CHAPTER XLIII — A CHARADE—NOT ALL ACTING
“And then, and much it helped his chance—
He could sing, and play first fiddle, and dance—
Perform charades, and proverbs of France.”
—Hood.
“I have often heard this and that and t'other pain mentioned
as the worst that mortals can endure—such as the toothache,
earache, headache, cramp in the calf of the leg, a boil, or
a blister—now, I protest, though I have tried all these,
nothing seems to me to come up to a pretty sharp fit of
jealousy.”
—Thinks I to Myself.
LAWLESS'S penitence, when he learned the danger in which Fanny had been placed by his thoughtlessness and impetuosity, was so deep and sincere that it was impossible to be angry with him; and even Oaklands, who at first declared he considered his conduct unpardonable, was obliged to confess that, when a man had owned his fault frankly, and told you he was really sorry for it, nothing remained but to forgive and forget it. And so everything fell into its old train once more, and the next few days passed smoothly and uneventfully. I had again received a note from Clara, in answer to one I had written to her. Its tenour was much the same as that of the last she had sent me. Cumberland was still absent, and Mr. Vernor so constantly occupied that she saw very little of him. She begged me not to attempt to visit her at present; a request in the advisability of which reason so fully acquiesced, that although feeling rebelled against it with the greatest obstinacy, I felt bound to yield. Harry's strength seemed now so thoroughly re-established, that Sir John, who was never so happy as when he could exercise hospitality, had invited a party of friends for the ensuing week, several of whom were to stay at the Hall for a few days; amongst others Freddy Coleman, who was to arrive beforehand, and assist in the preparations; for charades were to be enacted, and he was reported skilful in the arrangement of these saturnalia of civilised society, or, as he himself expressed it, he was “up to all the dodges connected with the minor domestic enigmatical melodrama”. By Harry's recommendation I despatched a letter to Mr. Frampton, claiming his promise of visiting me at Heathfield Cottage, urging as a reason for his doing so immediately, that he would meet four of his old Helmstone acquaintance, viz., Oak-lands, Lawless, Coleman, and myself. The morning after Coleman's arrival, the whole party formed themselves into a committee of taste, to decide on the most appropriate words for the charades, select dresses, and, in short, make all necessary arrangements for realising a few of the very strong and original, but somewhat vague, ideas, which everybody appeared to have conceived on the subject.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” began Freddy, who had been unanimously elected chairman, stage-manager, and commander-in-chief of the whole affair, “in the first place, who is willing to take a part? Let all those who wish for an engagement at the Theatre Royal, Heathfield, hold up their hands.”
Lawless, Coleman, and I were the first who made the required signal, and next the little white palms of Fanny and Lucy Markham (whom Mrs. Coleman had made over to my mother's custody for a few days) were added to the number.
“Harry, you'll act, will you not?” asked I.
“Not if you can contrive to do without me,” was the reply. “I did it once, and never was so tired in my life before. I suppose you mean to have speaking charades; and there is something in the feeling that one has so many words to recollect, which obliges one to keep the memory always on the stretch, and the attention up to concert pitch, in a way that is far too fatiguing to be agreeable.”
“Well, as you please, most indolent of men; pray, make yourself quite at home, this is Liberty Hall, isn't it, Lawless?” returned Coleman, with a glance at the person named, who, seated on the table, with his legs twisted round the back of a chair, was sacrificing etiquette to comfort with the most delightful unconsciousness.
“Eh? yes to be sure, no end of liberty,” rejoined Lawless; “what are you laughing at?—my legs? They are very comfortable, I can tell you, if they're not over ornamental; never mind about attitude, let us get on to business, I want to know what I'm to do?”
“The first thing is to find out a good word,” returned Coleman.
“What do you say to Matchlock?” inquired I. “You might as well have Blunderbuss while you are about it,” was the reply. “No, both words are dreadfully hackneyed; let us try and find out something original, if possible.”
