by Fiona Hill
“I have no choice,” she murmured dully.
“But you have a choice!” he cried, growing desperate. “Surely you must have seen—as I have seen—” He hesitated for a moment, gazing wildly at her. “Oh, Laura, forgive me, but you must know he is in love with your cousin! And she with him, Laura, she with him.”
“I know it,” she answered, in the same, stifled tone. “But I thought—an infatuation…it will pass.”
“And my love for you? Do you think it too will pass? My dearest, spare me! Oh, I knew I should not have spoken; I resolved almost not to speak. In any other case, I should have kept my tongue, teased you, left you, tried to forget. But I could not! Do I seem to rave, my sweet Laura? I would not frighten you; let me explain.” He returned to her side, knelt again, and took her hand. “I never wished to fall in love, my darling; I do not want to. I know, you see, that my love, and my beloved, would tyrannise my life, determine my every action, enter each thought. I do not want it,” he repeated wretchedly. “It is a trap for me, an unbearable trap. You see what it has done already! Not twenty-four hours, and I am half-mad. I would struggle against it—I should, I ought to. But you! Oh, my Laura, with your wedding six days off, how could I delay? I must—oh, dear God, do you think you might someday return my affection?”
She gazed at the handsome face, the pleading eyes. “How could I help it?” she said at last.
It was as if she had released him from the rack. His head dropped onto her lap; she stroked it tenderly. “It is still a cage,” he reminded himself vacantly, “but it is a larger cage, thank God, and I shall love the company.” He seized her arms suddenly and looked up again into her eyes. “I shall love thee until death, Laura. Do you understand that?”
“I do,” she breathed. He had begun to frighten her; the enormity of his feelings, the trust he placed in her…she could break his heart so easily, cause him so much pain…and he, she realised all at once, could do the same to her. She understood for the first time why he had spoken of love as a cage, as a thing to be struggled against. All her life she would be in thrall to this man; she was terrified. She clung to him.
The intensity of the moment waned, mercifully, in a little while. Their hearts stopped beating so rapidly; they withdrew from their embrace. “We shall have to think, my darling. We shall have to think how to undo this coil.”
They remained closeted together for an hour and longer, but no painting was done. They simply talked and talked and talked, in circles.
Chapter V
A good portion of the household passed the night in the agonies of composition. Miss Webb emerged triumphant from the throes of creativity, bearing, like a battle-stained standard, fourteen lines of sentimental verse. She was alone, however, in victory. The Reverend Mr. Chance had found his song exceedingly elusive; Laura and Mr. Lowland had discovered only the barest outlines of a plan. All, however, were fatigued by their efforts, and as they sat down to breakfast that morning not a few experienced a wave of self-pity. Anyone who has ever chanced to break bread with an artist in this condition knows how excessively exasperating it is; no one can surpass an artist in the area of languid irritability. Once he has set his mind to it, a man who fancies himself a creative genius is surprisingly capable of becoming the most disagreeable table companion imaginable, and as there were three persons so minded at the Abbey this morning, breakfast dragged remarkably. Dinner was not much better.
Thaddeus arrived at Harkness Abbey that morning laden down with a generous stock of clothing and a number of messages for the Fieldons. Lady Louisa sent Lady Eleanor her best love; Sir Philip conveyed his compliments to Sir Kenneth; both reiterated their felicitations to Laura, and extended condolences to Miss Shaw. The first three of these messages were received in the drawing room, but the last of them Mr. Grey insisted upon delivering himself to its proper recipient.
Elizabeth, he found upon entering her chamber, had recovered her colour and was sitting up in bed looking quite healthy, and drinking a cup of chocolate. So comfortable were the Fieldons with their prospective son-in-law that no one had felt the need to escort him upstairs; he and Miss Shaw were quite alone. Elizabeth greeted him shyly, but she was clearly glad to see him. He ignored the hand she held out to him and bent to kiss her cheek.
“You are looking rather better,” he said.
“Indeed, I would feel quite the thing, were it not for my ankle.”
“Is it very painful?”
“Only if I try to move it. I have not yet essayed walking upon it, you know, for it hurts quite enough as it is. But it is vexatious to be anchored to a bed when one feels quite well.”
