CHAPTER XXVI

Light foot to press the stirrup,In fearlessness and glee,Or dance till finches chirrup,And stars sink in the sea.

Light foot to press the stirrup,

In fearlessness and glee,

Or dance till finches chirrup,

And stars sink in the sea.

cory johnstone.

ONE day you might have seen Clare sitting with Miss Hippesley in the drawing-room.

The dusk was falling, and the great limbs of the elms in St. James’ Park stood leafless and black against the sombre twilight. Flocks of white seagulls circled among them. It was a world of black, and white, and grey.

Only within doors was comfort. The lamps had not yet been lit, but the fire, burning those rainbow logs of old ships’ wood, filled the room with chequered light and dancing shadows.

“Will you tell me about Lady Crosbie?” said Clare. “I know she is a friend of yours.”

“Then you must come with me to Drayton,”said Miss Hippesley, “for that was her home. But were I able to transport you there in spirit, I would have to get Mrs. Gladwell to speak to you. She could tell you even more about Lady Crosbie than I.”

“Who is Mrs. Gladwell?”

“She was the steward’s wife, and knew the family since the children were quite small, for she had been second nurse there. She left as they grew up, and she married; but her husband proved an idle fellow, living on his wife’s earnings; and gradually she came to be the hard-worked servant in a London lodging-house. Her health broke down, and being left a widow, she wrote to the eldest Miss Sackville, telling her case. And Miss Sackville, having kindly memories of her, got her placed in one of the lodges. And later she married Gladwell the steward, and became housekeeper at Drayton Hall.”

Miss Hippesley narrowed her eyes in her characteristic manner which you may see delineated in her portrait. She sat quietly, looking steadfastly before her.

“I will see if I cannot paint a picture in words for you, Clare, that may bring Diana Crosbie before you.”

Clare watched the firelight glimmering on thegold of the picture-frames. She was unwilling to break the silence, for her companion was evidently deep in thought.

Presently, however, Miss Hippesley spoke.

“I see a room whose windows look out upon a lawn shaded by cedar-trees. A woman sits within in a white mob cap with a cherry ribbon on it, dressed in a mulberry-coloured gown. The room is the steward’s room at Drayton, and though the chintz on the sofa is worn and the wall-paper here and there has faded, yet the ladder-backed chairs and the stout mahogany table give character and dignity to the room. There is an appearance of great comfort; a winged chair is drawn to the fire-place, and a kettle sings upon the hob. The woman is reading a letter.

“It is one written by Miss Sackville, the elder sister of Diana. The lines are penned in a tall, slender handwriting on thick paper, sealed. They had no envelopes in those days; a letter was written on a broad sheet, folded upon itself.

“There will be allusions, Clare, in this letter to names unknown to you. Yet this is not surprising when you remember that it is a letter two hundred years old.

Reynolds.LADY CROSBIE

LADY CROSBIE

“‘ToMrs. Gladwell,AtLord Viscount Sackville,Drayton,Near Thrapston,Northamptonshire.

“‘ToMrs. Gladwell,

AtLord Viscount Sackville,

Drayton,

Near Thrapston,

Northamptonshire.

“‘Dear Mrs. Gladwell,—I had the pleasure of seeing Charles a little while ago, who told me that you were quite well and looked very happy, which I was exceedingly glad to hear. He says you are grown a prodigious buck in your dress, that you have got quite a youthful bloom on your cheeks, and are the picture of health and content. I am sure you deserve to be so to compensate for the many years of misery which you drudged on in those horrid rooms in Pall Mall; and if you feel like me, you will never wish to see them or anything else in thatcursedtown of London as long as you live. I heard from Di lately. She had been at Lady Grandison’s and seen Nurse Porter, who, she says, has not a wish ungratified but of seeing Betty Love, whom she quite raves about.“‘Di is to return to Lord Grandison’s at Christmas, where she is to meet all the best company from Dublin, and to live in a continual train of amusement. She is so popular in Kerry that when she goes to a play that is acted by strolling players atTralee, the whole house rings with applause at her entrance, and she is obliged to curtsey her thanks like a queen. Remember me to Molly Thomas, and believe me, your sincere friend,“‘C. Sackville.’

