Down in Lincolnshire

           ThereisahushuponChesneyWoldinthesealtereddays,asthereisuponaportionofthefamilyhistory.ThestorygoesthatSirLeicesterpaidsomewhocouldhavespokenouttoholdtheirpeace;butitisalamestory,feeblywhisperingandcreepingabout,andanybrightersparkoflifeitshowssoondiesaway.ItisknownforcertainthatthehandsomeLadyDedlockliesinthemausoleuminthepark,wherethetreesarchdarklyoverhead,andtheowlisheardatnightmakingthewoodsring;butwhenceshewasbroughthometobelaidamongtheechoesofthatsolitaryplace,orhowshedied,isallmystery.Someofheroldfriends,principallytobefoundamongthepeachy-cheekedcharmerswiththeskeletonthroats,didonceoccasionallysay,astheytoyedinaghastlymannerwithlargefans—likecharmersreducedtoflirtingwithgrimdeath,afterlosingalltheirotherbeaux—didonceoccasionallysay,whentheworldassembledtogether,thattheywonderedtheashesoftheDedlocks,entombedinthemausoleum,neverroseagainsttheprofanationofhercompany.Butthedead-and-goneDedlockstakeitverycalmlyandhaveneverbeenknowntoobject.Upfromamongtheferninthehollow,andwindingbythebridle-roadamongthetrees,comessometimestothislonelyspotthesoundofhorses’hoofs.ThenmaybeseenSirLeicester—invalided,bent,andalmostblind,butofworthypresenceyet—ridingwithastalwartmanbesidehim,constanttohisbridle-rein.

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Roboto Lora
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