THE TWO WAYS OF BEING CROST IN LOVE
“I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.”--LOVELACE.
And what all this while has become of the fair breaker of so many
hearts, to whom I have not yet even introduced my readers?
She was sitting in the little farm-house beside the mill, buried in the
green depths of the valley of Combe, half-way between Stow and Chapel,
sulking as much as her sweet nature would let her, at being thus
shut out from all the grand doings at Bideford, and forced to keep a
Martinmas Lent in that far western glen. So lonely was she, in fact,
that though she regarded Eustace Leigh with somewhat of aversion, and
(being a good Protestant) with a great deal of suspicion, she could not
find it in her heart to avoid a chat with him whenever he came down to
the farm and to its mill, which he contrived to do, on I know not what
would-be errand, almost every day. Her uncle and aunt at first looked
stiff enough at these visits, and the latter took care always to make a
third in every conversation; but still Mr. Leigh was a gentleman's
son, and it would not do to be rude to a neighboring squire and a good
customer; and Rose was the rich man's daughter and they poor cousins,
so it would not do either to quarrel with her; and besides, the
pretty maid, half by wilfulness, and half by her sweet winning tricks,
generally contrived to get her own way wheresoever she went; and
she herself had been wise enough to beg her aunt never to leave them
alone,--for she “could not a-bear the sight of Mr. Eustace, only
she must have some one to talk with down here.” On which her aunt
considered, that she herself was but a simple country-woman; and that
townsfolks' ways of course must be very different from hers; and that
people knew their own business best; and so forth, and let things go
on their own way. Eustace, in the meanwhile, who knew well that the
difference in creed between him and Rose was likely to be the very
hardest obstacle in the way of his love, took care to keep his private
opinions well in the background; and instead of trying to convert the
folk at the mill, daily bought milk or flour from them, and gave it
away to the old women in Moorwinstow (who agreed that after all, for
a Papist, he was a godly young man enough); and at last, having taken
counsel with Campian and Parsons on certain political plots then on
foot, came with them to the conclusion that they would all three go to
church the next Sunday. Where Messrs. Evan Morgans and Morgan Evans,
having crammed up the rubrics beforehand, behaved themselves in a most
orthodox and unexceptionable manner; as did also poor Eustace, to the
great wonder of all good folks, and then went home flattering himself
that he had taken in parson, clerk, and people; not knowing in his
simple unsimplicity, and cunning foolishness, that each good wife in the
parish was saying to the other, “He turned Protestant? The devil turned
monk! He's only after Mistress Salterne, the young hypocrite.”
But if the two Jesuits found it expedient, for the holy cause in which
they were embarked, to reconcile themselves outwardly to the powers
that were, they were none the less busy in private in plotting their
overthrow.
Ever since April last they had been playing at hide-and-seek through the
length and breadth of England, and now they were only lying quiet till
expected news from Ireland should give them their cue, and a great
“rising of the West” should sweep from her throne that stiff-necked,
persecuting, excommunicate, reprobate, illegitimate, and profligate
usurper, who falsely called herself the Queen of England.
For they had as stoutly persuaded themselves in those days, as they
have in these (with a real Baconian contempt of the results of sensible
experience), that the heart of England was really with them, and that
the British nation was on the point of returning to the bosom of the
Catholic Church, and giving up Elizabeth to be led in chains to the feet
of the rightful Lord of Creation, the Old Man of the Seven Hills.
And this fair hope, which has been skipping just in front of them for
centuries, always a step farther off, like the place where the rainbow
touches the ground, they used to announce at times, in language which
terrified old Mr. Leigh. One day, indeed, as Eustace entered his
father's private room, after his usual visit to the mill, he could
hear voices high in dispute; Parsons as usual, blustering; Mr. Leigh
peevishly deprecating, and Campian, who was really the sweetest-natured
of men, trying to pour oil on the troubled waters. Whereat Eustace (for
the good of the cause, of course) stopped outside and listened.
“My excellent sir,” said Mr. Leigh, “does not your very presence here
show how I am affected toward the holy cause of the Catholic faith? But
I cannot in the meanwhile forget that I am an Englishman.”
“And what is England?” said Parsons: “A heretic and schismatic Babylon,
whereof it is written, 'Come out of her, my people, lest you be partaker
of her plagues.' Yea, what is a country? An arbitrary division of
territory by the princes of this world, who are naught, and come to
naught. They are created by the people's will; their existence depends
on the sanction of him to whom all power is given in heaven and
earth--our Holy Father the Pope. Take away the latter, and what is a
king?--the people who have made him may unmake him.”
“My dear sir, recollect that I have sworn allegiance to Queen
Elizabeth!”
“Yes, sir, you have, sir; and, as I have shown at large in my writings,
you were absolved from that allegiance from the moment that the bull of
Pius the Fifth declared her a heretic and excommunicate, and thereby to
have forfeited all dominion whatsoever. I tell you, sir, what I thought
you should have known already, that since the year 1569, England has had
no queen, no magistrates, no laws, no lawful authority whatsoever; and
that to own allegiance to any English magistrate, sir, or to plead in an
English court of law, is to disobey the apostolic precept, 'How dare you
go to law before the unbelievers?' I tell you, sir, rebellion is now not
merely permitted, it is a duty.”
“Take care, sir; for God's sake, take care!” said Mr. Leigh. “Right or
wrong, I cannot have such language used in my house. For the sake of my
wife and children, I cannot!”
“My dear brother Parsons, deal more gently with the flock,” interposed
Campian. “Your opinion, though probable, as I well know, in the eyes of
most of our order, is hardly safe enough here; the opposite is at least
so safe that Mr. Leigh may well excuse his conscience for accepting it.
