Alice Lorraine: A Tale of the South Downs

								

it? and will that fine old astrologer see that the stars do their duty
to us? and was the great comet that killed him the one that frightens
me every night so? and why did he make such a point of dying without
explaining anything?”
However, what she asked her father was a different question from all
these.
“Oh, papa, how kind of you to tell me all that story! But what became
of Artemise----‘Lady Lorraine’ I suppose she was?”
“No, my dear; ‘Mistress Lorraine,’ or ‘Madame Lorraine’ perhaps they
called her. The old earldom had long been lost, and Roger, her son,
who fell at Naseby, was the first baronet of our family. But as
for Artemise herself--the daughter of the astrologer, and wife of
Hilary Lorraine, she died at the birth of her next infant, within a
twelvemonth after her father; and then it was known why he had been so
reluctant to tell her anything.”
“Oh, I am so sorry for her! Then she is that beautiful creature hanging
third from the door in the gallery, with ruches beautifully picked out
and glossy, and wonderful gold lace on her head, and long hair, and
lovely emeralds hanging down as if they were nothing?”
“Yes,” said Sir Roland, smiling at his daughter’s style of description,
“that of course is the lady; and the portrait is clearly a likeness. At
one time we thought of naming you after her--‘Artemise Lorraine’--for
your nurse discovered that you were like her at the mature age of three
days.”
“Oh, papa, how I wish you had! It would have sounded so much nicer, and
so beautifully romantic.”
“Just so, my child; and therefore, in these matter-of-fact times, so
deliciously absurd. Moreover, I hope that you will not be like her,
either in running away from your father, or in any other way--except
her kindness and faithfulness.”
He was going to say, “in her early death;” but a sudden touch of our
natural superstition stopped him.
“Papa, how dare you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could
be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little
thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a
happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have
made me cry?”
“The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very
day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer’s will, or
whatever the document is, may now be opened.”
“His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it!”
“My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not
exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them
published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows
dark, to see what there is.”
“Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa,
when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost
the art, alas!”
“Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening.