by George Moore
And help me to earn my bread.
With the instinct of a true lover, the King at once divined that this must be the ballad-singer — the beggar-maid who loved him, who, by some secret emissaries of the Queen, had been driven away from the city, homeless and outcast; and, snatching his lute from the wall, he sang a few plaintive verses in response. The strain was instantly taken up, and then, on the current of a plain religious melody, the two voices were united, and, as two perfumes, they seemed to blend and become one.
Alice would have preferred something less ethereal, for the exigences of the situation demanded that the King should get out of the window and claim the hand of the beggar-maid in the public street. But the nun who had composed the music could not be brought to see this, and, after a comic scene between the Queen and the Chancellor, the King followed by his Court and suite, entered, leading the beggar maid by the hand. In a short speech, he told how her sweetness, her devotion, and, above all, her beautiful voice, had won his heart, and that he intended to make her his Queen. Then a curtain was drawn aside. It disclosed a double throne; and as the young bride ascended the steps to take her place by the side of her royal husband, a joyful chorus was sung, in which allusion was made to a long reign and happy days.
Everyone was enchanted but Alice. She alone saw how the beauty of her thoughts had been turned into hideousness in the representation; the idea as it passed into reality had become polluted. She had wished to show how a man, in the trouble and bitterness of life, must yearn for the consoling sympathy of a woman, and how he may find the dove his heart is sighing for in the lowliest bracken; and, having found her and having recognised that she is the one, he should place her in his bosom, confident that her plumes are as fair and immaculate as those that glitter in the sunlight about the steps and terraces of the palace. Instead of this, she had seen a King who seemed to regard life as a sensual gratification; and a beggar-maid who looked upon her lover, not timidly, as a new-born flower upon the sun, but as a clever huckstress at a customer who had bought her goods at her valuing. But the audience did not see below the surface, and, in answer to clapping of hands and cries of encore, the curtain was raised once more, and King Cophetua, seated on his throne by the side of his beggar-maid, was shown to them again. Then every eye was radiant, and every lust delighted in the spectacle; fingers twitched nervously at the folds of serge habit and lace mantle. Even the hearts of the little children rejoiced in the materialisation of the idea, in the crudity of the living picture placed before them. In a vision each girl saw herself selected out of the multitude, crowned with orange-blossoms and led by a noble husband through the dim church, from an altar where the candles burnt like stars, to a life made of riches, adulation, amusement. Like warm vapour, one thought filled the entire hall. The expansive matrons, on whose bosoms had lain this white-frocked generation, leaned to the grey-headed fathers, worn with a life’s toil, and sought to express the complete, the fathomless, content that had fallen upon them. It was a moment of delirium, even the nuns forgot themselves; and, their sex asserting itself through all their vows of celibacy, they gloried in having been, at least, the providers of the brides of men; and in imagination they assisted at the wedding of an entire epoch.
The excitement did not begin to calm until the tableaux vivants were ready. For, notwithstanding the worldliness of the day, it was thought that Heaven should not be forgotten. The convent being that of the Holy Child, something illustrative of the birth of Christ naturally suggested itself. No more touching or edifying subject than that of the Annunciation could be found. Violet’s thin, elegant face seemed representative of an intelligent virginity, and in a long, white dress she knelt at a prie-dieu. Olive, with a pair of wings obtained from the local theatre, and her hair, blonde as an August harvesting, lying along her back, took the part of the Angel. She wore a star on her forehead.
Then, after an interval that allowed the company to recover their composure, and the carpenter to prepare the stage, the curtain was again raised. This time, the scene was a stable. At the back, in the right-hand corner, there was a manger to which was attached a stuffed donkey; Violet sat on a low stool and held the new-born Divinity in her arms; May, who for the part of Joseph had been permitted to wear a false beard, held a staff, and tried to assume the facial expression of a man who has just been blessed with a son. In the foreground knelt the three wise men from the East; with outstretched hands they held forth their offerings of frankincense and myrrh. The picture of the world’s Redemption was depicted with such taste, that a murmur of pious admiration sighed throughout the hall. The dove, emblem of purity, was perched on the hayrack just above the cow’s head, and so touchingly did the virgin mother hold the child to her bosom, that every knee quivered, instinct with worship. The humanity of the Bethlehem mystery held the world in the nineteenth, as it had done in the first century. To Alice alone did the representation appear absurd, grotesque; her clear mind forced her to deny God’s presence in a drama, so obviously one of human invention. The stuffed ox and ass were irresistibly comic, but knowing that Cecilia’s wistful brown eyes were fixed upon her, she bit her lips and avoided a smile.
