“ROSEEN DHU”

LADY BETTY shaded her eyes with her hand and looked out on the rose garden of Althorpe.

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!”

“There be many wives who would fain be widows, I trow,” retorted Alice, bluntly, and Lady Betty laughed gayly and lightly, the sun shining in her lustrous eyes.

“Perchance I am happy, then, in not knowing my husband’s face,” she said; and added musingly, “a strange fate is mine, Alice, married at eleven and then separated forever from my husband by a gulf as wide as—as the infinite space; I know no stronger simile. Here am I, the daughter of a Whig peer, who is a counsellor of King William’s, and the sister of a burning Whig—for Spencer is on fire, I am sure—and yet I am the wife, the wedded wife, of an Irish rebel and Jacobite; an outlaw from his country and a stranger even to me. What a fate!” and she shook her head with a pensive air, though a smile lurked about her lips for, after all, she could not mourn the absence of an unknown spouse.

“’Twas wrong to marry a child of such tender years, my lady,” the handmaid said indignantly; “to tie you up—one of the loveliest women in England—to a—a—” she broke off confused, catching Lady Betty’s eye.

“A what, Alice?” the countess asked dryly; “ay, I know by your blushes and confusion that you have caught the contagion, that you believe with Lord Spencer that my husband is a consummate villain. But look you, my girl, if there is one thing above another that would make me love a man and take up his cause, it is to find him the object of senseless and bitter abuse. What of it if Clancarty has not sought me? how could he? Is he not banished from the kingdom, stripped of his estates, and denied even his most natural and sacred rights?” Lady Clancarty’s eyes sparkled with indignation. “What of it, if he is a Jacobite and a Papist? Is he the only man who has changed his faith? I trow not!—though I should be the last one to say it,” and she broke off, blushing crimson.

The thought of her own father’s apostasy, of his frequent political somersaults, overwhelmed her, and she recollected her own dignity in time to bridle her impulsive tongue.

Alice was too discreet to take up the argument; she stooped, instead, to gather some violets, and arranged them slowly and in silence. Lady Betty walked ahead of her to a little rustic seat, and sitting down held out her hand with an impatient gesture.

“Give hither the violets, Alice,” she said imperiously, “and sing me a song. I am in as black a mood as ever Saul was, and may do you a mischief if you do not soothe me.”

Alice smiled. “I fear you not, dear Lady Betty,” she said, tuning her lute; “your anger passes over as quickly as a storm-cloud in April weather. What shall I sing you, madam?”

A roguish smile twinkled in Lady Clancarty’s eyes.

“You shall do penance, lass, and sing me either a Papist hymn or an Irish ballad.”“Nay, I am no Papist, but a good Protestant,” said Alice, stiffly, “therefore it must be an Irish ballad, which is what you really want, my lady!”

Lady Betty laughed softly.

“’Tis true, my girl,” she said, clasping her hands about her knees, the full sleeves falling away from arms as white as milk. “I love the ballads; whether for his sake or their own, I know not,” and she bent her head listening as the handmaid played the first plaintive notes on her lute.

Alice was no contemptible musician, and she touched the instrument softly with loving fingers, playing the first sweet sad chords of that old Irish air and Jacobite ballad, “Roseen Dhu,” or “Dark Rosaleen.”

The garden and the great park beyond and around it were quiet save for the cawing of the hundreds of rooks that haunted those stately avenues of trees. The warmth and the soft murmuring of the late summer were there; here was the deep shadow of stately groves, yonder the wide sunshine on level lawns, but the place was deserted save for the two young women and the deer that were so tame that they pressed close about them, looking through the trees with soft brown eyes, and seeming to listen to the wild, plaintive notes of the ballad, as Alice sang in a full, mellow voice:

Midway in the song the girl paused, still playing the air softly.

“My lady,” she said, in an undertone, “there is some one yonder in the shrubbery.”

“’Tis Melissa,” replied Lady Clancarty; “I have seen her. She loves to lurk behind a bush, and to slip along softly as a cat upon nut-shells; ’tis her nature. Faith, I must buy her some bells for her toes. Go on, my girl; I care not,” she added, laughing, “and I do love the tune. Ah, ‘Rosaleen, my own Rosaleen!’” she hummed, keeping time with her slender hand.

Alice sang again:

Suddenly Lady Clancarty started and half rose, interrupting the singer; but as Alice looked up in alarm, she sat down again, rosy and defiant.

“Pshaw!” she said; “go on, Alice, there comes Spencer himself, and, forsooth, I would not be frightened out of my pleasure.”

“But, my lady,” protested Alice, in confusion, “he will be dreadfully angry, he always is!”

“To be sure he will,” retorted Lady Betty, with a ripple of laughter, “therefore sing, lass, and I will sing, too.”

Alice still hesitated, her eyes on the figure of a young man who was coming swiftly across the lawn, but her mistress stamped her foot.“Sing!” she commanded so sharply that Alice obeyed hastily, and in a moment the countess’ rich contralto joined her voice in singing the last passionate verse of “Roseen Dhu.”