The Wedding Portrait

by Fiona Hill

  “Never fear, my love,” he began.

  “Oh dear, that will not do either!” she cried in vexation. “It looks as if you have forgotten her altogether.”

  “Well, I really do not see what you expect me to do,” he exclaimed impatiently. “Unless our good Miss Webb here will stand sideways to you, I must face the back of the room to address her.”

  Laura sighed. “What is it, Thad?” she asked wearily.

  “Why, nothing! I am merely staying offstage for their scene,” he answered.

  “Well, you are standing, as nearly as I can calculate, in the first row, and very probably on my father’s head. So if you could please keep in back of where the scenery will be…Mr. Lowland, perhaps you should hang the fore-drops now, so we can see where backstage will be.”

  Mr. Lowland made no answer. “Ashl—Mr. Lowland?” she repeated.

  “Oh! Yes, Miss Fieldon,” he replied, as though coming out of a trance. “I am afraid I was thinking of how to hang the fore-drops, and did not hear you.”

  Laura was obliged to sigh again. “Jacob, shall we try your scene with Emily? The one from the second act, where you learn her true feelings.”

  “I’m ready,” he assented. “Where’s Emmy?” Emily was, at length, discovered to be in the breakfast parlour, where she had gone to practise crying. Laura invited her politely to return to the stage, where she read her lines with admirable exuberance but far too much feeling.

  “It is a hopeless case!” she declared to her brother, trying hard to produce some tears.

  Jacob, standing at the back of the stage, shrugged his shoulders and nodded agreement.

  “Oh, Jacob, no!” cried the director, distraught. “You look as though there were nothing you could do!”

  “Well, there is nothing!” he countered. “It seems very hopeless indeed, to me.”

  “But you do help her, you know! Or perhaps you do not know?”

  Jacob shrugged again. “I haven’t had time to read the end,” he confessed. “Lizzy, you know.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Laura exclaimed. “I declare, it is enough to—never mind. Why do not you—all of you—retire to some private place, and learn your lines a little better. And while you are saying them, stand up and walk about, and think where you will have to be on the stage. I believe,” she said sincerely, and rather more gently, “our time will be better spent that way. But as for performing it tomorrow—I’m afraid it will be impossible. Clio dear, can you stop another day? We shall send a message to your parents.”

  “I suppose so,” said Miss Simpson indifferently.

  “Very well, then. And thank you all—for your patience with me,” Laura finished, reflecting that it would be as well not to show her despair.

  “I knew my lines very well, did I not, Laura?” asked Emily, coming up to her.

  “Indeed you did, my dear,” said Laura wearily. “You were very good,” she added, as Emily did not go away.

  ‘“The best, I thought,” Emily confided in a whisper.

  “Yes, yes, the best,” Laura conceded. “Now run off to bed.”

  But Emily did not run off to bed. Instead, she stole secretly up to the top story, and down the narrow hallway to the hidden chamber. She had been inspired by Laura’s play, for in it the jester discovered a lever concealed within the stonework of the chamber door; it occurred to her that Laura might know more about the secret compartment than she had said. She searched very carefully, indeed, running her finger along every space between the stones, and straining her eyes in the light given off by her candle. She was just about to give up, exhausted, when her hand slipped into a recess behind a large grey rock in the wall to the left of the door. She stretched her fingers out eagerly, feeling for a catch, and was nearly on the point of concluding, regretfully, that there was nothing there either, when her index finger encountered what seemed to be a long, wooden stick. She pushed it up, but it did not give. Her excitement growing, and her strained fingers aching, she pushed it down. There was a click, and the cracking of plaster, a little of which sprinkled down upon her shoes.

  And then, just as she had imagined it would when she had first discovered it was there, the door swung open heavily.

  Chapter VIII

  A high-pitched shriek echoed through the Abbey for the second night in a row. This howl, however, was followed by the sound of light, running footsteps and repeated cries, in a feminine voice, for help. Thaddeus Grey, who had been about to step into his chamber and retire for the night, heard them and rushed up the stairs to their source. There he knocked squarely into Miss Emily Shaw who, frightened quite out of her wits, had been running down the steps. It took a moment for them to recover from the impact; then Miss Emily threw her arms round Mr. Grey and wept for all she was worth.

