'Exactly,' said Uncle Algernon, laughing. 'And at my special request she has addressed it to you and Silvia, and has kindly consented to bring in as little of "natheless" and "by my halidome" and "in good sooth" as she can possibly help.'
'Oh, thank you, Uncle Algernon, how nice it will be! Please go on.'
And with Silvia on his knee, and Robin on the sofa opposite, Uncle Algernon began the story of Lady Greensleeves.
CHAPTER II.
LADY GREENSLEEVES' STORY.
In the year 1674 (nearly two hundred years ago, my dears), I was born in this house. My name, as you now know, was not Lady Greensleeves or Lady anything then, but plain Mistress Frances Dalrymple. My father, Sir Bernard, was the third baronet of our house. You know his portrait in the mulberry-coloured coat and fair periwig over the dining-room chimney-piece; my mother's hangs opposite, just as it did when I first remember it. Well, as I said just now, I was born in this house, and till I was ten years old I never left it for a single night. You know we could not rush about in my time as you do now: as for going to the sea-side in the summer, such an idea never entered our heads. I suppose we were stronger than you modern people. At all events, doctors never ordered us change of air; and we did very well without it. Besides, we didn't care much about the sea in those days. I daresay you would hardly believe me if I told you that I never even saw it till I was past twenty, and then the sight was anything but pleasant to me. But this was the fact, nevertheless; and I do not think it ever occurred to any of us that we should like to stay by the shore and build castles in the sand, and hunt for shells and pebbles, as children do in these days.
'I was very happy here at Horsemandown running about with my three brothers—playing with the dogs, and attending to our chickens, our tame animals, our hawks, and goats, and rabbits. Ah, those were merry days! (jolly, I suppose you would say). Such games of hide-and-seek we used to have in the garden and park! There were about three times as many trees in the park in those days: one old hollow oak there was, a splendid hiding-place, but in which nobody ever thought of hiding, because it was always there that the seekers first came to search. Old Shad (Shadrach was his proper name), my father's falconer, used to call it Merlin's Oak. He knew an endless stock of stories about King Arthur and his knights, and Merlin, and all those people; and we used firmly to believe that King Arthur lived at Horsemandown, and that the great table inlaid with brass in my mother's grand withdrawing-room must have been the original round-table. As to Merlin, old Shad had not the smallest doubt that he was charmed to sleep in our favourite oak, and we thought of course that Shad knew all about it. I remember little Roger, the youngest of us all, asking Shad if he had ever been out hawking with King Arthur. Roger had very odd ideas about age. He thought nobody ever had been, or ever could be, older than Shad; and told Mrs. Rebecca, my mother's tirewoman (I beg your pardon, lady's-maid), that she was what he considered an elderly person. If she had been thirty-two instead of twenty-two, I don't think she would have laughed till she cried, or have taken the pains to chase Roger round the room for a kiss. My brothers were all younger than myself. Oliver came next to me. Poor Oliver, how fond I was of him! But so indeed I was of Miles and Roger. The same tutor taught us all; and the only lesson that I had apart from them was needlework. That hour which I spent every morning, doing silk embroidery under my mother's superintendence, was the time that I hated more than all the rest of the day. My mother was very skilful in this obnoxious embroidery, and indeed in all kinds of work; but in other respects she was not an accomplished woman. So, as she and our tutor, Master Waynefleet, were my only teachers till I was more than ten years old, I could neither dance nor sing, nor play upon the harp, as a well-educated young lady ought to have done. I don't think my mother considered these accomplishments necessary. At all events, she did not take my ignorance then much to heart. My father would sometimes look at me with a doubtful, critical sort of expression, and ask me an abrupt question, generally about my studies; sometimes he would inquire what I had been doing with myself all day, and my answers never seemed to please him. He would raise his eyebrows, and give a peculiar whistle, or a short laugh, which always made me feel very uncomfortable, and very much ashamed of myself, though I did not exactly know why. However, it was not very often that this happened, for I saw very little of my father; and, to say the truth, this did not much distress me. Children in these days can have no idea how dreadfully afraid of him I used to be; and yet I was by no means a shy or timid child. Rather the contrary. I was not afraid of my mother, nor of Master Nicholas Waynefleet; though I certainly never dreamed of treating him in the familiar way that you would treat your elders now-a-days. Not that I should have been any better if I had been born in this century. Dear me, no! I should probably have been the most pert and disrespectful of you all; but when I try to imagine myself romping with my father, and asking him questions, or answering him, as you do your papa and mamma, it really makes me quite cold and shaky. Ah! even mamma, though I loved her with all my heart (and no mother could be fonder of her daughter than she was of me), would have been rather astonished if I had plunged into her arms and given her one of those rough, unceremonious hugs and kisses that I so often see inflicted on the present Lady Dalrymple of Horsemandown. Why, she always