Beatrice had not judged amiss when she thought charade-acting an amusement likely to take the fancy of her cousins. The great success of her boot-jack inspired both Frederick and Henrietta with eagerness to imitate it; and nothing was talked of but what was practicable in the way of scenes, words, and decorations. The Sutton Leigh party were to dine at the Hall again on Thursday, and it was resolved that there should be a grand charade, with all the splendour that due preparation could bestow upon it. “It was such an amusement to grandpapa,” as Beatrice told Henrietta, “and it occupied Fred so nicely,” as she said to her father; both which observations being perfectly true, Mr. Geoffrey Langford was very willing to promote the sport, and to tranquillise his mother respecting the disarrangement of her furniture.

But what should the word be? Every one had predilections of their own—some for comedy, others for tragedy; some for extemporary acting, others for Shakespeare. Beatrice, with her eye for drawing, already grouped her dramatis personae, so as to display Henrietta’s picturesque face and figure to the greatest advantage, and had designs of making her and Fred represent Catherine and Henry Seyton, whom, as she said, she had always believed to be exactly like them. Fred was inclined for “another touch at Prince Hal,” and devised numerous ways of acting Anonymous, for the sake of “Anon, anon, sir.” Henrietta wanted to contrive something in which Queen Bee might appear as an actual fairy bee, and had very pretty visions of making her a beneficent spirit in a little fanciful opera, for which she had written three or four verses, when Fred put an end to it be pronouncing it “nonsense and humbug.”

So passed Tuesday, without coming to any decision, and Henrietta was beginning to fear that they would never fix at all, when on Wednesday morning Beatrice came down in an ecstasy with the news, that by some chance a wig of her papa’s was in the house, and a charade they must and would have which would bring in the wig. “Come and see it,” said she, drawing her two cousins into the study after breakfast: the study being the safest place for holding counsel on these secret subjects. “There now, is it not charming? O, a law charade we must have, that is certain!”

Fred and Henrietta, who had never chanced to see a barrister’s wig before, were greatly diverted with its little tails, and tried it on in turn. While Henrietta was in the midst of her laugh at the sight of her own fair ringlets hanging out below the tight grey rolls, the door suddenly opened, and gave entrance to its owner, fiercely exclaiming, “What! nothing safe from you, you impertinent kittens?”

“O, Uncle Geoffrey, I beg your pardon!” cried Henrietta, blushing crimson.

“Don’t take it off till I have looked at you,” said Uncle Geoffrey. “Why, you would make a capital Portia!”

“Yes, yes!” cried Queen Bee, “that is it: Portia she shall be, and I’ll be Nerissa.”

“Oh, no, Queenie, I could never be Portia!” said Henrietta: “I am sure I can’t.”

“But I have set my heart on being the ‘little scrubby lawyer’s clerk,’” said Busy Bee; “it is what I am just fit for; and let me see—Fred shall be Antonio, and that will make you plead from your very heart, and you shall have Alex for your Bassanio.”

“But the word. Do you mean to make it fit in with Falstaff and Catherine Seyton?” said Henrietta.

“Let me see,” said Beatrice; “bond—bondage, jew—jeweller, juniper,—”

“Lawsuit,” said Fred. “Ay, don’t you see, all the scenes would come out of the ‘Merchant of Venice.’ There is ‘law’ when the old Jew is crying out for his ducats, and—but halloo!” and Fred stood aghast at the sight of his uncle, whose presence they had all forgotten in their eagerness.

“Traitor!” said Beatrice; “but never mind, I believe we must have let him into the plot, for nobody else can be Shylock.”

“O, Bee,” whispered Henrietta, reproachfully, “don’t tease him with our nonsense. Think of asking him to study Shylock’s part, when he has all that pile of papers on the table.”

“Jessica, my girl, Look to my house. I am right loth to go; There is some ill a-brewing to my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night.”

Such was Uncle Geoffrey’s reply; his face and tone so suddenly altered to the snarl of the old Jew, that his young companions at first started, and then clapped their hands in delighted admiration.

“Do you really know it all?” asked Henrietta, in a sort of respectful awe.

“It won’t cost me much trouble to get it up,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford; “Shylock’s growls stick in one’s memory better than finer speeches.”

“Then will you really be so very kind?”

“Provided you will leave the prompter of Monday night on the table this morning,” said Uncle Geoffrey, smiling in that manner which, to a certain degree, removed any feeling of obligation, by making it seem as if it was entirely for his own diversion. Nor could it be denied that he did actually enjoy it.

