Prince Fortunatus | Page 7

the cheerful chirping of the birds had begun among the leaves. And what more beautiful surroundings could have been imagined for the production of any pastoral entertainment? The wide lawn was bounded on one side by a dense thicket of elms and limes and chestnuts, and on the other by a tall, dark hedge of holly; while here and there was a weeping-willow, round the stem of which a circular seat had been constructed, the pendulous branches enclosing a sort of rustic bower. As this fantastic performance went forward, the skies overhead slowly became more luminous; there was a sense of warmth and clear daylight beginning to tell; the birds were singing and chattering and calling everywhere; and the sweet, pure air of the morning, as it stirred, and no more than stirred, the trembling leaves, brought with it a scent of mignonette that seemed to speak of the coming of June.
Laura, in the person of Lady Adela Cunyngham, had reproached the faithless Damon (who was no other than Mr. Lionel Moore)--
"Ungrateful Damon, is it come to this? Are these the happy scenes of promis'd bliss? Ne'er hope, vain Laura, future peace to prove; Content ne'er harbors with neglected love."
--and Damon had replied (not mumbling his lines, as a privileged actor sometimes does at rehearsal, but addressing them properly to the hapless Laura)--
"Consider, fair, the ever-restless pow'r, Shifts with the breeze, and changes with the hour: Above restraint, he scorns a fixt abode, And on his silken plumes flies forth the rambling god."
Then Lady Sybil took out her violin from its case and drew the bow across the strings.
"We'll let you off the song, if you like, Mr. Moore," Lady Adela said to the young baritone, but in a very half-hearted kind of way.
"Oh, no," said he, pleasantly, "perhaps this may be my only rehearsal."
"The audience," observed Lord Rockminster, who, at a little distance, was lying back in a garden-chair, smoking a cigarette--"the audience would distinctly prefer to have the song sung."
Lady Sybil again gave him the key-note from the violin; and, without further accompaniment, he thus addressed his forsaken sweetheart:
"You say at your feet that I wept in despair, And vow'd that no angel was ever so fair? How could you believe all the nonsense I spoke? What know we of angels? I meant it in joke, I meant it in joke; What know we of angels? I meant it in joke."
When, in his rich, vibrating notes, he had sung the two verses, all the ladies rewarded him by clapping their hands, which was an exceedingly wrong thing to do, considering that they formed no part of the audience. Then Damon says,
"To-day Dem?tus gives a rural treat, And I once more my chosen friends must meet: Farewell, sweet damsel, and remember this, Dull repetition deadens all our bliss."
And Laura sadly answers,
"Where baleful cypress forms a gloomy shade, And yelling spectres haunt the dreary glade, Unknown to all, my lonesome steps I'll bend, There weep my suff'rings, and my fate attend."
Here Laura ought to sing the song "Vain is every fond endeavor;" but Lady Adela said to the violinist,
"No, never mind, Syb; no one wants to hear me sing, until the necessity of the case arises. Let's get on to the feast; I think that will be very popular; for we must have lots of shepherds and shepherdesses; and the people will be delighted to recognize their friends. Where's your sketch, Rose? I would have groups round each of the willows, and occasional figures coming backwards and forwards through those rhododendrons."
"You must leave the principal performers plenty of stage," Lionel Moore interposed, laughing. "You mustn't hem us in with supers, however picturesque their dress may be."
And so they went on discussing their arrangements, while the refulgent day was everywhere declaring itself, though as yet no sound of the far-off world could reach this isolated garden. Nor was there any direct sunshine falling into it; but a beautiful warmth of color now shone on the young green of the elms and chestnuts and hawthorns, and on one or two tall-branching, trembling poplars just coming into leaf; while the tulip-beds--the stars, the crescents, the ovals, and squares--were each a mass of brilliant vermilion, of rose, of pale lemon, of crimson and orange, or clearest gold. This new-found dawn seemed wholly to belong to the birds. Perhaps it was their universal chirping and carolling that concealed the distant echo of the highways; for surely the heavily-laden wains were now making in for Covent Garden? At all events there was nothing here but this continuous bird-clamor and the voices of these modern nymphs and swains as they went this way and that over the velvet-smooth lawn.
And now the bewitching Pastora appears upon the scene (but would Mrs. Clive have worn a gold pince-nez at