|ONCE more my Lady is alone, except for her companion-thoughts, which
are, however, no longer of a distressing nature. The reconcilement of
her boys has gladdened her to the core: she thinks, she trusts at least,
that the truce will be a lasting peace. As for Letty, she is all that
a mother's heart could wish her to be. If much is lost to my Lady,
surely much remains. With the Poor, one misery is removed only to bring
another into greater prominence; but with the Rich, this is not so. Only
let the disease be cured, or the quarrel be made up, which is at present
vexing them, and all, for a time at least, is sunshine. Even not to be
cold, not to be hungry, is something; and not to have to take thought
of the morrow is a great deal. From her warm and curtained chamber, Lady
Lisgard looks forth into the night. The snow falls as fast as ever,
now straight, now aslant, now whirled in circular eddies by the bitter
north. Through its thick and shifting veil, she can scarcely see the
old church-tower of Mirk, though it stands close by within the very
garden-grounds of the Abbey; nor the windmill which crowns Mirkland
Hill, and on moonlit nights stands up so clear against the sky, a beacon
to all the country round. It was weather which those who are armed
against it call “Seasonable;” and some of the tender sex, who have
a fire lit in their rooms before they rise, and go out in seal-skin, and
travel with foot-warmers, even go so far as to call “Delightful.”
At all events, it is such as is pleasant to watch from within for a
few moments, and then to return to one's fireside with enhanced
satisfaction.
There are merry-makings in the kitchen to-night, as befits the season,
and my Lady's maid has been enjoined not to hurry herself. Her
mistress is beginning to unrobe, without her assistance, but very
leisurely. She unclasps one warm and sparkling jewel from her arm, and
gazes thoughtfully, but far from sadly, upon the picture that is hid
within it. It is the miniature of a handsome man past middle age,
attired in a blue coat and gold buttons; what persons of my Lady's age
would call a decidedly old-fashioned portrait; but it is the likeness
of Sir Robert as her bridegroom. “What a good, kind husband he was,”
thinks she. “How he loved me, and loaded me with favours; how much
he overlooked, how much he forgot--of which others know nothing--for
my sake. How terrible would it be to feel that one had not done one's
poor duty in return for so much love. Thank Heaven, I feel free from
any such charge. If I had not love--that is, first love--to give him
in exchange, I gave him all I had. I gave him genuine affection,
esteem--worship. Everybody knows that; and what is better, my own heart
knows it. It never beat with truer fealty towards him than it beats
to-night. God knows. I live for his children only. What a fine noble boy
is Richard grown; surely, to look upon him, and to say to one's self:
'This is my son,' should be happiness enough for any mother. True,
he is proud; but has he not something to be proud of? He, Sir Richard,
and one of those Lisgards who have ruled at Mirk for twelve generations.
(Here a quiet smile stole over my Lady's features.) They said with
reason at those _tableaux_ at the Vanes, that with that helmet on he was
the image of young Sir Maurice, who died at Edgehill with the colours
twisted round him. I wonder if it was his poor mother who had her dead
boy painted so. 'Tis certain that she thought: 'Ah, were he but
alive, there would be no such thing as sorrow more for me.' Yet here
I have him. Ah (here she grew as pale as death), why did _I_ ever let my
Walter be a soldier? What weakness to give way--to the very peril of him
for whom I was so weak! He would have gone to the wars themselves
but for good Dr Haldane, through whom (thanks to the Duke) he was not
gazetted to the corps he had applied for. Why did he not choose the bar,
like his elder brother? How he would have moved men's hearts to mercy
with that winning tongue! Or why did he not become God's messenger--I
am sure he has an angel's face--and carry the news those bells are
telling of to shipwrecked souls? Oftentimes, when, as a child, he knelt
beside me to say his prayers, his very looks have seemed to make the
action more sacred. Goodness seemed better worth when he was praying for
it, and heaven no home for saints unless he shared it! God grant he may
grow up a good man!
“Then Letty, too--what mother's wealth must I possess since that
sweet girl is not the chief of it, the central jewel of my crown? When
matched with others of her age--with this Rose Aynton, for example--how
bright and fair she shews! Not but that Rose is a good girl,
doubtless; accomplished, too, beyond her years, and far beyond her
opportunities--she sparkles like a crystal cut in ten thousand facets;
but my own Letty is the flawless diamond, bright and pure as light
itself. What blessings are these three! May Heaven keep them always as
I deem them now. I wish my Walter were a little less impulsive; but the
darling boy is young. As for dear Richard, I have no fears for him. The
proud lad will find some noble helpmate, meet to----Great Heaven! what
is that?”
A burst of melody without fell suddenly upon the midnight air, and at
the same moment the chamber-door opened to the touch of Mistress Forest,
her Ladyship's confidential maid. “I beg your pardon, my Lady, if I
startled you; but I knocked twice, and could not make you hear.”
“It was not you, Mary, that startled me,” returned Lady Lisgard;
“it was the sudden music. The Christmas Waits, as I suppose?”
“Yes, my Lady. They came up from the village a little while ago,
and have been staying in the servants-hall for the clock to strike
twelve.”
“I trust they have all had supper?”