“Of course, it is. You must feel a little lonely up here. I shall stay and read to you.”
“You are very good, Mr. Grey, but—”
“Can you not call me Thad?” he interrupted.
“Thad? Oh no! I do not think so—that is—oh dear, whatever shall we do?”
“Try not to think of it, my dearest,” he answered bravely. “I shall find an answer. I thought very hard last night, you know, and I believe I was close to a solution.”
“But you did not find it?”
“No.” He was sorry to have to disappoint her, and cursed himself for never having been a clever young man, though this circumstance had rarely disturbed him before. “But, after all, Laura is the best of good fellows, you know, and I think she’ll understand.”
“Do you think of her as a fellow, then?” she asked, horrified.
“Well—yes, I suppose so. As a playfellow, you see. We did play together so much, as children, and when my father pressed me to offer for her—well, I guess I thought of it as playing another game. Husband and wife, you know. Another game.”
“How dreadful!”
“Oh, I do not think so,” he responded carelessly. “That is, I did not. Now, of course, I see that it could not answer. But you must not fret; I shall do all that.”
He picked up the book she had been perusing and read to her for the remainder of the morning, but the afternoon proved his words to be truer than he had expected. He did indeed fret; he did a prodigious amount of fretting, not to mention pacing, staring, and muttering. As this was done, however, in the privacy of his own guest chamber, it did not cause Elizabeth the discomposure she must otherwise have felt. Her faith in Thaddeus remained intact, her calm unruffled, and she was able to pass a tolerably pleasant day in bed while her beloved, shut up in his room, sank into despair.
Mr. Jacob and Miss Emily Shaw joined their sister some time after dinner, more for their own amusement than for hers.
“For I must say,” Jacob observed, “things are rather flat just now.”
“I am hardly able to credit it,” said his younger sister, “but I do believe, for once, that we are in agreement.” Emily had lapsed into her former ill humour upon hearing that the secret chamber would remain closed yet a few more days. Thaddeus had been able to ride to Lindley Park without too much trouble, but Sir Kenneth insisted that no tradesman should be called upon in such weather unless it were an emergency. “I protest,” said Emily now, “it shall be an emergency, for I will simply die if I do not soon find out what lies behind that door.”
“We must deal with that event when it arises,” Lizzy replied, unanswerably. She did not wish to be mean to her sister, but she had no patience for any other topic than Mr. Thaddeus Grey.
“I think you would be happy if I did die,” snapped Emily, settling into a comfortable and prolonged pout.
“At least you are to have a surprise, Lizzy,” said Jacob mysteriously.
“Am I?” she asked. “Is it pleasant?”
“I should say so,” her brother answered. “But I’ll lay you a pony you can’t guess what it is.”
“So indeed I probably cannot,” she said. Then a horrible thought struck her. “It is not—oh, Jacob, it is not that Mr. Lowland is to paint my portrait, is it?”
“Why? Should you like that?”
“Oh no!” she exclaimed
energetically, colouring a little. Then as she realised how strongly she had spoken, she added, “that is, I am sure it would be obliging of him to do it, but I would dislike to fatigue him.”
Jacob, however, hardly listened to this speech. Like many unwise young men, he felt he had some understanding of women, perverse and subtle creatures though they were. No sooner had his sister hazarded her incorrect guess than he decided that to have her portrait painted by Mr. Lowland was what she would like above all things. Her disclaimers he identified as maidenly modesty; he did not regard them. And, being an affectionate brother, he resolved on the instant to persuade Ashley at least to visit his sister. He had perceived, he thought, an incipient romance.
This, of course, was the very opposite to the truth, and the last thing Elizabeth would have wished him to believe. Indeed, she had cried out so strongly against the notion of having her portrait taken because she had resolved to avoid Mr. Lowland as well as she might during the remainder of his visit. It was not that she disliked him, exactly, but she was acutely aware that her aunt Fieldon had been encouraging her to enjoy his company ever since his arrival. Laura, too, she reflected, had seemed inclined to pair them together. She had not quite liked the situation even in the beginning, but after yesterday! It would be too awful if Mr. Lowland were to develop a fondness for her. She and Thaddeus had enough to worry about.