The party took up their quarters in the study, which really was the only place fit for consultations and rehearsals, since Fred and Alex could not be taken to the maids’ workroom, and none of the downstairs apartments could be made subject to the confusion incidental to their preparations. Henrietta had many scruples at first about disturbing Uncle Geoffrey, but his daughter laughed at them all; and they were soon at an end when she perceived that he minded their chattering, spouting, and laughing, no more than if they had been so many little sparrows twittering on the eaves, but pursued the even tenor of his writing uninterruptedly, even while she fitted on his head a yellow pointed cap, which her ingenious fingers had compounded of the lining of certain ugly old curtains.

His presence in this silent state served, too, as a protection in Mrs. Langford’s periodical visitations to stir the fire; but for him, she would assuredly have found fault, and probably Beatrice would have come to a collision with her, which would have put an end to the whole scheme.

It formed a considerable addition to Henrietta’s list of his avocations, and really by making the utmost of everything he did for other people during that whole week, she made the number reach even to seventy-nine by the next Thursday morning. The most noted of these employments were the looking over a new Act of Parliament with the county member, the curing grandmamma’s old gander of a mysterious lameness, the managing of an emigration of a whole family to New Zealand, the guessing a riddle supposed “to have no answer,” and the mending of some extraordinary spring that was broken in Uncle Roger’s new drill. Beatrice was charmed with the list; Aunt Mary said it was delightful to be so precious to every one; and grandpapa, shaking his head at his son, said he was ashamed to find that his family contained such a Jack of all trades; to which Uncle Geoffrey replied, that it was too true that “all work and no play make Jack a very dull boy.”

The breaking up of the frost, with a succession of sleet, snow and rain, was much in favour of Beatrice and her plans, by taking away all temptation from the boys to engage in out-of-door amusements; and Antonio and Bassanio studied their parts so diligently, that Carey was heard to observe that it might just as well be half year. They had besides their own proper parts, to undertake those of the Princes of Arragon and Morocco, since Queen Bee, willing to have as much of Nerissa as possible, had determined to put their choice, and that of Bassanio, all into the one scene belonging to “suit.” It was one of those occasions on which she showed little consideration, for she thus gave Portia an immense quantity to learn in only two days; persuading herself all the time that it was no such hard task, since the beautiful speech about mercy Henrietta already knew by heart, and she made no difficulties about the rest. Indeed, Beatrice thought herself excessively amiable in doing all she could to show off her cousin’s beauty and acting, whilst taking a subordinate part herself; forgetting that humility is not shown in choosing a part, but in taking willingly that which is assigned us.

Henrietta was rather appalled at the quantity she had to learn, as well as at the prominent part she was to take; but she did not like to spoil the pleasure of the rest with objections, and applied herself in good earnest to her study. She walked about with a little Shakespeare in her hand; she learnt while she was dressing, working, waiting; sat up late, resisting many a summons from her mother to come to bed, and long before daylight, was up and learning again.

The great evening had come, and the audience were thus arranged: grandmamma took up her carpet-work, expressing many hopes to Aunt Roger that it would be over now and out of the children’s heads, for they turned the house upside down, and for her part, she thought it very like play-acting. Aunt Roger, returning the sentiment with interest, took out one of the little brown holland frocks, which she seemed to be always making. Uncle Roger composed himself to sleep in the arm-chair for want of his brother to talk to; grandpapa moved a sofa to the front for Aunt Mary, and sat down by her, declaring that they would see something very pretty, and hoping it would not be too hard a nut for his old wits to crack; Jessie, and such of the boys as could not be persuaded to be magnificos, found themselves a convenient station, and the scene opened.

It was a very short one, but it made every one laugh greatly, thanks to Shylock’s excellent acting, and the chorus of boys, who greatly enjoyed chasing him across the stage, crying, “The law, his ducats, and his daughter!”

Then, after a short interval, appeared Portia, a silver arrow in her hair, almost lovely enough for the real Portia; though the alarmed expression in her glowing face was little accordant with the calm dignified self-possession of the noble Venetian heiress. Nerissa, a handkerchief folded squarely over her head, short petticoats, scarlet lambswool worked into her stockings, and a black apron trimmed with bright ribbon, made a complete little Italian waiting-maid; her quick, pert reply to her lady’s first faltering speech, seemed wonderfully to restore Portia to herself, and they got on well and with spirit through the description of the suitors, and the choice of the two first caskets. Portia looked excessively dignified, and Nerissa’s by-play was capital. Whether it was owing to Bassanio’s awkwardness or her own shyness, she did not prosper quite so well when the leaden casket was chosen; Bassanio seemed more afraid of her than rejoiced, and looked much more at Nerissa than at her, whilst she moved as slowly, and spoke in as cold and measured a way, as if it had been the Prince of Morocco who had unfortunately hit upon the right casket.