Soon after, a distribution of prizes began. At the end of the room next the stage, a nun stood, holding a large book like a ledger in her hands, and in the midst of a profound silence, she read out: “Miss Alice Barton not having taken part in the studies of the year, we are unable to award her any one of our ordinary prizes, but for the beautiful play of ‘King Cophetua,’ performed before you all to-day, the Reverend Mother and the Bishop of the Diocese present her with the entire works of Dr. Newman, and for the great example she has always set, by conduct and precept, during the long years she has been with us, she is likewise awarded the blue ribbon.”
The ribbon had been looked upon by everyone from the first as a certainty; but a special prize, given by the Reverend Mother and the Bishop, was so utterly without precedent in the convent-annals, that the announcement called forth the enthusiasm with which the victory of a favourite general is hailed. Among the girls there was not a pair of hands nor lips still, and as Alice walked back to her place, bearing with her as much as she could carry of the illustrious cardinal’s works, her companions leaned forward to congratulate her. All the way down the line fragments of phrases were heard: “Oh! Alice, I am so pleased, I am sure you deserve it, I know you deserve it?” Cecilia could say nothing, she could only look with delight through the bright tears of pleasure that filled her eyes.
After this unexpected excitement, the distribution of the rest of the prizes went, necessarily, a little flat: but the Galway girls were uncommonly successful. Violet received a prize for French, May obtained one for Ancient History, Cecilia was awarded a blue ribbon for good conduct, and a book for English composition. In the general happiness, the poor bench-warmers, as the girls who obtained neither books nor ribbons were called, were forgotten. The heavy features of the parents rippled with household smiles, and they watched with delight the delicate features of their children growing grave, as they knelt before the benign Bishop to receive their rewards. In every lull of applause the unctuous voices of the priests were heard chiming: “I am sure she is a good girl. Now, do you not think she gives them a little trouble at home afterwards?”
Then there was benediction in the convent-church. A real young-girls’ church: trim, delicate pillars rising like uplifted arms, arches gracefully turned as adolescent bosoms, an altar fanciful and light coloured as a toilet-table. And when the last sigh of the organ died in the stillness, and the Bishop turned the host to his white-robed congregation, from the bent heads white veils fell pendulously — immovable as the draperies of the plaster angels that bowed in the niches.
This brought the business of the day to a close, and when the clock struck six the convent had assumed its customary aspect of peace and refinement. All leave-takings were over for the day; and only those who were to spend their vacation at St. Leonards, and the Irish girls — who did not start for home til
l the following morning — remained. These were again talking among themselves, watching, without seeing, the fishing-boats scattered over the rippling sea. The brown sails were now filled with the glories of the sunset; the air was full of languor and sorrow, and the evening had all the mystic charm of the corpse of a fragile maiden poetised by the ravages of a long malady, perfumed and prepared, according to some antique rite, for a jewel-bespangled bier; eyelids and cheeks painted, hands set in sculptured poses — the finger-nails tinted with rose. Cloud draperies, striped with orange and garnished with crimson fringes, trailed as the pageant moved; and overhead the firmamental blue was stretched like a pall of turquoise-tinted silk. From the deeps of the sky the music of colour was chanted, and delicious but inaudible harmonies vibrated through the golden soul of the twilight. Soft and low and melancholy came the strain — it was the music of death, and the dark clouds that waited on either side, were as processional priestesses who, advancing, struck their lyres at each solemn step.
“And to think,” said Alice, “that this is the very last evening we shall ever pass here!”
