Eloise Didier sardonically. Adelaide was not popular in our community.
"Three coronets, a sceptre, and a globe," said Elizabeth.
"Children," began Madame Chapelle; but her voice was lost in the
scurrying of feet, as girl after girl darted across the polished floor
to claim her possessions, or to rid herself of some one else's. They
were, I well knew, devoutly grateful for this benign confusion, and
were making the most of it. Fate did not often throw such chances in
their way. For a moment I felt that noble joy which in this world
is granted only to successful effort, to the accomplishment of some
well-planned, well-executed design. Then silence fell suddenly upon the
room, and I knew, though I could not see, that every girl was back in
her own alcove.
"May I ask the meaning of this disorder!" said Madame Rayburn coldly.
She was _surveillante_, and was making the round of the dormitories,
to see that everything was quiet after the day's excitement. Madame
Chapelle began a nervous explanation. There was some mistake about
the laundry. None of the children had their own clothes. They were
trying--rather noisily, she admitted--to exchange them. Was it
possible that Sister O'Neil--
"Sister O'Neil!" interrupted Madame Rayburn impatiently. "Sister O'Neil
had nothing to do with it. Answer me quietly, children. Did you all
find you had some one else's clothes?"
There was a murmur of assent,--a polite, subdued, apologetic sort
of murmur; but, none the less, of universal assent. At that instant
I remembered Sister O'Neil's parting words to me, and, with the
instinctive impulse of the ostrich, slid deeper in my little bed. A
quick step crossed the dormitory. A firm hand drew my curtain. "Agnes!"
said Madame Rayburn, in a terrible voice.
Ah, well! Anyway, the _congé_ was over.
Marriage Vows
We had decided upon the married estate, titles, and foreign travel.
I do not mean that we cherished such ambitions for the future,--what
was the future to us?--but that in the world of illusions, which was
our world, we were about to assume these new and dazzling conditions.
Childish even for our years, though our years were very few, and
preserved mercifully from that familiar and deadening intercourse
with adults, which might have resulted in our being sensible and well
informed, we cultivated our imaginations instead of our minds. The
very bareness of our surroundings, the absence of all appliances for
play, flung us back unreservedly upon the illimitable resources of
invention. It was in the long winter months, when nature was unkind,
when the last chestnut had been gathered, and the last red leaf pressed
carefully in an atlas, that we awoke to the recognition of our needs,
and slipped across the border-land of fancy. It was then that certain
wise and experienced nuns watched us closely, knowing that our pent-up
energies might at any moment break down the barriers of discipline;
but knowing also that it was not possible for a grown-up person,
however well disposed, to enter our guarded realm. We were always under
observation, but the secret city wherein we dwelt was trodden by no
other foot than ours.
It had rained for a week. We had exhausted the resources of literature
and the drama. A new book in the convent library, a book with a most
promising title, "The Witch of Melton Hill," had turned out to be
a dismal failure. Elizabeth observed sardonically that if it had
been named, as it should have been, "The Guardian Angel of Hallam
House," we should at least have let it alone. An unreasoning relative
had sent me as a belated Christmas gift, "Agnes Hilton; or Pride
Corrected,"--making the feeble excuse that I bore the heroine's name.
To a logical mind this would have seemed no ground either for giving me
the story, or for blaming me because it proved unreadable. But Tony,
to whom I lent it, reproached me with exceeding bitterness for having
the kind of a name--a goody-goody name she called it--which was always
borne by pious and virtuous heroines. She said she thanked Heaven none
of them were ever christened Antoinette; and she seemed to hold me
responsible for the ennobling qualities she despised.
As for the drama, we had acted for the second time Elizabeth's
masterpiece, "The Youth of Michael Angelo," and there appeared to be no
further opening for our talents. We little girls, with the imitative
instincts of our age, were always endeavouring to reproduce on a modest
scale the artistic triumphs with which the big girls entertained the
school. It was hard work, because we had no plays, no costumes, and no
manager. We had only Elizabeth, who rose to the urgent needs of the
situation, overcoming for our sake the aversion she felt for any form
of composition, and substituting for her French exercises the more
inspiring labours of the dramatist. Her first attempt was slight, a
mere curtain raiser, and dealt with the fortunes of a robber chief,
who, after passionate pursuit of a beautiful and beloved maiden, finds
out that she is his sister, and hails the news with calm fraternal joy.
