sent the carriage for an invalid who cannot venture to be there all the day.”
“Let them wait. A walk with you is not to be wasted. Run on, Fely, tell them we are coming,” he added to his little Ariel, who had got lost in Jungle Beasts.
As they went up the hill together, Clement not sorry to lean on his brother’s arm, a dark woman of striking figure and countenance, though far from young, came up with them, accompanied by a stout, over-dressed man.
“That’s the cigar-shop woman,” said Lance, “the mother of our pretty little Miranda.”
“I wonder she chooses to show herself after her conviction,” said Clement.
“And if I am not much mistaken, that is the villain of The Sepoy’s Revenge,” said Lance. “Poor little Butterfly, it is a bad omen for her future fate.”
As they reached the doors of the great hotel, they found the pair in altercation with the porter before the iron gate that gave admittance to the gardens. “Mother Butterfly” was pleading that she was the mother of Miss Schnetterling, who was singing, and the porter replying that his orders were strict.
“No, not on any consideration,” he repeated, as the man was evidently showing him the glance of silver, and a policeman, who was marching about, showed signs of meaning to interfere.
At the same moment Gerald’s quick steps came up from the inside.
“That’s right, Lance; every one is crying out for you. Vicar, Cherie is keeping a capital place for you.”
The gate opened to admit them, and therewith Mrs. Schnetterling, trying to push in, made a vehement appeal—
“Mr. Underwood, sir, surely the prima donna’s own mother should not be excluded.”
“Her mother!” said Gerald. “Well, perhaps so, but hardly this—person,” as his native fastidiousness rose at the sight.
“No, sir,” said the porter. “Captain Henderson and Mr. Simmonds, they have specially cautioned me who I lets in.”
The man grumbled something about swells and insolence, and Lance, with his usual instinct of courtesy, lingered to say—
“This is quite a private rehearsal—only the persons concerned!”
“And if I’m come on business,” said the man confidentially. “You are something in our line.”
“Scarcely,” said Lance, rather amused. “At any rate, I don’t make the regulations.”
He sped away at the summons of his impatient son and Gerald.
They met Captain Henderson on the way, and after a hasty greeting, he said—
“So you have let in the Schnetterling woman?”
“One could not well keep out the mother,” returned Lance.
“Well, no, but did she bring a man with her? My wife says the poor little Mona is in mortal terror lest he is come to inspect her for a circus company.”
“Quite according to his looks,” said Lance. “Poor child, it may be her fate, but she ought to be in safe hands, but I suppose the woman wants to sacrifice her to present gain.”
They went on their way, and Lance and Gerald were soon absorbed in their cares of arrangement, while Clement was conducted to the seat reserved for him between his sister and Lady Merrifield. The pavilion had been fitted with stages of seats on the inner side, but the back—behind the stage—was so contrived that in case of favourable weather the real sea-view could be let in upon occasion, though the curtain and adjuncts, which had been painted by some of the deft fingers at Vale Leston, represented the cavern; also there was a first scene, with a real sail and mast.
It was a kind of semi-dress rehearsal, beginning with pirate songs by the school-master and choir, who had little difficulty in arranging themselves as buccaneers. The sail was agitated, then reefed, stormy songs were heard, where Captain Armytage did his part fairly well; the boatswain was gratified by roaring out his part characteristically, and the curtain fell on “We split, we split, we split.”
Then came a song of Prospero, not much disguised by a plaid and Highland bonnet, interrupted by the pretty, graceful Miranda, very shy and ill-assured at first, but gathering strength from his gentle encouraging ways, while he told what was needful in the recitative that he alone could undertake. Then the elves and fairies, led by little Felix, in a charming cap like Puck, danced on and sang, making the prettiest of tableaux, lulling Miranda to sleep, and then Ariel conversing in a most dainty manner with Prospero.
Next Ferdinand and Miranda had their scene, almost all songs and duets. Both sang very sweetly, and she had evidently gained in courage, and threw herself into her part.
The shipwrecked party then came on the scene, performed their songs, and were led about Puck-fashion by the fairies, and put to sleep by the lament over Ferdinand. The buccaneers in like manner were deluded by more mischievous songs and antics, till bogged and crying out behind the scenes.
Their intended victims were then awakened, to find themselves in the presence of Prospero; sing themselves into the reconciliation, then mourn for Ferdinand, until the disclosure of the two lovers, and the final release of Ariel and the sprites, all singing Jacobite songs.
To those who were not au fait with the ‘Tempest’ and felt no indignation or jealousy at the travesty, it was charming; and though the audience at the rehearsal numbered few of these, the refined sweetness and power of the performers made it delightful and memorable. Every one was in raptures with the fairies, who had been beautifully drilled, and above all with their graceful little leader, with his twinkling feet and arch lively manner, especially in the parts with his father.
Ferdinand and Miranda—or rather Angus and Mona—were quite ideal in looks, voices, and gestures.
“Almost dangerously so,” said Jane Mohun; “and the odd thing is that they are just alike enough for first cousins, as they are here, though Shakespeare was not guilty of making them such.”
“The odd thing is,” said Geraldine, as she drove home with Clement, “that this brought me back so strangely to that wonderful concert at home, with all of you standing up in a row, and the choir from Minsterham, and poor Edgar’s star.”
“An evil star!” sighed Clement.
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