After all, are we not sent hither to proclaim this very thing, and to
relieve the souls of good Catholics from a burden which has seemed to
them too heavy?”
“Yes,” said Parsons, half-sulkily, “to allow all Balaams who will to
sacrifice to Baal, while they call themselves by the name of the Lord.”
“My dear brother, have I not often reminded you that Naaman was allowed
to bow himself in the house of Rimmon? And can we therefore complain of
the office to which the Holy Father has appointed us, to declare to such
as Mr. Leigh his especial grace, by which the bull of Pius the Fifth
(on whose soul God have mercy!) shall henceforth bind the queen and the
heretics only; but in no ways the Catholics, at least as long as the
present tyranny prevents the pious purposes of the bull?”
“Be it so, sir; be it so. Only observe this, Mr. Leigh, that our brother
Campian confesses this to be a tyranny. Observe, sir, that the bull does
still bind the so-called queen, and that she and her magistrates are
still none the less usurpers, nonentities, and shadows of a shade. And
observe this, sir, that when that which is lawful is excused to the
weak, it remains no less lawful to the strong. The seven thousand who
had not bowed the knee to Baal did not slay his priests; but Elijah did,
and won to himself a good reward. And if the rest of the children of
Israel sinned not in not slaying Eglon, yet Ehud's deed was none the
less justified by all laws human and divine.”
“For Heaven's sake, do not talk so, sir! or I must leave the room. What
have I to do with Ehud and Eglon, and slaughters, and tyrannies? Our
queen is a very good queen, if Heaven would but grant her repentance,
and turn her to the true faith. I have never been troubled about
religion, nor any one else that I know of in the West country.”
“You forget Mr. Trudgeon of Launceston, father, and poor Father Mayne,”
interposed Eustace, who had by this time slipped in; and Campian added
softly--
“Yes, your West of England also has been honored by its martyrs, as well
as my London by the precious blood of Story.”
“What, young malapert?” cried poor Leigh, facing round upon his son,
glad to find any one on whom he might vent his ill-humor; “are you too
against me, with a murrain on you? And pray, what the devil brought
Cuthbert Mayne to the gallows, and turned Mr. Trudgeon (he was always a
foolish hot-head) out of house and home, but just such treasonable talk
as Mr. Parsons must needs hold in my house, to make a beggar of me and
my children, as he will before he has done.”
“The Blessed Virgin forbid!” said Campian.
“The Blessed Virgin forbid? But you must help her to forbid it, Mr.
Campian. We should never have had the law of 1571, against bulls, and
Agnus Deis, and blessed grains, if the Pope's bull of 1569 had not made
them matter of treason, by preventing a poor creature's saving his soul
in the true Church without putting his neck into a halter by denying the
queen's authority.”
“What, sir?” almost roared Parsons, “do you dare to speak evil of the
edicts of the Vicar of Christ?”
“I? No. I didn't. Who says I did? All I meant was, I am sure--Mr.
Campian, you are a reasonable man, speak for me.”
“Mr. Leigh only meant, I am sure, that the Holy Father's prudent
intentions have been so far defeated by the perverseness and invincible
misunderstanding of the heretics, that that which was in itself meant
for the good of the oppressed English Catholics has been perverted to
their harm.”
“And thus, reverend sir,” said Eustace, glad to get into his father's
good graces again, “my father attaches blame, not to the Pope--Heaven
forbid!--but to the pravity of his enemies.”
“And it is for this very reason,” said Campian, “that we have brought
with us the present merciful explanation of the bull.”
“I'll tell you what, gentlemen,” said Mr. Leigh, who, like other weak
men, grew in valor as his opponent seemed inclined to make peace, “I
don't think the declaration was needed. After the new law of 1571 was
made, it was never put in force till Mayne and Trudgeon made fools of
themselves, and that was full six years. There were a few offenders,
they say, who were brought up and admonished, and let go; but even that
did not happen down here, and need not happen now, unless you put my son
here (for you shall never put me, I warrant you) upon some deed which
had better be left alone, and so bring us all to shame.”
“Your son, sir, if not openly vowed to God, has, I hope, a due sense
of that inward vocation which we have seen in him, and reverences his
spiritual fathers too well to listen to the temptations of his earthly
father.”
“What, sir, will you teach my son to disobey me?”
“Your son is ours also, sir. This is strange language in one who owes a
debt to the Church, which it was charitably fancied he meant to pay in
the person of his child.”
These last words touched poor Mr. Leigh in a sore point, and breaking
all bounds, he swore roundly at Parsons, who stood foaming with rage.
“A plague upon you, sir, and a black assizes for you, for you will come
to the gallows yet! Do you mean to taunt me in my own house with that
Hartland land? You had better go back and ask those who sent you where
the dispensation to hold the land is, which they promised to get me
years ago, and have gone on putting me off, till they have got my money,
and my son, and my conscience, and I vow before all the saints, seem now
to want my head over and above. God help me!”--and the poor man's eyes
fairly filled with tears.
Now was Eustace's turn to be roused; for, after all, he was an
Englishman and a gentleman; and he said kindly enough, but firmly--
“Courage, my dearest father. Remember that I am still your son, and not
a Jesuit yet; and whether I ever become one, I promise you, will depend
mainly on the treatment which you meet with at the hands of these
reverend gentlemen, for whom I, as having brought them hither, must
consider myself as surety to you.”
If a powder-barrel had exploded in the Jesuits' faces, they could not
have been more amazed. Campian looked blank at Parsons, and Parsons at
Campian; till the stouter-hearted of the two, recovering his breath at
last--
“Sir! do you know, sir, the curse pronounced on those who, after putting
their hand to the plough, look back?”