  “There was a man!” she sobbed. “A man!”

  Mr. Grey attempted to calm her, and also to disengage himself from her rather strangling embrace. “Now, be still for a moment,” he recommended vainly, striving to loosen the hands that clutched his waist. “You can be in no danger.”

  It was an unfortunate choice of words, for Emily began to look round her and declared suddenly, “We must fly from this place; we must!”

  “Nonsense!” pronounced Thaddeus, hoping to soothe her by behaving sensibly. He was obliged to take even stronger hold of her hands as she threatened to bolt from him. “Now, where is this fellow you speak of?”

  By this time, quite a crowd had gathered and stood listening to Emily’s words. It was a situation that would usually have pleased her no end, but in this instance she was too scared to enjoy it. She burst into frustrated tears, for she could not seem to communicate to Thaddeus that it was necessary that they escape the Abbey directly.

  “What is it?” Mr. Chance, striding down the corridor, inquired sternly. He looked quite comical, for although he had not yet discarded his evening attire, he had donned his nightcap. This circumstance, however, he ignored, and tried instead to enforce his authority. “What frightened her? And why was she in the servants’ quarters? Who is this man you ask about?”

  These were pertinent questions, indeed, but Thaddeus knew the answers to none of them, and Emily was as yet too distraught to reply.

  “I suppose it was a servant who startled her,” Thaddeus hazarded. “Who else can it have been?”

  “Indeed. Thaddeus, my lad,” said the rector severely, “I hope this is not another of your pranks.”

  Thaddeus responded indignantly. “Not a very humourous jest, I should think, sir! Jacob is one thing, but this! Do try to speak calmly, Emily,” he implored in desperation. “I promise you no harm will come to you.”

  Miss Emily Shaw rallied her shaken senses. “It was—the monk,” she whispered hoarsely.

  “That blasted monk again!” Mr. Grey exclaimed, exasperated. “Would to God I had never invented him!”

  “Come,” said Mr. Chance, going toward to Emily and ignoring the timid hand Lady Eleanor laid upon his elbow, “it cannot have been the monk, child! There is no monk. Let us go and see what frightened you.” He attempted to take Emily’s arm, and to lead her back up the stairs, but she found her tongue again.

  “No!” she screamed. “I shall not go up again—never, never, never!”

  Mr. Ashley Lowland, who had been surveying this scene calmly, perceived at this point that Miss Emily had recovered her wits enough to wish to make the most of the attention centred upon her. Being a little bit fatigued, and having no desire to witness a melodrama, he now put himself forward and volunteered to imperil his life by visiting the uppermost story. Emily begged him not to; even Mr. Chance intimated that it might not be wise, but Mr. Lowland was adamant. Borrowing a taper from Laura, who stood beside him, he mounted the stairs and disappeared round the corner. A few moments later his laughter was heard.

  “She’s opened the chamber,” he called to his waiting listeners, “and it isn’t a monk; it’s a saint!”

  These words engendered a good deal of
curiosity in the assembled party, and the better part of them overcame their hesitancy and followed him up to the secret chamber. It was well that they did so, for they brought their lights with them, while Mr. Lowland’s solitary candle had provided only the most shadowy illumination. He could easily see how Emily had mistaken the sculpture of St. George that stood in the open door for the figure of a ghostly monk, but with the numerous candles brought up by the rest of the party all mystery was dispelled. Mr. Lowland made his way farther into the chamber, slowly, because it was packed with all manner of boxes, sculptures, and paintings. Furthermore, having been shut up for something over two hundred years, the atmosphere in the little room was quite close, to say the best of it.

