The whole of the vast audience was there for enjoyment. Enjoyment was in the air like a great thrill of electricity. What could be more magnificent than the huge drop curtain, with its rich landscape and lightly clothed inhabitants? What could be more exciting than the entrance, one by one, of the amazingly self-possessed musicians?
The orchestra was tuning up. The conductor appeared to the welcoming taps of fiddle-bows. One breathless moment he held aloft his baton and looked round at his attentive company, then altogether the fiddles and the drums and the flutes and the cornets, the groaning double-ba.s.s and the "cello and the clarinets and the funny little piccolo and the big ba.s.soon and the complicated French horns and the trombones and the triangle (perhaps the best-enjoyed instrument of all) and the stupendous cymbals started off with the overture of the Christmas pantomime of the Grand Theater, Islington.
Could it be borne, this enthusiastic overture? Was it not almost too much for children, this lilting announcement of mirth and beauty? Would not Jenny presently fall head-foremost into the pit? Would not Alfie be bound to break the seat by his perpetual leaps into the air? Would not Edie explode in her anxiety to correct Jenny, devour bull"s-eyes and see more of a mysterious figure that kept peering through a little square hole in the corner of the proscenium?
The orchestra stopped for a moment. A bell had rung, shrill and pregnant with great events. Green lights appeared, and red lights: there was hardly a sound in the house. Was anything the matter?
"They"re just ringing up," said Mr. Vergoe.
Slowly the rich landscape and lightly clothed inhabitants vanished into the roof.
"Oh!" exclaimed Jenny.
"Hush!" whispered Edie.
"My Gosh!" said Alfie.
A weird melody began. Demons leaped maliciously round a caldron. Green demons and red demons danced with pitchforks. The caldron bubbled and steamed. There was a crash from the cymbals. A figure sprang from the caldron, alighting on the board with a loud "ha-ha." Evil deeds were afoot, and desperate dialogue of good and ill.
The scene changed to a Chinese market-place. There were comic policemen, comic laundrywomen. There was the Princess Balroubadour in a palanquin more beautiful than the very best lampshade of the Hagworth Street parlor. There was the splendidly debonair Aladdin. There was the excruciatingly funny Widow Tw.a.n.key. There was the Emperor with ba.s.s voice and mustaches trailing to the ground to be continually trodden on by humorists of every size and sort.
It would be impossible to relate every scene. It was like existence in a precious stone, so much sparkle and color was everywhere. The cave was wonderful. The journey to the Enchanted Palace through Cloudland was amazing. Then there were gilded tables, heaped with gigantic fruits, that rose from the very ground itself. There was the devilishly cunning Abanazar. There were songs and dances and tinsel and movement and jingles and processions and laughter and gongs and lanterns and painted umbrellas and magic doors and an exhaustingly funny bathing scene with real water. There was the active and slippery Genius of the Lamp, the lithe and agile Genius of the Ring, who ran right round the ledge of the circle and slid down a golden pillar back on to the stage amid thunders of applause.
To Jenny, perhaps the most real excitement of all was the appearance of her darling Lilli, first in gold and blue, and then in white, and then in black, and finally in a dress that must have been stolen from the very heart of a rainbow, such scintillating streams of color flickered and gleamed and radiated from its silken folds.
How gloriously golden looked her hair, how splendidly crimson her lips, how n.o.bly brilliant were her eyes. And how she danced, first on one leg, then on the other; then upside down and inside out, and over one girl and under another. How the people clapped her and how pleased she looked, and how Jenny waved to her till Alfie and Edie simultaneously suppressed such an uncontrolled and conspicuous display of feelings.
Then there was the transformation scene, which actually surpa.s.sed all that had gone before, with its bouquets of giant roses turning into fairies, with its clouds and lace and golden rocks and jewels and silver trees and view of magic oceans and snowy mountains and gaudy birds.
Suddenly crimson lights flared. There was a jovial shout from somewhere, and "Here we are again!" cried Joey, as round and round to "Ring a ring o" roses" galloped Clown and Pantaloon and Harlequin and Columbine.
Jenny looked shyly up into Mr. Vergoe"s face and could just see tears glittering in his eyes.
Down came the front cloth of the harlequinade with shops and mischievous boys and everlastingly mocked policemen and absent-minded nursemaids and swaggering soldiers. Inspiring were the feats achieved by the Clown, wild were the transformations and subst.i.tutions effected by the trim and ubiquitous Harlequin. But what Jenny loved most were the fairy entrances of Columbine, as, like a pink feather, she danced before the footlights and in and out of the shops. Oh, to be a Columbine, she thought, to dance in silver and pink down Hagworth Street with a thousand eyes to admire her, a thousand hands to acclaim the beautiful vision.
It came to an end, the pantomime of Aladdin. It came to an end with the Clown"s shower of crackers. Triumph of triumphs, Jenny actually caught one.
"You and me will pull it," she whispered to Mr. Vergoe, clasping his hand in childish love.
But it came to an end, the pantomime of Aladdin; and home they went again to Hagworth Street. Home they went, all three children"s hearts afire with the potential magic of every street corner. Home they went, talking and laughing and interrupting and imitating and recalling, while Mr. Vergoe thought of old days. How quiet and dark Hagworth Street seemed when they reached it.