Eustace was one of those impulsive men, with a lack of moral courage,
who dare raise the devil, but never dare fight him after he has been
raised; and he now tried to pass off his speech by winking and making
signs in the direction of his father, as much as to say that he was only
trying to quiet the old man's fears. But Campian was too frightened,
Parsons too angry, to take his hints: and he had to carry his part
through.
“All I read is, Father Parsons, that such are not fit for the kingdom of
God; of which high honor I have for some time past felt myself unworthy.
I have much doubt just now as to my vocation; and in the meanwhile have
not forgotten that I am a citizen of a free country.” And so saying, he
took his father's arm, and walked out.
His last words had hit the Jesuits hard. They had put the poor
cobweb-spinners in mind of the humiliating fact, which they have had
thrust on them daily from that time till now, and yet have never learnt
the lesson, that all their scholastic cunning, plotting, intriguing,
bulls, pardons, indulgences, and the rest of it, are, on this side
the Channel, a mere enchanter's cloud-castle and Fata Morgana, which
vanishes into empty air by one touch of that magic wand, the constable's
staff. “A citizen of a free country!”--there was the rub; and they
looked at each other in more utter perplexity than ever. At last Parsons
spoke.
“There's a woman in the wind. I'll lay my life on it. I saw him blush up
crimson yesterday when his mother asked him whether some Rose Salterne
or other was still in the neighborhood.”
“A woman! Well, the spirit may be willing, though the flesh be weak. We
will inquire into this. The youth may do us good service as a layman;
and if anything should happen to his elder brother (whom the saints
protect!) he is heir to some wealth. In the meanwhile, our dear brother
Parsons will perhaps see the expediency of altering our tactics somewhat
while we are here.”
And thereupon a long conversation began between the two, who had been
sent together, after the wise method of their order, in obedience to the
precept, “Two are better than one,” in order that Campian might restrain
Parsons' vehemence, and Parsons spur on Campian's gentleness, and so
each act as the supplement of the other, and each also, it must be
confessed, gave advice pretty nearly contradictory to his fellow's if
occasion should require, “without the danger,” as their writers have it,
“of seeming changeable and inconsistent.”
The upshot of this conversation was, that in a day or two (during which
time Mr. Leigh and Eustace also had made the amende honorable, and
matters went smoothly enough) Father Campian asked Father Francis,
the household chaplain, to allow him, as an especial favor, to hear
Eustace's usual confession on the ensuing Friday.
Poor Father Francis dared not refuse so great a man; and assented with
an inward groan, knowing well that the intent was to worm out some
family secrets, whereby his power would be diminished, and the Jesuits'
increased. For the regular priesthood and the Jesuits throughout England
were toward each other in a state of armed neutrality, which wanted but
little at any moment to become open war, as it did in James the First's
time, when those meek missionaries, by their gentle moral tortures,
literally hunted to death the poor Popish bishop of Hippopotamus (that
is to say, London) for the time being.
However, Campian heard Eustace's confession; and by putting to him such
questions as may be easily conceived by those who know anything about
the confessional, discovered satisfactorily enough, that he was what
Campian would have called “in love:” though I should question much
the propriety of the term as applied to any facts which poor prurient
Campian discovered, or indeed knew how to discover, seeing that a swine
has no eye for pearls. But he had found out enough: he smiled, and set
to work next vigorously to discover who the lady might be.
If he had frankly said to Eustace, “I feel for you; and if your desires
are reasonable, or lawful, or possible, I will help you with all my
heart and soul,” he might have had the young man's secret heart, and
saved himself an hour's trouble; but, of course, he took instinctively
the crooked and suspicious method, expected to find the case the worst
possible,--as a man was bound to do who had been trained to take the
lowest possible view of human nature, and to consider the basest motives
as the mainspring of all human action,--and began his moral torture
accordingly by a series of delicate questions, which poor Eustace dodged
in every possible way, though he knew that the good father was too
cunning for him, and that he must give in at last. Nevertheless, like a
rabbit who runs squealing round and round before the weasel, into whose
jaws it knows that it must jump at last by force of fascination, he
parried and parried, and pretended to be stupid, and surprised, and
honorably scrupulous, and even angry; while every question as to her
being married or single, Catholic or heretic, English or foreign,
brought his tormentor a step nearer the goal. At last, when Campian,
finding the business not such a very bad one, had asked something about
her worldly wealth, Eustace saw a door of escape and sprang at it.
“Even if she be a heretic, she is heiress to one of the wealthiest
merchants in Devon.”
“Ah!” said Campian, thoughtfully. “And she is but eighteen, you say?”
“Only eighteen.”
“Ah! well, my son, there is time. She may be reconciled to the Church:
or you may change.”
“I shall die first.”
“Ah, poor lad! Well; she may be reconciled, and her wealth may be of use
to the cause of Heaven.”
“And it shall be of use. Only absolve me, and let me be at peace. Let
me have but her,” he cried piteously. “I do not want her wealth,--not I!
Let me have but her, and that but for one year, one month, one day!--and
all the rest--money, fame, talents, yea, my life itself, hers if it be
needed--are at the service of Holy Church. Ay, I shall glory in showing
my devotion by some special sacrifice,--some desperate deed. Prove me
now, and see what there is I will not do!”
And so Eustace was absolved; after which Campian added,--
“This is indeed well, my son: for there is a thing to be done now, but
it may be at the risk of life.”
“Prove me!” cried Eustace, impatiently.
“Here is a letter which was brought me last night; no matter from
whence; you can understand it better than I, and I longed to have shown
it you, but that I feared my son had become--”
“You feared wrongly, then, my dear Father Campian.”
