Todborough Grange rejoiced in what should be the adjunct of every country house a large unfurnished room. It had been thrown out expressly as a playroom for the children by Cedric Bloxam’s father, and as they grew up proved even more useful. Should the house be full and the weather prove wet, what games of battledore and shuttlecock, “bean-bags,” &c., were played in it in the daytime, and what a ball-room it made at night! There was no trouble moving out the furniture or taking up the carpet, there being nothing but a few benches and a piano in the room. At one end was a slightly-raised stage, and off that was a tiny chamber, originally known as the toy-room, and pretty well dedicated to the same use now, being stored with properties for cotillons, the aforesaid games, theatrical representations, &c. There was a regular drop-curtain to the stage, but that was all. Scenery there was none. That was fitted in when required, but would have been considered in the way as a permanency, the stage being used at times as an orchestra, at others as a tea-room. It was raised not quite a foot above the floor, and could therefore be easily stepped on to; in fact, upon the few occasions that the Theatre Royal Todborough opened, the entertainment had been confined invariably to one-act farces. At such times it was spoken of with considerable ostentation as a theatre; but as a rule the old appellation was adhered to, and it was generally known as the play-room. It was in this room that the Misses Chipchase found Blanche, Jim, Mr. Cottrell, Lionel Beauchamp, and the Sartorises awaiting their arrival in the afternoon.

“Now, Miss Sylla,” exclaimed Jim, “we are all ready for you. We have installed you in command, and hereby promise attention and obedience.”

“Honour and obey, Jim,” interrupted Blanche, laughing; “but it is the lady who should say it.”

“It does sound a little as if he had strayed into the marriage service,” observed Cottrell.

“Ladies and gentlemen not intending to assist in this representation are requested to withdraw,” retorted Jim, “by order of the stage-manager, James Bloxam.”

“Come along, Mr. Cottrell: he has right on his side; the audience have certainly no business at the rehearsals.”

And, followed by the younger Miss Chipchase, Cottrell, and Beauchamp, Blanche crossed towards the door. At the threshold they were arrested by Sylla, who exclaimed,

“You cannot all go; I must have another gentleman. If Mr. Cottrell won’t act, you must, Lionel.”

“I had no idea you acted,” said Blanche Bloxam, with some little surprise; “you said nothing about it this morning when we were talking this over.”

It may have been some slight inflexion of the voice that prompted the deduction; but certain it was that as Pansey Cottrell heard that commonplace little speech, he muttered to himself, “The lady is beginning to take things in earnest, whatever Beauchamp may be.”

“I have no idea that I can act,” rejoined Lionel, laughing; “but I can stand still in whatever attitude I am placed, and that, I fancy, is all Sylla requires of me. You do not feel any disposition to volunteer, I suppose, Mr. Cottrell?”

“Heaven forbid!” rejoined Mr. Cottrell fervently, “Miss Sylla might want me to stand upon one leg. She will put some of you in most uncomfortable attitudes, just for the fun of the thing, I know.”

“Now,” said the manageress-elect, as Mr. Cottrell closed the door behind him, “what we have got to do is very simple. I have thought of two words which will each represent in three tableaux. Now, I propose that we arrange these tableaux six in all and then, if we run through them a second time, just to be sure we have not forgotten our places, we shall have nothing to do but to talk over any details that may occur to us. First, Mrs. Sartoris, which will you represent, the Lady or the Chambermaid of my charades?”

“Well, if you will allow me, I think I will do the Lady,” said Mrs. Sartoris, laughing. “I ought, at all events, to be best in that; but there are three of us. What is Miss Chipchase going to do?”

“Oh, she is the Band,” rejoined Sylla. “You see, we must have soft music all the way through these charades; and we want somebody to play for us who knows what we are about, and so can follow us.”

“And so,” interposed Miss Chipchase, “we have settled that I shall play the piano.”

“Very well, Mrs. Sartoris,” said Sylla; “then we will consider that settled; you do the Ladies and I do the Chambermaids. Now, gentlemen, you must select your own lines. What will you be, Mr. Sartoris Walking Gentleman, Low Comedian, or Melodramatic Villain?”

“Oh, Melodramatic Villain,” cried Mrs. Sartoris, “he will be delighted. Tom’s theatrical proclivities, shocking to relate, are murderous in the extreme. He is always complaining that he is never entrusted with a real good assassination.”

“Then that’s settled,” exclaimed Sylla. “Captain Bloxam will take the Walking Gentleman, and Lionel can do the Low Comedy part.”

Under the young manageress’s energetic directions the tableaux were rapidly run through. The little troupe worked with a will, and in something under two hours they pronounced themselves perfect, and predicted, as people always do under these circumstances, that the performance would be a great success.