But it was very delightful to rush in past Ruby and turn somersaults all the way to the kitchen. It was very delightful to stand in a knot round their father and tell him the whole story and recount each separate splendor, while he and Mr. Vergoe sipped a gla.s.s of Mr.
Vergoe"s warm whisky with a slice of lemon added. It was good fun to disconcert Ruby by tripping her up. It was fine to seize the poker and chase her all round the kitchen.
The bedtime of this never-to-be-forgotten evening came at last. Jenny and Edie lay awake and traced in the ceiling shadows startling similarities to the action of the harlequinade. Edie fell asleep, but Jenny still lay awake, her heart going pitter-pat with a big resolve, her breath coming in little gasps with the birth of a new ambition. She must go on the stage. She must dance for all the world to gaze at her.
She would. She would. She must. What a world it was, this wonderful world of the stage--an existence of color and scent and movement and admiration.
The oilcloth of Hagworth Street seemed more than usually cold and dreary on the following day. Alfie, too, was in a very despondent mood, having fallen deeply in love with Miss Letty Lightbody, who had played the part of Pekoe, Aladdin"s friend and confidant. An air of staleness permeated everything for a week. Then Mrs. Raeburn came back from Barnsbury, and Jenny raised the question of going on the stage.
The former was very angry with her husband for allowing the visit to the pantomime. Mr. Vergoe tried to take the blame, but Mrs. Raeburn was determined the brunt of the storm should fall on Charlie. Jenny was ordered to give up all ideas of the stage. Schooltime came round again, and the would-be dancer behaved more atrociously than ever. She was the despair of her mistresses, and at home she would sit by the fire sulking. She began to grow thin, and her mother began to wonder whether, after all, it would not be wiser to let her have her own way. She went upstairs to consult Mr. Vergoe.
"You"ll make a big mistake," he a.s.sured her, "if you keep her from what she"s set her heart on, so to speak. She has it in her, too. A proper little dancer she"ll make."
Mrs. Raeburn was still loath to give in. She had a dread of putting temptation in the child"s path. She did not know how to decide, while Jenny continued to sulk, to be more and more unmanageable, to fret and pine and grow thinner and thinner.
"Where could she go and learn this dancing?" the bewildered mother asked.
"Madame Aldavini"s," said the old clown. "That"s where my granddaughter learned."
It was a profession, after all, thought Mrs. Raeburn. What else would Jenny do? Go into service? Somehow she could not picture her in a parlormaid"s cap and ap.r.o.n. Well, why not the stage, if it had got to be? She discussed the project with her sister Mabel, who was horrified.
"A ballet-girl? Are you mad, Florence? Why, what a disgrace. Whatever would Bill say? An actress? Better put her on the streets at once."
Mrs. Raeburn could not make up her mind.
"If any daughter of yours goes play-acting," went on Mrs. Purkiss, "I can"t allow her to come to tea with my Percy and my Claude any more, and that"s all about it."
"Jenny doesn"t think going to tea with her cousins anything to wave flags over."
"Pig-headed, that"s what you are, Florence. All the years you"ve been a sister of mine, I"ve known you for a pig-headed woman. It doesn"t matter whether you"re ill or well, right or wrong, no one mustn"t advise you.
That"s how you come to marry Charlie."
The opposition of Mrs. Purkiss inclined her sister to give way before Jenny"s desire. It only needed a little more family interference, and the child would be taken straight off to Madame Aldavini"s School for Dancing.
Miss Horner supplied it; for, two or three days after, a letter came from Clapton, written in a quavering hand crossed and recrossed on thin, crackling paper, deeply edged in black.
CARMINIA HOUSE,
February 20th.
DEAR FLORENCE,
My niece Mabel writes to tell us you intend to make your little girl an actress. This news has been a great shock to me. You must not forget that she is a granddaughter of Frederick Horner, the Chymist. She must not be a harlot given over to paint and powder.
G.o.d is jealous of the safety of His lambs. This plan of dancing is a snare of Satan. You should read the Word, my dear niece. You will read of young maidens who danced before the Ark of the Covenant in the joy of the Lord, but that is not to say your little girl should dance for lewdness and gold when she might be singing the sweet songs of Salvation and joining in the holy mirth of the Children of Israel. If you had let us adopt her, this desire would not have come. We do not let the Devil into our house. You will be the cause of my death, niece, with your wicked intentions. I am an old woman very near to Emmanuel. This great sin must not be.
Your loving aunt,
ALICE HORNER.
P. S.--I am in bed, but with the warmer weather I shall come to see you, my dear niece, and warn you again.--A. H.
"Good thing she is in bed," commented Mrs. Raeburn, as she finished reading her aunt"s letter.
"What"s all this about Jenny going for a dancer?" asked Charlie that evening.
"Whatever has it got to do with you, I should like to know?" said his wife.
"Well, I am her father, when all"s said and done. Aren"t I?"
"And a nice example to a child. I suppose somebody"s got to look after you when I die."