So Campian translated to him the cipher of the letter.
“This to Evan Morgans, gentleman, at Mr. Leigh's house in Moorwinstow,
Devonshire. News may be had by one who will go to the shore of Clovelly,
any evening after the 25th of November, at dead low tide, and there
watch for a boat, rowed by one with a red beard, and a Portugal by his
speech. If he be asked, 'How many?' he will answer, 'Eight hundred and
one.' Take his letters and read them. If the shore be watched, let him
who comes show a light three times in a safe place under the cliff
above the town; below is dangerous landing. Farewell, and expect great
things!”
“I will go,” said Eustace; “to-morrow is the 25th, and I know a sure and
easy place. Your friend seems to know these shores well.”
“Ah! what is it we do not know?” said Campian, with a mysterious smile.
“And now?”
“And now, to prove to you how I trust to you, you shall come with me,
and see this--the lady of whom I spoke, and judge for yourself whether
my fault is not a venial one.”
“Ah, my son, have I not absolved you already? What have I to do with
fair faces? Nevertheless, I will come, both to show you that I trust
you, and it may be to help towards reclaiming a heretic, and saving a
lost soul: who knows?”
So the two set out together; and, as it was appointed, they had just got
to the top of the hill between Chapel and Stow mill, when up the lane
came none other than Mistress Rose Salterne herself, in all the glories
of a new scarlet hood, from under which her large dark languid eyes
gleamed soft lightnings through poor Eustace's heart and marrow. Up
to them she tripped on delicate ankles and tiny feet, tall, lithe, and
graceful, a true West-country lass; and as she passed them with a
pretty blush and courtesy, even Campian looked back at the fair innocent
creature, whose long dark curls, after the then country fashion, rolled
down from beneath the hood below her waist, entangling the soul of
Eustace Leigh within their glossy nets.
“There!” whispered he, trembling from head to foot. “Can you excuse me
now?”
“I had excused you long ago;” said the kindhearted father. “Alas, that
so much fair red and white should have been created only as a feast for
worms!”
“A feast for gods, you mean!” cried Eustace, on whose common sense the
naive absurdity of the last speech struck keenly; and then, as if to
escape the scolding which he deserved for his heathenry--
“Will you let me return for a moment? I will follow you: let me go!”
Campian saw that it was of no use to say no, and nodded. Eustace darted
from his side, and running across a field, met Rose full at the next
turn of the road.
She started, and gave a pretty little shriek.
“Mr. Leigh! I thought you had gone forward.”
“I came back to speak to you, Rose--Mistress Salterne, I mean.”
“To me?”
“To you I must speak, tell you all, or die!” And he pressed up close to
her. She shrank back, somewhat frightened.
“Do not stir; do not go, I implore you! Rose, only hear me!” And
fiercely and passionately seizing her by the hand, he poured out the
whole story of his love, heaping her with every fantastic epithet of
admiration which he could devise.
There was little, perhaps, of all his words which Rose had not heard
many a time before; but there was a quiver in his voice, and a fire in
his eye, from which she shrank by instinct.
“Let me go!” she said; “you are too rough, sir!”
“Ay!” he said, seizing now both her hands, “rougher, perhaps, than the
gay gallants of Bideford, who serenade you, and write sonnets to you,
and send you posies. Rougher, but more loving, Rose! Do not turn away!
I shall die if you take your eyes off me! Tell me,--tell me, now
here--this moment--before we part--if I may love you!”
“Go away!” she answered, struggling, and bursting into tears. “This is
too rude. If I am but a merchant's daughter. I am God's child. Remember
that I am alone. Leave me; go! or I will call for help!”
Eustace had heard or read somewhere that such expressions in a woman's
mouth were mere facons de parler, and on the whole signs that she had no
objection to be alone, and did not intend to call for help; and he only
grasped her hands the more fiercely, and looked into her face with keen
and hungry eyes; but she was in earnest, nevertheless, and a loud shriek
made him aware that, if he wished to save his own good name, he must
go: but there was one question, for an answer to which he would risk his
very life.
“Yes, proud woman! I thought so! Some one of those gay gallants has been
beforehand with me. Tell me who--”
But she broke from him, and passed him, and fled down the lane.
“Mark it!” cried he, after her. “You shall rue the day when you despised
Eustace Leigh! Mark it, proud beauty!” And he turned back to join
Campian, who stood in some trepidation.
“You have not hurt the maiden, my son? I thought I heard a scream.”
“Hurt her! No. Would God that she were dead, nevertheless, and I by her!
Say no more to me, father. We will home.” Even Campian knew enough of
the world to guess what had happened, and they both hurried home in
silence.
And so Eustace Leigh played his move, and lost it.
Poor little Rose, having run nearly to Chapel, stopped for very shame,
and walked quietly by the cottages which stood opposite the gate, and
then turned up the lane towards Moorwinstow village, whither she was
bound. But on second thoughts, she felt herself so “red and flustered,”
that she was afraid of going into the village, for fear (as she said to
herself) of making people talk, and so, turning into a by-path, struck
away toward the cliffs, to cool her blushes in the sea-breeze. And there
finding a quiet grassy nook beneath the crest of the rocks, she sat down
on the turf, and fell into a great meditation.
Rose Salterne was a thorough specimen of a West-coast maiden, full of
passionate impulsive affections, and wild dreamy imaginations, a fit
subject, as the North-Devon women are still, for all romantic and gentle
superstitions. Left early without mother's care, she had fed her fancy
upon the legends and ballads of her native land, till she believed--what
did she not believe?--of mermaids and pixies, charms and witches,
dreams and omens, and all that world of magic in which most of the
countrywomen, and countrymen too, believed firmly enough but twenty
years ago. Then her father's house was seldom without some merchant, or
sea-captain from foreign parts, who, like Othello, had his tales of--
“Antres vast, and deserts idle,
Of rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads reach heaven.”