“Eh? yes, something original, by all means; what do you say to Steeplechase?” suggested Lawless.
“Original, certainly,” returned Freddy; “but there might be difficulties in the way. For instance, how would you set about acting a steeple?”
“Eh? never thought of that,” rejoined Lawless; “I really don't know, unless Oaklands would stand with a fool's cap on his head to look like one.”
“Much obliged, Lawless; but I'd rather be excused,” replied Harry, smiling. “I've got an idea!” exclaimed I. “No, you don't say so? you are joking,” remarked Freddy in a tone of affected surprise. “Stay a minute,” continued I, musing. “Certainly, as long as you and Sir John like to keep me,” rejoined Coleman politely.
“Yes! that will do; come here, Freddy,” added I, and, drawing him on one side, I communicated to him my ideas on the subject, of which, after suggesting one or two improvements on my original design, he was graciously pleased to approve. Of what this idea consisted, the reader will be apprised in due time. Suffice it at present to add, that Fanny having consented to perform the part of a barmaid, and it being necessary to provide her with a lover, Lawless volunteered for the character, and supported his claim with so much perseverance, not to say obstinacy, that Coleman, albeit he considered him utterly unsuited to the part, was fain to yield to his importunity.
For the next few days Heathfield Hall presented one continual scene of bustle and confusion. Carpenters were at work converting the library into an extempore theatre. Ladies and ladies'-maids were busily occupied in manufacturing dresses. Lawless spent whole hours in pacing up and down the billiard-room, reciting his part, which had been remodelled to suit him, and the acquisition of which appeared a labour analogous to that of Sisyphus, as, by the time he reached the end of his task, he had invariably forgotten the beginning. Every one was in a state of the greatest eagerness and excitement about something—nobody exactly knew what; and the interest Ellis took in the whole affair was wonderful to behold. The unnecessary number of times people ran up- and down-stairs was inconceivable, and the pace at which they did so terrific. Sir John spent his time in walking about with a hammer and a bag of nails, one of which he was constantly driving in and clenching beyond all power of extraction, in some totally wrong place, a line of conduct which reduced the head-carpenter to the borders of insanity.
On the morning of the memorable day when the event was to come off, Mr. Frampton made his appearance in a high state of preservation, shook my mother by both hands as warmly as if he had known her from childhood, and saluted the young ladies with a hearty kiss, to their extreme astonishment, which a paroxysm of grunting (wound up by the usual soliloquy, “Just like me!”) did not tend to diminish. A large party was invited in the evening to witness our performance, and, as some of the guests began to arrive soon after nine, it was considered advisable that the actors and actresses should go and dress, so that they might be in readiness to appear when called upon.
The entertainments began with certain tableaux-vivants, in which both Harry and I took a part; the former having been induced to do so by the assurance that nothing would-be expected of him but to stand still and be looked at—an occupation which even he could not consider very hard work: and exceedingly well worth looking at he appeared when the curtain drew up, and discovered him as the Leicester in Scott's novel of Kenilworth; the magnificent dress setting off his noble figure to the utmost advantage; while Fanny, as Amy Robsart, looked prettier and more interesting than I had ever seen her before. Various tableaux were in turn presented, and passed off with much éclat, and then there was a pause, before the charade, the grand event of the evening, commenced. Oaklands and I, having nothing to do in it (Fanny having coaxed Mr. Frampton into undertaking a short part which I was to have performed, but which she declared was so exactly suited to him that she would never forgive him if he refused to fill it), wished the actors success, and came in front to join the spectators.
After about ten minutes of breathless expectation the curtain drew up and exhibited Scene 1st, the Bar of a Country Inn; and here I shall adopt the play-wright's fashion, and leave the characters to tell their own tale:—
Scene I.
Enter Susan Cowslip, the Barmaid (Fanny) and John Shortoats, the Ostler (Lawless).
John. Well Susan, girl, what sort of a morning hast thee had of it? how's master's gout to-day?
