All through dinner we—the intended victims, are mysterious, not to say depressed; while Sir James Handcock, the two men from the Barracks, and Sir George Ashurst make mild jokes at our expense, and wish us safely out of it.
At nine the guests arrive; at half-past nine all is in readiness; the audience is seated, the impromptu curtains are drawn up, and "Rebecca laying the jewels at Rowena's feet" stands revealed.
Lady Blanche Going, as the Jewess, is looking positively beautiful, as kneeling at Dora's feet, in many colored garments of crimson and gold and such gorgeous shades, with much gleaming of precious stones, she gazes with saddened curiosity in the face above her; while Dora, raising her veil—my wedding veil—with uplifted arms to look down on her, presents such a contrast, with her dead white robe and fair babyish face, to the darker beauty's more glowing style as takes the audience by storm.
The applause is loud and lengthened; and Sir George Ashurst's enthusiasm reaches such a pitch that when it subsides he has to retire to his room in search of another pair of gloves.
The curtain rises for the second time on Lady Blanche again and Sir Mark Gore as "The Huguenots." This, too, is highly successful, albeit her ladyship is too dark for the part.
Everybody agrees that Sir Mark, with the sorrowfully determined expression on his face, is perfect; while Lady Blanche astonishes some of us by the amount of passionate pleading she throws into her eye.
And now comes a hitch. The third tableau on which we have decided is "The Last Appeal." There has been considerable difficulty about the arrangement of this from the beginning, and now at the last moment Sir Mark Gore vows he will have nothing to do with it.
"I couldn't do it," he says, throwing out his hands. "There is no use urging a fellow. I could look murderous. I might look sentimental: I could not appeal. I won't, and that's all about it. They will say there are no more actors if you send me on again so soon; and besides, those breeches don't fit me. They will go on Chandos; let him take my part."
"How disobliging you are!" says Miss Beatoun, flushing. "Then I won't be the person appealed to. I did not want to, all along. It is too bad I should get no parts but those in which rags and ugly dresses are worn. I shall have to do Cinderella presently in tatters, and in this I have only a short gown, and nasty thick shoes and a pitcher."
"What nonsense!" say I. "You know every one said you looked delicious with that little handkerchief across your shoulders. Lord Chandos, go and dress yourself directly, as Sir Mark will not."