And,--
“And of the cannibals that each other eat,
The anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders.”
All which tales, she, like Desdemona, devoured with greedy ears,
whenever she could “the house affairs with haste despatch.” And when
these failed, there was still boundless store of wonders open to her in
old romances which were then to be found in every English house of the
better class. The Legend of King Arthur, Florice and Blancheflour, Sir
Ysumbras, Sir Guy of Warwick, Palamon and Arcite, and the Romaunt of the
Rose, were with her text-books and canonical authorities. And lucky it
was, perhaps, for her that Sidney's Arcadia was still in petto, or Mr.
Frank (who had already seen the first book or two in manuscript, and
extolled it above all books past, present, or to come) would have surely
brought a copy down for Rose, and thereby have turned her poor little
flighty brains upside down forever. And with her head full of these, it
was no wonder if she had likened herself of late more than once to some
of those peerless princesses of old, for whose fair hand paladins and
kaisers thundered against each other in tilted field; and perhaps she
would not have been sorry (provided, of course, no one was killed) if
duels, and passages of arms in honor of her, as her father reasonably
dreaded, had actually taken place.
For Rose was not only well aware that she was wooed, but found the said
wooing (and little shame to her) a very pleasant process. Not that she
had any wish to break hearts: she did not break her heart for any of her
admirers, and why should they break theirs for her? They were all very
charming, each in his way (the gentlemen, at least; for she had long
since learnt to turn up her nose at merchants and burghers); but one of
them was not so very much better than the other.
Of course, Mr. Frank Leigh was the most charming; but then, as a
courtier and squire of dames, he had never given her a sign of real
love, nothing but sonnets and compliments, and there was no trusting
such things from a gallant, who was said (though, by the by, most
scandalously) to have a lady love at Milan, and another at Vienna, and
half-a-dozen in the Court, and half-a-dozen more in the city.
And very charming was Mr. William Cary, with his quips and his jests,
and his galliards and lavoltas; over and above his rich inheritance;
but then, charming also Mr. Coffin of Portledge, though he were a little
proud and stately; but which of the two should she choose? It would be
very pleasant to be mistress of Clovelly Court; but just as pleasant to
find herself lady of Portledge, where the Coffins had lived ever since
Noah's flood (if, indeed, they had not merely returned thither after
that temporary displacement), and to bring her wealth into a family
which was as proud of its antiquity as any nobleman in Devon, and might
have made a fourth to that famous trio of Devonshire Cs, of which it is
written,--
“Crocker, Cruwys, and Copplestone,
When the Conqueror came were all at home.”
And Mr. Hugh Fortescue, too--people said that he was certain to become a
great soldier--perhaps as great as his brother Arthur--and that would
be pleasant enough, too, though he was but the younger son of an
innumerable family: but then, so was Amyas Leigh. Ah, poor Amyas! Her
girl's fancy for him had vanished, or rather, perhaps, it was very much
what it always had been, only that four or five more girl's fancies
beside it had entered in, and kept it in due subjection. But still, she
could not help thinking a good deal about him, and his voyage, and the
reports of his great strength, and beauty, and valor, which had already
reached her in that out-of-the-way corner; and though she was not in the
least in love with him, she could not help hoping that he had at least
(to put her pretty little thought in the mildest shape) not altogether
forgotten her; and was hungering, too, with all her fancy, to give him
no peace till he had told her all the wonderful things which he had seen
and done in this ever-memorable voyage. So that, altogether, it was no
wonder, if in her last night's dream the figure of Amyas had been even
more forward and troublesome than that of Frank or the rest.
But, moreover, another figure had been forward and troublesome enough in
last night's sleep-world; and forward and troublesome enough, too, now
in to-day's waking-world, namely, Eustace, the rejected. How strange
that she should have dreamt of him the night before! and dreamt, too,
of his fighting with Mr. Frank and Mr. Amyas! It must be a warning--see,
she had met him the very next day in this strange way; so the first half
of her dream had come true; and after what had past, she only had to
breathe a whisper, and the second part of the dream would come true
also. If she wished for a passage of arms in her own honor, she could
easily enough compass one: not that she would do it for worlds! And
after all, though Mr. Eustace had been very rude and naughty, yet still
it was not his own fault; he could not help being in love with her.
And--and, in short, the poor little maid felt herself one of the most
important personages on earth, with all the cares (or hearts) of the
country in her keeping, and as much perplexed with matters of weight as
ever was any Cleophila, or Dianeme, Fiordispina or Flourdeluce, in verse
run tame, or prose run mad.
Poor little Rose! Had she but had a mother! But she was to learn her
lesson, such as it was, in another school. She was too shy (too proud
perhaps) to tell her aunt her mighty troubles; but a counsellor she must
have; and after sitting with her head in her hands, for half-an-hour
or more, she arose suddenly, and started off along the cliffs towards
Marsland. She would go and see Lucy Passmore, the white witch; Lucy knew
everything; Lucy would tell her what to do; perhaps even whom to marry.
