old Boston, a worthy and wealthy farmer, who sat next to Mrs Hopgood, cried out ‘hear, hear!’ but was instantly suppressed.
He put his head down behind the people in front of him, rubbed his knees, grinned, and then turned to Mrs Hopgood, whom he knew, and whispered, with his hand to his mouth,—
‘And a precious lucky chap he is.’
Mrs Hopgood watched intently, and when Gonzalo invoked the gods to drop a blessed crown on the couple, and the applause was renewed, and Boston again cried ‘hear, hear!’ without fear of check, she did not applaud, for something told her that behind this stage show a drama was being played of far more serious importance.
The curtain fell, but there were loud calls for the performers. It rose, and they presented themselves, Alonso still holding the hands of the happy pair. The cheering now was vociferous, more particularly when a wreath was flung at the feet of the young princess, and Ferdinand, stooping, placed it on her head.
Again the curtain fell, the band struck up some dance music and the audience were treated to ‘something light,’ and roared with laughter at a pretty chambermaid at an inn who captivated and bamboozled a young booby who was staying there, pitched him overboard; ‘wondered what he meant;’ sang an audacious song recounting her many exploits, and finished with a pas-seul.
The performers and their friends were invited to a sumptuous supper, and the Fenmarket folk were not at home until half-past two in the morning. On their way back, Clara broke out against the juxtaposition of Shakespeare and such vulgarity.
‘Much better,’ she said, ‘to have left the Shakespeare out altogether. The lesson of the sequence is that each is good in its way, a perfectly hateful doctrine to me.
Frank and Madge were, however, in the best of humours, especially Frank, who had taken a glass of wine beyond his customary very temperate allowance.
‘But, Miss Hopgood, Mrs Martin had to suit all tastes; we must not be too severe upon her.’