And now comes my turn. The "British public," as Mr. Thornton persists on calling our very select audience, is requested to turn its kind attention on Tennyson's "Sleeping Princess," wrapped in mystic slumber. I am the Sleeping Princess, it having struck me in the early part of the day that this role, requiring little beyond extreme inaction, would exactly suit me, and cause me less trepidation.
Upon a crimson lounge, clad all in white, I lie, my long fair brown hair scattered across the cushions and falling to the ground beside me. One hand is thrown above my head, the other hangs listlessly, sleepily, downwards; a deep-red rose has dropped from it, and now blushes, half lost, amidst the tresses on the floor.
Sir Mark, in the character of the Prince, leans over me as though in the act of giving the caress that brings me back from dreamland. His face, I know, is near—so near that, between nervousness and shrinking, I feel a mad desire to break into forbidden laughter; so much so that when the curtain falls I am more than thankful.
Slowly it descends, and as I hear it touch the stage, I cautiously open my eyes—to find Sir Mark has not yet raided himself from his stooping posture.
My eyes look straight into his. There are literally only few inches between his face and mine, and I fancy I can discern a treacherous gleam in them. Something masterful, too, in his expression, as though he would say, "I could an' I would," strikes me. Instantly I resent it, and springing to my feet, stand back from him, crimson with indignation and some undefined fear.
There is no time for words, had I even the desire to speak, which I have not, as at this moment Lady Blanche Going and Marmaduke come from behind the scenes to congratulate us. I try to recover myself hurriedly, but it is too late; my red cheeks and frightened, half shamed eyes attract their notice; and Marmaduke, glancing from me to Sir Mark, regards us earnestly, coloring very slowly himself the while.
"Oh!" exclaims her ladyship, starting, and assuming an air of surprise; then, with an affected laugh, "How foolish of me? But really for the moment, on account of your attitudes and stillness, I fancied I had come on too soon, and that you were still acting."
"How completely you must have forgotten the subject of the late tableau!" replies Sir Mark, in a very calm tone, fixing her with his wonderful keen, dark eyes.
Some instinct of evil makes me go and stand close to Marmaduke.
"Was it a success?" I ask, nervously.