Lucy was a fat, jolly woman of fifty, with little pig-eyes, which
twinkled like sparks of fire, and eyebrows which sloped upwards and
outwards, like those of a satyr, as if she had been (as indeed she had)
all her life looking out of the corners of her eyes. Her qualifications
as white witch were boundless cunning, equally boundless good nature,
considerable knowledge of human weaknesses, some mesmeric power, some
skill in “yarbs,” as she called her simples, a firm faith in the virtue
of her own incantations, and the faculty of holding her tongue. By dint
of these she contrived to gain a fair share of money, and also (which
she liked even better) of power, among the simple folk for many miles
round. If a child was scalded, a tooth ached, a piece of silver was
stolen, a heifer shrew-struck, a pig bewitched, a young damsel crost in
love, Lucy was called in, and Lucy found a remedy, especially for the
latter complaint. Now and then she found herself on ticklish ground, for
the kind-heartedness which compelled her to help all distressed damsels
out of a scrape, sometimes compelled her also to help them into one;
whereon enraged fathers called Lucy ugly names, and threatened to send
her into Exeter gaol for a witch, and she smiled quietly, and hinted
that if she were “like some that were ready to return evil for evil,
such talk as that would bring no blessing on them that spoke it;” which
being translated into plain English, meant, “If you trouble me, I will
overlook (i. e. fascinate) you, and then your pigs will die, your horses
stray, your cream turn sour, your barns be fired, your son have St.
Vitus's dance, your daughter fits, and so on, woe on woe, till you are
very probably starved to death in a ditch, by virtue of this terrible
little eye of mine, at which, in spite of all your swearing and
bullying, you know you are now shaking in your shoes for fear. So you
had much better hold your tongue, give me a drink of cider, and leave
ill alone, lest you make it worse.”
Not that Lucy ever proceeded to any such fearful extremities. On the
contrary, her boast, and her belief too, was, that she was sent into
the world to make poor souls as happy as she could, by lawful means,
of course, if possible, but if not--why, unlawful ones were better than
none; for she “couldn't a-bear to see the poor creatures taking on;
she was too, too tender-hearted.” And so she was, to every one but her
husband, a tall, simple-hearted rabbit-faced man, a good deal older than
herself. Fully agreeing with Sir Richard Grenville's great axiom,
that he who cannot obey cannot rule, Lucy had been for the last
five-and-twenty years training him pretty smartly to obey her, with the
intention, it is to be charitably hoped, of letting him rule her in
turn when his lesson was perfected. He bore his honors, however, meekly
enough, having a boundless respect for his wife's wisdom, and a firm
belief in her supernatural powers, and let her go her own way and earn
her own money, while he got a little more in a truly pastoral method
(not extinct yet along those lonely cliffs), by feeding a herd of some
dozen donkeys and twenty goats. The donkeys fetched, at each low-tide,
white shell-sand which was to be sold for manure to the neighboring
farmers; the goats furnished milk and “kiddy-pies;” and when there was
neither milking nor sand-carrying to be done, old Will Passmore just
sat under a sunny rock and watched the buck-goats rattle their horns
together, thinking about nothing at all, and taking very good care
all the while neither to inquire nor to see who came in and out of his
little cottage in the glen.
The prophetess, when Rose approached her oracular cave, was seated on
a tripod in front of the fire, distilling strong waters out of
penny-royal. But no sooner did her distinguished visitor appear at the
hatch, than the still was left to take care of itself, and a clean
apron and mutch having been slipt on, Lucy welcomed Rose with endless
courtesies, and--“Bless my dear soul alive, who ever would have thought
to see the Rose of Torridge to my poor little place!”
Rose sat down: and then? How to begin was more than she knew, and she
stayed silent a full five minutes, looking earnestly at the point of
her shoe, till Lucy, who was an adept in such cases, thought it best
to proceed to business at once, and save Rose the delicate operation
of opening the ball herself; and so, in her own way, half fawning, half
familiar--
“Well, my dear young lady, and what is it I can do for ye? For I guess
you want a bit of old Lucy's help, eh? Though I'm most mazed to see ye
here, surely. I should have supposed that pretty face could manage they
sort of matters for itself. Eh?”
Rose, thus bluntly charged, confessed at once, and with many blushes and
hesitations, made her soon understand that what she wanted was “To have
her fortune told.”
“Eh? Oh! I see. The pretty face has managed it a bit too well already,
eh? Tu many o' mun, pure fellows? Well, 'tain't every mayden has her
pick and choose, like some I know of, as be blest in love by stars
above. So you hain't made up your mind, then?”
Rose shook her head.
“Ah--well,” she went on, in a half-bantering tone. “Not so asy, is it,
then? One's gude for one thing, and one for another, eh? One has the
blood, and another the money.”
And so the “cunning woman” (as she truly was), talking half to herself,
ran over all the names which she thought likely, peering at Rose all the
while out of the corners of her foxy bright eyes, while Rose stirred the
peat ashes steadfastly with the point of her little shoe, half angry,
half ashamed, half frightened, to find that “the cunning woman” had
guessed so well both her suitors and her thoughts about them, and tried
to look unconcerned at each name as it came out.
“Well, well,” said Lucy, who took nothing by her move, simply because
there was nothing to take; “think over it--think over it, my dear life;
and if you did set your mind on any one--why, then--then maybe I might
help you to a sight of him.”
“A sight of him?”
“His sperrit, dear life, his sperrit only, I mane. I 'udn't have no
keeping company in my house, no, not for gowld untowld, I 'udn't; but
the sperrit of mun--to see whether mun would be true or not, you'd like
to know that, now, 'udn't you, my darling?”
Rose sighed, and stirred the ashes about vehemently.
“I must first know who it is to be. If you could show me that--now--”
“Oh, I can show ye that, tu, I can. Ben there's a way to 't, a sure way;
but 'tis mortal cold for the time o' year, you zee.”
“But what is it, then?” said Rose, who had in her heart been longing for
something of that very kind, and had half made up her mind to ask for a
charm.
“Why, you'm not afraid to goo into the say by night for a minute, are
you? And to-morrow night would serve, too; 't will be just low tide to
midnight.”