“Now comes a question,” said Jim, “as to scenery, properties, and dresses. There is some little scenery in the granary that has been used before at different times, and of course we have a certain amount of properties. What shall you want, Miss Sylla?” and Jim, taking a sheet of paper and pencil in a very business-like manner, prepared to make notes on the top of the piano.

“For the first charade,” said Sylla, “the scenery should be a wood scene, and then we want a lady’s bed-chamber. The second charade is simply a drawing-room scene all through. For properties a brace of pistols, a pair of handcuffs, a jewel-box with plenty of bracelets, rings, &c. we ladies can easily find those amongst us. In the second, nothing but a letter in bold handwriting. As for dresses, Mrs. Sartoris and I can easily manage; and as for you gentlemen, you want nothing but a policeman’s dress, a livery, and a low comedy wig.”

“No trouble about any of those things, Miss Sylla, unless it’s the low comedy wig, and about that I have my doubts. However, Beauchamp must manage the best he can with his own hair if I can’t find one. There is only one thing more you forgot to tell us, what the second word is.”

“No forgetfulness at all, Captain Bloxam,” replied the young lady, laughing. “I am very curious to see if any of you, or any of the audience, make that word out.”

“It’s high time we were on our way home,” observed Miss Chipchase; “as soon as you have given us a cup of tea, Jim, Sylla, and I will be off.”

When the evening came there was really a good sprinkling of visitors to look on or join in whatever entertainment might be provided for them. Jim the energetic, in pursuance of his mother’s hints overnight, had not only sent over to the Rockcliffe Camp, but had dispatched missives in all directions by a groom on horseback, with the pithy intimation, “Charades and an impromptu dance this evening at nine. If you have nothing better to do, please come.” Jim Bloxam was a popular man in his neighbourhood, and the Grange had a reputation for improvising pleasant entertainments in such fashion. Lady Mary contemplated the forthcoming proceedings with resignation, if not with satisfaction. She had a presentiment that the evening would end unpleasantly for her. She felt certain that Sylla would contrive to pose as its heroine; and that the niece of the woman she most detested in the world should have the opportunity of for once assuming such a position in the house of which she, Lady Mary, was mistress, was exasperating. Pansey Cottrell, too, had contributed not a little to her irritation by dwelling somewhat persistently at dinner on Miss Sylla’s dramatic talent. He had done this, dear pleasant creature! simply for his own diversion. He was acting as prompter to a little comedy of real life; and it is ideas, not words, that the prompters on such occasions instil into our minds. As a rule, Pansey Cottrell would have judiciously shirked such an entertainment as the one which he was now with genuine curiosity taking his seat to witness. Neither host nor hostess ever succeeded in persuading him to do what he did not fancy. He would be ill, retire to his own bed-room at the shortest possible notice, would no more make up a fourth at whist, or conduce to the entertainment of his fellows, than volunteer for a turn on the treadmill. If his entertainers troubled him much, he did not come their way again. Of course, they need not ask him unless they liked. But Mr. Cottrell knew society well. Once assure such recognition as he had done, and how obtained matters not an iota: the more unmeasured your insolence to society, the more does society bow down and worship.

“Where’s Brummell dished?”

Yes, but it was a mere matter of L.s.d. that dished him. That he ever did tell the Prince to ring the bell is unlikely; but society thought him capable of doing so, and reverenced him accordingly.

The bell rings, and the fingers of Laura Chipchase, who has already seated herself at the piano, begin to move dreamily over the keys. She plays well, and a soft weird-like melody attunes the minds of the spectators to what is to follow. Again the bell rings, and as the curtain slowly rises comes the sharp report of a pistol. “Good Heavens! there is some accident,” escapes from three or four lips. But the wild ghostly music still falls, without ceasing, from the piano. Slowly the curtain continues to rise, and discovers two men confronting each other after the approved custom of duelling. On the proper stage right stands Mr. Sartoris, with brows bent and sullen scowl upon his lip; the nerveless hand by his side grasps the still-smoking pistol. Opposite, and as far from him as the space will admit, is Bloxam, his right arm upraised, and his hand holding a pistol pointed upwards. In the background stands Beauchamp, in an attitude expressive of intense anxiety. Having reached the ceiling, the curtain slowly commences to descend. As it does so, Bloxam’s pistol is discharged in the air, and the performers remain unmovable till once more masked from the view of the spectators.

“A duel!” exclaims Miss Evesham; “what are we to make of that?”

“No, no, that won’t do,” ejaculates the Squire: “he has missed missed, don’t you see? Can’t be quite right; but that’s the idea.”

“I have it,” rejoins Miss Evesham; “you are right, Mr. Bloxam, that is it. It’s not missed, but a miss. There are lots of words, you know, begin with ‘miss.’”