“‘Di is to return to Lord Grandison’s at Christmas, where she is to meet all the best company from Dublin, and to live in a continual train of amusement. She is so popular in Kerry that when she goes to a play that is acted by strolling players atTralee, the whole house rings with applause at her entrance, and she is obliged to curtsey her thanks like a queen. Remember me to Molly Thomas, and believe me, your sincere friend,

“‘C. Sackville.’

“The woman in the mulberry-coloured dress closes the letter. It has set in movement before her inward eye a train of images, pictures of past years.

“She sees a child of four years old running to meet her. The hair curls abundantly, the cheeks are delicately pink, the curved lips smiling. In both hands she brings treasures—bright spindle berries heaped together, crimson and orange, in her little hands.

“And the woman hears her glad voice calling: ‘Look, Ellen! corals like Di’s necklace! corals growing on trees!’

“The memory passes, and she sees another scene. The room is darkened; she is sitting by a bed. A child lies on it, tossing restlessly, and all the pretty hair has been cut off. She hears a fretful voice say repeatedly, ‘Sing, Ellen; Ellen, sing.’ And softly, over and over again until weary, she hears herself singing an old ballad to the child:—

“‘London Bridge is broken down,Dance over my lady lea;London Bridge is broken downWith a gay lady.How shall we build it up again?Dance over my lady lea;How shall we build it up again?With a gay lady.Wood and clay will wash away,Dance over my lady lea;Wood and clay will wash awayWith a gay lady.Silver and gold will be stolen away,Dance over my lady lea;Silver and gold will be stolen awayWith a gay lady.Build it up with stone so strong,Dance over my lady lea;And then it will last for ages longWith a gay lady.’

“‘London Bridge is broken down,Dance over my lady lea;London Bridge is broken downWith a gay lady.

“‘London Bridge is broken down,

Dance over my lady lea;

London Bridge is broken down

With a gay lady.

How shall we build it up again?Dance over my lady lea;How shall we build it up again?With a gay lady.

How shall we build it up again?

Dance over my lady lea;

How shall we build it up again?

With a gay lady.

Wood and clay will wash away,Dance over my lady lea;Wood and clay will wash awayWith a gay lady.

Wood and clay will wash away,

Dance over my lady lea;

Wood and clay will wash away

With a gay lady.

Silver and gold will be stolen away,Dance over my lady lea;Silver and gold will be stolen awayWith a gay lady.

Silver and gold will be stolen away,

Dance over my lady lea;

Silver and gold will be stolen away

With a gay lady.

Build it up with stone so strong,Dance over my lady lea;And then it will last for ages longWith a gay lady.’

Build it up with stone so strong,

Dance over my lady lea;

And then it will last for ages long

With a gay lady.’

“Her voice, set low for the sick-room, repeats the familiar lines. She dare not cease, for immediately the eyes are wide upon her, and she hears, ‘Sing, sing.’ And so she sings on till the little form shifts less restlessly, and the breathing grows longer and more profound.

“The fire dies down and the clock ticks on in a comfortable monotony. Then she rises, and, writing on a piece of paper, she slips it under the door. And after a while there is a quiet footstep in the passage, and she knows the child’s father is reading the message, ‘Miss Diana sleeps.’

“Again the past is built before her. She sees the large house lighted for a ball. There are garlands over the doors, holly and ivy deck the pictures, and everywhere the soft candlelight is shed on the dark and polished floors. Music streams through the brightly-lit rooms, and a brilliant company pass to and fro in silks and jewels.

“Mrs. Gladwell stands in the gallery, looking down on the gay scene. She sees a laughing company, a knot of some seven or eight, pass into the hall. The men wear their hair long and are dressed in colours, and in their midst moves Diana Sackville. She wears her hair over cushions, and pearls are threaded through the soft mass. She paces through the gavotte with head held high, poised like a flower, with laughing lips and gleeful eyes, her step light as thistledown; and though the violins are sounding their slender music, through it all the onlooker hears another melody—

“‘Silver and gold will be stolen awayDance over my lady lea;Silver and gold will be stolen awayWith a gay lady.’”

“‘Silver and gold will be stolen away

Dance over my lady lea;

Silver and gold will be stolen away

With a gay lady.’”