“If you would come with me perhaps--”
“I'll come, I'll come, and stand within call, to be sure. Only do ye
mind this, dear soul alive, not to goo telling a crumb about mun, noo,
not for the world, or yu'll see naught at all, indeed, now. And beside,
there's a noxious business grow'd up against me up to Chapel there; and
I hear tell how Mr. Leigh saith I shall to Exeter gaol for a witch--did
ye ever hear the likes?--because his groom Jan saith I overlooked
mun--the Papist dog! And now never he nor th' owld Father Francis goo by
me without a spetting, and saying of their Ayes and Malificas--I do
know what their Rooman Latin do mane, zo well as ever they, I du!--and a
making o' their charms and incantations to their saints and idols! They
be mortal feared of witches, they Papists, and mortal hard on 'em, even
on a pure body like me, that doth a bit in the white way; 'case why you
see, dear life,” said she, with one of her humorous twinkles, “tu to a
trade do never agree. Do ye try my bit of a charm, now; do ye!”
Rose could not resist the temptation; and between them both the charm
was agreed on, and the next night was fixed for its trial, on the
payment of certain current coins of the realm (for Lucy, of course,
must live by her trade); and slipping a tester into the dame's hand as
earnest, Rose went away home, and got there in safety.
But in the meanwhile, at the very hour that Eustace had been prosecuting
his suit in the lane at Moorwinstow, a very different scene was being
enacted in Mrs. Leigh's room at Burrough.
For the night before, Amyas, as he was going to bed, heard his brother
Frank in the next room tune his lute, and then begin to sing. And
both their windows being open, and only a thin partition between the
chambers, Amyas's admiring ears came in for every word of the following
canzonet, sung in that delicate and mellow tenor voice for which Frank
was famed among all fair ladies:--
“Ah, tyrant Love, Megaera's serpents bearing,
Why thus requite my sighs with venom'd smart?
Ah, ruthless dove, the vulture's talons wearing,
Why flesh them, traitress, in this faithful heart?
Is this my meed? Must dragons' teeth alone
In Venus' lawns by lovers' hands be sown?
“Nay, gentlest Cupid; 'twas my pride undid me.
Nay, guiltless dove; by mine own wound I fell.
To worship, not to wed, Celestials bid me:
I dreamt to mate in heaven, and wake in hell;
Forever doom'd, Ixion-like, to reel
On mine own passions' ever-burning wheel.”
At which the simple sailor sighed, and longed that he could write such
neat verses, and sing them so sweetly. How he would besiege the ear
of Rose Salterne with amorous ditties! But still, he could not be
everything; and if he had the bone and muscle of the family, it was but
fair that Frank should have the brains and voice; and, after all, he was
bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, and it was just the same as
if he himself could do all the fine things which Frank could do; for as
long as one of the family won honor, what matter which of them it was?
Whereon he shouted through the wall, “Good night, old song-thrush; I
suppose I need not pay the musicians.”
“What, awake?” answered Frank. “Come in here, and lull me to sleep with
a sea-song.”
So Amyas went in, and found Frank laid on the outside of his bed not yet
undrest.
“I am a bad sleeper,” said he; “I spend more time, I fear, in burning
the midnight oil than prudent men should. Come and be my jongleur,
my minnesinger, and tell me about Andes, and cannibals, and the
ice-regions, and the fire-regions, and the paradises of the West.”
So Amyas sat down, and told: but somehow, every story which he tried to
tell came round, by crooked paths, yet sure, to none other point than
Rose Salterne, and how he thought of her here and thought of her there,
and how he wondered what she would say if she had seen him in this
adventure, and how he longed to have had her with him to show her that
glorious sight, till Frank let him have his own way, and then out came
the whole story of the simple fellow's daily and hourly devotion to her,
through those three long years of world-wide wanderings.
“And oh, Frank, I could hardly think of anything but her in the church
the other day, God forgive me! and it did seem so hard for her to be the
only face which I did not see--and have not seen her yet, either.”
“So I thought, dear lad,” said Frank, with one of his sweetest smiles;
“and tried to get her father to let her impersonate the nymph of
Torridge.”
“Did you, you dear kind fellow? That would have been too delicious.”
“Just so, too delicious; wherefore, I suppose, it was ordained not to
be, that which was being delicious enough.”
“And is she as pretty as ever?”
“Ten times as pretty, dear lad, as half the young fellows round have
discovered. If you mean to win her and wear her (and God grant you may
fare no worse!) you will have rivals enough to get rid of.”
“Humph!” said Amyas, “I hope I shall not have to make short work with
some of them.”
“I hope not,” said Frank, laughing. “Now go to bed, and to-morrow
morning give your sword to mother to keep, lest you should be tempted to
draw it on any of her majesty's lieges.”
“No fear of that, Frank; I am no swash-buckler, thank God; but if any
one gets in my way, I'll serve him as the mastiff did the terrier,
and just drop him over the quay into the river, to cool himself, or my
name's not Amyas.”
And the giant swung himself laughing out of the room, and slept all
night like a seal, not without dreams, of course, of Rose Salterne.
The next morning, according to his wont, he went into his mother's room,
whom he was sure to find up and at her prayers; for he liked to say his
prayers, too, by her side, as he used to do when he was a little boy. It
seemed so homelike, he said, after three years' knocking up and down
in no-man's land. But coming gently to the door, for fear of disturbing
her, and entering unperceived, beheld a sight which stopped him short.
