by Fiona Hill
“It is well, we think,” said the queen, “to honour these old agreements. So may our people know prosperity, and live in peace.” (Wild cheering from the populace, which, by the way, was being played offstage by Jacob and a footman.)
“And now, let us make merry!” the king continued. “Daughter, we believe you have composed a poem. Will you read it?”
Miss Webb blushed, an action that was not written in the manuscript but which nonetheless seemed quite appropriate, considering the circumstances. In rehearsal, they had passed over this part, trusting Miss Webb to be able to read her sonnet well enough when the time came. Now, however, Miss Webb trembled in her half-boots, and stepped forward to the edge of the stage. She took one last glance at the Reverend, said a silent prayer, and read her verse aloud. When she came to the line, “Nay, even Chance must bow before his sway,” she faltered but, taking herself sternly into hand, she pushed on, even stressing “Chance” more than the other words. It seemed to her an eternity from the beginning to the end, but she survived it somehow; as she finished she was greeted by the sound of applause, meed as sweet to her as it was unexpected. Sweeter still, however, was a smile bestowed upon her by the rector, a smile that seemed to say—was it possible?—that he had heard, and was pleased. She stepped back with the others.
“Now, minstrel,” said the queen, “some music!” (This line had originally been Ashley’s but Clio had been so eager for it that he gave it to her gladly.) The Reverend Mr. Chance came forward from among the other players and placed himself so that he faced both Lavinia Webb and the audience. A small guitar, not a note upon which he could play, had been hung about his neck, and this he fingered nervously as he cleared his throat.
“Hmmmm!” escaped vibrantly from his lips; then a deeper, more sonorous “Hmmmm!” issued from his chest. At last, choosing one key but beginning each line from a different note, he sang to the tune of “To Anacreon in Heaven”:
I sing pious Aeneas, predestined to flee
From the comforts of home on the cold and lonely sea,
Though much-toss’d by the waves, and betrayed by the Fates,
To the long, empty years of an exile’s wanderings:
His stern patience sailed on,
Never doubting the hand
Of divinity’s care
Would yet lead him to land,
That his Love-Goddess mother
In triumph still would bring him o’er
From the manly Trojan strand
To the fair Lavinian shore!
The audience burst into applause, for though few of them had actually read the Aeneid, they did recognise some of the references. In any case, they felt they could trust the Reverend to have written a good song, and one that deserved to be applauded. They clapped.
“Of course, a good deal of credit goes to Virgils,” he reminded them unnecessarily, when they had done. Clio was understandably annoyed with him, for her line was next, and this was not in the manuscript. She recovered gracefully, however, and led the others on to the end of Act I, which included a few more royal pronouncements and quite a lot of cheering. Miss Webb, meantime, was nearly fainting with rapture. Of Virgil she knew very little, but she did know enough to hear a reference to herself, and hear it she had, in the last line of the rector’s song. The action of the play required her to stand far from Mr. Chance, and for this she was grateful, feeling that she must surely have swooned had he come any closer. She felt, for the first time, that it was possible—nay, she was certain—that he returned her love. She desired no greater happiness.
The curtains closed and Laura hurried up to the stage. “Act II,” she announced. “A few days later, in the castle courtyard.”
The thrones had been removed and replaced by a rather small pasteboard tree. Miss Webb sat upon a stone, while Mr. Chance knelt beside her. “Sweet princess, wilt thou marry me?” he asked.
It said much for Lavinia’s self-control that she did not break from her role and answer yes outright. “But I am betrothed! And thou, though I love thee well, are but a singer!”
“And were it not for these things, wouldst thou wed me?” he implored.
“Oh, yes!” she replied sincerely. “But whatever shall we do?”
“Never fear, my love,” cried the enamoured musician. “We will find a way.” He quit the stage, leaving Miss Webb alone for a moment. Then Jacob bounced on, jingling ferociously.
“Hey hey hey and a nonny nonny no!” he sang tonelessly. He had requested Laura to delete this line, but she refused. “Ah!” he continued, seeming to catch sight of the princess for the first time. “Why do you look so sadly?” he inquired.
