A Drama in Muslin — Book 1 Chapter 1

London: Vizetelly & Co., 1 June 1886, pages 1-19, 7,790 words

[Preamble]

A Drama in Muslin is a study of the life of a group of girl-friends. The men in the story are only silhouettes — a mere decorative background, in fact. I propose to write a similar work dealing with a group of young men, in which the women will be blotted out, or rather constitute in their turn the decorative background. In this way I hope to produce two books that will picture completely the youth of my own time.

BOOK I.

Chapter I.

The grey stone cross of the convent-church was scarcely seen in the dimness of the sun-smitten sky. The convent occupied an entire hilltop, and it overlooked the sea.

All around was a beautiful garden, and the white dresses of the girls fluttered through the verdurous vistas like the snowy plumage of a hundred doves. Obeying a sudden impulse, a flock of little ones would race through a deluge of leaf-entangled rays towards a pet companion. You see her at the end of a gravel-walk, examining the flower she has just picked: the sunlight glancing along little white legs, proudly and charmingly advanced. The elder girls in their longer skirts were more dignified, but when sight was caught of a favourite sister, they too ran forward, and then retreated timidly, as if afraid of committing an indiscretion.

It was prize-day in the Convent of the Holy Child, and since early morning all had been busy preparing for the arrival of the Bishop. His throne had been set at one end of the school-hall, and at the other the carpenters had erected a stage for the performance of “King Cophetun,” a musical sketch written by Miss Alice Barton for the occasion. But now a pause had come in the labour of the day; the luncheon, that all had been too excited to partake of, was over; and for the next half-hour, straying over the green swards, or clustered round a garden-bench, the girls talked of the many expectations that the coming hours of the afternoon would set at rest. Their faces were animated with discussion. They spoke of the parts they would play; of the dresses they would wear; of the probable winners of the prizes; of the joys and ambitions that even now absorbed their lives. A charming and infantile peace slept on land and sea. In the distance the grey girdle of water glittered as with the leaping silver of a myriad fishes; between the chimneys, under the hill, a fleet of fishing-boats basked in the sun like sparrows. It was almost blinding to lift the eyes, so intense was the radiation of the light; and the downy whiteness of the sky was unrelieved by any splash of blue. Suddenly, a rearrangement of figures on the terrace made one group of girls the centre of the vast panorama. They seemed like a piece of finished sculpture ready to be taken from the peace and meditation of the studio and placed in the noise and staring of the galleries.

Then a nun called from the sward where the children were playing, and two girls rose from the bench. Their places were quickly appropriated, and the five remaining girls drew together, forming a new and more harmonious group.

Alice Barton was what is commonly known as a plain girl. At home, during the holidays, she often heard that the dressmaker could not fit her, that her eyes were not so large nor so sweet as her sister's. But the clear, sweet mind was so often revealed in those grey eyes, that the want of beauty was forgotten in love of her personality. Although her shoulders were narrow and prim, her arms long and almost awkward, there was a character about the figure that commanded attention. Alice was now turned twenty, she was the eldest, the best-beloved, and the cleverest girl in the school. It was not, therefore, on account of any backwardness in her education that she had been kept so long out of society; but because Mrs. Barton thought that, as her two girls were so different in appearance, it would be well for them to come out together. Against this decision Alice said nothing, and, like a tall arum lily, she had grown in the convent from girl to womanhood. To her the little children ran to be comforted; and to walk with her in the garden was considered an honour and a pleasure that oven the reverend mother was glad to participate in.

Lady Cecilia Cullen sat next to Alice. At a glance you saw she was a hunchback; but in a standing position her deformity would have appeared less marked than it did at present. It lay principally in her right shoulder, which was higher than her left — now she was seen at her worst. Cecilia was the wonder and enigma of the convent. Of a nature more than delicate and sensitive, she shrank from the normal pleasures and loves of life as from the sight of a too coarse display of food; often an ordinary look, or word, or gesture shocked her, and so deeply that she would remain for hours sitting apart, refusing all consolation. A spot on the tablecloth, or the presence of one repellent to her, was sufficient to extinguish a delight or an appetite. Her fancies were so abrupt and obscure that none could ever be certain what would please or offend her. In one thing only was she constant — she loved Alice. There was love in those wilful brown eyes — love that was wild and visionary, and perhaps scarcely sane. And the intensity of this affection had given rise to conjecturing. When other girls spoke of men and admirers, her lip curled: had it not been for her deformity she would have expressed her abhorrence. At home she was considered wayward, if not a little queer, and her wish, therefore, to remain at school met with no opposition.

