My Lady Clancarty

At her feet the lawn was close clipped and green; beyond was a garland of many colors, roses by hundreds and tens of hundreds, the warmth and glow of the sun upon them; behind them, the long avenue of limes and beeches, and between the trees vistas of level land with the deer moving to and fro.

The butterflies—a little host of them—whirled under the window, and her ladyship smiled.

“Come, Alice,” she said, “’tis too fair a day to linger indoors. Bring your lute, girl, and we’ll sing one of those dear Irish ballads where none may hear it, to carp and scold,—none, indeed, but the rooks and butterflies, or perchance the roses. What sayst thou, Alice, may not a rose hear sweet sounds when it exhales such sweet perfume?”

“I know not, madam,” replied her handmaid soberly, as she laid aside her needlework and reached for her lute; “but sometimes, truly, I think ’twould be well if ears were fewer in this world.”

“Ay, or tongues more gentle,” assented Lady Betty laughing, as she stepped out of the window to the lawn, followed by her attendant.

Both were young girls, but youth and the rosy comeliness of youth sat more lightly on the handmaid Alice, whose simple face and figure suggested nothing more subtle than the virtue and homely wisdom of a country girl. It was quite different with Lady Betty Clancarty, the daughter of the Earl of Sunderland and the maiden wife of an Irish peer. There was a slight pensiveness to her beauty, for beautiful she was; yet there were times when the gayety of a vivacious spirit broke through all restraints, and she was the light-hearted, witty girl that nature had intended her to be. Her eyes—beautiful eyes they were, too,—were large, clear and sparkling with spirit, and the soft tints of her complexion and the glossy waves of her dark hair combined to make a charming picture, far more human and bewitching, indeed, than her own portrait from the brush of Lely, hanging in the great gallery at Althorpe. The pensiveness of her expression showed only when her face was in repose; when she smiled the sun shone through the cloud. Her figure was gracefully tall in its gown of white dimity flowered with pink, the neck dressed open with falls of lace, and the full sleeves loose and flowing at the elbow.

She moved lightly and swiftly across the lawn, one white hand resting on the shoulder of her handmaid, who was shorter and fuller in outline than her mistress. Though their stations were thus widely sundered, a frank girlish friendship existed between them, and Lady Betty had few secrets that were not shared by Alice Lynn. They had grown up in the same household; the one child waiting on the other on all state occasions, but usually her playmate, after the fashion of those days when the feudal tie of lord and vassal still bound old servants and their descendants to their masters. The ancestors of Alice Lynn had borne the banner of the Despencers in many a bloody field; she came of good yeoman stock, worthy of honor and trust, and she was single-hearted in her devotion to Lady Clancarty. They made a charming picture, walking through winding paths and talking freely, with little reference to their respective stations in the great world beyond Althorpe.

“Ah, the roses,” Lady Betty said, “I know not whether I love them best in their first budding or in their prime, or when the last few pale blossoms struggle to unfold under wintry skies, like our poor hearts, Alice, that need to be warmed by the sunshine of prosperous love. Mine should have shrivelled up long ago—like an old dried leaf. But it has not,” she added, smiling and laying her hand on her bosom; “I feel it—it throbs—it is warm and strong and whole, Alice, and yet—I am a wife and, for aught I know, a widow too!”