“Dear jester!” sighed Miss Webb, who actually looked more like a cat in a cream pot than a princess at an impasse; “alas, I have many woes! My father will have me wed Prince Thomas, but I love—another!”
“Poor princess, how can this be?” the jester exclaimed, dancing up and down. “Who is the man? You know I may be trusted.”
“But dare I tell thee? It is the minstrel!” An irrepressible grin broke out upon her face at this point, the sight of which—for he was facing her, with his back to the audience—made Jacob forget his lines entirely.
A harsh whispering that sounded very much like the rector was heard from a wing. “I pledge!” he hissed. “I pledge!”
“Oh!” exclaimed Jacob. “I pledge to do all I can to serve you, my princess,” he said, dropping to one knee. Then, springing up again, he bounced off in the direction of the audience. It was not until he reached the first row that he realised his error and retraced his steps, by which time Emily had entered.
“Ah!” she sighed very loudly, and “Ah!” again.
“Maiden, I would lie upon my bed,” said Miss Webb. “Should the king my father ask for me, tell him I am resting.”
“Yes, Princess Helen,” said Emily, as Lavinia left the stage. Then she sat down in the center of the room and burst heart brokenly into some very convincing tears. “Alas,” she sobbed, “it is a hopeless case!”
At this time some jingling was heard, to draw the attention of the audience to Jacob, who stood half-hidden behind a backdrop in a listening attitude.
“Why must it be so?” Emily complained. “I am of as ancient family as the princess, but Prince Thomas is betrothed to her! Oh, alack that I was ever born!” She sat weeping for some moments, but then turned to the left wing of the stage and repeated her last line: “Oh, alack that I was ever BORN!” she said.
Thaddeus recognized his cue at last and rushed in. Emily glared at him briefly but then returned to the business at hand.
“Prince, what do you here?”
“The same as you, fair maiden: I grieve.”
“But it is wrong; I fear we must not stay together, for…”
“Dost thou love me, then, as I do thee?”
“Oh, sir, I dare not say!”
“Thou needst have no fears with me,” he replied.
“But thou art betrothed to her!” she cried, breaking into a rather persuasive wail.
“Yet, I shall not wed her, I swear it. Art not thou the daughter of Sir Henry, a goodly knight? How comest thou to serve the princess?”
“It is true, I am Sir Henry’s daughter, and he is an honest knight and a brave one, but I was sent to court, for we are much impoverished.”
“Then despair no more,” he commanded, “and nor shall I. We will find some way to straighten out this coil.” Upon this line he took her hand and led her off the stage.
Jacob came forward from his hiding place. “I think I see an answer here!” he said, shaking his bells vigourously. “The lovers are decided; now we must convince the king and queen!”
The curtain fell again to a rather inordinate quantity of applause. As it subsided, Laura rose, feeling a little silly, and announced, “This is the interval.” A footman, taking his cue, relit the candles.
“Laura, it is lovely!” cried Mrs. Simpson, as soon as she understood that she would be allowe
d to talk for a little while. “Miss Shaw, you must be much pleased.”
Lizzy answered this remark calmly, but she kept her eyes upon her cousin. “Indeed, I had no idea it could be so—so happily written. Laura, I am obliged to you—obliged far beyond words!” Elizabeth Shaw, it was true, was not much more inclined to cleverness than her beloved Thaddeus, but she had recognized nonetheless the purpose of the play. Unlike Mr. Grey, she did not have to cast about her mind for long to discover the real identity of the minstrel: It was Ashley Lowland. Her thoughts raced to and fro madly, back to the game of Consequences they had played when she first arrived, and forward to the end of the drama. What would it be? Never, she felt, had anyone been so eager to hear the last act of a play.
“It is indeed well writ,” Sir Kenneth was saying to his daughter, though it was evident that he was mildly bewildered by its content. “I think your girl is quite a player!” he remarked, turning to Lord Shaw. “Clio, too,” he added kindly.