Violet Scully occupied the other end of the garden-bench. She was very thin, but withal elegantly made. Her face was neat and delicate, and it was set with light blue eyes that sparkled as did the misted glitter of the sea. When she was not restlessly changing her place, or looking round as if she fancied someone was approaching, when she was still (which was seldom), a rigidity of feature, and an almost complete want of bosom, gave her the appearance of a convalescent boy. The small aristocratic head was beautifully poised on the swaying neck; faint, wavy, brown tresses cast light shadows over the small but finely-shaped temples, behind which it was easy to see that a sharp but narrow intelligence was at work — an intelligence that would always dominate weak natures, and triumph in a battle of mean interests.

May Gould, who stood at the back, her hand leaning affectionately on Alice’s shoulder, was a very different type of girl. Had she been three inches taller she would have been a magnificent woman — but for her height, which was five feet four, her features were too massive. Although only seventeen, all the characteristics of her sex were in her distinctly marked, and her sensuous nature was reflected in the violet fluidity of her eyes. Her hair was not of an inherited tint. It was of that shade of red that is only seen in the children of dark-haired parents. In great coils it rolled over the dimpled cream of her neck, sweeping with copper threads the vermilion-hued curves of her ear. With the exception of Alice, May was the cleverest girl in the school. For public inspection she made large water-coloured drawings of Swiss scenery; for private view, pen-and-ink sketches of officers sitting in conservatories with young ladies. The former were admired by the nuns, the latter occasioned a vast deal of excitement amid a select few.

Olive Barton lay on the grass, her arms thrown over her sister’s knees. The pose recalled that of Venus in Titian’s picture of “Venus and Adonis”; but of the material.beauty of the pagan world there was nothing in Olive’s face. It was the mild and timid loveliness that is the fruit of eighteen hundred years of Christianity. Even now the uplifted throat recalled that of an adoring angel. Olive’s hair was the colour of primroses. Her face, with its pronounced nose, was full of all the pseudo-classicality of a cameo. Now the action of listening had distended the limbs, and the skirt was cast into folds that made clear the movement of the body; the arms and bosom were moulded into amorous plenitudes, and the extremities flowed into chaste slendernesses, that the white stocking and loose convent-shoe could not distort. In the beautiful framework nothing was wanting but a mind. She was, in a word, a human flower — a rose — a carnation that a wicked magician had endowed with the power of speech.

“I don’t see, Alice, why you couldn’t have made King Cophetua marry the Princess. Who ever heard of a King marrying a beggar-maid? It seems to me most unnatural. Besides, I hear that lots of people are going to be present, and to be jilted before them all is not very pleasant. I am sure mamma wouldn’t like it.”

“But you are not jilted, my dear Olive; you do not like the King, and you show your nobleness of mind by refusing him.”

“I don’t see that; who ever refused a king?”

“Well, what do you want?” exclaimed May, “I never saw anyone so selfish in all my life; you would not be satisfied unless you played the whole piece by yourself. First you would have your sister beg the nuns to allow you to play the beggar-maid, then you didn’t like the part and refused to go on with it; and hadn’t Violet very kindly consented to give the Princess up to you — which she would have played beautifully — and agreed to act the beggar-maid, I don’t know what we should have done.”

Olive would probably have made a petulant and passionate reply, but at that moment the sound of laughter was heard. It was a man’s voice, and the merriment was vapid and loud.

The girls started to their feet, and, looking past the green garden, they watched a party of visitors who were coming up the drive.

“’Tis papa,” cried Olive, and, instantly forgetting her troubles, she rushed forward, laughing as she went.

“And he is with mamma,” said Violet, and with an air of satisfaction she tripped after Olive. The three remaining girls lingered, then advanced shyly. From where they were they could see that someone was attracting a good deal of attention. Presently a tall, handsome man escaped from the two priests who were walking on either side of him, and, after kissing Olive, held her at arm’s length and admired her somewhat boisterously. The high aquiline nose which the daughter had inherited made the likeness obvious. Mr. Barton wore a flowing beard, his hair was long, and both were the colour of pale café au lait. His appearance was, therefore, somewhat romantic, and he spoke as if he were trying to speak up to it.

“Here is learning, and here is beauty, what could any father desire more?” he exclaimed, after he had bestowed a kiss upon Alice. “I used to kiss you all in old times, but I suppose you are too big now. How strange! how strange! There you are, a row of brunettes and blondes, who, before many days are over, will be charming the hearts of all the young men in Galway. And I suppose it was in talking of such things you spent the morning?”