In the grand concluding scene she was, however, all that could be wished. She really made a very pretty picture in the dark robes, the glowing carnation of her cheek contrasting with the grey wig, beneath which a few bright ringlets still peeped out; one little white hand raised, and the other holding the parchment, and her eyes fixed on the Jew, as if she either imagined herself Portia, or saw her brother in Antonio’s case, for they glistened with tears, and her voice had a tremulous pleading tone, which fairly made her grandfather and mother both cry heartily.

“Take, then, thy bond; take thou thy pound of flesh!”

The Duke (little Willy) was in an agony, and was forcibly withheld by Bassanio from crying “No, he shan’t!” Nerissa was so absorbed as even to have forgotten herself; Shylock could hardly keep his countenance up to the necessary expression of malice and obduracy; even Johnny and Dick were hanging with breathless attention on the “but,” when suddenly there was a general start throughout the party; the door opened; Atkins, with a voice and face full of delight, announced “Master Roger,” and there entered a young man, in a pea jacket and worsted comforter.

Such confusion, such rapture as ensued! The tumultuous welcomes and handshakings before the sailor had time to distinguish one from another, the actors assuming their own characters, grandmamma and Mrs. Roger Langford asking dozens of questions in a breath, and Mr. Roger Langford fast asleep in his great arm-chair, till roused by Dick tugging at his arm, and Willy hammering on his knee, he slowly arose, saying, “What, Roger, my boy, is it you? I thought it was all their acting!”

“Ah! Miss Jessie,” exclaimed Roger; “that is right: I have not seen such a crop of shining curls since I have been gone. So you have not lost your pink cheeks with pining for me. How are they all at home?”

“Here, Roger, your Aunt Mary,” said his mother; and instantly there was a subduing of the young sailor’s boisterous mirth, as he turned to answer her gentle welcome. The laugh arose the next moment at the appearance of the still half-disguised actors: Alex without Bassanio’s short black cloak and slouched hat and feather, but still retaining his burnt cork eyebrows and moustache, and wondering that Roger did not know him; Uncle Geoffrey still in Shylock’s yellow cap, and Fred somewhat grim with the Prince of Morocco’s complexion.

“How d’ye do, Phil?” said Roger, returning his cousinly shake of the hand with interest. “What! are not you Philip Carey?”

“O, Roger, Roger!” cried a small figure, in whom the Italian maiden predominated.

“What, Aunt Geoffrey masquerading too? How d’ye do, aunt?”

“Well done, Roger! That’s right! Go on!” cried his father, laughing heartily.

“Is it not my aunt? No? Is it the little Bee, then? Why you are grown as like her! But where is Aunt Geoffrey then? Not here? That is a bore. I thought you would have all been in port here at Christmas. And is not this Philip? Come tell me, some of you, instead of laughing there. Are you Fred Langford, then?”

“Right this time,” said Fred, “so now you must shake hands with me in my own name.”

“Very glad to do so, and see you here at last,” said Roger, cordially. “And now tell me, what is all this about? One would think you were crossing the Line?”

“You shall hear what it is all about, and see too,” said Mr. Langford. “We must have that wicked old Jew disappointed, must not we, Willy? But where is my little Portia? What is become of her?”

“Fled, I suspect,” said her mother, “gone to turn into herself before her introduction.”

“O, Roger, it was so jolly,” Carey was now heard to say above the confusion of voices. “Uncle Geoffrey was an old Jew, going to cut a pound of flesh out of Fred, and Henrietta was making a speech in a lawyer’s wig, and had just found such a dodge!”

“Ha! like the masks in the carnival at Rio! Ferrars and I went ashore there, and—”

“Have you been at Sutton Leigh, Roger?”

“Have you dined?”

“Cold turkey—excellent Christmas pie, only too much pepper—a cup of tea—no, but we will have the beef in—”

Further conversation was suspended by these propositions, with the answers and thanks resulting therefrom, but in the midst grandpapa exclaimed, “Ah! here she is! Here is the counsellor! Here is a new cousin for you, Roger; here is the advocate for you when you have a tough law-suit! Lucky for you, Master Geoffrey, that she is not a man, or your nose would soon be put out of joint. You little rogue! How dared you make your mother and grandfather cry their hearts out?”

“I was very glad to see you as bad as myself, sir,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford. “I was very much ashamed of being so foolish, but then, you know, I could hardly ever read through that scene without crying.”