  A few members of the group pressed in behind him and, having despatched Laura to inform Emily of the comical, but understandable, error she had made, and to beg her to come up again and tell them how she had contrived to open the door, they began to examine the chamber’s contents. These were many and various, but all seemed to be connected with the religious life that had once been carried on at the Abbey. There were pictures of saints, and of the Virgin Mary, and a complete set of Stations of the Cross. In addition to the figure of Saint George that Emily had so unfortunately stumbled upon, there was all manner of statuary, including an almost life-sized sculpture of the Virgin. There was a jewel-encrusted tabernacle, and an enormous Latin Bible, together with any number of books recounting the lives of saints. Mr. Chance conjectured sonorously that these articles had been hidden away at the time of the Reformation under Henry VIII, to save them from being destroyed—and saved, indeed, they had been, but for a few vestments that had fallen prey to moths. Laura, rummaging in a chest full of stoles, albs, chasubles, and a richly embroidered altar cloth, came upon a chalice made entirely of the heaviest gold, and adorned with rubies. There were censers, gold candlesticks, and a perfect profusion of crucifixes; those objects that were small enough, the monks had evidently carried away with them, for no rings or rosaries were discovered. The enthusiasm of the searchers was somewhat damped by Thaddeus’ happening upon a small glass case, which contained some odd bits of whitish material. When questioned, the Reverend Chance disclosed that these were very likely relics, in this case, probably the bones of a saint. This revelation, combined with the advanced hour, was enough to send shivers down the backs of most of the investigators, and all but Jacob and Thaddeus returned, shortly, to their beds.

  The two youngest men, however, whose pranks on the two previous nights had in no way impaired their friendship, remained a little longer than the others to see what might yet be found. There was in fact very little left to discover, with one notable exception. Jacob, inspecting a statue of Saint Andrew, happened to notice that its Cross did not rest, as he had thought, upon the floor but upon a large, rather flat chest, which had hitherto gone unremarked. He desired Thaddeus to lift the sculpture while he pulled the box out from beneath it and, this done, set about to open it. That, however, was impossible; the chest, though unadorned, was possessed of a very large and sturdy lock, and its owner had undoubtedly taken the key away some two-hundred-fifty years before. It would not yield to either violence or oaths, and the two young gentlemen, though vastly eager to know what lay inside it, were obliged in the end to retire unsatisfied, though Jacob intimated somewhat vaguely that he did not yet despair of opening it. It was well after one o’clock when the pair of them shut their eyes; neither had yet read through Laura’s play.

  Breakfast was a noisy affair. First, of course, it was necessary to discuss the contents of the secret chamber; Thaddeus and Jacob disclosed the existence of the locked strongbox, and Sir Kenneth promised to summon a locksmith to open it as soon as possible. It was decided, since all of the art discovered was sacred, that the Reverend would take it away with him when he returned to London, there to dispose of it as he thought proper. Miss Clio Simpson expatiated upon the excitement at the Abbey, which she seemed to think was customary, and bemoaned the sad dullness of her home at Farley Grove. When the subject of the chamber seemed to be sufficiently exhausted, Laura ventured to turn the conversation upon the play.

  They would be obliged, she said, to rehearse a good deal that day. This suggestion being accepted by the others, they agreed to rendezvous in the Red Saloon at eleven o’clock. The interval between the end of breakfast and that hour, Laura employed in seeking costumes for the performance. Lady Eleanor graciously gave her daughter permission to ransack the attic, where she found a quite spectacular accumulation of garments amassed over the years by her parents and their parents before them. There were piles of hoops, quantities of court dresses, yards and yards of ribbons and lace. She found queer, old-fashioned buckled shoes, stockings fantastically clocked, and even a velvet tunic with slashed sleeves. A number of eardrops, all unmatched, lay dormant in a small leather case; upon inquiring of her mother, Laura was informed that they were meant for men. A mass of periwigs was discovered in a trunk, and next to them a collection of frilled shirts Sir Kenneth had discarded only a few years before.

  Laura gathered her booty and made off with it to the Red Saloon, where it was eagerly received by the assembling party. Only Jacob could find nothing suitable for his role, for though the attic had seemed to contain nearly every sort of clothing imaginable, it was undeniably lacking in the motley proper to a jester. It was resolved that Jacob should simply deck himself out in the most ridiculous array of garments possible, but Lady Eleanor engaged to sew him a cap and bells, for it was felt that this article could not be dispensed with. The others rummaged greedily through the wardrobe, now and again excusing themselves to essay one garment or another, and returning to ask if it appeared to answer. Laura noticed, a little bitterly, how much more enthusiasm her cast displayed for the trappings of the play than for the play itself, but she told herself they had decided to enact it largely to amuse themselves and that, after all, was what they were doing. She tried not to refine upon it overmuch.