By a fortunate coincidence, he also discovers that an aged traveller
whom he had purposed robbing is his father; so the curtain falls upon
a united family, the gentle desperado quoting an admirable sentiment
of Cowper's (it was in our reader, accompanied by a picture of a
gentleman, a lady, a baby, and a bird-cage):--
"Domestic happiness, thou only bliss
Of Paradise that has survived the fall."
The success of this touching and realistic little play encouraged
Elizabeth to more ambitious efforts. She set about dramatizing, with my
assistance, a story from "The Boyhood of Great Painters," which told
how the youthful Michael Angelo modelled a snow Faun in the gardens of
Lorenzo de Medici, and how that magnificent duke, seeing this work of
art before it had time to melt, showered praises and promises upon the
happy sculptor. It was not a powerful theme, but there was an ancient
retainer of the Buonarroti family (Elizabeth wisely reserved this part
for herself), who made sarcastic remarks about his employers, and
never appeared without a large feather duster, thus fulfilling all the
legitimate requirements of modern comedy. What puzzled us most sorely
was the Faun, which we supposed to be an innocent young quadruped,
and had no possible way of presenting. Therefore, after a great deal
of consideration, it was determined that a flower girl should be
substituted; this happy idea (so suggestive of Michael Angelo's genius)
being inspired by the plaster figures then sadly familiar to lawns and
garden walks. In the story, the young artist emphasized the age of the
Faun by deftly knocking out two of its front teeth,--a touch of realism
beyond our range, as Viola Milton in a night-gown played the statue's
part. In our drama, the Duke complained that the flower girl was too
grave, whereupon Michael Angelo, with a few happy touches, gave her a
smile so broad--Viola's teeth being her most prominent feature--that
some foolish little girls in the audience thought a joke was intended,
and laughed uproariously.
Marie played Michael Angelo. I was his proud father, who appeared only
in the last scene, and said, "Come to my arms, my beloved son!" which
he did so impetuously--Marie was nothing if not ardent--that I was
greatly embarrassed, and did not know how to hold him. Lorenzo the
Magnificent was affably, though somewhat feebly, portrayed by Annie
Churchill, who wore a waterproof cloak, flung, like Hamlet's mantle,
over her left shoulder, and a beaver hat with a red bow and an ostrich
plume, the property of Eloise Didier. It was a significant circumstance
that when Marie, rushing to my embrace, knocked over a little table,
the sole furniture of the Medicean palace, and indicating by its
presence that we were no longer in the snow, Lorenzo hastily picked it
up, and straightened the cover; while Elizabeth--who had no business
to be in that scene--stood calmly by, twirling her feather duster,
and apparently accustomed to being waited on by the flower of the
Florentine nobility.
The production of "Michael Angelo" cost us four weeks of hard and happy
labour. His name became so familiar to our lips that Tony, whose turn
it was to read night and morning prayers, substituted it profanely for
that of the blessed Archangel. We always said the Credo and Confiteor
in Latin, so that _beato Michaeli Archangelo_ became _beato Michael
Angelo_, without attracting the attention of any ears save ours. It
was one of those daring jests (as close to wickedness as we ever got)
which served as passwords in our secret city. The second time we gave
the play, we extended a general invitation to the First Cours to come
and see it; and a score or so of the less supercilious girls actually
availed themselves of the privilege. It is hard for me to make clear
what condescension this implied. Feudal lord and feudal vassal were not
more widely separated than were the First and Second Cours. Feudal lord
and feudal vassal were not more firmly convinced of the justness of
their respective positions. No uneasy agitator had ever pricked us into
discontent. The existing order of things seemed to us as natural as the
planetary system.