“Our young charges have been, I assure you, very busy all the morning. We are not as idle as you think, Mr. Barton,” said the nun, in a tone of voice that showed that she thought the remark extremely ill-considered. “We have been arranging the stage for the representation of a little play that your daughter Alice composed.”

“Oh yes, I know, she wrote to me about it; ‘King Cophetua’ is the name, isn’t it? I am very curious indeed, for I have set Tennyson’s ballad to music myself. I sing it to the guitar — have not had time to have it written down. Life is so hurried, and I keep my thoughts fixed on one thing, or I should have sent it to you. However — however we are all going home to-morrow. I have promised to take charge of Cecilia, and Mrs. Scully is going to look after May.

“Oh, how nice, how nice that will be!” cried Olive, and, catching Violet by the hands, she romped with her for glee.

Then the nun, taking advantage of this break in the conversation, said:

“Come now, young ladies, it is after two o’clock, we shall never be ready in time if you don’t make haste — and it won’t do to keep the Bishop waiting.”

The priests smiled blandly, and, like a hen gathering her chickens, the Sister hurried away with Violet, Olive, and May.

“How happy they seem in this beautiful retreat!” said Mrs. Scully, drawing her black lace shawl about her huge grey-silk shoulders. “ How little they know of the troubles of the world! I am afraid it would be hard to persuade them to leave their convent if they knew the trials that await them.”

“We cannot escape our trials, they are given to us that we may overcome them,” said one of the Fathers, who thought that Mrs. Scully’s remark called for a word of comment.

“I suppose so, indeed,” said Mrs. Scully; and, trying to find consolation in the remark, she sighed deeply. Then the other reverend gentleman, as if fearing further religious shop from his confrère, informed Mr. Barton, in a cheerful tone of voice, that he had heard he was a great painter.

“I don’t know — I don’t know,” replied Mr. Barton, “painting is, after all, only dreaming — I should like to be put at the head of an army, and sent to conquer Africa — my affairs keep me in Ireland — but when I am seized with an idea I have to rush to put it down.”

Finding no appropriate answer to these somewhat erratic remarks, the priest joined in a discussion that had been started, concerning the action taken by the Church during the present agrarian agitation. Mr. Barton, who was weary of the subject, stepped away, and, sitting on one of the terrace-benches between Cecilia and Alice, he feasted his eyes on the colour-changes that came over the sea, and, in long-drawn-out and disconnected phrases, explained his views on nature and art, until the bell was rung for the children to assemble in the school-hall.

It was a large room with six windows; these had been covered over with red cloth, and the wall opposite was decorated with plates, flowers, and wreaths woven out of branches of evergreen, oak, and holly. Chairs for the visitors had been arranged in a semicircle around the Bishop’s throne — a great square chair approached by steps, and rendered still more imposing by the canopy, whose voluminous folds fell on either side like those of a corpulent woman’s dress. Opposite was the stage. The footlights were turned down, but the blue mountains and brown palmtrees of the drop-curtain, painted by one of the nuns, loomed through the red obscurity of the room. Benches had been set along both walls; between them a strip of carpet, worked with roses and lilies, down which the girls advanced when called to receive their prizes, stretched its blue and slender length.

As the girls entered, their voices reminded you of a tree full of April-talking birds. Alice was in great requisition. A kind of place of honour had been made for her, and those who sat next her were looked upon enviously. In the excitement of the moment it was forgotten they were going to lose her. For her, every heart was full of admiration; and many were the mental calculations made as to the number of prizes she would have carried off, had she not, for the last year, been placed by herself, outside of the school classes. There was a suspicion afloat that some special sign of approbation would be made to her; the form that it would take none ventured to predict; but it was thought that the usual blue ribbon for good conduct, in so exceptional a case as Alice’s, would not be considered sufficient. Then, as a breeze in a garden suddenly blows the flowers different ways, the conversation would change, and, leaning together, groups and couples discussed passionately their chances of obtaining rewards for their year’s labours. The little children were pushed out of the way, and they sat on the back benches, conscious of their inferiority in point of age. The youngest was a child of eight; but there were many of eleven and thirteen, and, like nurses, these, their narrow shoulders raised, lectured the little ones, all the while arranging their blue sashes for them. It was a pretty sight. The vague, sexless stare of infancy contrasted with the quick glances of the elder girls, whose sharp features hinted at a budding feminality.

