"No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days; your grace is too costly to wear every day."

But, fearing that she has been guilty of an impertinence, she gently though still pertly excuses herself:--

"But I beseech your grace, pardon me; I was born to speak all mirth, and no matter."

"Out of question you were born in a merry hour!"

"No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but, then, there was a star danced, and under that was I born."

"By my troth!" exclaims the Prince, wholly charmed, "a pleasant-spirited lady!"

Which was the opinion of all, both on the stage and off. Esther seemed to have forgotten the danger she had run, the emotion she had experienced; or, rather, this danger and emotion lent to her eyes and voice a lively, incisive charm of gayety and extraordinary audacity. She was the very embodiment of that wit "quick as the greyhound's mouth,"

which forms the motive of the play. The quips and cranks of the poet seemed born upon her lips with the freedom and supreme grace of improvisation, and if here and there there occur certain rather weak or coa.r.s.e sallies, she allowed the audience no time to perceive them. It was a rain, a very hail-storm which fell upon the heads of Bened.i.c.k, Leonato, and Don Pedro, mixed with blinding lightning. With a glance of the eye she addressed her most trenchant words to Mowbray, whom she descried standing at the back of the Prince of Wales's chair. But it was surely no longer against him that she defended herself, since she felt herself a.s.sailed by every one in the theatre. She pitted herself against the game with elation. She no longer played a part, but was herself; she was no exceptional creature, but a young English girl of all times, who accosts love with a mocking air, though with a beating heart, with defiance upon her lips, backed by a pretty, mutinous insolence and a belligerent effervescence of words. Upon this battlefield of love, like her brothers in veritable combats, she had no wish to bite the dust.

Though vanquished, she knows it not.

There was a genuine sigh, a shudder throughout the auditorium, when Beatrice, deceived by stratagem and thrown off her guard, bows her head and gives vent to those charming words:--

"'Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!'"

Fate is a strange manipulator of effects! At the moment that she raised her eyes her glance met that of a young man who stood at the back of the _parterre_, pallid with emotion; it was Francis Monday! Then they saw their Beatrice wholly transformed; moved, vibrant, saddened. How well she understood the grief of her cousin Hero, unjustly suspected by her bethrothed! Now that she loved, how swiftly her heart divined and sympathized with the pangs of love! With what a burst of pity, sympathy, and feminine heroism she cried:--

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"'Oh, that I were a man for his sake! or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie, and swears it.--I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.'"

Then with a short sob she fell upon a chair. Suffering and joy,--she had traversed the whole domain o'er which woman reigns. Those tears consecrated the defeat of Beatrice, the triumph of Esther.

The audience burst into rapturous applause, and when the play was over the young actress was informed that his Majesty desired to see her.

Thereupon she was conducted to the royal box, or, rather, to the reception room which adjoined it. The gentlemen-in-waiting made way for her, and in the s.p.a.ce left vacant, the cynosure of every eye, the young girl paused for a moment confused.

"Approach, Miss Woodville," said her Majesty with that German accent which has been the b.u.t.t of so many pleasantries.

Esther advanced a step or two, and then sank in a profound courtesy.

"Ah! ah! Miss Woodville. Charmed to see you and to congratulate you!"

It was the king who spoke. He came to her with that inimitable gait, upon which the circus-clowns of the day wasted study and art in their attempts to reproduce it, but which in his Majesty was natural. He held his body bent like a half-moon, the back arched, the legs down to the knees pressed close together, and the feet wide apart. Being upon the point of leaving the theatre before the little piece which terminated the performance, he already held his gloves in one hand, his cane in the other, and his hat under his arm. Upon reaching the spot where Esther stood he let fall his gloves. She stooped to pick them up, while he, wishing to spare her the exertion, dropped his cane; quickly seizing it, he lost his hold upon his hat. Thereupon ensued a moment of confusion, which the queen, in an attempt to abridge, made use of by addressing a compliment to the young artist.

"You are Garrick's last pupil, I believe," she said, "and perhaps his best. He would have been happy indeed to have heard you this evening."

"Eh? what? Garrick?" gasped his Majesty. "Oh, certainly, certainly! She plays remarkably well. I'm a judge myself: I too have played in comedy--comedy and tragedy. I used to do Addison's 'Cato,' and not half badly, they said. But of course one always says that to a prince. Have you seen 'Cato,' Miss Woodville?"