Now, casting about for some new form of diversion, Elizabeth proposed
one stormy afternoon that we should assume titles, and marry one
another; secretly, of course, but with all the pomp and circumstance
that imagination could devise. She herself, having first choice,
elected England for her dwelling-place, and Emily for her spouse. She
took Emily, I am sure, because that silent and impassive child was
the only one of the five who didn't particularly covet the honour.
Elizabeth, protecting herself instinctively from our affection and
admiration, found her natural refuge in this unresponsive bosom.
Because Emily would just as soon have married Lilly or me, Elizabeth
wisely offered her her hand. She also insisted that Emily, being older,
should be husband. Mere surface ambition was alien to her character.
The position of _maîtresse femme_ satisfied all reasonable requirements.
Names and titles were more difficult of selection. Emily was well
disposed toward a dukedom; but Elizabeth preferred that her husband
should be an earl, because an earl was "belted," and a duke, we
surmised, wasn't.
"A duke is higher than an earl," said the well-informed Emily.
"But he isn't belted," insisted Elizabeth. "It's a 'belted knight' and
a 'belted earl' always; never a belted duke. You can wear a belt if
you're an earl, Emily."
"I do wear a belt," said the prosaic Emily.
"Then, of course, you've got to be an earl," retorted Elizabeth;
reasoning by some process, not perfectly plain to us, but conclusive
enough for Emily, who tepidly yielded the point. "Philip Howard, Earl
of Arundel"--
"I won't be named Philip," interrupted Emily rebelliously.
"Well, then, Henry Howard, Earl of Arundel and Surrey, and we'll live
in Arundel Castle."
"You got that out of 'Constance Sherwood,'" said Marie.
Elizabeth nodded. Lady Fullerton's pretty story had been read aloud
in the refectory, and we were rather "up" in English titles as a
consequence.
"I'm going to be Prince of Castile," said Tony suddenly.
I leaped from my chair. "You shan't!" I flashed, and then stopped
short, bitterly conscious of my impotence. Tony had "spoken first."
There was no wresting her honours from her. She knew, she must have
known that Castile was the home of my soul, though no one had ever
sounded the depth of my devotion. My whole life was lit by Spain's
sombre glow. It was the land where my fancy strayed whenever it escaped
from thraldom, and to which I paid a secret and passionate homage.
The destruction of the Invincible Armada was the permanent sorrow of
my childhood. And now Tony had located herself in this paradise of
romance. "Castile's proud dames" would be her peers and countrywomen.
The Alhambra would be her pleasure-house (geographically I was a trifle
indistinct), and Moorish slaves would wait upon her will. I could not
even share these blessed privileges, because it was plain to all of us
that Tony's one chance of connubial felicity lay in having Lilly for a
partner. The divorce courts would have presented a speedy termination
to any other alliance.
"Never mind, Agnes," said Marie consolingly. "We don't want Castile.
It's a soapy old place. We'll be Duke and Duchess of Tuscany."
I yielded a sorrowful assent. Tuscany awoke no echoes in my bosom. I
neither knew nor cared whence Marie had borrowed the suggestion. But
the priceless discipline of communal life had taught us all to respect
one another's rights, and to obey the inflexible rules of play. Tony
had staked her claim to Castile; and I became Beatrice della Rovere,
Duchess of Tuscany, without protest, but without elation. Lilly looked
genuinely distressed. Her sweet heart was hurt to feel that she was
depriving a friend of any happiness, and it is safe to say that she was
equally indifferent to the grandeurs of Italy and of Spain. Perhaps
Griselda the patient felt no lively concern as to the whereabouts of
her husband's estates. She had other and more serious things to ponder.
The marriage ceremony presented difficulties. We must have a priest
to officiate; that is, we must have a girl discreet enough to be
trusted with our secret, yet stupid enough, or amiable enough, to be
put out of the play afterwards. We had no idea of being burdened with
clerical society. Annie Churchill was finally chosen for the rôle. Her
functions were carefully explained to her, and her scruples--she was
dreadfully afraid of doing something wrong--were, by candid argument,
overcome. Marie wanted to be married in the "Lily of Judah" chapel, a
tiny edifice girt by the winding drive; but Elizabeth firmly upheld the
superior claims of St. Joseph.
