"THE PRINCESS."
The great event of the term was to take place that evening. _The
Princess_ was to be acted by the girls of St Benet's, and, by the kind
permission of Miss Vincent, the Principal of the entire college, several
visitors were invited to witness the entertainment. The members of the
Dramatic Society had taken immense pains; the rehearsals had been many,
the dresses all carefully chosen, the scenery appropriate--in short, no
pains had been spared to render this lovely poem of Tennyson's a
dramatic success. The absence of Rosalind Merton had, for a short time,
caused a little dismay among the actors. She had been cast for the part
of Melissa--
"A rosy blonde, and in a college gown
That clad her like an April daffodilly."
But now it must be taken by someone else.
Little Ada Hardy, who was about Rosalind's height, and had the real
innocence which, alas! poor Rosalind lacked, was sent for in a hurry,
and, carefully drilled by Constance Field and Maggie Oliphant, by the
time the night arrived she was sufficiently prepared to act the
character, slight in itself, which was assigned to her. The other
actors were, of course, fully prepared to take their several parts, and
a number of girls were invested in the
"Academic silks, in hue The lilac, with a silken hood to each, And zoned
with gold."
Nothing could have been more picturesque, and there was a buzz of hearty
applause from the many spectators who crowded the galleries and front
seats of the little theatre when the curtain rose on the well-known
garden scene, where the Prince, Florian, and Cyril saw the maidens of
that first college for women--that poet's vision, so amply fulfilled in
the happy life at St Benet's.
"There
One walk'd, reciting by herself, and one
In this hand held a volume as to read,
And smoothed a petted peacock down with that:
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by,
Or under arches of the marble bridge
Hung, shadow'd from the heat: some hid and sought
In the orange thickets: others tost a ball
Above the fountain jets, and back again
With laughter: others lay about the lawns,
Of the older sort, and murmur'd that their May
Was passing: what was learning unto them?
They wish'd to marry: they could rule a house;
Men hated learned women..."
The girls walked slowly about amongst the orange groves and by the
fountain jets. In the distance the chapel bells tolled faint and sweet.
More maidens appeared, and Tennyson's lovely lines were again
represented with such skill, the effect of multitude was so skilfully
managed, that the
"Six hundred maidens, clad in purest white," appeared really to fill the
gardens.
"While the great organ almost burst his pipes,
Groaning for power, and rolling thro' the court
A long melodious thunder to the sound
Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies."
The curtain fell, to rise in a few moments amid a burst of applause.
The Princess herself now appeared for the first time on the little
stage. Nothing could have been more admirable than the grouping of this
tableau. All the pride of mien, of race, of indomitable purpose was
visible on the face of the young girl who acted the part of the Princess
Ida.
"She stood
Among her maidens, higher by the head,
Her back against a pillar."
It was impossible, of course, to represent the tame leopards, but the
maidens who gathered round the Princess prevented this want being
apparent, and Maggie Oliphant's attitude, and the expression which
filled her bright eyes, left nothing to be desired.
"Perfect!" exclaimed the spectators: the interest of everyone present
was more than aroused; each individual in the little theatre felt,
though no one could exactly tell why, that Maggie was not merely acting
her part, she was living it.
Suddenly she raised her head, and looked steadily at the visitors in the
gallery: a wave of rosy red swept over the whiteness of her face. It
was evident that she had encountered a glance which disturbed her
composure.
The play proceeded brilliantly, and now the power and originality of
Priscilla's acting divided the attention of the house. Surely there
never was a more impassioned Prince.
Priscilla could sing; her voice was not powerful, but it was low and
rather deeply set. The well-known and familiar song with which the
Prince tried to woo Ida lost little at her hands.
"O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.
"O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North.
"Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,
Delaying as the tender ash delays
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?
"O tell her, brief is life but love is long,
And brief the sun of summer in the North,
And brief the moon of beauty in the South.
"O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine,
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee."
The wooing which followed made a curious impression; this impression was
not only produced upon the house, but upon both Prince and Princess.
Priscilla, too, had encountered Hammond's earnest gaze. That gaze fired
her heart, and she became once again not herself but he; poor, awkward,
and _gauche_ little Prissie sank out of sight; she was Hammond pleading
his own cause, she was wooing Maggie for him in the words of Tennyson's
Prince. This fact was the secret of Priscilla's power; she had felt it
more or less whenever she acted the part of the Prince; but, on this
occasion, she communicated the sensations which animated her own breast
to Maggie. Maggie, too, felt that Hammond was speaking to her through
Priscilla's voice.
"I cannot cease to follow you, as they say
The seal does music; who desire you more
Than growing boys their manhood; dying lips,
With many thousand matters left to do,
The breath of life; O more than poor men wealth,
Than sick men health--yours, yours, not mine--but half
Without you; with you, whole; and of those halves
You worthiest, and howe'er you block and bar
Your heart with system out from mine, I hold
That it becomes no man to nurse despair,
But in the teeth of clench'd antagonisms
To follow up the worthiest till he die."