Susan. Very bad, John, very bad indeed; he has not got a leg to stand upon; and as to his shoe, try everything we can think of, we can't get him to put his foot in it.
[Extempore soliloquy by Lawless. Precious odd if lie doesn't, for he's not half up in his part, I know.]
John. Can't thee, really? well, if that be the case, I needn't ask how his temper is?
Susan. Bad enough, I can tell you; Missus has plenty to bear, poor thing!
John, Indeed she has, and she be too young and pretty to be used in that manner. Ah! that comes of marrying an old man for his money; she be uncommon pretty, to be sure; I only knows one prettier face in the whole village.
Susan (with an air of forced unconcern). Aye, John, and whose may that be, pray? Mary Bennett, perhaps, or Lucy Jones?
John. No, it ain't either of them.
Susan. Who is it then?
John. Well, if thee must needs know, the party's name is Susan.
Susan (still with an air of unconsciousness). Let me see, where is there a Susan? let me think a minute. Oh! one of Darling the blacksmith's girls, I dare say; it's Susan Darling!
John (rubbing his nose, and looking cunning). Well, 'tis Susan, darling, certainly; yes, thee be'st about right there—Susan, darling.
Susan (pouting). So you're in love with that girl, are you, Mr. John? A foolish, flirting thing, that cares for nothing but dancing and finery; a nice wife for a poor man she'll make, indeed—charming!
John. Now, don't thee go and fluster thyself about nothing, it ain't that girl as I'm in love with; I was only a-making fun of thee.
Susan (crossly). There, I wish you wouldn't keep teasing of me so; I don't care anything about it—I dare say I've never seen her.
John. Oh! if that's all, I'll very soon show her to thee—come along. (Takes her hand, and leads her up to the looking-glass.) There's the Susan I'm in love with, and hope to marry some day. Hasn't she got a pretty face? and isn't she a darling? (Susan looks at him for a minute, and then bursts into tears; bell rings violently, and a gruff voice calls impatiently, Susan! Susan!)
Susan. Coming, sir, coming. (Wipes her eyes with her apron.)
John. Let the old curmudgeon wait! (Voice behind the scenes, John!—John Ostler, I say!) Coming, sir; yes, sir. Sir, indeed—an old brute; but now, Susan, what do'st thee say? wilt thee have me for a husband? (Takes her hand.)
(Voice. John! John! I say. Susan! where are you? And enter Mr. Frampton, dressed as the Landlord, on crutches, and with his gouty foot in a sling.)
Landlord. John! you idle, good-for-nothing vagabond, why don't you come when you're called—eh?
Susan. Oh, sir! John was just coming, sir; and so was I, sir, if you please.
Landlord. You, indeed—ugh! you're just as bad as he is, making love in corners, (aside, Wonder whether she does really,) instead of attending to the customers; nice set of servants I have, to be sure. If this is all one gets by inn-keeping, it's not worth having. I keep the inn, and I expect the inn to keep me. (Aside. Horrid old joke, what made me put that in, I wonder? just like me—umph.') There's my wife, too—pretty hostess she makes.
John. So she does, master, sure-ly.
Landlord. Hold your tongue, fool—what do you know about it? (Bell rings.) There, do you hear that? run and see who that is, or I shall lose a customer by your carelessness next. Oh! the bother of servants—oh! the trouble of keeping an inn! (Hobbles out, driving Susan and John before him. Curtain falls.)
As the first scene ended the audience applauded loudly, and then began hazarding various conjectures as to the possible meaning of what they had witnessed. While the confusion of sounds was at the highest, Oaklands drew me on one side, and inquired, in an undertone, what I thought of Lawless's acting. “I was agreeably surprised,” returned I, “I had no notion he would have entered into the part so thoroughly, or have acted with so much spirit.”
