Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/349

 342 “I’ll warrant when you go on, one half the people will cry, ‘perfect,’ and t’other half will say, ‘it’s almost a pity you hadn’t had just a leetle rouge ”

“Now then, Williams,” cried a voice at the door, “are you ready for me? We’re late as it is, and I’m ‘discovered,’ recollect.”

“Come in, cousin Frank,” said Lilian.

Mr. Frank Scott entered ready for the stage, save and except his face. Mr. Scott was stage manager, he was consequently the focus upon which the shortcomings of everybody and everything were concentrated during the half hour previous to the rising of the curtain.

“That ass, Vernon, can’t find his boots,” exclaimed Scott, taking his seat before the dressing-table, “and he’s boring me to death.”

Then his eye fell on Lilian.

“Your dress, ma foi, c’est parfaite: but your hair, Lilian, that’s where it is, after all.”

Nevertheless Scott’s first impression was correct, the merit lay in the dress—it was the design of an artist friend, and Lilian had paid him dozen smiles, and a lock of her pale gold hair. Lilian’s faults shall not be hidden, but I pledge myself the price of the design was an honest payment. Lilian, summoning courage, had asked this friend how she should dress.

“Give me a lock of your hair, and I’ll tell you.”

“By all means,” said Lilian, and she drew off her net, and in a moment a great golden wave fell over her shoulders.

“That’s very pretty!” exclaimed the artist, with artistic enthusiasm. “I’ll get a pair of scissors!” And he drew back the surface hair, rippling through his fingers, and selected a buried lock.

“Snip!”

Mind you, he was no hairdresser, sated with all manner of hair, yet his hands quivered not, and naught was added to the speed of his pulse. To his honour be it said, he had numbered fourscore years, and he had painted charming faces with delicate taste all his artist life.

The lock of hair was pinned to the artist’s easel.

“Now, young lady, my colours will lead the eye up to that hair—just try the experiment with your next new dress. Fifty years ago, I should have thought of it twice before I had given you the secret of breaking hearts.”

“But, Lilian, do smile!” exclaimed Scott. “You spoil yourself. Trembling, too! Come, come, it won’t do for you to be afraid.”

“I’m sure I shall break down, Frank. I wish I had never undertaken the part. I always wanted you to let Margaret Vernon do it.”

“Absurd girl! You knew every word this morning. Bless me, Williams! I’m not going to play a wild Indian—gently with that red stuff!”

Mr. Williams said nothing, but he was wounded in the depths of his soul.

“As you’re here, Lilian, do let’s run over the last bit of that scene. I threaten to send De Launay to the Bastile with the lettre de cachet, unless you prove to me that you don’t love him. You do that part capitally!—I mean just afterwards, when I come from my hiding-place. Confound you, Williams!—don’t shove that nasty brush into my mouth.”

“If you would only keep your face still for half a minute!” pleaded Mr. Williams, mournfully.

“Hollo, there’s Vernon!” cried Scott. “I say, we want the fag-end of that crack scene of yours.”

“Mind, Scott, I don’t go on the stage till I get my boots,” replied Vernon, with stolid resolution.

“They’ll turn up, I’ll warrant! Here, you’re on the right,—pray don’t forget that, or you’ll spoil my entrance. Now then, ‘Is this the village girl?’ that’s the cue.”

‘Is this the village girl? ” mumbled Vernon.

“Go on, Lilian!”

“I beg your pardon, Frank. ‘Yes, Monsieur De Launay, the village girl has learnt the manners of the court. Faith in love! who dreams of finding that at Versailles? ”

“Pray go on, Vernon!”

‘Marie, this is some joke. ”

“Joke’s not the word.”

“I’ll bet you it is!” rejoined Vernon, sullenly.

“The word’s jest, Mr. Vernon,” said Lilian, referring to her book.

‘He will be 1ost, ” prompted Scott. “We shall never finish at this rate.”

‘He will be lost! Merciful Heaven! How shall I save him? ”

“That’s right, Lilian! Clasp your hands with despair. (De Launay perceives a ring on Marie’s hand.) Now, do get on, Vernon.”

“Have you got those boots, Samuels?” inquired Vernon of a Mosaic person who had just entered the room. “Then don’t stand star-gazing there! Go and look till you find them!” and Vernon spoke with immense emphasis.

‘Ha! that ring!’ Do finish it, Vernon!” cried Scott.

‘Ha! that ring! ” mumbled Vernon.

“Bless me! you really must look in the direction of her hands, or you won’t be able to see the ring.”

‘Ha! that ring! A gift! Whose? Tell me, ” grumbled Vernon.

‘The gift of the Chevalier De Barras. ”

‘False girl! ” muttered Vernon, hurriedly.

“Pray remember the points, Vernon. You must pause before you say ‘False girl!’ and look thunderstruck—it’s a splendid bit of business for you!”

“The boots ish found!” cried a Mosaic voice, exultingly.

‘Lost? Lost! ” prompted Scott.

“I’d better put them on at once,” said Vernon, making for the door.

“Bless the man! Pray finish the scene.”

“Very well, then. ‘Lost, lost, false girl—farewell for ever! ”

‘Not false! Henri, hear me! ”

“That’s right, Lilian! Put in lots of despair—try to grasp his hand—can’t you wait one moment, Vernon?—there, that’s capital! When you’ve got your boots on, ring up for the orchestra. I wonder if that confounded fellow—what’s his name—Markham’s friend—who plays