Miss Hippesley’s voice ceased, and Clare sat thinking. Still was she seeing in imagination that bright throng.

“But Diana shall speak for herself; this is a letter written by her to her father.” And Miss Hippesley opened as she spoke a broad paper. Though the ink was brown, you might readily see the tails of theg’s andd’s were all turned cheerfully, with a kink in them.

“‘My dear Father,—I have spent a week with a friend of yours at Edmomsbury, and been very much entertained there. Lord and Lady Buckingham have been obliging enough to give a ball on purpose for me at St. Woolstans, where I danced in great spirits, being now mighty well and able to enjoy, as usual, all amusements.“‘We had a good deal of company at Edmomsbury, and dear whist finished every evening. I had the long-wished-for happiness of driving a little cabriolet myself every morning, and am grown an excellent coachman.“‘I must inform you that your friend the Speaker, with all his outside gravity and demureness, is a jolly buck at bottom. He does not dislike the sight of a pretty woman, for such,entre nous, am I universally thought here, whatever I may be reckoned in England; but no prophet is a prophet in his own country.“‘I was much surprised as I was quietly seated one evening to feel myself pulled back in the chair by the shoulders, and, looking up, perceived it was the frisky Speaker’s doing, who vowed he had such an inclination to kiss me he could hardly withstand the longing he felt. Instead of looking grave, I burst out a-laughing, and indeed well I might when I saw that demure old face extended into a tender simper.“‘He afterwards confessed he repented not having gratified his kissing inclination, and assured me if I gave him any encouragement, he should certainly do it in spite of me.“‘Mrs. Perry was half inclined to look grave, and I to be much entertained.“‘Poor Sir John Irwin’s head is quite turned with his Mrs. Squib. He gets himself abused everywhere.“‘We talk of returning to England in a very short time. I confess, if it were not for seeing youall, I should feel sorry at leaving a place where I have been so well received, and am so well amused.“‘Adieu, my dear father. I shall direct this to Richmond, as my sisters do not mention your leaving that place yet.—Dutifully yours,“‘Diana Crosbie.’”

“‘We had a good deal of company at Edmomsbury, and dear whist finished every evening. I had the long-wished-for happiness of driving a little cabriolet myself every morning, and am grown an excellent coachman.

“‘I must inform you that your friend the Speaker, with all his outside gravity and demureness, is a jolly buck at bottom. He does not dislike the sight of a pretty woman, for such,entre nous, am I universally thought here, whatever I may be reckoned in England; but no prophet is a prophet in his own country.

“‘I was much surprised as I was quietly seated one evening to feel myself pulled back in the chair by the shoulders, and, looking up, perceived it was the frisky Speaker’s doing, who vowed he had such an inclination to kiss me he could hardly withstand the longing he felt. Instead of looking grave, I burst out a-laughing, and indeed well I might when I saw that demure old face extended into a tender simper.

“‘He afterwards confessed he repented not having gratified his kissing inclination, and assured me if I gave him any encouragement, he should certainly do it in spite of me.

“‘Mrs. Perry was half inclined to look grave, and I to be much entertained.

“‘Poor Sir John Irwin’s head is quite turned with his Mrs. Squib. He gets himself abused everywhere.

“‘We talk of returning to England in a very short time. I confess, if it were not for seeing youall, I should feel sorry at leaving a place where I have been so well received, and am so well amused.

“‘Adieu, my dear father. I shall direct this to Richmond, as my sisters do not mention your leaving that place yet.—Dutifully yours,

“‘Diana Crosbie.’”

Clare took the letter from Miss Hippesley’s hand. The notepaper, where it was not frayed, had a slender gold edging. Across the corner, written in the same round handwriting, were some lines added—

“The Duke of Leinster told somebody the other day that I was a dear, charming girl, and danced like an angel.”

That night as Clare was going to bed, she stood before Lady Crosbie’s picture. She noted the pearls in the hair, the laughing eyes, the flying grace of movement.

Had all this light-heartedness, all this beauty become (to borrow one of Mrs. Inchbald’s crisp sayings) long since dust and daisies?

“Not while this picture lasts,” thought Clare. “With this before us, Beauty, like stone-built London Bridge, may last for ages.”

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