“He did it con amore, certainly,” replied Oaklands with bitterness; “I considered his manner impertinent in the highest degree, I wonder you can allow him to act with your sister; that man is in love with her—I feel sure of it—he meant every word he said. I hate this kind of thing altogether—I never approved of it; no lady should be subjected to such annoyance.”
“Supposing it really were as you fancy, Harry, how do you know it would be so great an annoyance? It is just possible Fanny may like him,” rejoined I.
“Oh, certainly! pray let me know when I am to congratulate you,” replied Oaklands with a scornful laugh; and, turning away abruptly, he crossed the room, joined a party of young ladies, and began talking and laughing with a degree of recklessness and excitability quite unusual to him. While he was so doing, the curtain drew up, and discovered
Scene II.—Best room in the inn.
Enter Susan, showing in Hyacinth Adonis Brown (Coleman), dressed as a caricature of the fashion, with lemon-coloured kid gloves, staring-patterned trousers, sporting-coat, etc.
Susan. This is the settin'-room, if you please, sir. Hyacinth (fixing his glass in his eye, and scrutinising the apartment). This is the settin'-woom, is it? to set, to incubate as a hen—can't mean that, I imagine—provincial idiom, pwobably—aw—ya'as—I dare say I shall be able to exist in it as long as may be necessary—ar—let me have dinnaar, young woman, as soon as it can be got weady.
Susan. Yes, sir. What would you please to like, sir?
Hyacinth (looking at her with his glass still in his eye). Hem! pwetty gal—ar—like, my dear, like?—(vewy pwetty gal!)
Susan. Beg pardon, sir, what did you say you would like?
Hyacinth. Chickens tender here, my dear?
Susan. Very tender, sir.
Hyacinth (approaching her). What's your name, my dear?
Susan. Susan, if you please, sir.
Hyacinth. Vewy pwetty name, indeed—(aside, Gal's worth cultivating—I'll do a little bit of fascination). Ahem! Chickens, Susan, are not the only things that can be tendar. (Advances, and attempts to take lier hand. Enter John hastily, and runs against Hyacinth, apparently by accident.)
Hyacinth (angrily). Now, fellar, where are you pushing to, eh?
John. Beg parding, sir, I was a-looking for you, sir. (Places himself between Susan and Hyacinth.)
Hyacinth. Looking for me, fellar?
John. I ha' rubbed down your horse, sir, and I was a wishin' to know when you would like him fed. (Makes signs to Susan to leave the room.)
Hyacinth. Fed?—aw!—directly to be su-ar. (To Susan, who is going out.) Ar—don't you go.
John. No, sir, I ain't a-going. When shall I water him, sir?
Hyacinth (aside, Fellar talks as if the animal were a pot of mignonette). Ar—you'll give him some wataar as soon as he's eaten his dinnaar.
John. Werry good, sir; and how about hay, sir?
Hyacinth (aside, What a bo-ar the fellar is; I wish he'd take himself off). Weally, I must leave the hay to your discwession.
John. Werry well, sir; couldn't do a better thing, sir. How about his clothing? shall I keep a cloth on him, sir? (Winks at Susan, who goes out laughing.)
Hyacinth. Yaas! You can keep a cloth on—ar—and—that will do. (Waves his hand towards the door.)
John. Do you like his feet stopped at night, sir?
Hyacinth. Ar—I leave all these points to my gwoom—ar—would you go?
John. I suppose there will be no harm in water-brushing his mane?
Hyacinth (angrily). Ar—weally I—ar—will you go?
John. Becos some folks thinks it makes the hair come off.
Hyacinth (indignantly). Ar—leave the woom, fellar! John. Yes, sir; you may depend upon me takin' proper care of him, sir; and if I should think o' anything else, I'll be sure to come and ask you, sir. (Goes out grinning.)
Hyacinth. Howwid fellar—I thought I should never get wid of him—it's evident he's jealous—ar, good idea—I'll give him something to be jealous about. I'll wing the bell and finish captivating Susan. (Rings. Re-enter John.) John. Want me, sir? Here I am, sir—fed the horse, sir.