“Yes, I think Clio does wonderful well!” exclaimed that young lady’s mamma. “Do not you, Lady Eleanor? And what think you of Mr. Lowland’s scenery?
But Lady Eleanor appeared to be lost in contemplation. She gazed for a while at her daughter, then at the closed curtains. “Lady Eleanor?” Mrs. Simpson persisted.
“I am sorry, I—what was it you were saying?”
“Why, only that—oh dear, I think they are going to begin again. Laura is snuffing the candles.”
This was true indeed. Ashley had signalled to her that the stage and players were ready, and Laura was darkening the audience’s half of the Red Saloon, preparatory to the third act. When she had done, leaving the room in shadowy dimness, she stood again before the audience and announced, a little anxiously, “Act III. The Wedding Day.”
The curtain rose, revealing the court scene of Act I, with only the king and queen on stage. “Welcome, our people,” said the queen, nodding graciously left and right. “Today at last we are to celebrate the marriage of my daughter to a goodly prince.” (The populace cheered offstage.) “Here comes our Princess Helen now,” she continued, looking to one side of her, “and here Prince Thomas.”
From the left came Lavinia, attended by Emily. Both, evidently, were supposed to have been weeping, and both carried themselves as though, exhausted by grief, they could scarcely walk farther. Miss Webb took one of the queen’s hands. Meantime, Thaddeus, attended for no obvious reason by the minstrel, entered from the right and took Clio’s other hand. He looked about him almost murderously, and fingered the handle of his sheathed sword. Now only Jacob was absent from the stage.
“My dear children,” said Ashley, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye, “sixteen years we have waited for this day, and now it is come, we can hardly speak for joy. Join hands, and receive our blessing.”
The young people’s hands were about to meet when suddenly, “Stop!” cried the minstrel.
“Aye, stop!” cried the overwrought handmaiden.
“Sire, you know not what you do,” exclaimed the princess, crumpling in a heap before her father.
“In the name of love, this cannot be!” implored Thaddeus.
The king looked about himself with exaggerated puzzlement. “What does this mean?” he asked. “Someone, speak!”
“Sire,” said the minstrel, “permit me to ask for your daughter’s hand.”
“And me,” the prince insisted, “to plead for your pardon and the hand of her lady-in-waiting.”
“What is the meaning of this?” the king exploded. “My daughter’s betrothed will not have her, but chooses a handmaiden? A mere troubador thinks to win a princess? We are outraged!”
“Mercy, my father, mercy!” begged Princess Helen.
“Nay, these things cannot be,” the king said sternly. “The marriage contract has been drawn up these many years, and today it will be fulfilled. The claims of history, and politics, are greater than these foolish fancies. Fetch the friar!” he commanded no one in particular. “Helen and Thomas shall be wed!”
But no friar appeared. Instead, the jester burst upon the scene, waving a piece of paper and jingling frantically. “Sire, your indulgence!” he cried. “A moment, a moment!”
“What is it, Fool?” asked Clio coldly.
“A will; I have found a will.”
“Where was it found?” the queen inquired.
“In a chamber—opened by a secret spring in the stonework—pardon while I catch my breath—” Jacob broke off and panted heavily for a moment. “In a cell of the dungeon, forgotten since your majesty’s gracious reign. But once,” he continued, “it was the scene of tortures, and of misery beyond bounds. It held, one time, the king of Dora via, when he and your grandfather were at war.”
“Doravia!” the minstrel interrupted. “It is my native land!”
“But what has this to do with us?” said the king impatiently.
“A moment, sire, a moment,” the jester repeated. “Let me read the document to you, and you will see. It is dated fifty years ago, and commences thus: ‘I, King Hilbrandt of Doravia—’”
“Hilbrandt!” exclaimed the minstrel; “that is my name!”
“Hush!” commanded the queen.