“I don’t see why you should be so very sorry for that,” replied May, “I should have thought that you must have had enough of the place; why, you have been here nearly ten years! I never would have consented to remain so long as that.”
“I did not mind — we have been very happy here, and to say good-bye, and for ever, to friends we have known so long, and who have been so good to us, seems very sad — at least, it does to me.”
“it is all very well for you,” said Olive, “I daresay you have been happy here, you have always been the petted and spoilt child of the school. Nothing was ever too good for Alice; no matter who was wrong or what was done, Alice was sure to be right.”
“I never knew anyone so unreasonable,” said Cecilia. “You grumble at everything, and you are always dying of jealousy of your sister.”
“That’s not true, and you haven’t much to talk of; after beating your brains out, you only just got the prize for composition. Besides, if you like the convent as much as I daresay you do, although you aren’t a Catholic, you had better stop here with my sister.”
“Oh! Olive, how can you speak to Cecilia in that horrid way? I am ashamed of you.”
“So you are going to turn against me, Alice; but that’s your way — I shan’t stay here.”
And in the pale light, the retreating figure of the young girl stood out in beautiful distinctness. Behind her the soft evening swept the sea, effacing with azure the brown sails of the fishing-boats; in front of her the dresses of the girls flitted white through the sombre green of the garden.
“I am sorry,” said Cecilia, “you spoke to her. She is put out because she didn’t get a prize, and Sister Agnes told her that she nearly spoilt the play by the stupid way she played the Princess.”
“She will find that that temper of hers will stand in her way if she does not learn to control it,” said Violet; “but, now that she is gone, tell me, Alice, how do you think she played her part? As far as I can judge, she didn’t seem to put any life into it. You meant the Princess to be a sharp, cunning woman of the world, didn’t you?”
“No, not exactly; I can’t describe my idea very well: but I agree with you that Olive didn’t put life into it.”
“Well, anyhow, the play was a great success, and you got, dear Alice, the handsomest prize that has ever been given in the school.”
“And how do you think I did the King; did I make him look like a man? I tried to walk just as Mr. Scully does when he goes down to the stables.”
“You did the part very well, May; but I think I should like him to have been more sentimental.”
“I don’t think men are sentimental — at least, not as you think they are. I tried to copy Mr. Scully.”
“My part was a mere nothing. You must write me a something, Alice, one of these days; a coquettish girl, you know, who could twist a man round her fingers; a lot of bavardage in it.”
“I suppose you’ll never be able to speak English again, now you’ve got the prize for French conversation.”
“Sour grapes! — you would like to have got it yourself. I worked hard for it, I was determined to get it; for ma says it is of great advantage in society for a girl to speak French well. You are a bit jealous.”
“Jealous! I should like to know why I should be jealous. Of what? I got all I tried for. Beside, the truth about your French prize is, that you may consider yourself very fortunate, for if (she mentioned the name of one of her schoolfellows) had not been so shy and timid you would have come off second-best.”
The rudeness of this retort drew a sharp answer from Violet; and then, in turn, but more often simultaneously, the girls discussed the justice of the distribution. The names of an infinite number of girls were mentioned, but when, in the babbling flow of convent-gossip, a favourite nun was spoken of, one of the chatterers would sigh, and for a moment be silent, absorbed by a sorrow as fragile and as lustral as the splendours that were fading, that were slowly moving away. The violet waters of the bay had darkened; and, like the separating banners of a homeward-moving procession, the colours of the sky went east and west. The girdle of rubies had melted, had become the pale red lining of a falling mantle; the large spaces of gold grew dim; orange and yellow streamers blended; lilac and blue pennons faded to deep greys; dark hoods and dark veils were drawn closer, purple was gathered like garments about the loins, and the night fell. The sky, now decorated with a crescent moon and a few stars, was filled with stillness and adoration; the day’s death was exquisite, even human; and as she gazed on the beautiful corpse lowered amid the fumes of a thousand censers into an under-world, even Violet’s egotism began to dream.
