_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 the gold 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.
[Illustration: _Reynolds._ LADY CROSBIE]
“‘_To_ MRS. GLADWELL,
_At_ LORD 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 that _cursed_ town 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 at Tralee, 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 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_.
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 away
_With 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 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 the
_g_’s and _d_’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 you all, 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.”