Part of: WILD ENGLAND
From: After London
At ten in the morning next day the feast began with a drama from
Sophocles, which was performed in the open air. The theatre was in the
gardens between the wall and the inner stockade; the spectators sat on
the slope, tier above tier; the actors appeared upon a green terrace
below, issuing from an arbour and passing off behind a thick box-hedge
on the other side of the terrace. There was no scenery whatever.
Aurora had selected the Antigone. There were not many dramatists from
whom to choose, for so many English writers, once famous, had dropped
out of knowledge and disappeared. Yet some of the far more ancient Greek
and Roman classics remained because they contained depth and originality
of ideas in small compass. They had been copied in manuscripts by
thoughtful men from the old printed books before they mouldered away,
and their manuscripts being copied again, these works were handed down.
The books which came into existence with printing had never been copied
by the pen, and had consequently nearly disappeared. Extremely long and
diffuse, it was found, too, that so many of them were but enlargements
of ideas or sentiments which had been expressed in a few words by the
classics. It is so much easier to copy an epigram of two lines than a
printed book of hundreds of pages, and hence it was that Sophocles had
survived while much more recent writers had been lost.
From a translation Aurora had arranged several of his dramas. Antigone
was her favourite, and she wished Felix to see it. In some indefinable
manner the spirit of the ancient Greeks seemed to her in accord with the
times, for men had or appeared to have so little control over their own
lives that they might well imagine themselves overruled by destiny.
Communication between one place and another was difficult, the division
of society into castes, and the iron tyranny of arms, prevented the
individual from making any progress in lifting himself out of the groove
in which he was born, except by the rarest opportunity, unless specially
favoured by fortune. As men were born so they lived; they could not
advance, and when this is the case the idea of Fate is always
predominant. The workings of destiny, the Irresistible overpowering both
the good and the evil-disposed, such as were traced in the Greek drama,
were paralleled in the lives of many a miserable slave at that day. They
were forced to endure, for there was no possibility of effort.
Aurora saw this and felt it deeply; ever anxious as she was for the good
of all, she saw the sadness that reigned even in the midst of the fresh
foliage of spring and among the flowers. It was Fate; it was Sophocles.
She took the part of the heroine herself, clad in Greek costume; Felix
listened and watched, absorbed in his love. Never had that ancient drama
appeared so beautiful as then, in the sunlight; the actors stepped upon
the daisied sward, and the song of birds was all their music.
While the play was still proceeding, those who were to form the usual
procession had already been assembling in the court before the castle,
and just after noon, to the sound of the trumpet, the Baron, with his
youngest son beside him (the eldest was at Court), left the porch,
wearing his fur-lined short mantle, his collar, and golden spurs, and
the decoration won so many years before; all the insignia of his rank.
He walked; his war-horse, fully caparisoned, with axe at the saddle-bow,
was led at his right side, and upon the other came a knight carrying the
banneret of the house.
The gentlemen of the house followed closely, duly marshalled in ranks,
and wearing the gayest dress; the leading retainers fully armed, brought
up the rear. Immediately upon issuing from the gate of the wall, the
procession was met and surrounded by the crowd, carrying large branches
of may in bloom, flowers, and green willow boughs. The flowers they
flung before him on the ground; the branches they bore with them,
chanting old verses in honour of the family. The route was through the
town, where the Baron stopped at the door of the Court House, and
proclaimed a free pardon to all serfs (who were released within a few
minutes) not guilty of the heavier crimes.
Thence he went to the pasture just beyond, carefully mown close and
swept for the purpose, where the May-pole stood, wreathed with flowers
and green branches. Beneath it he deposited a bag of money for
distribution upon a carved butt placed there, the signal that the games
were open. Instantly the fiddles began to play, and the feast really
commenced. At the inns ale was served out freely (at the Baron's
charge), carts, too, came down from the castle laden with ale and cooked
provisions. Wishing them joy, the Baron returned by the same road to the
castle, where dinner was already served in the hall and the sheds that
had been erected to enlarge the accommodation.
In the afternoon there were foot-races, horse-races, and leaping
competitions, and the dances about the May-pole were prolonged far into
the night. The second day, early in the morning, the barriers were
opened, and trials of skill with the blunt sword, jousting with the
blunt lance at the quintain, and wrestling began, and continued almost
till sunset. Tournament with sharpened lance or sword, when the
combatants fight with risk of serious wounds, can take place only in the
presence of the Prince or his deputy. But in these conflicts
sufficiently severe blows were given to disable the competitors.