St. Joseph was, as we well knew, the patron of marriage, its advocate
and friend. We depended upon him to find us our future husbands,--in
which regard he has shown undue partiality,--and it was in good
faith that we now placed ourselves under his protection. Our play
inevitably reflected the religious influences by which we were so
closely environed. I hear it said that the little sons of ministers
preach to imaginary audiences in the nursery,--an idea which conveys
a peculiar horror to my mind. We did not preach (which of us would
have listened?), but we followed in fancy, like the child, Eugénie
de Guérin, those deeply coloured traditions which lent atmosphere to
our simple and monotonous lives. One of our favourite games was the
temptation of St. Anthony. Mariana Grognon, a little French girl of
unsurpassed agility, had "created" the part of the devil. Its special
feature was the flying leap she took over the kneeling hermit's head,
a performance more startling than seductive. This vivacious pantomime
had been frowned upon by the mistress of recreation, who had no idea
what it meant, but who considered, and with reason, that Mariana was
behaving like a tomboy. Then one day an over-zealous St. Anthony--Marie
probably--crossed himself with such suspicious fervour when the devil
made his jump that the histrionic nature of the sport became evident,
and it was sternly suppressed. The primitive humour of the miracle play
was not in favour at the convent.
We were married in front of St. Joseph's statue, outside the chapel
door, on Sunday afternoon. Sunday was selected for the ceremony, partly
because we had possession of our white veils on that day,--and what
bride would wear a black veil!--and partly because the greater liberty
allowed us made possible an unobserved half-hour. It was Elizabeth's
custom and mine to go to the chapel every Sunday before supper, and
offer an earnest supplication to the Blessed Virgin that we might not
be given medals that night at Primes. I loved Primes. It was the most
exciting event of the week. There was an impressive solemnity about
the big, hushed room, the long rows of expectant girls, Reverend
Mother, begirt by the whole community, gazing at us austerely, and
the seven days' record read out in Madame Bouron's clear, incisive
tones. We knew how every girl in the school, even the exalted graduates
and semi-sacred medallions, had behaved. We knew how they stood in
class. We saw the successful students go up to receive their medals.
Occasional comments from Madame Bouron added a bitter pungency to the
situation. It was delightful from beginning to end, unless--and this
happened very often to Elizabeth, and sometimes even to me--we had
distinguished ourselves sufficiently to win our class medals for the
week. _Then_, over an endless expanse of polished floor, slippery as
glass, we moved like stricken creatures; conscious that our friends
were watching us in mocking security from their chairs; conscious that
we were swinging our arms and turning in our toes; and painfully
aware that our curtsies would never come up to the required standard
of elegance and grace. Elizabeth was furthermore afflicted by a dark
foreboding that something--something in the nature of a stocking or
a petticoat--would "come down" when she was in mid-stream, and this
apprehension deepened her impenetrable gloom. It was in the hopes
of averting such misery that we said our "Hail Marys" every Sunday
afternoon, manifesting thereby much faith but little intelligence, as
all these matters had been settled at "Conference" on Saturday.
I have always believed, however, that it was in answer to our prayers
that a law was passed in mid-term, ordaining that no girl should be
eligible for a class medal unless she had _all_ her conduct notes,
unless her week's record was without a stain. As this was sheerly
impossible, we were thenceforth safe. We heard our names read out, and
sat still, in disgraceful but blessed security. Even Madame Bouron's
icy censure, and Reverend Mother's vaguely reproachful glance (she
was hopelessly near-sighted, and hadn't the remotest idea where we
sat) were easier to bear than that distressful journey up and down the
classroom, with every eye upon us.