Some slight delay, during which the soft dreamy music still falters unceasingly from Laura Chipchase’s fingers, and then the curtain once more begins to ascend. There is no such sensational effect as a pistol-report to startle the audience this time. The scene represents a lady’s dressing-room. In an arm-chair, placed on the stage right opposite the toilette-table on the stage left, attired as a smart lady’s-maid, reclines Sylla sound asleep; on the table are scattered bracelets, &c., and also stands an open jewel-case. Mr. Sartoris, got up to represent a dog-stealer, a burglar, or other member of the predatory classes, is in the act of getting in a practicable window at the back of the stage. A dark lantern is in his hand, and his feet are artistically enshrined in india-rubbers. Stealthily, with many melodramatic starts and gestures, and anxious glances at the sleeping girl, he makes his way to the toilette-table, fills his pockets with the glittering gewgaws, then turns to depart, with his plunder, silently as he had come. As he passes the sleeping soubrette, she moves uneasily in her chair. With a ferocious gesture the robber draws from his breast an ominous-looking knife, pauses for a moment, and then, reassured by her tranquillity, makes his way to the window. As he disappears, Mrs. Sartoris, an opera-cloak thrown over her ball-room dress, and carrying a bed-room candle in her hand, enters and crosses to the toilette-table. Placing her candle on the table, she seizes the jewel-box, and, it is evident, becomes cognizant that robbery has been committed. As she turns, Sylla starts from the chair in great confusion; Mrs. Sartoris points to the table, and then with a start notices the open window. The curtain descends upon Mrs. Sartoris pointing in an accusing manner to the window, and Sylla with clasped hands mutely protesting her innocence and ignorance of the robbery.

With the clue afforded by the solution of the first syllable, the audience very soon make out the second; and that the word was either “mistake” or “mistaken” they entertained little doubt. Curiosity now centred on what version they would give of the whole, for that each word was to be rendered in three tableaux had been stated before the performance commenced.

The curtain rises again upon the last scene; and upon this occasion the representation is motionless. In the centre of the stage, Lionel Beauchamp, in the guise of a policeman, is snapping-to the hand-cuffs on the weeping Sylla. On the left, with averted head, stands Mrs. Sartoris, indicating sorrow for the offender, but entire belief in her guilt. On the opposite side, Jim Bloxam, attired in evening costume, is unmistakably directing the officer to remove his prisoner. Slowly the curtain descends amid much acclamation and cries of “Mistake!” In his capacity of stage-manager, Jim Bloxam glides for a moment in front, and, in a few off-hand words to the audience, acknowledges the correctness of their apprehension.

“I give Jim credit for his exertions. That really was most successful,” said Lady Mary, as her son disappeared.

“I fancy the success is due more to Miss Sylla than him,” rejoined Pansey Cottrell, suavely. “Jim, as we all know, though one of the best of fellows, is the most execrable of actors; and I don’t think those tableaux look like his inspiration.”

“I am sure he is quite as good as the generality of amateurs,” retorted Lady Mary, with no little asperity.

She was no more exempt from the true womanly instinct that prompts the regarding of her own chicks as swans than any of her sex. Mr. Cottrell was much too quick-witted not to see that his criticism was distasteful, but he never could resist the temptation of teasing his fellow-creatures.

“Admitting, for the sake of argument, Lady Mary,” he replied, “that Jim is an average actor, when one knows that there is rather exceptional talent in the troupe, one is apt to regard that as the guiding spirit. Sylla Chipchase is very clever at all this sort of thing, I know, because I have seen her on previous occasions.”

“You seem to be losing your head about that girl, Pansey, like the rest of them. You all seem to think that she is wonderfully clever because she happened to know that Mr. Beauchamp could run.”

“I fancy she knows a good deal more about him than that,” replied Mr. Cottrell demurely.

“What do you mean? What have you heard about her?” inquired Lady Mary, somewhat eagerly.

“Nothing, further than she seemed to be equally well aware that he could act. But stop, they are commencing again.”

Slowly, as before, the curtain ascends to a dreamy melody of the piano, and discovers Sylla, attired as the smartest of soubrettes, in close juxtaposition to Lionel Beauchamp in a groom’s livery. Taking a letter from him, she places it in her bosom, and then looks up at him with all the devilry of coquetry in her eyes. She toys with the corner of her apron, twiddling it backwards and forwards between her fingers. She glances demurely down at her feet, then looks shyly up at him again; then once more studying her apron, she, as if unconsciously, proffers her cheek in a manner too provocative for any man to resist, and as the curtain descends Lionel Beauchamp is apparently about to make the most of his opportunity.

“By Jove!” laughed the Squire, “in Beauchamp’s place I think I would have been thoroughly realistic the proper thing in these days!”

