It was a kind of semi-dress rehearsal, beginning with pirate songs by the school-master and choir, who had little difficulty in arranging themselves as buccaneers. The sail was agitated, then reefed, stormy songs were heard, where Captain Armytage did his part fairly well; the boatswain was gratified by roaring out his part character- istically, and the curtain fell on "We split, we split, we split."
Then came a song of Prospero, not much disguised by a plaid and Highland bonnet, interrupted by the pretty, graceful Miranda, very shy and ill-assured at first, but gathering strength from his gentle encouraging ways, while he told what was needful in the recitative that he alone could undertake. Then the elves and fairies, led by little Felix, in a charming cap like Puck, danced on and sang, making the prettiest of tableaux, lulling Miranda to sleep, and then Ariel conversing in a most dainty manner with Prospero.
Next Ferdinand and Miranda had their scene, almost all songs and duets. Both sang very sweetly, and she had evidently gained in courage, and threw herself into her part.
The shipwrecked party then came on the scene, performed their songs, and were led about Puck-fashion by the fairies, and put to sleep by the lament over Ferdinand. The buccaneers in like manner were deluded by more mischievous songs and antics, till bogged and crying out behind the scenes.
Their intended victims were then awakened, to find themselves in the presence of Prospero; sing themselves into the reconciliation, then mourn for Ferdinand, until the disclosure of the two lovers, and the final release of Ariel and the sprites, all singing Jacobite songs.
To those who were not au fait with the 'Tempest' and felt no indignation or jealousy at the travesty, it was charming; and though the audience at the rehearsal numbered few of these, the refined sweetness and power of the performers made it delightful and memorable. Every one was in raptures with the fairies, who had been beautifully drilled, and above all with their graceful little leader, with his twinkling feet and arch lively manner, especially in the parts with his father.
Ferdinand and Miranda-or rather Angus and Mona-were quite ideal in looks, voices, and gestures.
"Almost dangerously so," said Jane Mohun; "and the odd thing is that they are just alike enough for first cousins, as they are here, though Shakespeare was not guilty of making them such."
"The odd thing is," said Geraldine, as she drove home with Clement, "that this brought me back so strangely to that wonderful concert at home, with all of you standing up in a row, and the choir from Minsterham, and poor Edgar's star."
"An evil star!" sighed Clement.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE EVIL STAR
Lancelot said, That were against me, what I can I will; And there that day remained.-TENNYSON.
It was on the night before the final bustle and fury, so to speak, of preparation were to set in, when arrivals were expected, and the sellers were in commotion, and he had been all day putting the singers one by one through their parts, that as he went to his room at night, there was a knock at Lancelot's door, and Gerald came in, looking deadly white. He had been silent and effaced all the evening, and his aunt had thought him tired, but he had rather petulantly eluded inquiry, and now he came in with-
"Lance, I must have it out with some one."
"An Oxford scrape?" said Lance.
"Oh no, I wish it was only that." Then a silence, while Lance looked at him, thinking, "What trouble could it be?" He had been very kind and gentle with the little Miranda, but the manner had not struck Lance as lover-like.
There was a gasp again-
"That person, that woman at the gate, do you remember?"
Therewith a flash came over Lance.
"My poor boy! You don't mean to say-"
Neither could bring himself to say the word so sacred to Lancelot, and which might have been so sacred to his nephew.
"How did you guess?" said Gerald, lifting up the face that he had hidden on the table.
"I saw the likeness between you and the girl. She reminded me of some one I had once seen."
"Had you seen her?"
"Once, at a concert, twenty odd years ago. Your aunt, too, was strangely carried back to that scene, by the girl's voice, I suppose."
"Poor child!" said Gerald, still laying down his head and seeming terribly oppressed, as Lance felt he well might be.
"It is a sad business for you," said the uncle, with a kind hand on his shoulder. "How was it she did not claim you before?-not that she has any real claim."
"She did not know my real name. My father called himself Wood. I never knew the rest of it till after I came home. That fellow bribed the gardener, got in over the wall, or somehow, and when she saw you, and heard you and me and all three of us, it gave her the clue."
"Well, Gerald, I do not think she can dare to-"
"Oh!" interrupted Gerald, "there's worse to come."
"What?" said Lance, aghast.
"She says," and a sort of dry sob cut him short, "she says she had a husband when she married my father," and down went his head again.
"Impossible," was Lance's first cry; "your father's first care was to tell Travis all was right with you. Travis has the certificates."
"Oh yes, it was no fault of my father-my father, my dear father-no, but she deceived him, and I am an impostor-nobody."
"Gently, gently, Gerald. We have no certainty that this is true. Your father had known her for years. Tell me, how did it come out- what evidence did she adduce?"
Gerald nerved himself to sit up and speak collectedly.
"I believe it is half that circus fellow's doing. I think she is going to marry him, if she hasn't already. She followed me, and just at the turn down this road, as I was bidding the Mona girl goodnight, she came up with me, and said I little thought that the child was my sister, and how delightful it was to see us acting together. Well then, I can't say but a horror came over me. I couldn't for the life of me do anything but draw back, there was something so intolerable in the look of her eyes, and her caressing manner," and he shuddered, glad of his uncle's kind hand on his shoulder. "Somehow, I let her get me out upon the high ground, and there she said, 'So you are too great a swell to have word or look for your mother. No wonder, you always were un vilain petit miserable; but I won't trouble you-I wouldn't be bound to live your dull ennuyant ladies' life for millions. I'll bargain to keep out of your way; but O'Leary and I want a couple of hundred pounds, and you'll not grudge it to us.' I had no notion of being blackmailed, besides I haven't got it, and I told her she might know that I am not of age, and had no such sum ready to hand. She was urgent, and I began to think whether I could do anything to save that poor little sister, when she evidently got some fresh impulse from the man, and began to ask me how I should like to have it all disclosed to my nobs of friends. Well, I wasn't going to be bullied, and I answered that my friends knew already, and she might do her worst. 'Oh, may I?' she said; 'you wouldn't like, my fine young squire, to have it come out that I never was your father's wife at all, and that you are no more than that gutter- child.' I could not understand her at first, and said I would not be threatened, but that made her worse, and that rascal O'Leary came to her help. They raised their demands somehow to five hundred, and declared if they had not it paid down, they should tell the whole story and turn me out. Of course I said they were welcome. Either I am my father's lawful son, or I am not, and if not, the sooner it is all up with me the better, for whatever I am, I am no thief and robber. So I set off and came down the hill; but the brute kept pace with me to this very door, trying to wheedle me, I believe. And now what's to be done? I would go off at once, and let Uncle Clem come into his rights, only I don't want to be the death of him and Cherie."