Then the stage was filled with dainty, slim, ringletted ladies in high-waisted flowered frocks and gentlemen in tight breeches, long-tailed coats, and high stocks, and the curtains rolled back to disclose a prettier and statelier dance than a modern audience often sees.
As the story progressed, Catherine as Elizabeth, and Eleanor as Mr. Collins, divided the honours pretty equally. No one who had not seen Catherine as Viola could have guessed what a charming Elizabeth she would make, and Eleanor—well, Eleanor was Mr. Collins, a very triumph of imagination! Eleanor had not Catherine's gift, and to picture Elizabeth's delicate subtleties and humours would have been quite beyond her, but she had walked, and talked, and eaten with Mr. Collins until she was that worthy gentleman's double.
Who could ever forget the courtship scene, with Mr. Collins's ponderous declaration and dexterous withdrawal from Mrs. Bennet's clutches? Contrary to Judith's fears, Mr. Collins's coat withstood the pressure of his windy eloquence and all the seams held fast.
Scene followed scene. Jane's love-story and Lydia's and Elizabeth's until the tangles, always tied in true lovers' garlands, were disentangled one by one and Mrs. Bennet was able to sing her hymn of joy. "Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! What will become of me? I shall go distracted."
It was a great success, of course, the Reunion Play always was, and each one better than the last as every one said, but Judith and Nancy privately decided that nothing could ever be better—it was perfect.
The play over, benches and chairs were piled up at the sides, the orchestra played an entrancing tune, and every one danced; Mr. Collins with Lady Catherine de Burgh, and Elizabeth with Judith, Mrs. Bennet with Nancy, and Jane with Bingley.
Then by and by Miss Meredith gave a signal to the orchestra, and big girls and little, Old and New, formed a great triple hand-clasped circle and sang together as was the custom, "Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot?" And if some of the Old Girls found they couldn't sing at all because their voices grew hoarse and husky, as they thought of what old acquaintance in York Hill had meant to them and was going to mean to their young sisters and daughters, what wonder!
It was over. The guests were moving slowly down to the drawing-rooms for refreshments, and the School and the Old Girls crossed the quadrangle and had their lemonade and cake in Big Hall. In twos and threes the girls stood making plans for next year, or talking over the events of the day.
Some one at the piano began to play "Forty Years On," the last song always at York Hill on Prize Day.
Judith didn't want to sing—she slipped out through the open door. It was a glorious sight, the moon was nearly full, and the quadrangle was flooded with silvery light.