"Never, sire."

"Ah, but it is a fine play! And the tirade, the famous tirade, you know!"

And he began to declaim, floundering for words. Again her Majesty interrupted him, although with every demonstration of respect.

"Does not your Majesty find that Miss Woodville speaks her Shakespeare marvellously well?"

"Eh? what? Shakespeare? Of course!--You love Shakespeare, do you not?"

"Oh, yes, sire, with all my heart!"

"That's right; so do I. Nevertheless he has his stupid absurdities. Sad rubbish, some of it. Persons generally would not venture to admit that they thought so, but I say it because I say whatever comes into my mind.

I don't care particularly for the French, but I am forced to acknowledge that their plays are the n.o.blest, most decorous and normal extant. We also have good authors, such as Coleman, for instance, or Mr. Home, who wrote 'Dougla.s.s.' The whole action of the play pa.s.ses in twenty-four hours and in one and the same place. Certain scenes take place in the castle, others before the castle, and still others behind the castle; but, in a word, the castle is always there to preserve the unity. That makes you laugh, young woman!"

In fact, the king himself laughed too.

"All the same," he concluded in a paternal tone, "you play like an angel!"

"_Au revoir_, Miss Woodville," said the queen; "I take it your Majesty wishes to be going."

The audience was at an end, and after a second courtesy Esther backed herself out of the presence. Upon the threshold her glance met that of Lord Mowbray, and she thought that upon his arm she might penetrate this grand world, not as she had just done, for a few moments, but forever,--forever to hold her place and rank in the charmed circle!

CHAPTER X.

DEATH TO THE PAPISTS.

There was ever the same contrast between the component parts of Esther's dual existence: after fairyland the humble, prosaic existence. A few days after that triumphal evening Esther found herself alone at the end of the garden, embroidery in hand. The little terrace upon which she had seated herself was enclosed by a breast-high wall. Above this wall a trellis covered with vines and climbing plants would have formed on that side an impenetrable screen, had not large oval apertures been managed whence a view of the surrounding country could be secured. Laying her work aside, Esther leaned upon her elbows and took a survey of Tothill Fields, where several groups of men ran hither and thither with cries, playing at bowls and football. In the distance a gray veil glimmered above the river, which, though invisible, could easily be traced. Behind the roofs of Chelsea Hospital undulated the verdant ma.s.ses of Battersea Park. To the right, above the old clock tower of Kensington, the westering sun was sinking tranquilly to rest. A few yards away a band of gypsies had encamped for the night. The half-naked children played in the sun, while the women were hanging out their linen to dry. The old men, immovable as statues, crouched in the shade, smoked their pipes, keeping their eyes on their unharnessed horses, which browsed upon the spa.r.s.e herbage.

One of the gypsy women wandered near the terrace, and with a smile slowly approached Esther. Tall, well-built, with a flat, sun-burned face, glossy black hair, and bold, piercing eyes of a strange fixity of glance, and conspicuous by the utter absence of soul in their depths, she regarded Esther with a curious scrutiny. She leaned her back against the dry trunk of an old willow and balanced herself, not without a certain savage grace, which displayed her muscular limbs to advantage beneath the rags which covered them.

"A fine day," said she, "for such as cherish love in their hearts."

"Love! Nonsense!" sneered Esther.

"She who speaks thus is generally caught in the toils."

"Can you tell fortunes?"

"Give me your hand and you shall see."

"Oh, yes, I know you; you gypsies are all alike. For sixpence you announce the love of a city clerk; for a shilling, it is a gentleman; for half a crown, a lord; were one to give you a goldpiece, it would be a prince!"

"What would you say," said the woman roughly, "were I to tell your fortune for nothing? Only beware: I shall tell it, good or bad!--Ah! you start. You _do_ believe!"

"Here is my hand," said Esther, moved despite herself.

But stretch and lengthen her arm as she would, her hand only reached the gypsy's eyes.

"Wait!" she cried, and, running lightly round to a little postern gate, she threw it open, and found herself face to face with the stranger, who for some moments held the white, tapering fingers in her great, strong, brown hand.