The Real Charlotte - Edith Somerville [79]
“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 solioquy 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 hamfrill 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.
“No, you shan’t,” he replied, leaning back out of the light, and taking her hand as if to prevent her from moving; “you won’t go, will you?”
He suddenly felt that he was very much in love, and threw such entreaty into the foregoing unremarkable words that Francie’s heart beat foolishly, and her efforts to take away her hand were very feeble.
“You don’t want to go away, do you? You like sitting here with me?”
The powers of repartee that Tommy Whitty had often found so baffling failed Francie unaccountably on this occasion.