LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 647, 15 July 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

* WHITE SATIN; Chapter I. EOXLEV HALE. Every old house has a story of its own, though it may remain untold, and perish with the crumbling walls that witnessed it. I know one that seems to me worth telling before it is forgotten, which it soon will be in a wonderful change of associations. The Lisles of Roxley are not the first people who have been smoked out of their old home, but it was a shock to every one who knew the place to hear of its being let out in lodgings for miners. To be sure there are black chimneys in the park and all round the place ; and it would have cost a good deal to build cottages ; and no doubt this arrangement is very saving and prudent. And there may be something absurd in the clinging to old associations, the reverence for fallen grandeur, which makes one feel that a visit to Roxley Hall—now squalid, crowded, noisy, dirty, with its stately rooms partitioned, whitewashed, hacked about, and its black, trampled garden—would be the saddest of pilgrimages. Still, I wish the house had been pulled down, and a red brick village built where it stands ; for I mean no reproach to the miners when I say there is a place for everybody, as well as a time for everything. It was on a spring day that I last saw Roxley ; the house was empty then, but an old servant of the family lived at the gate and took care of it. The road runs, as it always did, through the middle of the place — a quiet road with wide grass margins, whei-e the young Lisles used to canter their ponies. We drove up between the high, solid red walls of the house and yards, and an immense yew hedge, like a great green wall opposite, behind which were the kitchen gardens ; walked under an arched gateway into a large square stable-yard, paved with round stones, and through another old ivycovered gateway into the garden in front of the house. Part of this side was half timbered; the projecting windows in the gables looked down on a still, sad, pretty scene—a lawn with long grass growing, an empty fountain, a moss-grown sundial; then, beyond a sunk fence, the park slojung away in gentle undulations to the west, oaks and elms in all their varied tints of gold and green ; the sun shining softly, reflected in the shallow water of an old lishpond down below, a lonely peacock sitting on the stone balustrade. We entered the porch of black carved woodwork, and went through a small outer room into the hall. All the old furniture was still there—tapestry and carving and gilding of our great-great-grandfathers’ days —and the Lisle portraits were hanging on the walls. Sir Henry had taken away all the modern appendages of the place ; he only came down now and then to see that it did not fall quite to ruin. I think at the time he had some idea of letting it, if he could have found a tenant; but we were told that the whole air was poisoned sometimes by the smoke which rose up from the valley, and people are not tempted to settle themselves in such an atmosphere as that. The library at Roxley was a long dark room, divided into a number of recesses by screens full of books, as one sees them in a college library. One set of shelves in the bookcase opened with a spring, boobs and all, and showed a secret staircase in the wall behind it. The Lisles always used to make a mystery of that staircase, in a way which struck one as rather odd in these openhearted modern days ; but they have lost all interest in their old home now, and the secret has passed out of their hands. In the innermost recess of the library, opposite these movable shelves, there hung a fulllength portrait of a lady in white satin, a Yandyck they say ; I do not know what Sir Henry has done with it now, but I hope it hangs in a better light. Even in that twilight corner of the gloomy old library one could see how beautifully it was painted ; the dark eyes looked down with a sweet solemnity, the pearls gleamed on hair and neck, there was a soft shadowy gloss on the stiffly-cut satin gown. And nobody knows who she was, this lady of Stuart days ; but she must have been one of the family, for the old servant told us in a smothered voice, as we stood looking at her, that whenever any great misfortune came upon the Lisles—and they had often been very near ruin from various causes—this lady was to be seen waking about the house, carrying a roll of papers iu her bauds ; and as soon as she was seen, the misfortune was averted and the family regained its prosperity. Now nobody believes ghost stories, and I am not going to tell one; but this legend of the amiable Roxley lady—l wish we all had such an anc —was built up on a foundation of fact, on an event in the Lisle family; and as well authenticated, I assure you, as some stories you may have read when you were young in the History of England. Chapter 11. SIR JAMES. One snowy night in the month of December, 1715, Lady Lisle was sitting by the lire in the winter parlour—a long, low room in the south gable—working at her frame. Two candles werejlighted on the high mantelpiece.

but all tbe room was full of firelight j and there she sat in the glow in her handsome brocaded gown, with her powdered hair drawn back from a bright young face, full ox thought and spirit, often pausing between the stitches, and sitting upright and very still, as if she were listening for an arrival. Presently it came : there was a little distant bustle in the house, and somebody m riding boots came clanking hastily along the passage. Lady Lisle pushed her frame away, and ran out to meet him. ‘Oh, my dear James, you are covered with snow!’ cried she, as, after the first affectionate greetings, they came in hand-m-------hand and stood before the fire. . ‘No matter, Kate; it will soon melt in this hot room of yours,’ said Sir James ; and he looked down at her rather sadly, and pressed her hand tight between his own. He was a tall, rather heavy-looking man, sixteen years older than his wife, with a grave, deliberate, unexcited manner; she seldom saw him so much moved as he was that night, and as she gazed up into his face her own began to grow pale and anxious. ‘Ah !’ she said, ‘ you have brought some bad news! Pray tell me at once. Richard is dead ?’ , , , . , ‘ No ; but he is in prison, and will be tried shortly with the rest. If ho escapes it will be by a miracle,’ said Sir James, and he sighed. ‘ These headstrong fellows pull their mends after them into the ditch. I suppose the name is enough, I have ridden * pretty hard, for I left London at three o’clock this morning. There is a warrant out against me.’ ‘Oh !’ said Lady Lisle; and for a moment she drew closer to her husband, laid her head against his wet shoulder. ‘ But how dare they I—what does it matter? You have done nothing.’ _ ‘ I am on the wrong side—and a Catholic. And even if I were not myself at Preston, my brother was there.’ f But against your wishes, I can tell them that. Oh ! forgive me for taking his part 1 What are you going to do?’ ‘ I must go away to-night, and as quickly as possible put the sea between me and them, Woolner will have a warrant to occupy the house, and to search for evidence of treason.’ ‘ To-morrow ? ’ ‘ Scarcely to-morrow. In two or three days’ time.’ . „ * I hate Mr Woolner ! And little Harry and I—shall we come away with you tonight ? ’ ‘ The child would die on the journey. No ; but you will be taken care of.’ ‘ By the Saints ? ’ said Lady Lisle. ‘No,’ he answered, rather absently. ‘Yes, the Saints, if you please—and old Baldwin. I can trust him. He will hide you for the present, and carry you, as soon as it is safe, to your aunt in Derbyshire.’ ‘ But, James ! I cannot be left here. I must come with you.’ ‘ No,’ said Sir James, in his quiet, matter-of-fact way, stooping forward to r warm his hands at the blaze. ‘ You will do your duty, Kate; and that is to stay where I bid ’you. Dear, you have always been brave and wise; you will not change your nature now!’ \_To be conformed.']