Jacob had no idea of the state of his sister’s feelings and, indeed, would not have believed it had she told him. He went off in search of Ashley directly, and found him seated, chewing upon a pen, before a desk in the Blue Saloon. As no one else was present, he began at once.
“I’ve just been with Lizzy, you know,” he remarked, though Mr. Lowland did not know.
“Indeed? How does she?”
“Oh, well enough—at least, her ankle does. She, however…well it is just as I thought, she is a little lonely, and seems to be—somewhat agitated as well.”
“Agitated?” said Mr. Lowland, wondering why Mr. Shaw was boring on about his sister, and wishing him at the devil for interrupting his work.
“Yes, she—” Jacob paused and flopped inelegantly into a chair. “You know how the ladies can sometimes be,” he ended disjointedly.
“Do I?” asked Ashley, thinking that the younger man made less and less sense every minute. “Perhaps I do.”
“With the wedding and all, you know—she feels left out, I think. I told her that she refined upon it too much, that sooner or later some gentleman would offer for her, and then we should all meet for her own wedding, but…” He allowed his voice to trail off and regarded Mr. Lowland intently. “Anyway,” he continued, as Ashley vouchsafed no answer, “I thought it might cheer her if you—well, if you could find time to do a sketch of her, or something like that. It would—flatter her, I think, and that would bring her out of the sullens.”
“I am sorry to hear she is in them,” said Ashley cautiously, “but I do not see…what with the play, and Miss Fieldon’s portrait, and Lady Eleanor desiring me just now to design a pattern for her to embroider—well, I do not see how I am to find time to do it,” he finished, with unwonted bluntness.
Jacob was a little daunted by this reply, but he refused to be fobbed off. “Of course, I understand,” he said. “It is only that, with my sister feeling so ill, I had thought you might wish to—that is, I thought at least I should tell you.”
“And tell me you have,” answered Mr. Lowland in unkind accents. It went greatly against his nature to ignore such a blatant appeal, but he saw no alternative. For one thing, it was quite true that he was pressed for time. For another—well, he was rather astonished to learn that Miss Shaw had expressed a wish to see him. He had been certain that she was in love with young Thaddeus—puppy love, at least—and why she should desire to be closeted with himself he could not imagine. Still, perhaps he had mistaken. The smile, the dreamy languor, all the little signs of infatuation—could he have inspired them? He seemed to remember Lady Eleanor intimating, on the day of his arrival, that he might take a fancy to Miss Shaw. Had she encouraged the girl to believe she had secured his affections? What a coil it was! In any case, no good could come of his fulfilling Jacob’s request; of that at least he was certain. He was relieved when the younger man took himself off, and sat down again at his desk in even greater confusion than before.
His confoundment was lessened some minutes later by the entrance into the room of his beloved. “Oh, Ashley,” she said, taking his hand in hers, “I believe I have found the solution! Of course, we will need a few more players, but the Simpsons will do admirably for that, so you see, all our troubles are over!”
“I am enormously relieved,” he said dryly. “Would you care to elucidate a little?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “I will tell you all. Only sit down by me and prepare to love me even better than you do now, for I believe I have earned it.”
“I could not love you better,” Ashley whispered.
“Then you will love me more,” she replied promptly. “Only listen: it is famous! We shall put on a play that takes place in a faraway land, ages and ages ago—like a fairy tale. That is to make it subtle, you know.”
“I see,” he observed.
“Yes, and it will be the story of a princess, a princess who is betrothed to the prince of a neighbouring land. Her parents, you see, the king and queen, of course—”
“Of course,” he broke in.
“Shh, please! Her parents arranged this match long ago, at her christening. But when the young people meet, on the day of the wedding, they do not love each other!”
“Do not they, indeed? Forsooth!”
“You really are too silly, my sweet. No, of course, they do not. And what is worse, the prince falls in love with one of the princess’ ladies-in-waiting. And the princess—”
“Falls in love with Ashley Lowland,” he broke in.
“Oh, Ashley, please! I beg you will just listen.”