“‘I, King Hilbrandt of Doravia,’” the jester recommenced, “‘born serene ruler of a peaceful land, am now the prisoner of mine enemy, and kept within his dungeon. I fear much I am the victim, not only of my foe, but of some dread disease, for I breathe poorly and can hardly hold my pen. Still, I will speak before I die, for I see I have been a foolish king, and wish to correct my errors. The sovereign of this land will not consent to see me, for he trusts me not; I forgive him. I have been greedy and warlike; how could he know my wish for peace is now sincere? For many months, as I lay wasting in this cell, I have thought upon this matter. Now I see an answer to my woes. So I address this missive to the second son of mine enemy, for when he rules, the war between myself and his grandfather must surely have been forgot.’”
“The second son of my grandfather!” said the king ridiculously. “But that is ourself!”
“Indeed, my lord,” replied the jester. “And here are King Hilbrandt’s instructions to you: ‘If you have a daughter, you must find my grandson. This will be hard to do, for I have lost my country, power, all! and he will not seem a prince. Still, he will be rightful heir to my throne, and fit husband for a princess. You must marry them, one to another. Thus will my descendant atone for my cruel and warlike reign. Let our peoples be joined in peace. You will know my grandson by a mark upon his neck—red, in the shape of a crown. It is the sign of the house of Hilbrandt, and he will have it. I can write no more, but I wish you peace and good fortune. When these things are done, may God receive my soul!’ Then it is signed,” the jester added.
“Strange tidings, indeed!” said the king. “I am much inclined to make this marriage he requests, for the eternal repose of his spirit seems to depend upon it; but how are we to find the deposed prince? A proclamation, perhaps….”
“Sire,” said the minstrel, coming forward, “I have such a mark as he describes.” He bent his head and showed his neck to Ashley.
“Then you are the prince of Doravia!” the queen concluded. “But how come you to be a minstrel?”
“I know not, Madam; I was an orphan in that land, and was taken in by peasants. I never knew my father.”
“It is well,” declared Ashley, doing his best to nod sagely, as the manuscript indicated. “Will you wed my daughter?”
“I will, and gladly, Sire,” he answered. Miss Webb felt a quiver of delight.
“And you, Prince,” said Clio, turning to Thaddeus. “Do you dissolve my daughter from the bonds of her betrothal?”
“I do, Madam. I will wed this gentle maid.” Though it went somewhat against the grain with him, he took Emily’s hand and kissed it, as the playwright had demanded.
“We owe you thanks, good Fool,” said Clio to Jacob. “Come, kneel before us and be knighted.” And as the jester compl
ied with this request, the curtain fell. The audience, though it clapped generously, contained some very puzzled listeners, and one—in spite of her sprained ankle—very glad one.
Most of the players left the stage directly, and went to join the audience. Miss Lavinia Webb and the Reverend Mr. Chance, however, took advantage of the deserted boards for a moment of private colloquy. In the other half of the room the footman went about lighting candles; everyone’s attention was absorbed by the returning actors.
“Excellent, all excellent!” cried Mrs. Simpson. “Clio my dear,” she whispered as she put an arm round her eldest daughter, “you were by far the best, of course.”
Lady Eleanor, too, sought out her daughter. “Laura, I think this play was meant as something more than a diversion; am I right?”
“I—I am afraid so, Ma’am,” Laura confessed, her face flushed with excitement and embarrassment.
“We must speak of this, and soon,” her Ladyship continued. “I fear your father will be much displeased.” She lowered her tone even more. “Are you certain of Elizabeth and Thaddeus? I find it most difficult to credit! Lizzy, after all—!”
“I know, Mamma. I suspect her conscience has chastened her sorely, for sudden passions are not at all what anyone is used to feeling.”
“Indeed, I hope not! And how long, Daughter, have you been aware of your ‘sudden passion’ for Mr. Lowland? For it is Mr. Lowland, is it not?”
“Since the first night of his arrival here,” she admitted, blushing with shame and averting her gaze. “I did not encourage it, Mamma! Truly I did not!”
“Why did not you come to me directly? I had thought—we loved one another better…” her voice trailed off, sinking from reproach to sorrow.
