The most able and accustomed of dramatic critics would falter in the attempt to master the leading idea of one of Garry’s entertainments; so far as this performance made itself intelligible, it consisted of nightmare snatches of “Kenilworth,” subordinated to the exigencies of stage properties, chiefest among these being Sir Benjamin’s deputy-lieutenant’s uniform. The sword and cocked hat found their obvious wearer in the Earl of Leicester, and the white plume had been yielded to Kitty Gascogne, whose small crimson face grinned consciously beneath the limp feathers. Lady Dysart’s white bernouse was felt to confer an air of simplicity appropriate to the part of Amy Robsart, and its owner could not repress a groan as she realised that the heroine would inevitably be consigned to the grimy depths of the yacht ottoman, a receptacle long consecrated to the office of stage tomb. At present, however, it was employed as a sofa, on which sat Leicester and Amy, engaged in an exhausting conversation on State matters, the onus of which fell entirely upon the former, his companion’s part in it consisting mainly of a sustained giggle. It presently became evident that even Garry was flagging, and glances towards the door of the harness-room told that expected relief delayed its coming.
“He’s getting a bit blown,” remarked Mr. Hawkins from the window of the brougham. “Go it, Leicester!”
Garry’s only reply was to rise and stalk towards the door with a dignity somewhat impaired by the bagginess of the silver-laced trousers. The deserted countess remained facing the audience in an agony of embarrassment that might have softened the heart of anyone except her lord, whose direction, “Talk about Queen Elizabeth, you ass!” was audible to everyone in the coach-house. Fortunately for Kitty Gascogne, her powers of soliloquy were not long tested. The door burst open, Garry hurried back to the ottoman, and had only time to seize Amy Robsart’s hand and kneel at her feet when a tall figure took the stage with a mincing amble. James Canavan had from time immemorial been the leading lady in Garry’s theatricals, and his appearance as Queen Elizabeth was such as to satisfy his oldest admirers. He wore a skirt which was instantly recognised by the household as belonging to Mrs. Brady the cook, a crown made of gold paper inadequately restrained his iron-grey locks, a ham-frill ruff concealed his whiskers, and the deputy-lieutenant’s red coat, with the old-fashioned long tails and silver epaulettes, completed his equipment.
His entrance brought down the house; even Lady Dysart forgot her anxiety to find out where Mr. Hawkins’ voice had come from, and collapsed into a state afterwards described by the under-housemaid as “her ladyship in splits.”
“Oh fie, fie, fie!” said Queen Elizabeth in a piping falsetto, paying no heed to the demonstrations in her favour; “Amy Robsart and Leicester! Oh, dear, dear, this will never do!”
Leicester still stooped over Amy’s hand, but even the occupants of the brougham heard the whisper in which he said, “You’re not half angry enough! Go on again!”
Thus charged, Queen Elizabeth swept to the back of the stage, and, turning there, advanced again upon the lovers, stamping her feet and gesticulating with clenched fists. “What! Amy Robsart and Leicester! Shocking! disgraceful!” she vociferated; then with a final burst, “D—n it! I can’t stand this!”
A roar of delight broke from the house; the delight always provoked in rural audiences by the expletive that age has been powerless to wither or custom to stale. Hawkins’ amusement found vent in such a stentorian “Bravo!” that Lady Dysart turned quickly at the sound, and saw his head and Francie’s at the window of the brougham. Even in the indifferent light of the lamps, Francie discerned disapproval in her look. She sat back precipitately.
“Oh, Mr. Hawkins!” she exclaimed, rashly admitting that she felt the position to be equivocal; “I think I’d better get out.”
Now, if ever, was the time for Mr. Hawkins to take that pull of which he had spoken so stoutly to Captain Cursiter, but in addition to other extenuating circumstances, it must be admitted that Sir Benjamin’s burgundy had to some slight extent made summer in his veins, and caused him to forget most things except the fact that the prettiest girl he had ever seen was sitting beside him.