  Thaddeus was one of the last to arrive at the rehearsal, for he had been engaged in solitary conversation with Elizabeth. She, he had discovered upon entering her chamber, was suffering greatly, not because of her ankle but from an attack of conscience. She greeted him with a weak smile.

  “How do you do this morning?” he asked, possessing himself of her hands and kissing them lightly. She withdrew as though instinctively.

  “I shall do very well,” she replied listlessly. “My ankle is almost mended, I think.”

  “Excellent!” He went on to tell her what had been discovered the previous night, but she showed only a minimum of interest and, in truth, wished he would stop talking. When at last he did, she dismissed the topic of his discourse with a feeble wave of the hand and turned the conversation to matters she felt were pressing.

  “Mr. Grey,” she began, “I fear we have acted very wrongly.”

  “Mr. Grey!” he echoed. “This is serious, indeed. What can I have done to make you so cruel as to call me Mr. Grey?”

  “Nothing,” she responded, “that is, everything. I should not call you Thaddeus, nor ever should have, nor should you call me Elizabeth. We have no right—no right—” her sentence faded away.

  “I beg you will not say so, my dearest. I assure you, this is a morning fancy that will disappear in an hour or two; you need have no qualms.”

  “And why not?” she countered, flaring up a little. “I am betrothed, secretly, to my cousin’s fiancé, am I not? I have allowed you to take liberties with me—I have taken liberties myself—which should not…” Again her voice faded.

  “You have no reason to feel guilty,” he repeated, clasping her hands more closely. “If there is any fault at all—which I still say there is not—it is mine, for I kissed you first. I will bear all the responsibility.”

  “Give me my hands!” she declared angrily. “Because I am a woman, do you think perhaps that I cannot be responsible for my actions, that I need not see their consequences? How can I have done this to Laura?”
she cried, her voice rising on a sob. “How can we have done it? Oh, Thaddeus, Thaddeus! Think of her unhappiness! It must not be!”

  She had succeeded in making Mr. Grey uncomfortable, but he would not bend. “Give me your hands again,” he commanded, taking them. “Now tell me that you do not love me.”

  “But I do love you,” she said brokenly.

  “And I you. All this is folly,” he admonished. “Do you think Laura will wish to marry me when she knows I do not love her? Do you think I could marry her, now I have met you? I will not. And if you do not care to own your love for me, you are free to hide it—but I know not why you should.”

  This was rather a long speech for Thaddeus, who was generally a young man of few words, and indeed, not a great many thoughts. He found it quite exhausting, and was glad to see that his beloved had capitulated, or at least subsided somewhat, for she lay her head upon his breast and allowed him to cradle her gently. “Perhaps you ought to go to sleep again,” he suggested at length. “You are tired, I think, and restless with being bedridden. You will feel the better for a little sleep.”

  “Perhaps,” she assented vaguely. He placed her head upon the pillow and smoothed the sheets.

  “I must go now,” he said; “your surprise, you know. But you rest, and I shall come back again later. I promise you all will be well.”

  “Thank you, my dearest,” she whispered. She was glad, in spite of all she had said, and meant, to be treated for a moment like a child. There would be time, surely, when she awoke to reflect again upon what they were to do.

  Laura again found herself beset by difficulties. Her cast, elated by the newly found finery, was noisy and unmanageable. Mr. Lowland had employed the morning hours to hang a curtain and some backdrops in the Red Saloon, and though she was pleased to see how well these had been fashioned it was undeniable that they caused a further distraction among the company. Jacob, enchanted by the mechanism that controlled the draperies, insisted upon opening and closing them in the middle of everyone else’s scenes; Miss Webb, humbly fascinated with Ashley’s artistry, turned his work over and anon to examine it. Clio, who had been given a throne—contrived of an oaken chair and a few lengths of gold-threaded silk—to sit upon, appeared to have entered so fully into her regal role that she would receive no directions. The reverend, fortunately, was more obliging, but even he did not give the rehearsal his full attention, for he fumbled constantly with a piece of paper, now removing it from his pocket, now cramming it in again, and conning it over and over though it appeared to be written in his own hand. Laura guessed, correctly, that it was the lyrics to his song that he inspected thus, and begged him politely to make them known to the rest of the party. This, however, he refused to do, saying they were not yet completed to his satisfaction.