I laughed. “Well, you must admit those laws are very arbitrary!”
“They are. I entirely acknowledge the fact!”
We sat down to table, and were waited upon by admirably-trained servants who apparently had no idea of anything else but attendance on our needs. There was no trace of bustle or excitement in the household,—no sign whatever to denote that a great entertainment was about to take place that day. It was not until the close of our meal that I asked Lucio what time the musicians would arrive. He glanced at his watch.
“About noon I should say,”—he replied—“Perhaps before. But whatever their hour, they will all be in their places at the proper moment, depend upon it. The people I employ—both musicians and ‘artistes’—know their business thoroughly, and are aware that I stand no nonsense.” A rather sinister smile played round his mouth as he regarded me. “None of your guests can arrive here till one o’clock,—as [p 262] that is about the time the special train will bring the first batch of them from London,—and the first ‘déjeuner’ will be served in the gardens at two. If you want to amuse yourself there’s a Maypole being put up on the large lawn,—you’d better go and look at it.”
“A Maypole!” I exclaimed—“Now that’s a good idea!”
“It used to be a good idea,”—he answered—“When English lads and lasses had youth, innocence, health and fun in their composition, a dance round the Maypole hand in hand, did them good and did nobody harm. But now there are no lads and lasses,—enervated old men and women in their teens walk the world wearily, speculating on the uses of life,—probing vice, and sneering down sentiment, and such innocent diversions as the Maypole no longer appeal to our jaded youth. So we have to get ‘professionals’ to execute the May-revels,—of course the dancing is better done by properly trained legs; but it means nothing, and is nothing, except a pretty spectacle.”
“And are the dancers here?” I asked, rising and going towards the window in some curiosity.
“No, not yet. But the May-pole is;—fully decorated. It faces the woods at the back of the house,—go and see if you like it.”
I followed his suggestion, and going in the direction indicated, I soon perceived the gaily-decked object which used to be the welcome signal of many a village holiday in Shakespeare’s old-world England. The pole was already set up and fixed in a deep socket in the ground, and a dozen or more men were at work, unbinding its numerous trails of blossom and garlands of green, tied with long streamers of vari-coloured ribbon. It had a picturesque effect in the centre of the wide lawn bordered with grand old trees,—and approaching one of the men, I said something to him by way of approval and admiration. He glanced at me furtively and unsmilingly, but said nothing,—and I concluded from his dark and foreign cast of features, that he did not understand [p 263] the English language. I noted, with some wonder and slight vexation that all the workmen were of this same alien and sinister type of countenance, very much after the unattractive models of Amiel and the two grooms who had my racer ‘Phosphor’ in charge. But I remembered what Lucio had told me,—namely, that all the designs for the fête were carried out by foreign experts and artists,—and after some puzzled consideration, I let the matter pass from my mind.
The morning hours flew swiftly by, and I had little time to examine all the festal preparations with which the gardens abounded,—so that I was almost as ignorant of what was in store for the amusement of my guests as the guests themselves. I had the curiosity to wait about and watch for the coming of the musicians and dancers, but I might as well have spared myself this waste of time and trouble, for I never saw them arrive at all. At one o’clock, both Lucio and I were ready to receive our company,—and at about twenty minutes past the hour, the first instalment of ‘swagger society’ was emptied into the grounds. Sibyl and her father were among these,—and I eagerly advanced to meet and greet my bride-elect as she alighted from the carriage that had brought her from the station. She looked supremely beautiful that day, and was, as she deserved to be, the cynosure of all eyes. I kissed her little gloved hand with a deeper reverence than I would have kissed the hand of a queen.