Then, suddenly, a nun entered, and, in a voice full of trepidation and expectancy, announced that the Bishop was coming. The babbling of voices ceased, and, hurriedly, four girls hastened to the pianos placed on either side of the stage — two left-hands struck a series of chords in the bass, the treble notes replied, the eight hands went rattling over the keys; and, to the gallant measure of a French polka, a stately prelate entered. Everyone was on her feet in a moment, and the soft clapping of feminine palms resounded through the rooms, drowning for a moment even the slangy strains of tho polka.

But, when the Bishop was seated on his high throne, the back of which extended some feet above his head, and when the crowd of visitors had been accommodated with chairs around him, a nun made her way through the room, seeking anxiously among the girls. She carried in her hand a basket filled with programmes, all rolled and neatly tied with pieces of different coloured ribbon. These she distributed to the ten tiniest little children she could find, and, advancing five from either side, they formed in a line and courtesied to the Bishop. One little dot, whose hair hung about her head like a golden mist, nearly lost her balance; she was, however, saved from falling by a companion, and then, like a group of kittens, they tripped down the blue strip of carpet, and handed the pro-giammes to the guests, who leaned forward as if anxious to touch their hands — to stroke their shining hair. The play was now ready to begin, and Alice felt she was going from hot to cold, for when the announcement printed on the programme, that she was the author of the comedy of “King Cophetua,” had been read, all eyes were fixed upon her: the Bishop, after eyeing her intently, bent towards tho Reverend Mother and whispered to her. Doubtless it was very trying; Cecilia clasped Alice's hand, and said, as the nun who had written the introductory music played the last bars, “You must not be afraid, dear, I know it will be all right.”

And the little play was as charming as it was guileless. The old legend had been arranged — as might have been expected from a schoolgirl — simply and unaffectedly. The scene opened in a room in the palace of the King, and when a chorus, supposed to be sung by the townspeople, was over, a minister entered hurriedly. The little children uttered a cry of delight; they did not recognise their companion in her strange disguise. A large wig, with brown curls hanging over the shoulders, almost hid the face that had been made to look quite aged by a few clever touches of the pencil about the eyes and mouth. She was dressed in a long garment, something between an ulster and a dressing-gown; it fell just below her knees, for it had been decided by the Reverend Mother that it were better that there should be a slight display of ankles than the least suspicion of trousers. The subject was a delicate one, and for some weeks past a look of alarm had not left the face of the nun in charge of the wardrobe. But these considerations only amused the girls, and now, delighted at the novelty of her garments, the minister strutted manfully about the stage. Bitterly she complained of the temper of the dowager Queen. “Who could help it if the King wouldn’t marry? Who could make him leave his poetry and music for a pretty face if he didn’t care to do so? He had already refused blue eyes, black eyes, brown eyes. However, the new Princess was a very beautiful person, and ought, all things considered, to be accepted by the King. She must be passing through the city at the moment.”

On this the Queen entered. Alice’s face contracted with apprehension, for the little girl who played the part had shown such timidity at rehearsal that it was impossible to say that now, in the presence of an audience, she might not grow utterly disconcerted, and fly crying from the stage. The first words she spoke were inaudible, but, gathering courage as she went on, she trailed her white satin, with its large brocaded pattern, in true queenly fashion, and questioned the minister as to his opinion of the looks of the new Princess. But she gave no point to her words. The scene was, fortunately, a short one, and no sooner had they disappeared than a young man entered. He held a lute in his left hand, and with his right he twanged the strings idly. He was King Cophetua. This was the crucial point of the play, and not many words had been spoken before Alice saw her expectations fade, and a bitter sense of disappointment filled her mind. Many times during rehearsal Alice had warned May of the error she was falling into, but May did not seem able to accommodate herself to the author’s view of the character, and, after a few minutes, fell back into her old swagger. And now this was more exaggerated than it had ever been before. Excited by the presence of an audience, by the footlights, by the long coat under which she knew her large well-shaped legs could be seen, she forgot her promises, and strolled about like a man — as she had seen young Scully saunter about the stable-yard at home. She looked, no doubt, very handsome, and, conscious of the fact, she addressed her speeches to a group of young men, who, for no ostensible reason except to get as far away as possible from the Bishop, had crowded into the left-hand corner of the hall.