“Ah! you are a prudent mamma, and will not let her be conceited. But to see Geoffrey, with his lips quivering, and yet frowning and looking savage with all his might and main! Well, you are a capital set of actors, all of you, and we must see the end of it.”

This was the great desire of Beatrice, and she was annoyed with Henrietta for having thrown aside her borrowed garments, but the Fates decreed otherwise. The Christmas pie came in, grandpapa proceeded to carve it, and soon lost the remembrance of the charade in talking to his eldest grandson about his travels. A sailor just returned from four years on the South American coast, who had doubled Cape Horn, shot condors on the Andes, caught goats at Juan Fernandez, fished for sharks in the Atlantic, and heard parrots chatter in the Brazilian woods, could not fail to be very entertaining, even though he cared not for the Incas of Peru, and could tell little about the beauties of an iceberg; and accordingly everyone was greatly entertained, except the Queen Bee, who sat in a corner of the sofa, playing with her watch-chain, wondering how long Roger would go on eating pie, looking at the time-piece, and strangling the yawns induced by her inability to attract the notice of either of her squires, whose eyes and ears were all for the newcomer. She was not even missed; if she had been, it would have been some consolation; but on they went, listening and laughing, as if the course of the Euphrosyne, her quick sailing, and the adventures of her crew, were the only subjects of interest in the world. He was only at home for a week, but so much the worse, that would be till the end of Beatrice’s own visit, and she supposed it would be nothing but Euphrosyne the whole time.

There was at last a change: Roger had half a hundred questions to ask about his cousins and all the neighbours.

“And has Philip Carey set up for himself at Allonfield? Does he get any practice? I have a great mind to be ill; it would be such a joke to be doctored by Master Philip!”

“Ah! to think of your taking Mr. Frederick for poor Philip,” said Jessie. “I assure you,” nodding to Fred, “I take it as a great compliment, and so will Philip.”

“And is Fanny Evans as pretty as ever?”

“Oh! grown quite fat and coarse,” said Jessie; “but you may judge for yourself on Monday. Dear Mrs. Langford is so kind as to give us a regular Christmas party, and all the Evanses and Dittons are coming. And we are to dance in the dining-room, the best place for it in the county; the floor is so much better laid down than in the Allonfield assembly-room.”

“No such good place for dancing as the deck of a frigate,” said Roger. “This time last year we had a ball on board the Euphrosyne at Rio. I took the prettiest girl there in to supper—don’t be jealous, Jessie, she had not such cheeks as yours. She was better off there than in the next ball where I met her, in the town. She fancied she had got rather a thick sandwich at supper: she peeped in, and what do you think she found? A great monster of a cockroach, twice as big as any you ever saw.”

“O, you horrid creature!” cried Jessie, “I am sure it was your doing. I am sure it was your doing. I am sure you will give me a scorpion, or some dreadful creature! I won’t let you take me in to supper on Monday, I declare.”

“Perhaps I won’t have you. I mean to have Cousin Henrietta for my partner, if she will have me.”

“Thank you, Cousin Roger,” faltered Henrietta, blushing crimson, with the doubt whether she was saying the right thing, and fearing Jessie might be vexed. Her confusion was increased the next moment, as Roger, looking at her more fully than he had done before, went on, “Much honoured, cousin. Now, all of you wish me joy. I am safe to have the prettiest girl in the room for my partner. But how slow of them all not to have engaged her before. Eh! Alex, what have you to say for yourself?”

“I hope for Queen Bee,” said Alex.

“And Jessie must dance with me, because I don’t know how,” said Carey.

“My dears, this will never do!” interposed grandmamma. “You can’t all dance with each other, or what is to become of the company? I never heard of such a thing. Let me see: Queen Bee must open the ball with little Henry Hargrave, and Roger must dance with Miss Benson.”

“No, no,” cried Roger, “I won’t give up my partner, ma’am; I am a privileged person, just come home. Knight Sutton has not had too much of Henrietta or me, so you must let us be company. Come, Cousin Henrietta, stick fast to your engagement; you can’t break the first promise you ever made me. Here,” proceeded he, jumping up, and holding out his hand, “let us begin this minute; I’ll show you how we waltz with the Brazilian ladies.”

“Thank you, Cousin Roger, I cannot waltz,” said Henrietta.

“That’s a pity. Come, Jessie, then.”

If the practice of waltzing was not to be admired, there was something which was very nice in the perfect good humour with which Jessie answered her cousin’s summons, without the slightest sign of annoyance at his evident preference of Henrietta’s newer face.