The marriage ceremony would have been more tranquil and more imposing
if we had not had such a poltroon of a priest. Annie was so nervous, so
afraid she was committing a sin, and so afraid she would be caught in
the commission, that she read the service shamefully, and slurred all
the interesting details over which we wanted to linger. Elizabeth had
to prompt her repeatedly, and Tony's comments were indefensible at such
a solemn hour. When the three rings had been placed upon the brides'
fingers, and the three veils bashfully raised to permit the salutations
of the noble grooms, we promised to meet again in the boot and shoe
closet, after the dormitory lights had been lowered, and hurried back
to the schoolroom. To have played our parts openly in recreation hours
would have been to destroy all the pleasures of illusion. Secrecy was
indispensable, secrecy and mystery; a hurried clasp of Marie's hand, as
she brushed by me to her desk; a languishing glance over our dictation
books in class; a tender note slipped between the pages of my grammar.
I have reason to believe I was the most cherished of the three brides.
Tony was not likely to expend much energy in prolonged love-making,
and Emily was wholly incapable of demonstration, even if Elizabeth
would have tolerated it. But Marie was dramatic to her finger-tips;
she played her part with infinite grace and zeal; and I, being by
nature both ardent and imitative, entered freely into her conception of
our rôles. We corresponded at length, with that freedom of phrase and
singleness of idea which make love letters such profitable reading.
It was in our stolen meetings, however, in those happy reunions in
the boot and shoe closet, or in another stuffy hole where our hats
and coats were hung, that the expansive nature of our play was made
delightfully manifest. It was then that we travelled far and wide,
meeting dangers with an unflinching front, and receiving everywhere
the respectful welcome due to our rank and fortunes. We went to Rome,
and the Holy Father greeted us with unfeigned joy. We went to Venice,
and the Doge--of whose passing we were blissfully ignorant--took us
a-pleasuring in the Bucentaur. Our Stuart proclivities would not
permit us to visit Victoria's court,--that is, not as friends. Tony
thirsted to go there and raise a row; but the young Pretender being
dead (we ascertained this fact definitely from Madame Duncan, who read
us a lecture on our ignorance), there seemed nobody to put in the place
of the usurping queen. We crossed the desert on camels, and followed
Père Huc into Tartary and Thibet. Our husbands gave us magnificent
jewels, and Lilly dropped her pearl earrings into a well, like
"Albuharez' Daughter" in the "Spanish Ballads." This charming mishap
might have happened to me, if only I had been Princess of Castile.
Then one day Elizabeth made a discovery which filled me with confusion.
Before I came to school, I had parted with my few toys, feeling that
paper dolls and grace-hoops were unworthy of my new estate, and that
I should never again condescend to the devices of my lonely childhood.
The single exception was a small bisque doll with painted yellow curls.
I had brought it to the convent in a moment of weakness, but no one
was aware of its existence. It was a neglected doll, nameless and
wardrobeless, and its sole function was to sleep with me at night. Its
days were spent in solitary confinement in my washstand drawer. This
does not mean that evening brought any sense of exile to my heart.
On the contrary, the night fears which at home made going to bed an
ever repeated misery (I slept alone on a big, echoing third floor, and
everybody said what a brave little girl I was) had been banished by the
security of the dormitory, by the blessed sense of companionship and
protection. Nevertheless, I liked to feel my doll in bed with me, and I
might have enjoyed its secret and innocent society all winter, had I
not foolishly carried it downstairs one day in my pocket, and stowed it
in a corner of my desk. The immediate consequence was detection.
"How did you come to have it?" asked Elizabeth, wondering.
"Oh, it got put in somehow with my things," I answered evasively, and
feeling very much ashamed.
Elizabeth took the poor little toy, and looked at it curiously. She
must have possessed such things once, but it was as hard to picture her
with a doll as with a rattle. She seemed equally remote from both. As
she turned it over, an inspiration came to her. "I tell you what we'll
do," she said; "we'll take it for your baby,--it's time one of us had
a child,--and we'll get up a grand christening. Do you want a son or a
daughter?"
"I hope we won't have Annie Churchill for a priest," was my irrelevant
answer.
"No, we won't," said Elizabeth. "I'll be the priest, and Tony and
Lilly can be godparents. And then, after its christening, the baby can
die,--in its baptismal innocence, you know,--and we'll bury it."
I was silent. Elizabeth raised her candid eyes to mine. "You don't want
it, do you?" she asked.
"I don't want it," I answered slowly.