And so great was May’s misreading of the character, that Alice could hardly realise that she was listening to her own piece. Instead of speaking the sentence, ‘My dear mother, I could not marry anyone I did not love; besides, am I not already wedded to music and poetry?’ slowly, dreamily, May emphasised the words so jauntily, that they seemed to be poetic equivalents for wine and tobacco. There was no doubt that things were going too far; the Reverend Mother frowned, and shifted her position in her chair uneasily; the Bishop crossed his legs and took snuff methodically.

But at this moment the attention of the audience was diverted by the entrance of the Princess. May’s misbehaviour was forgotten, and a murmur of warm admiration rose through the red twilight. Dressed in a tight-fitting gown of pale blue, opening in front, and finishing in a train held up by the smallest child in the school, Olive moved across the stage like a beautiful bird. Taking a wreath of white roses from her hair, she presented them to the King. He had then to kiss her hand, and with much courtly grace he led her to a chair. In the scene that followed, Alice had striven to be intensely pathetic. She had intended that the King, by a series of kindly-put questions, should gradually win the Princess’s confidence, and induce her to tell the truth, that her affections had already been won by a knight at her father’s Court, that she could love none other. Touched by her candour, and interested in her story, the King in turn grows sentimental.

King: But if this knight did not exist; if you had never seen him, you would, I suppose, have accepted my hand?

Princess: You will not be offended if I tell you the truth?

King: No, I promise you.

Princess: Well, then, I could never have listened to your love.

King (rising hastily): Am I then so ugly, so horrible, so vile, that even if your heart were not engaged elsewhere you could not have listened to me?

Princess: You are neither horrible, nor vile, King Cophetua; but again promise me secrecy, and I will tell you the whole truth?

King: I promise you.

Princess: You are loved by a maiden far more beautiful than I; she is dying of love for your sake! she has suffered much for her love; she is suffering still.

King: And who is this maiden?

Princess: Ah! She is no more than a beggar-girl; she lives on charity, the songs she sings, and the flowers she sells in the streets. And now she is poorer than ever, for your royal mother has caused her to be driven out of the city.

Here the King weeps — he is supposed to be deeply touched by the Princess’s account of the wrongs done to the beggar-girl — and it is finally arranged between him and the Princess that they shall pretend to have come to some violent misunderstanding, and that, in their war of words, they shall insult each other’s parents so grossly that all possibilities of a marriage will be for ever at an end. Throwing aside a chair so as to bring the Queen within ear-shot, the King declares that his royal neighbour is an old dunce, and that there is not enough money in his treasury to pay the Court bootmaker; the Princess retaliates by saying that the royal mother of the crowned head she is addressing is an old cat, who paints her face and beats her maids of honour.

The play, that up to this point had been considered a little tedious, now riveted the attention of the audience, and when the Queen entered she was greeted with roars of laughter. Aghast, she stands on the threshold, unable to believe her ears, listening to the wild invective with which a powerful King and the Princess of a neighbouring State were attacking each other.

The applause was deafening. Olive had played her part better than had been expected, and all the white frocks trembled with excitement. The youths in the left-hand corner craned their heads forward so as not to lose a syllable of what was coming, the Bishop recrossed his legs in a manner that betokened his entire satisfaction; and, delighted, the mammas and papas whispered together. But the faces of the nuns betrayed the anxiety they felt. Inquiring glances passed beneath the black hoods; all the sleek faces grew alive and alarmed. May was now alone on the stage, and there was no saying what indiscretion she might not be guilty of.

The Reverend Mother, however, had anticipated the danger of the scene, and had sent round word to the nun in charge of the back of the stage, to tell Miss Gould that she was to set the crown straight on her head, and to take her hands out of her pockets. The effect of receiving such instructions from the wings was that May forgot one half her words, and spoke the other half so incorrectly that the passage Alice had counted on so much — “At last, thank Heaven, that tiresome trouble is over, and now I shall be free to return, to music and poetry” — was rendered into nonsense, and the attention of the audience lost. Nor were matters set straight until a high soprano voice was heard singing:

Buy, buy, who will buy roses of me?

    Roses to weave in your hair.

A penny, only a penny for three,

   Roses a queen might wear!

Roses! I gathered them far away

    In gardens, white and red.

Roses! Make presents of roses to-day,

    And help me to earn my bread.

With the instinct of a true lover, the King at once divined that this must be the ballad-singer—the beggar-maid who loved him, who, by some secret emissaries of the Queen, had been driven away from the city, homeless and outcast; and, snatching his lute from the wall, he sang a few plaintive verses in response. The strain was instantly taken up, and then, on the current of a plain religious melody, the two voices were united, and, as two perfumes, they seemed to blend and become one.