On the third day there was a set battle in the morning between fifteen
men on each side, armed with the usual buckler or small shield, and
stout single-sticks instead of swords. This combat excited more interest
than all the duels that had preceded it; the crowd almost broke down the
barriers, and the cheering and cries of encouragement could be heard
upon the hills. Thrice the combatants rested from the engagement, and
thrice at the trumpet call started again to meet each other, at least
those who had sustained the first onslaught.
Blood, indeed, was not shed (for the iron morions saved their skulls),
but nearly half of the number required assistance to reach the tents
pitched for their use. Then came more feasting, the final dinner
prolonged till six in the evening, when the company, constantly rising
from their seats, cheered the Baron, and drank to the prosperity of the
house. After the horn blew at six, the guests who had come from a
distance rapidly dispersed (their horses were already waiting), for they
were anxious to pass the fifteen miles of forest before nightfall. Those
on foot, and those ladies who had come in covered waggons, stayed till
next morning, as they could not travel so speedily. By seven or eight
the castle courtyard was comparatively empty, and the Baron, weary from
the mere bodily efforts of saying farewell to so many, had flung himself
at full length on a couch in the drawing-room.
During the whole of this time Felix had not obtained a single moment
with Aurora; her time, when not occupied in attending to the guests, was
always claimed by Lord Durand. Felix, after the short-lived but pure
pleasure he had enjoyed in watching her upon the grass-grown stage, had
endured three days of misery. He was among the crowd, he was in the
castle itself, he sat at table with the most honoured visitors, yet he
was distinct from all. There was no sympathy between them and him. The
games, the dancing, the feasting and laughter, the ceaseless singing and
shouting, and jovial jostling, jarred upon him.
The boundless interest the people took in the combats, and especially
that of the thirty, seemed to him a strange and inexplicable phenomenon.
It did not excite him in the least; he could turn his back upon it
without hesitation. He would, indeed, have left the crowd, and spent the
day in the forest, or on the hills, but he could not leave Aurora. He
must be near her; he must see her, though he was miserable. Now he
feared that the last moment would come, and that he should not exchange
a word with her.
He could not, with any show of pretext, prolong his stay beyond the
sunset; all were already gone, with the exceptions mentioned. It would
be against etiquette to remain longer, unless specially invited, and he
was not specially invited. Yet he lingered, and lingered. His horse was
ready below; the groom, weary of holding the bridle, had thrown it over
an iron hook in the yard, and gone about other business. The sun
perceptibly declined, and the shadow of the beeches of the forest began
to descend the grassy slope. Still he stayed, restlessly moving, now in
the dining chamber, now in the hall, now at the foot of the staircase,
with an unpleasant feeling that the servants looked at him curiously,
and were watching him.
Oliver had gone long since, riding with his new friend Lord Durand; they
must by now be half-way through the forest. Forced by the inexorable
flight of time, he put his foot upon the staircase to go up to the
drawing-room and bid farewell to the Baroness. He ascended it, step by
step, as a condemned person goes to his doom. He stayed to look out of
the open windows as he went by; anything to excuse delay to himself. He
reached the landing at last, and had taken two steps towards the door,
when Aurora's maid, who had been waiting there an hour or more for the
opportunity, brushed past him, and whispered, "The Rose arbour."
Without a word he turned, hastened down the stairs, ran through the
castle yard, out at the gate, and, entering the gardens between the wall
and the inner stockade, made for the arbour on the terrace where the
drama had been enacted. Aurora was not there; but as he looked round,
disappointed, she came from the Filbert walk, and, taking his arm, led
him to the arbour. They sat down without a word. In a moment she placed
her head upon his shoulder; he did not respond. She put her arm (how
warm it felt!) about his neck; he yielded stiffly and ungraciously to
the pressure; she drew down his head, and kissed him. His lips touched
but did not press hers; they met, but did not join. In his sullen and
angry silence he would not look. She drew still nearer, and whispered
Then he broke out: he pushed her away; his petty jealousy and injured
self-esteem poured out upon her.
"I am not the heir to an earldom," he said; "I do not ride with a score
of gentlemen at my back. They have some wonderful diamonds, have they
"It is no use. Yes, your voice is sweet, I know. But you, all of you,
despise me. I am nothing, no one!"
"You are all, everything, to me."
"You were with--with Durand the whole time."
"I could not help myself."
"Not help yourself! Do you think I believe that?"
"Felix, dear. I tell you I could not help myself; I could not, indeed.
You do not know all--"
"No, probably not. I do not know the terms of the marriage contract."
"Felix, there is no such thing. Why, what has come to you? How pale you
look! Sit down!" for he had risen.
"I cannot, Aurora, dear; I cannot! Oh, what shall I do? I love you so!"