“The evening is lovely: I am glad: it is the last we shall pass here,” said the girl, pensively, “and all good-byes are sad.”
“Yes, we have been happy,” said May, “and I too am sorry to leave, but then we couldn’t spend our lives here. There are plenty of things to be done at home; and I suppose we shall all get married one of these days? And there will he balls and parties before we get married. I don’t think that I’d care to get married all at once; would you, Violet?”
“I don’t know, perhaps not, unless it was to someone very grand indeed.”
“Oh, would you do that? I don’t think I could marry a man unless I loved him,” said May.
“Yes, but you might love someone who was very grand as well as someone who wasn’t.”
“That’s true enough — but then—” and May stopped, striving to readjust her ideas, which Violet’s remark had suddenly disarranged. After a pause she said:
“But does your mother intend to bring you to Dublin for the season? Are you going to be presented this year?”
“I hope so; mamma said I should be, last vacation.”
“I shall take good care that I am; the best part of the hunting will be over, and I wouldn’t miss the Castle balls for anything. Do you like officers?”
The crudity of the question startled Alice, and it was with difficulty she answered she didn’t know — that she had not thought about the matter. As she spoke she felt Cecilia’s hand press hers more closely. The poor girl knew that, at least for her, the world had neither marriage nor pleasure to give; and that she was leaving the only place where she could find love — shelter from scornful pity.
But, unconscious of the pain they were giving, May and Violet continued the conversation; and over the lingering waste of yellow, all that remained to tell where the sun had set, the night fell like a heavy, blinding dust, sadly, and regretfully, as the last handful of earth thrown upon a young girl’s grave.
CHAPTER II.
ON THE FOLLOWING day the Irish girls, under the guidance of Mr. Barton and Mrs. Scully, started for Ireland. — The journey was considered fatiguing, but on arriving in Dublin, they stopped at the “Shelbourne,” where they were going to spend a few days, the girls having dresses to buy.
Th
e first evening passed awkwardly, constrainedly; but on the second, all were on speaking terms. Mrs. Scully looked askance at the curious medley of people, and tried to withdraw her daughter from the society of the fireplace; but Mr. Barton, who had spoken of his pictures to everybody in the room, declared that it was here they should stay when they came to Dublin for the Castle season in February.
There was, however, little time for either considering or concluding. A letter had arrived from Mrs. Barton, saying that the girls were to attend at Mrs. Symond’s, the celebrated dressmaker. As a favour, this lady had agreed to provide everything they would want. They were not even consulted regarding the shade of the ribbon that trimmed the front of their dresses: all had been arranged for them. Among other things, they were each supplied with a dozen pairs of different coloured thread stockings; but for Olive, there were six pairs in silk, and all prettily embroidered.
A still more marked distinction was observable in the dresses given to the two girls. Olive had a beautiful cherry-coloured dinner-dress; the skirt was in tulle, the bodice in stamped silk, trimmed with tulle; and from the waist, en cascade, fell rippling showers of tulle. The dressmaker seemed to recognise an inequality between the two sisters, and when she was trying on Olive a cream-coloured dinner-dress, trimmed with pale yellow satin, she explained volubly why it had been chosen; why the colour would set off the beautiful flaxen hair. An assistant showed Alice a black silk, trimmed with passementerie, relieved with a few bits of red ribbon, and a ball-dress in white corded silk. But it was not until Olive put on a dark green cashmere (a coquettish cape with a bow placed on the left shoulder), and Alice a terra-cotta serge, buttoned down the front, that the mother’s partiality became too glaringly apparent. Then Olive and Alice might have passed for mistress and maid.
Alice was too sharp, too intelligent, not to estimate at its full value the injustice that had been done to her. But she argued in favour of the partiality shown to her sister, “it would be a pity not to make the most of Olive’s good looks. Was she not the family beauty?” As they travelled down in the train they met many young men, who stared, and were anxious to be introduced to Olive. She laughed foolishly, but from her sweet lips silly remarks seemed to fall like pearls of wit, and Alice was surprised to find that in society her sister could talk better than she.