Alice would have preferred something less ethereal, for the exigences of the situation demanded that the King should get out of the window and claim the hand of the beggar-maid in the public street. But the nun who had composed the music could not be brought to see this, and, after a comic scene between the Queen and the Chancellor, the King, followed by his Court and suite, entered, leading the beggar maid by the hand. In a short speech, he told how her sweetness, her devotion, and, above all, her beautiful voice, had won his heart, and that he intended to make her his Queen. Then a curtain was drawn aside. It disclosed a double throne; and as the young bride ascended the steps to take her place by the side of her royal husband, a joyful chorus was sung, in which allusion was made to a long reign and happy days.

Everyone was enchanted but Alice. She alone saw how the beauty of her thoughts had been turned into hideousness in the representation; the idea as it passed into reality had become polluted. She had wished to show how a man, in the trouble and bitterness of life, must yearn for the consoling sympathy of a woman, and how he may find the dove his heart is sighing for in the lowliest bracken; and, having found her and having recognised that she is the one, he should place her in his bosom, confident that her plumes are as fair and immaculate as those that glitter in the sunlight about the steps and terraces of the palace. Instead of this, she had seen a King who seemed to regard life as a sensual gratification; and a beggar-maid who looked upon her lover, not timidly, as a new-born flower upon the sun, but as a clever huckstress at a customer who had bought her goods at her valuing. But the audience did not see below the surface, and, in answer to clapping of hands and cries of encore, the curtain was raised once more, and King Cophetua, seated on his throne by the side of his beggar-maid, was shown to them again. Then every eye was radiant, and every lust delighted in the spectacle; fingers twitched nervously at the folds of serge habit and lace mantle. Even the hearts of the little children rejoiced in the materialisation of the idea, in the crudity of the living picture placed before them. In a vision each girl saw herself selected out of the multitude, crowned with orange-blossoms and led by a noble husband through the dim church, from an altar where the candles burnt like stars, to a life made of riches, adulation, amusement. Like warm vapour, one thought filled the entire hall. The expansive matrons, on whose bosoms had lain this white-frocked generation, leaned to the grey-headed fathers, worn with a life’s toil, and sought to express the complete, the fathomless, content that had fallen upon them. It was a moment of delirium, even the nuns forgot themselves; and, their sex asserting itself through all their vows of celibacy, they gloried in having been, at least, the providers of the brides of men; and in imagination they assisted at the wedding of an entire epoch.

The excitement did not begin to calm until the tableaux vivants were ready. For, notwithstanding the worldliness of the day, it was thought that Heaven should not be forgotten. The convent being that of the Holy Child, something illustrative of the birth of Christ naturally suggested itself. No more touching or edifying subject than that of the Annunciation could be found. Violet’s thin, elegant face seemed representative of an intelligent virginity, and in a long, white dress she knelt at a prie-dieu. Olive, with a pair of wings obtained from the local theatre, and her hair, blonde as an August harvesting, lying along her back, took the part of the Angel. She wore a star on her forehead.

Then, after an interval that allowed the company to recover their composure, and the carpenter to prepare the stage, the curtain was again raised. This time, the scene was a stable. At the back, in the right-hand corner, there was a manger to which was attached a stuffed donkey; Violet sat on a low stool and held the new-born Divinity in her arms; May, who for the part of Joseph had been permitted to wear a false beard, held a staff, and tried to assume the facial expression of a man who has just been blessed with a son. In the foreground knelt the three wise men from the East; with outstretched hands they held forth their offerings of frankincense and myrrh. The picture of the world's Redemption was depicted with such taste, that a murmur of pious admiration sighed throughout the hall. The dove, emblem of purity, was perched on the hayrack just above the cow’s head, and so touchingly did the virgin mother hold the child to her bosom, that every knee quivered, instinct with worship. The humanity of the Bethlehem mystery held the world in the nineteenth, as it had done in the first century. To Alice alone did the representation appear absurd, grotesque; her clear mind forced her to deny God’s presence in a drama, so obviously one of human invention. The stuffed ox and ass were irresistibly comic, but knowing that Cecilia’s wistful brown eyes were fixed upon her, she bit her lips and avoided a smile.