In the impassioned reply which followed this address it was noticed for
the first time by the spectators that Maggie scarcely did herself
justice. Her exclamation--
"_I_ wed with thee! _I_, bound by precontract
Your bride, your bond-slave!"
was scarcely uttered with the scorn which such a girl would throw into
the words if her heart went with them.
The rest of the play proceeded well; the Prince following up his
advantage, until his last words--
"Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself;
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me,"
brought down the house with ringing applause.
The curtain fell and rose again. The Prince and Princess stood with
hands clasped. The eyes of the conquered Princess looked again at the
people in the gallery, but the eyes she wanted to see did not meet hers.
An hour later Maggie Oliphant had occasion to go back to the forsaken
green-room to fetch a bracelet she had left there. Priscilla was
standing in the corridor when she passed. Quick as lightning Prissie
disappeared, and, making her way into the library, which was thrown open
for a general reception that evening, sought out Hammond, and, taking
his hand, said, abruptly--
"I want you; come with me."
In surprise he followed her into the hall.
"Maggie is in the green-room; go to her," said Priscilla.
He raised his brows; his eyes seemed to lighten, and then grow dark.
They asked Priscilla a thousand questions; his lips refused to ask one.
Replying to the look in his eyes, Priscilla said again: "It is cruel of
you to leave her alone. Go to her; she is waiting for you--and oh, I
know that her heart has been waiting for you for a long, long time."
"If I thought that," said Hammond's eyes.
He turned without a word, and went down the long corridor which led to
the little theatre.
Late that evening, after all the bustle and excitement were over, and
most of the guests had left, Miss Heath was standing in her own
sitting-room talking to Prissie.
"And you have quite made up your mind, Prissie?"
"Yes," answered Priscilla. "I heard from Aunt Raby to-day; she told me
all about Mr Hammond's visit, for Mr Hayes went to see her, and told
her everything."
"Well, Prissie," said Miss Heath, "what have you decided? It is a great
chance for you, and there is nothing wrong in it; indeed, for aught we
can tell, this may be the direct guiding of Providence."
"But I don't think it is," said Priscilla, in a slow voice. "I have
thought it all over very carefully, and I don't think the chance offered
by dear Maggie would be a good one for me."
"Why not, my dear? Your reasons must be strong when you say this."
"I don't know if they are strong," answered Priscilla, "but they are at
least decided. My father and mother were poor and independent. Aunt
Raby is very poor, and also independent I fancy that were I rich in
comparison, I might cease to be independent. The strong motive power
might go. Something might be taken out of me which I could never get
back, so I--" Her lips trembled.
"Pause a minute, Prissie; remember what Maggie offers, a sufficient
income to support your aunt, to educate your sisters, and to enable you
to pursue those studies at St Benet's for which you have the greatest
talent. Think of the honours that lie before you; think how brilliantly
you may pass your tripos examination with your mind at rest."
"That's not the point," said Priscilla. There was a ring in her voice
which she must have inherited from a long line of rugged, proud, but
worthy ancestors. "In a question of this kind, I ought never to content
myself with looking at the brilliant and tempting side. Forgive me,
Miss Heath. I may have done wrong after all; but, right or wrong, I
have made my resolve. I will keep my independence."
"Have you considered your Aunt Raby in this?"
"She has put herself absolutely out of the question by declining all aid
as far as she is concerned. She says such assistance would kill her in
a week. If I can earn money to help her before she dies, she will
accept it from me with thankfulness, but from no one else."
"Then you will give up your Latin and Greek?"
"For the present, I must."
"And you are quite happy?"
"If Maggie and Mr Hammond will only marry one another, I shall be one
of the happiest girls in the world."
There came a knock at Miss Heath's door. Priscilla flew to open it.
"Prissie, darling!" said Maggie Oliphant's voice. She flung her arms
round the young girl's neck, and kissed her several times.
"It's all right, Priscilla," said Hammond.
Miss Heath made a step or two forward.
"Come and tell Miss Heath," said Prissie. "Miss Heath, here is Maggie!
Here is dear Maggie and here is Mr Hammond, and it is all right."
Tears of gladness filled Priscilla's eyes. She went up to Hammond, took
one of his hands in both her own, and said, in a voice of rapture, "I
did help you to-night, didn't I? You know I said I would do anything in
the world for you."
"You have done everything for me, Priscilla," replied Hammond. "I shall
bless you while I live."
Maggie Oliphant's arms were round Miss Heath's neck; her head rested
against her breast. "We have come straight to you," she said; "you told
me that if--if such an occasion came, you would act as a mother to me."
"So I can, and so I will, dear child. God bless you. You are happy
now."
"Happy!" Maggie's eyes were glistening through the softest rainbow of
tears. Hammond came and took the hand which she had suddenly thrown at
her side.
"We both owe everything to Priscilla," he said.