/> 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

his name.



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

not--Countess?"



"Felix!"



"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!"