Soon after, a distribution of prizes began. At the end of the room next the stage, a nun stood, holding a large book like a ledger in her hands, and in the midst of a profound silence, she read out: “Miss Alice Barton not having taken part in the studies of the year, we are unable to award her any one of our ordinary prizes, but for the beautiful play of ‘King C'ophetua,’ performed before you all to-day, the Reverend Mother and the Bishop of the Diocese present her with the entire works of Dr. Newman, and for the great example she has always set, by conduct and precept, during the long years she has been with us, she is likewise awarded the blue ribbon.”

The ribbon had been looked upon by everyone from the first as a certainty; but a special prize, given by the Reverend Mother and the Bishop, was so utterly without precedent in the convent-annals, that the announcement called forth the enthusiasm with which the victory of a favourite general is hailed. Among the girls there was not a pair of hands nor lips still, and as Alice walked back to her place, bearing with her as much as she could carry of the illustrious cardinal’s works, her companions leaned forward to congratulate her. All the way down the line fragments of phrases were heard: “Oh I Alice, I am so pleased, I am sure you deserve it, I know you deserve it?” Cecilia could say nothing, she could only look with delight through the bright tears of pleasure that filled her eyes.

After this unexpected excitement, the distribution of the rest of the prizes went, necessarily, a little flat: but the Galway girls were uncommonly successful. Violet received a prize for French, May obtained one for Ancient History, Cecilia was awarded a blue ribbon for good conduct, and a book for English composition. In the general happiness, the poor bench-warmers, as the girls who obtained neither books nor ribbons were called, were forgotten. The heavy features of the parents rippled with household smiles, and they watched with delight the delicate features of their children growing grave, as they knelt before the benign Bishop to receive their rewards. In every lull of applause the unctuous voices of the priests were heard chiming: “I am sure she is a good girl. Now, do you not think she gives them a little trouble at home afterwards?”

Then there was benediction in the convent-church. A real young-girls’ church: trim, delicate pillars rising like uplifted arms, arches gracefully turned as adolescent bosoms, an altar fanciful and light coloured as a toilet-table. And when the last sigh of the organ died in the stillness, and the Bishop turned the host to his white-robed congregation, from the bent heads white veils fell pendulously — immovable as the draperies of the plaster angels that bowed in the niches.

This brought the business of the day to a close, and when the clock struck six the convent had assumed its customary aspect of peace and refinement. All leave-takings were over for the day; and only those who were to spend their vacation at St. Leonards, and the Irish girls — who did not start for home till the following morning — remained. These were again talking among themselves, watching, without seeing, the fishing-boats scattered over the rippling sea. The brown sails were now filled with the glories of the sunset; the air was full of languor and sorrow, and the evening had all the mystic charm of the corpse of a fragile maiden poetised by the ravages of a long malady, perfumed and prepared, according to some antique rite, for a jewel-bespangled bier; eyelids and cheeks painted, hands set in sculptured poses — the finger-nails tinted with rose. Cloud draperies, striped with orange and garnished with crimson fringes, trailed as the pageant moved; and overhead the firmamental blue was stretched like a pall of turquoise-tinted silk. From the deeps of the sky the music of colour was chanted, and delicious but inaudible harmonies vibrated through the golden soul of the twilight. Soft and low and melancholy came the strain — it was the music of death, and the dark clouds that waited on either side, were as processional priestesses who, advancing, struck their lyres at each solemn step.

“And to think,” said Alice, “that this is the very last evening we shall ever pass here!”

“I don’t see why you should be so very sorry for that,” replied May, “I should have thought that you must have had enough of the place; why, you have been here nearly ten years I I never would have consented to remain so long as that.”

“ I did not mind — we have been very happy here, and to say good-bye, and for ever, to friends we have known so long, and who have been so good to us, seems very sad — at least, it does to me.”

“It is all very well for you,” said Olive, “I daresay you have been happy here, you have always been the petted and spoilt child of the school. Nothing was ever too good for Alice; no matter who was wrong or what was done, Alice was sure to be right.”

“I never knew anyone so unreasonable,” said Cecilia. “You grumble at everything, and you are always dying of jealousy of your sister.”

“That’s not true, and you haven’t much to talk of; after beating your brains out, you only just got the prize for composition. Besides, if you like the convent as much as I daresay you do, although you aren’t a Catholic, you had better stop here with my sister.”

“Oh I Olive, how can you speak to Cecilia in that horrid way? I am ashamed of you.”

“So you are going to turn against me, Alice; but that’s your way — I shan’t stay here.”

