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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[Pg 6] 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.”
[Pg 7]“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[Pg 8] listen to the wild, plaintive notes of the ballad, as Alice sang in a full, mellow voice:
“All day long in unrest
To and fro do I move,
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love!
The heart in my bosom faints,
To think of you, my queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My dark Rosaleen!”
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:
[Pg 9]
“Over dews, over sands,
Will I fly for your weal:
Your holy white hands
Shall gird me with steel.
At home—in your emerald bowers,
From morning’s dawn till e’en,
You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
My dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
You’ll think of me, through daylight’s hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My dark Rosaleen!”
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 con