“But you look so beautiful, my Laura.” He kissed the top of her gleaming yellow head, thus obliging her to wriggle away from him and sit at some little distance.
“The princess falls in love with a court minstrel, who has come to play for the wedding. What can they do? Even if she were not betrothed to the prince, the difference in station between them would forbid of their ever marrying. They are quite in despair; everything points to a tragedy. But then, miraculously, the little court jester—Jacob may play the jester—discovers a secret compartment, hidden away in the palace.”
“In the dungeon, of course,” Ashley remarked. “To distinguish it from the secret chamber upstairs,” he explained. “To be subtle, as you say.”
“Oh, very well, in the dungeon, if you please. Anyhow, in this compartment the jester finds documents, documents revealing that this particular musician is in fact a prince himself, and, according to the wishes of his grandfather and hers, was betrothed to the princess even before she was born! And so the jester takes the documents to the princess, for he is her confidant, and—”
“I beg your pardon, my dear, but how is it that this minstrel is a prince?”
“I declare, I am out of all patience with you! Why these things are forever happening in fairy stories! It will be the simplest thing to invent some reason for it—perhaps his father was imprisoned in the dungeon once, due to a misunderstanding, and left this letter to his son. But then the baby got mixed up with another, and—you know how these things happen!”
“Heavens, yes!” he cried. “Stupid of me to have asked!”
“I should think so,” she remarked, a little hurt. “These are all details, details…anyone may think of them. The point is, that just as the unhappy couple are about to be joined at the altar, the jester arrives with the evidence, and frees them from their bonds. For a moment, all is confusion, but it gets sorted out, and the play ends with a double wedding.”
“But what of the prince? He came for a princess and got only a lady-in-waiting. Will not his parents be dismayed
?”
“No, no, the lady-in-waiting is quite as good as the princess, you see. She is a maid of honour, you know, nearly as good a match.”
“You have been very inventive, my sweet,” he said, kissing her again, “but alas! how is it to help our cause?”
“Well, for that we must rely upon everyone’s good sense. Do not you think that once the play has been revealed, Thaddeus and Lizzy will be more open with me? I am sure he must be aching to speak to me; it is only that he fears to hurt my feelings. But the play will show him how things are; we will all breathe more easily.”
“I hope you are right, my dear. Indeed, I think you may well be. In any case, we are fairly sure to come up with nothing better, so let us write this masterpiece at once! I shall design a throne room immediately; you must complete scene one by supper. To work!” he exclaimed, and attacked a blank piece of paper with vigour.
The room fairly echoed with pen scratchings for the next two hours, at the end of which time each artist showed the other what he had accomplished. They presented themselves at supper feeling very smug indeed, and both made a good meal of it.
Mr. Chance arrived at supper a little later than the others, skittering nervously to his seat and begging everyone’s pardon as usual. He did not refer to the reason for his tardiness, and would, he felt, have died had anyone guessed at it, for it was in fact nothing else than Vanity. It had not started out that way, of course. Indeed, he had been applying himself with laudable diligence to writing the lyrics for his song, and had lost track of the time. When a servant entered to apprise him of it, and of the fact that supper was served, his first thought had been to rush down to the dining parlour directly, but a second consideration stopped him short. He ascended the stairs to his bedchamber, and there, if anyone had seen him, they must surely have taken him for a thief, for he looked as guilty as might be. He crept covertly to his chest of drawers, glancing about him ever and anon, and bent abruptly, delving into its most remote recesses. From this hiding place he drew two items, each the mirror image of the other. He regarded them with eyes glittery with excitement and trepidation. The nature of these articles? Well may one ask. They were a pair of false calves, nothing more, nothing less. For Mr. Chance, though more than sufficiently stout round the belly, was afflicted with a set of legs straight enough to embarrass even the meanest kitchen stool, let alone a rector bent upon appearing to advantage. He did not allow himself to question his own movements as he leaned over awkwardly and inserted the calves into his stockings. He adjusted and secured them, ignoring the whisperings of conscience all the while by humming a little tune and thinking hard of supper. Then and only then did he descend to the dining parlour.