And in the pale light, the retreating figure of the young girl stood out in beautiful distinctness. Behind her the soft evening swept the sea, effacing with azure the brown sails of the fishing-boats; in front of her the dresses of the girls flitted white through the sombre green of the garden.

“I am sorry,” said Cecilia, “you spoke to her. She is put out because she didn’t get a prize, and Sister Agnes told her that she nearly spoilt the play by the stupid way she played the Princess.”

“She will find that that temper of hers -will stand in her way if she does not learn to control it,” said Violet; “but, now that she is gone, tell me, Alice, how do you think she played her part? As far as I can judge, she didn’t seem to put any life into it. You meant the Princess to be a sharp, cunning woman of the world, didn’t you?”

“No, not exactly; I can’t describe my idea very well: but I agree with you that Olive didn’t put life into it.”

“Well, anyhow, the play was a great success, and you got, dear Alice, the handsomest prize that has ever been given in the school.”

“And how do you think I did the King; did I make him look like a man? I tried to walk just as Mr. Scully does when he goes down to the stables.”

“You did the part very well, May; but I think I should like him to have been more sentimental.”

“I don’t think men are sentimental — at least, not as you think they are. I tried to copy Mr. Scully.”

“My part was a mere nothing. You must write me a something, Alice, one of these days; a coquettish girl, you know, who could twist a man round her fingers: a lot of bavardage in it.”

“I suppose you’ll never be able to speak English again, now you've got the prize for French conversation.”

“Sour grapes! — you would like to have got it yourself. I worked hard for it, I was determined to get it; for ma says it is of great advantage in society for a girl to speak French well. You are a bit jealous.”

“Jealous! I should like to know why I should be jealous. Of what? I got all I tried for. Beside, the truth about your French prize is, that you may consider yourself very fortunate, for if (she mentioned the name of one of her schoolfellows) had not been so shy and timid you would have come off second-best.”

The rudeness of this retort drew a sharp answer from Violet, and then, in turn, but more often simultaneously, the girls discussed the justice of the distribution. The names of an number girls were mentioned, but when, in the babbling flow of convent-gossip, a favourite nun was spoken of, one of the chatterers would sigh, and for a moment be silent, absorbed by a sorrow as fragile and as lustral as the splendours that were fading, that were slowly moving away. The violet waters of the bay had darkened; and, like the separating banners of a homeward-moving procession, the colours of the sky went east and west. The girdle of rubies had melted, had become the pale red lining of a falling mantle; the large spaces of gold grew dim; orange and yellow streamers blended; lilac and blue pennons faded to deep greys; dark hoods and dark veils were drawn closer, purple was gathered like garments about the loins, and the night fell. The sky, now decorated with a crescent moon and a few stars, was filled with stillness and adoration; the day’s death was exquisite, oven human; and as she gazed on the beautiful corpse lowered amid the fumes of a thousand censers into the under-world, even Violet’s egotism began to dream.

“The evening is lovely; I am glad; it is the last we shall pass here,” said the girl, pensively, “and all good-byes are sad.”

“Yes, we have been happy,” said May, “and I too am sorry to leave, but then we couldn’t spend our lives here. There are plenty of things to be done at home; and I suppose we shall all get married one of these days? And there will be balls and parties before we get married. I don’t think that I’d care to get married all at once; would you, Violet?”

“I don’t know, perhaps not, unless it was to someone very grand indeed.”

“ Oh, would you do that? I don’t think I could marry a man unless I loved him,” said May.

“Yes, but you might love someone who was very grand as well as someone who wasn’t.”

“ That’s true enough — but then —” and May stopped, striving to readjust her ideas, which Violet’s remark had suddenly disarranged. After a pause she said:

“But does your mother intend to bring you to Dublin for the season? Are you going to be presented this year?”

“I hope so; mamma said I should be, last vacation.”

“I shall take good care that I am; the best part of the hunting will be over, and I wouldn’t miss the Castle balls for anything. Do you like officers?”

The crudity of the question startled Alice, and it was with difficulty she answered she didn’t know — that she had not thought about the matter. As she spoke she felt Cecilia’s hand press hers more closely. The poor girl knew that, at least for her, the world had neither marriage nor pleasure to give; and that she was leaving the only place where she could find love — shelter from scornful pity.

But, unconscious of the pain they were giving, May and Violet continued the conversation; and over the lingering waste of yellow, all that remained to tell where the sun had set, the night fell like a heavy, blinding dust, sadly, and regretfully, as the last handful of earth thrown upon a young girl’s grave.