“You may be sure of that, my Lady. Mrs Welsh is as openhanded (with
your Ladyship's property) as any cook in the county; nor is
George Steve a likely man to sit thirsty while he sees others drink.
One would think that a public-housekeeper should have drinking enough at
home; but--pardon, my Lady--I am making complaints which, however
just, I know you dislike to hear, and, besides, I am interrupting the
carol.”
Earthly friends will change and falter,
Earthly hearts will vary;
He is born that cannot alter,
Of the Virgin Mary.
Born to-day--
Raise the lay;
Born to-day--
Twine the bay.
Jesus Christ is born to suffer,
Born for you--born for you;
Holly, strew:
Jesus Christ was born to conquer,
Born to save--born to save;
Laurel, wave:
Jesus Christ was born to govern,
Born a king--born a king;
Bay-wreaths, bring:
Jesus Christ was born of Mary,
Born for all. Well befall Hearth and Hall.
Here the manly but not unmelodious voices exchanged their verse for
prose, if Christmas good-wishes can be said to be mere prose. “A merry
Christmas and a happy New Year to your Ladyship, and many on 'em!”
Lady Lisgard moved to the window with a smile, and drawing the curtain
aside, threw up the sash. On the white lawn beneath, stood five dark
figures, bearing various instruments of music, and one a huge horn
lantern, the light of which glinted upon the laurels. It was impossible
to recognise the features of the rest, as they stood, cap in hand,
notwithstanding the still driving snow, awaiting her Ladyship's reply;
but she addressed them each by name nevertheless.
“Mr Steve, I thank you kindly. Henry Ash, I am glad to find you in
good voice again. John Lewis and Peter Stone--if I am not mistaken.
Neighbours and friends all, I thank you very much. But it is a cold
night for caroling, and I hope you have been taken care of within. A
merry Christmas to you and a happy New Year.” There was a tremor in my
Lady's voice, although she spoke with such particularity, which shewed
how deeply she was moved.
“God bless your Ladyship,” returned the voices, disorderly as
to unison, but each one of itself distinct and clear as
file-firing.--“God bless Sir Richard, and send him a fair bride.--God
bless Master Walter's handsome face.--God bless Miss Letty.”
Lady Lisgard closed the window, but as she did so, dropped the heavy
curtain between herself and the lighted chamber, so that she could still
look out, but without being seen. The curtain, too, cut her off from the
observation of her maid within. “Who is the fifth man that bears the
lantern, Mary?” asked her Ladyship in a tone of carelessness very
unsuited to the expression of her face, which all in a moment had grown
pinched and terror-stricken, as though it hungered for some reply that
it yet dreaded to hear.
“Nobody as you know, my Lady--nor indeed as _I_ know, for the matter
of that. He's a stranger in these parts, who's putting up at the
_Lisgard Arms_. He only came for a few days last week, walking across
the country for all the world like a pedler--a way he says he learned in
foreign parts; but Steve with his odd ways has taken his fancy, so that
he stays on. A very well-spoken sort of person he is too, although the
sea, it seems, has been his calling, which is a rough trade. However, he
has made it answer--according at least to Mr Steve. Any way, he flings
his money about free enough, and indeed is what _I_ call rather too fond
of treating folks. He is good company himself, they say, and a favourite
with everybody he comes across, which is a very dangerous thing--that
is,” added Mistress Forest, correcting herself, “unless one is a
gentleman, like handsome Master Walter.”
“You don't--remember--this--this person's name, Mary, do you?”
asked Lady Lisgard.
“No, strange to say, I don't, my Lady; although but a moment ago it
was on the tip of my tongue. It is something like Hathaway.” A trace
of colour once more returns to my Lady's cheek, and her breath, which,
by reason perhaps of the confined space in which she stands, has seemed
to be stifled during the narration of her maid, now comes and goes with
a little less of effort.
“That is his voice, I reckon, my Lady--yes, I thought so--and the new
carol which he has been teaching the choir.”
O'er the hill and o'er the vale
Come three kings together,
Caring nought for snow and hail,
Cold, and wind, and weather;
Now on Persia's sandy plains,
Now where Tigris swells with rains,
They their camels tether.
Now through Syrian lands they go,
Now through Moab, faint and slow,
Now o'er Edom's heather.
“Ah, now I've got it, my Lady,” cried Mistress Forest
triumphantly. “It isn't Hathaway. He's the man they were talking
of in the servants-hall as has just bought the windmill of old Daniels,
and that was how I confused them. The stranger's name is Derrick--a
Mr Derrick.”
My Lady's dimpled hand flew to her heart, and would have pressed
against it had she had any strength to do so. Her limbs, however, were
nerveless, and shook as if she had the ague. But for the window-seat,
she must have dropped; and as it was, leaned, huddled up against it, a
shapeless form, decked in gray satin and pearls indeed, but as unlike
my Lady as those poor wretches whom we strangle for a show are unlike
themselves, who seem to lose, the instant that the fatal bolt is drawn,
all fellowship with the human, and become mere bundles of clothes. The
drop had fallen, and without warning, from under Lady Lisgard's feet,
but unhappily the victim was conscious, and not dead.