MY LADY'S LEAP.
BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.
My lady's leap! that's it, sir,—
That's what we call it 'ere;—
It's a nasty jump for a man, sir,
Let alone for a woman to clear.
D'ye see the fencing around it?
And the cross as folk can tell,
That this is the very spot, sir,
Where her sweet young ladyship fell?
I've lived in his lordship's family
For goin' on forty year.
And the tears will come a wellin'
Whenever I think of her;
For my mem'ry takes me backwards
To the days when by my side
She would sit in her tiny saddle
As I taught her the way to ride.
But she didn't want much teachin';—
Lor' bless ye, afore she was eight
There wasn't a fence in the county
Nor ever a five-barred gate
But what she'd leap, aye, and laugh at.
I think now I hear the ring
Of her voice, shouting, "Now then, lassie!"
As over a ditch she'd spring.
How proud I was of my mistress,
When round the country-side
I'd hear folks talking of her, sir,
And how she used to ride!
Every one knew my young mistress,
"My lady of Hislop Chase;"
And, what's more, every one loved her,
And her sunny, angel face.
Lord Hislop lost his wife, sir,
When Lady Vi' was born.
And never man aged so quickly:
He grew haggard and white and worn
In less than a week. Then after,
At times, he'd grow queer and wild;
And only one thing saved him—
His love for his only child.
He worshipped her like an idol;
He loved her, folks said too well;
And God sent the end as a judgment,—
But how that may be who can tell?
I don't know how it all happened—
I heard the story you see,
In bits and scraps,—just here and there;
But, sir, 'atween you and me,
In putting them all together,
I think I've a good idea
As how the Master got swindled,
And things at the "Chase" went queer.
He'd a notion to leave Miss Vi'let
Rich, I fancy, you know;
For now and ag'in I noticed
He'd take in his head to go
Away for a time—to London,—
And I, who knew him so well,
Could see as he came home worried.
Aye, sir! I could read—could tell
As things had gone wrong with Master.
I was right: 'twas that tale so old!
He'd lost in that great big gamble,
In that cursed greed for gold.
And then the worst came to the worst, sir.
"The old Chase must go from us, Vi'!"
Her father told her one morning,
"My child! oh, my child! I would die
Ten thousand deaths rather than tell you
What price our freedom would cost."
And then, in a voice hoarse and broken,
He told her how all had been lost.
They say, sir, the girl answered proudly,
"I know, father, what you would say:
The man who has swindled you, duped you,
Will return you your own if you pay
His price—my hand. Don't speak, father!
You know what I'm saying is true;
And, father, I know Paul Delaunay,
Yes, better, far better, than you.
Go, tell him I'll wed him to-morrow,
On this one condition—list here,—
That he beats me across the country
From Hislop to Motecombe Mere.
But say that should I chance to beat him
He must give back everything—all
Of what he has robbed you, father:
That's the message I send Sir Paul."
Two men watched that ride across country
At the break of an autumn day:
Young Hilton, the son of the Squire,
And I, sir. They started away
And came through the first field together,
Then leaped the first fence neck and neck;
On, on again, riding like mad, sir,
Jumping all without hinder or check.
In this, the last field 'fore the finish,
You could save half a minute or more
By leaping the stone wall and brooklet;
But never, sir, never before,
Had anyone ever attempted
That leap; it was madness, but, sir,
My young mistress knew that Delaunay
Was too great a coward and cur
To follow; and, what's more, she knew, sir,
That she must be first in the race—
For the sake of the Hislop honour,
To win back the dear old Chase.
I looked at young Hilton beside me—
A finer lad never walked:
I don't think he thought as I knew, sir,
Their secret, for I'd never talked;
But I'd known for a long time, you see, sir,
As he and my lady Vi'
Had loved and would love for ever.
At last from his lips came a cry,
"Good God! she never will clear it!"
Then he turned his face to the ground;
While I—I looked on in terror,
Watched her, sir, taking that bound.
With a cold sweat bathing my forehead,
I saw her sweep onward, and gasped—
"For Heaven's sake, stop, Lady Vi'let!"
A laugh was her answer. She passed
On, on, like a shimmer of lightning,
And then came her last great leap—
The next, sir, I saw of my lady
Was a crushed and mangled heap.
Delaunay? No, he didn't follow,
Nor even drew rein when she fell;
But rode on, the longest way round, sir.
When he came back to claim her—well,
She was dead in the arms of her lover—
Claspt tight in his mad embrace;—
With her life-blood staining her tresses,
And a sad, sweet smile on her face.
I heard the last words that she uttered—
"My love! tell my father I tried
To do what was best for his honour;
For you and for him I have died."