taught me to courtesy when I entered or left a room, even if no one was there but herself; and I very seldom called her anything but madam. I daresay this seems frightfully cold and stiff to you, but it was as natural to me as it is to you to address your governess as "Miss Gregory," instead of using her Christian name. Mamma and I were a good deal together. I being the only girl, and papa being very seldom at home, I was her only companion, and my time was spent pretty equally between her and my brothers. My father, as I have said, was not often at Horsemandown. Some part of the year he was, of course, obliged to be in London to attend Parliament; but at other times he would be constantly away from home. He was a good deal at the court; for my father was a great favourite of King Charles II., and both he and my grandfather had been among those gentlemen who were sent over to Holland to bring home the King at the Restoration in 1660. He never took my mother with him either to London or to the court, and I do not think she had any more wish to go than he had to take her. His whole mind was wrapped up in politics, and she took not the slightest interest in them; neither did she care for the court and its gaieties. She used to tell me that she had had enough of court life when she first married, and hoped that, if ever I did go to Whitehall, I might be as glad to leave it as she had been. All her interest now was in me and my brothers, and in the affairs of the household and estate. She was an extremely brisk, active person, always busied about something. I was very proud of helping her in the garden, the still-room, and the kitchen; for she always superintended the making of preserves, pickles, and home-made wines, etc. We used to go about the garden together, cutting off the dead roses, gathering saffron, lavender, and camomile flowers, and spreading them out to dry in the sunny window-seats of the still-room,—into the dairy to watch the four apple-cheeked dairy-maids churning away at the butter, and pressing the cheese; and we used to attend to the poultry too; and to the bees; and to walk to any cottage on the estate where a sick person had been heard of, carrying sundry draughts, compounded by my mother's own hand. Well! I always like to remember those days. I think they were the best, or if not quite the best, at least they were some of the happiest days of my life. However, I daresay you would rather hear about my unhappiest days. That quiet, comfortable kind of life that one really enjoys most one's self, is not half so amusing to other people as one's misfortunes; but I am coming to a more interesting part of my story now. One morning (it was in December 1684, when I was between ten and eleven years old) Oliver and I were going out hunting with old Shad. He had begun to teach us to ride, almost before we could walk; and I must say I think we did him great credit. This was the first winter we had been ever allowed to hunt. Mamma had long given it up, though she was an excellent horsewoman. She had no time for it now, she said; but she never minded trusting us to Shad's care. And, after every gallop across country, Oliver and I used to nearly tease the life out of the poor old fellow till he promised to take us again. It was a fresh wind this morning, with some bursts of sunshine from time to time, as the clouds flew across the sky. Oliver and I would insist on racing one another through the park, heedless of poor Shad, who jogged behind at a sober pace, shouting to us imploringly not to tire the horses so early in the day. We were flying along in this way, both in mad spirits, down a rough, winding lane that skirted the park, both bent upon seeing who should first leap a little brook that crossed the path, when suddenly what should appear running towards us but a rough grey Irish staghound, the sight of which made Oliver exclaim, "Larry! and my father!" When his master went from home, Larry was seldom left behind. They both had been away for more than a month, staying with Sir Harry Mountfort at New Court, and my father had sent us no notice of his intended return. Oliver, when he saw Larry followed by two mounted figures advancing very carefully and deliberately over the stones and ruts of the narrow lane, immediately turned and trotted back to the side of the ill-used Shad, and I had a strong inclination to do the same; but my little mare Hebe was going at a pace somewhat too headlong to be checked in a moment, and I was over the brook almost before I had time to think about it. I had shot right between the two horsemen before I could pull up, and was not surprised to hear a loud exclamation of mingled wrath and astonishment as I flew past. A very strong exclamation it was,—not quite what your papa would like his little girl to hear; but gentlemen in those times were not scrupulous as to their language, even before their wives and daughters. When at length I managed to bring Mrs. Hebe to a standstill, my father had dismounted, and striding up to me, took hold of the bridle and turned her head. Not a word did he say to me till he had examined Hebe all over with an anxious and critical eye; then, patting her glossy neck soothingly, he turned his mind to me. I suppose I looked in a terrible fright. I certainly felt as if my cheeks were crimson, and my hands shook so that I dropped the reins. My father put them into my hand again with one of his sarcastic laughs, and then asked, less angrily than I expected:
'"And now, Mistress Frances, where might you be going to in such a hurry?"
'"We were going out with Mr. Atherley's hounds," I faltered out, finding it very hard to keep from bursting into tears.
'"Oh, indeed! Are you in the habit of following Mr. Atherley's hounds all by yourself?"