“Well,” whispered Lady Mary to Pansey Cottrell, “of all the audacious minxes! Mr. Beauchamp deserves great credit for his discretion in waiting until the curtain fell before he kissed her.”

That Lady Mary assumed the ceremony was concluded may be easily imagined, while the audience generally differed considerably about the scene, some of the ladies contending that there was no necessity for carrying dramatic representation quite so far; while the men, on the other hand, thought that Beauchamp did not carry it far enough.

The second scene discovers Mrs. Sartoris in the centre of the stage, with Jim Bloxam on one knee, kissing the hand she extends towards him. On her other side, Mr. Sartoris, made up as an elderly gentleman, with coat thrown very much back, thumbs stuck in the armholes of his waistcoat, contemplates the pair with a look of bland satisfaction. Again the curtain descends, leaving the audience more at sea than ever as to what the word can be. Nor is the third scene calculated to throw much enlightenment on the subject. In it Lionel Beauchamp, in his groom’s dress, appears to be pantomimically explaining something to the remainder of the company, who are artistically grouped in the centre of the stage, and which shrugs of the shoulders, upraised eyebrows, and other gestures, indicate they either fail to understand, or, it may be, to agree with. But the whole word, like more ambitious dramatic representations, is somehow involved in fog. You cannot help thinking that it must be a good charade if you could only make out what it was about; but when the curtain descends, the audience, instead of at once proclaiming the word, can hardly even make a guess at it. There are cries for the stage-manager; and when Jim Bloxam appears in reply to a laughing call, “The word? the word?” he bows low to the audience, and regrets his inability to comply with their request.

“The distinguished authoress,” continued Jim, “has taken none of us into her confidence. She has, I presume, strong opinions on the subject of copyright, and is determined to give no opportunity of its infringement.”

Jim’s speech created both merriment and curiosity, and was followed by a prompt call of “Author, author!” A few seconds, and then the stage-manager responds by leading Sylla forward in her soubrette dress. Dropping the sauciest of curtsies in acknowledgment of the applause with which she is greeted, she replies in clear distinct tones,

“Ladies and gentlemen, you find our word unintelligible. Paradoxical as it may seem, that is precisely the result we have aimed at; and now that I have told you the word, I am sure you will admit our efforts have been successful;” and once more bowing to her audience, Sylla disappeared behind the curtain Jim held back for her.

What can she mean? What do they mean? What is it? What was the word? were questions responded to by the jolly laugh of Cedric Bloxam.

“Can’t you see?” he said, “it’s all a sell: we found it unintelligible, and that is precisely what we were meant to do that’s the word.”

And once more the Squire indulged in a hearty guffaw.

But now the company flock into the drawing-room for tea or other refreshment, while the servants rapidly clear the play-room for dancing. The curtain is pulled up, the stage occupied by a select section of the Commonstone band, and, in something like a quarter of an hour Jim’s impromptu dance is in full swing.

“My dear Sylla,” exclaimed Lady Mary, as that young lady, leaning upon Bloxam’s arm, stopped near her in one of the pauses of the valse, “I have not had an opportunity of congratulating you upon your very spirited pantomime carried, my dear, a little too far in that last charade.”

“Oh, I hope you don’t really think so, Lady Mary,” cried Sylla; “but you cannot half act a thing. When the exigencies of the stage require one to be embraced, one must admit of that ceremony. Surely if a girl has scruples about going through such a mere form, she had much better decline to act at once.”

“That’s a question that we will not argue,” said Lady Mary. “I hear you are going to stay with Mrs. Wriothesley for the remainder of the London season.”

“Yes, she is an aunt of mine; you know her, I believe.”

“Very well; we are old friends, although I don’t see so much of her as I once did. The London world has got so very big, you see, and Mrs. Wriothesley and I have drifted into different sets.”

“Yes,” chimed in Pansey Cottrell, who was standing by, “it has got perfectly unendurable. One could calculate at one time upon seeing a good deal of one’s friends during the season; now half of them we only come across some once or twice. But surely you and Mrs. Wriothesley see a good deal of each other.”

“No, not in these days,” rejoined Lady Mary, tartly, much to Mr. Cottrell’s amusement.

He knew perfectly well that the two ladies met continually, although there was little cordiality between them. But Lady Mary’s last speech showed him she intended to keep Mrs. Wriothesley at arms’ length, if possible, for the future; and Pansey Cottrell smiled as he thought that his hostess’s schemes would, in all likelihood, be as persistently thwarted in town as they had been in the country.

“Well, I trust that Blanche and I will contrive to see a good bit of each other all the same,” replied Sylla courteously. “You know my aunt, Captain Bloxam,” she continued, as she moved away. “I should have thought her an easy person to get on with; but I am afraid Lady Mary does not like her.”