“If I can’t waltz, I can play for you,” said Henrietta, willing not to seem disobliging; and going to the piano, she played whilst Roger and Jessie whirled merrily round the room, every now and then receiving shocks against the furniture and minding them not the least in the world, till at last, perfectly out of breath, they dropped laughing upon the sofa.

The observations upon the wild spirits of sailors ashore then sank into silence; Mrs. Roger Langford reproved her son for making such a racket, as was enough to kill his Aunt Mary; with a face of real concern he apologised from the bottom of his heart, and Aunt Mary in return assured him that she enjoyed the sight of his merriment.

Grandmamma announced in her most decided tone that she would have no waltzes and no polkas at her party. Roger assured her that there was no possibility of giving a dance without them, and Jessie seconded him as much as she ventured; but Mrs. Langford was unpersuadable, declaring that she would have no such things in her house. Young people in her days were contented to dance country dances; if they wanted anything newer, they might have quadrilles, but as to these new romps, she would not hear of them.

And here, for once in her life, Beatrice was perfectly agreed with her grandmamma, and she came to life again, and sat forward to join in the universal condemnation of waltzes and polkas that was going on round the table.

With this drop of consolation to her, the party broke up, and Jessie, as she walked home to Sutton Leigh, found great solace in determining within herself that at any rate waltzing was not half so bad as dressing up and play-acting, which she was sure her mamma would never approve.

Beatrice came to her aunt’s room, when they went upstairs, and petitioned for a little talk, and Mrs. Frederick Langford, with kind pity for her present motherless condition, accepted her visit, and even allowed her to outstay Bennet, during whose operations the discussion of the charade, and the history of the preparations and contrivances gave subject to a very animated conversation.

Then came matters of more interest. What Beatrice seemed above all to wish for, was to relieve herself by the expression of her intense dislike to the ball, and all the company, very nearly without exception, and there were few elders to whom a young damsel could talk so much without restraint as to Aunt Mary.

The waltzing, too, how glad she was that grandmamma had forbidden it, and here Henrietta chimed in. She had never seen waltzing before; had only heard of it as people in their quiet homes hear and think of the doings of the fashionable world, and in her simplicity was perfectly shocked and amazed at Jessie, a sort of relation, practising it and pleading for it.

“My dear!” said Beatrice, laughing, “I do not know what you would do if you were me, when there is Matilda St. Leger polka-ing away half the days of her life.”

“Yes, but Lady Matilda is a regular fashionable young lady.”

“Ay, and so is Jessie at heart. It is the elegance, and the air, and the society that are wanting, not the will. It is the circumstances that make the difference, not the temper.”

“Quite true, Busy Bee,” said her aunt, “temper may be the same in very different circumstances.”

“But it is very curious, mamma,” said Henrietta, “how people can be particular in one point, and not in another. Now, Bee, I beg your pardon, only I know you don’t mind it, Jessie did not approve of your skating.”

“Yes,” said Beatrice, “every one has scruples of his own, and laughs at those of other people.”

“Which I think ought to teach Busy Bees to be rather less stinging,” said Aunt Mary.

“But then, mamma,” said Henrietta, “we must hold to the right scruples, and what are they? I do not suppose that in reality Jessie is less—less desirous of avoiding all that verges towards a want of propriety then we are, yet she waltzes. Now we were brought up to dislike such things.”

“O, it is just according to what you are brought up to,” said Beatrice. “A Turkish lady despises us for showing our faces: it is just as you think it.”

“No, that will not do,” said Henrietta. “Something must be actually wrong. Mamma, do say what you think.”

“I think, my dear, that woman has been mercifully endowed with an instinct which discerns unconsciously what is becoming or not, and whatever at the first moment jars on that sense is unbecoming in her own individual case. The fineness of the perception may be destroyed by education, or wilful dulling, and often on one point it may be silent, though alive and active on others.”

“Yes,” said Henrietta, as if satisfied.

“And above all,” said her mother, “it, like other gifts, grows dangerous, it may become affectation.”

“Pruding,” said Beatrice, “showing openly that you like it to be observed how prudent and proper you are.”

“Whereas true delicacy would shrink from showing that it is conscious of anything wrong,” said Henrietta. “Wrong I do not exactly mean, but something on the borders of it.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Mary, “and above all, do not let this delicacy show itself in the carping at other people, which only exalts our own opinion of ourselves, and very soon turns into ‘judging our neighbour.’”

“But there is false delicacy, aunt.”

“Yes, but it would be false kindness to enter on a fresh discussion tonight, when you ought to be fast asleep.”