Now that very afternoon, as if by the influence of what they call a brain-wave, Grace Carden, who felt herself much stronger with Mr. Raby than when she first came, was moved to ask him, with many apologies, and no little inward tremor, whether she might see the other side of that very picture before she went.
"What for?"
"Don't be angry, uncle dear. Curiosity."
"I do not like to refuse you anything, Grace. But-- Well, if I lend you the key, will you satisfy your curiosity, and then replace the picture as it is?"
"Yes, I will."
"And you shall do it when I am not in the room. It would only open wounds that time has skinned. I'll bring you down the key at dinner-time." Then, assuming a lighter tone, "Your curiosity will be punished; you will see your rival in beauty. That will be new to you."
Grace was half frightened at her own success, and I doubt whether she would ever have asked for the key again; but Raby's word was his bond; he handed her the key at dinner-time.
Her eyes sparkled when she got it; but she was not to open it before him; so she fell thinking: and she determined to get the gentlemen into the drawing-room as soon as she could, and then slip back and see this famous picture.
Accordingly she left the table rather earlier than usual, and sat down to her piano in the drawing-room.
But, alas, her little maneuver was defeated. Instead of the gentlemen leaving the dining-room, a servant was sent to recall her.
It was old Christmas Eve, and the Mummers were come.
Now, of all the old customs Mr. Raby had promised her, this was the pearl.
Accordingly, her curiosity took for the time another turn, and she was soon seated in the dining-room, with Mr. Raby and Mr. Coventry, awaiting the Mummers.
The servants then came in, and, when all was ready, the sound of a fiddle was heard, and a fiddler, grotesquely dressed, entered along with two clowns, one called the Tommy, dressed in chintz and a fox's skin over his shoulders and a fox's head for a cap; and one, called the Bessy, in a woman's gown and beaver hat.
This pair introduced the true dramatis personae, to the drollest violin accompaniment, consisting of chords till the end of each verse, and then a few notes of melody.
"Now the first that I call on Is George, our noble king, Long time he has been at war, Good tidings back he'll bring.
Too-ral-loo."
Thereupon in came a man, with black breeches and red stripes at the side, a white shirt decked with ribbons over his waistcoat, and a little hat with streamers, and a sword.
The clown walked round in a ring, and King George followed him, holding his sword upright.
Meantime the female clown chanted,--"The next that we call on, He is a squire's son;
He's like to lose his love, Because he is so young.
Too-ral-loo."
The Squire's Son followed King George round the ring; and the clowns, marching and singing at the head, introduced another, and then another sword-dancer, all attired like the first, until there were five marching round and round, each with his sword upright.
Then Foxey sang, to a violin accompaniment, "Now, fiddler, then, take up thy fiddle, Play the lads their hearts' desire, Or else we'll break thy fiddle, And fling thee a-back o' the fire."
On this the fiddler instantly played a dance-tune peculiar to this occasion, and the five sword-dancers danced by themselves in a ring, holding their swords out so as to form a cone.
Then a knot, prepared beforehand, was slipped over the swords, and all the swords so knotted were held aloft by the first dancer; he danced in the center awhile, under the connected swords, then deftly drew his own sword out and handed it to the second dancer; the second gave the third dancer his sword, and so on, in rotation, till all the swords were resumed.
Raby's eyes sparkled with delight at all this, and he whispered his comments on the verses and the dance.
"King George!" said he. "Bosh! This is the old story of St. George and the Dragon, overburdened with modern additions." As to the dance, he assured her that, though danced in honor of old Christmas, it was older than Christianity, and came from the ancient Goths and Swedes.
These comments were interrupted by a man, with a white face, who burst into the assembly crying, "Will ye believe me now? Cairnhope old church is all afire!"