Hyacinth (waving his hand angrily towards the door). Ar—go away, fellar, and tell the young woman to answaar that bell. (John leaves the room, muttering, If I do I'm blessed. Hyacinth struts up to the glass, arranges his hair, pulls up his shirt-collar, and rings again. Re-enter Susan.) Hyacinth. Pway, Susan, are you going to be mawwied? Susan (colouring). No, sir—a—yes, sir—I can't tell, sir.
Hyacinth. No, sir—yes, sir—ar—I see how it is—the idea has occurred to you—it's that fellar John, I suppose? Susan. Yes, sir—it's John, sir, if you please. Hyacinth. Well—ar—perhaps I don't exactly please. Now, listen to me, Susan. I'm an independent gentleman, vewy wich (aside, Wish I was)—lots of servants and cawwiages, and all that sort of thing. I only want a wife, and—a-hem—captivated by your beauty, I'm wesolved to mawwy you. (Aside. That will do the business.) Susan. La! sir, you're joking.
Hyacinth. Ar—I never joke—ar—of course you consent! Susan. To marry you, sir? Hyacinth. Ar—yes—to mawwy me. Susan. What! and give up John? Hyacinth. I fear we cannot dispense with that sacwifice.
Susan. And you would have me prove false to my true love; deceive a poor lad that cares for me; wring his honest heart, and perhaps drive him to take to evil courses, for the sake of your fine carriages and servants? No, sir, if you was a duke, I would not give up John to marry you.
Hyacinth. Vewy fine, you did that little bit of constancy in vewy good style; but now, having welievedyour feelings, you may as well do a little bit of nature, and own that, womanlike, you have changed your mind.
Susan. When I do, sir, I'll be sure to let you know. (Aside. A dandified fop! why, John's worth twenty such as him.) I'll send John in with your dinner, sir. [Curtsies and exit, leaving Hyacinth transfixed with astonishment.']
Scene III.—Front of inn.
Enter Susan with black ribbons in her cap. Susan. Heigho! so the gout's carried off poor old master at last. Ah! well, he was always a great plague to everybody, and it's one's duty to be resigned—he's been dead more than two months now, and it's above a month since mistress went to Broadstairs for a change, and left John and me to keep house—ah! it was very pleasant—we was so comfortable. Now, if in a year or two mistress was to sell the business, and John and me could save money enough to buy it, and was to be married, and live here; la! I should be as happy as the day's long. I've been dull enough the last week though—for last Monday—no, last Saturday—that is, the Saturday before last, John went for a holiday to see his friends in Yorkshire, and there's been nobody at home but me and the cat—I can't think what ailed him before he went away, he seemed to avoid me like; and when he bid me goodbye, he told me if I should happen to pick up a sweetheart while he was gone, he would not be jealous—what could he mean by that? I dare say he only said it to tease me. I ought to have a letter soon to say when mistress is coming back. [Enter boy with letter, which he gives to Susan, and exit.] Well, that is curious—it is from Broadstairs, I see by the post-mark. Why, bless me, it's in John's handwriting—he can't be at Broadstairs, surely—I feel all of a tremble. (Opens the letter and reads.) “My dear Seusan, Hafter i left yeu, I thort i should not ave time to go hall the way to York, so by way of a change i cum down here, where I met poor Mrs., who seemed quite in the dumps and low like, about old master being dead, which is human natur cut down like grass, Seusan, and not having a creetur to speak to, naturally took to me, which was an old tho' humbel friend, Seusan—and—do not think me guilty of hincon-stancy, which I never felt, but the long and short of it is that we was married “(the wretch!)” yesterday, and is comin' home to-morrow, where I hopes to remian very faithfully your affexionate Master and Mrs.
“John and Betsey Shortoats.”
[Susan tears the letter, bursts into tears, and sinks back into a chair fainting—curtain drops.]