Mrs. Leigh was sitting in her chair, with her face bowed fondly down
upon the head of his brother Frank, who knelt before her, his face
buried in her lap. Amyas could see that his whole form was quivering
with stifled emotion. Their mother was just finishing the last words
of a well-known text,--“for my sake, and the Gospel's, shall receive a
hundred-fold in this present life, fathers, and mothers, and brothers,
and sisters.”
“But not a wife!” interrupted Frank, with a voice stifled with sobs;
“that was too precious a gift for even Him to promise to those who gave
up a first love for His sake!”
“And yet,” said he, after a moment's silence, “has He not heaped me with
blessings enough already, that I must repine and rage at His refusing me
one more, even though that one be--No, mother! I am your son, and God's;
and you shall know it, even though Amyas never does!” And he looked up
with his clear blue eyes and white forehead; and his face was as the
face of an angel.
Both of them saw that Amyas was present, and started and blushed. His
mother motioned him away with her eyes, and he went quietly out, as one
stunned. Why had his name been mentioned?
Love, cunning love, told him all at once. This was the meaning of last
night's canzonet! This was why its words had seemed to fit his own heart
so well! His brother was his rival. And he had been telling him all his
love last night. What a stupid brute he was! How it must have made poor
Frank wince! And then Frank had listened so kindly; even bid him God
speed in his suit. What a gentleman old Frank was, to be sure! No wonder
the queen was so fond of him, and all the Court ladies!--Why, if it
came to that, what wonder if Rose Salterne should be fond of him too?
Hey-day! “That would be a pretty fish to find in my net when I come to
haul it!” quoth Amyas to himself, as he paced the garden; and clutching
desperately hold of his locks with both hands, as if to hold his poor
confused head on its shoulders, he strode and tramped up and down the
shell-paved garden walks for a full half hour, till Frank's voice (as
cheerful as ever, though he more than suspected all) called him.
“Come in to breakfast, lad; and stop grinding and creaking upon those
miserable limpets, before thou hast set every tooth in my head on edge!”
Amyas, whether by dint of holding his head straight, or by higher means,
had got the thoughts of the said head straight enough by this time; and
in he came, and fell to upon the broiled fish and strong ale, with a
sort of fury, as determined to do his duty to the utmost in all matters
that day, and therefore, of course, in that most important matter of
bodily sustenance; while his mother and Frank looked at him, not without
anxiety and even terror, doubting what turn his fancy might have taken
in so new a case; at last--
“My dear Amyas, you will really heat your blood with all that strong
ale! Remember, those who drink beer, think beer.”
“Then they think right good thoughts, mother. And in the meanwhile,
those who drink water, think water. Eh, old Frank? and here's your
health.”
“And clouds are water,” said his mother, somewhat reassured by his
genuine good humor; “and so are rainbows; and clouds are angels'
thrones, and rainbows the sign of God's peace on earth.”
Amyas understood the hint, and laughed. “Then I'll pledge Frank out
of the next ditch, if it please you and him. But first--I say--he must
hearken to a parable; a manner mystery, miracle play, I have got in
my head, like what they have at Easter, to the town-hall. Now then,
hearken, madam, and I and Frank will act.” And up rose Amyas, and shoved
back his chair, and put on a solemn face.
Mrs. Leigh looked up, trembling; and Frank, he scarce knew why, rose.
“No; you pitch again. You are King David, and sit still upon your
throne. David was a great singer, you know, and a player on the viols;
and ruddy, too, and of a fair countenance; so that will fit. Now, then,
mother, don't look so frightened. I am not going to play Goliath, for
all my cubits; I am to present Nathan the prophet. Now, David, hearken,
for I have a message unto thee, O King!
“There were two men in one city, one rich, and the other poor: and the
rich man had many flocks and herds, and all the fine ladies in Whitehall
to court if he liked; and the poor man had nothing but--”
And in spite of his broad honest smile, Amyas's deep voice began to
tremble and choke.
Frank sprang up, and burst into tears: “Oh! Amyas, my brother, my
brother! stop! I cannot endure this. Oh, God! was it not enough to have
entangled myself in this fatal fancy, but over and above, I must meet
the shame of my brother's discovering it?”
“What shame, then, I'd like to know?” said Amyas, recovering himself.
“Look here, brother Frank! I've thought it all over in the garden; and
I was an ass and a braggart for talking to you as I did last night.
Of course you love her! Everybody must; and I was a fool for not
recollecting that; and if you love her, your taste and mine agree, and
what can be better? I think you are a sensible fellow for loving her,
and you think me one. And as for who has her, why, you're the eldest;
and first come first served is the rule, and best to keep to it.
Besides, brother Frank, though I'm no scholar, yet I'm not so blind but
that I tell the difference between you and me; and of course your chance
against mine, for a hundred to one; and I am not going to be fool enough
to row against wind and tide too. I'm good enough for her, I hope; but
if I am, you are better, and the good dog may run, but it's the best
that takes the hare; and so I have nothing more to do with the matter
at all; and if you marry her, why, it will set the old house on its legs
again, and that's the first thing to be thought of, and you may just as
well do it as I, and better too. Not but that it's a plague, a horrible
plague!” went on Amyas, with a ludicrously doleful visage; “but so
are other things too, by the dozen; it's all in the day's work, as the
huntsman said when the lion ate him. One would never get through the
furze-croft if one stopped to pull out the prickles. The pig didn't
scramble out of the ditch by squeaking; and the less said the sooner
mended; nobody was sent into the world only to suck honey-pots. What
must be must, man is but dust; if you can't get crumb, you must fain
eat crust. So I'll go and join the army in Ireland, and get it out of
my head, for cannon balls fright away love as well as poverty does; and
that's all I've got to say.” Wherewith Amyas sat down, and returned to
the beer; while Mrs. Leigh wept tears of joy.
“Amyas! Amyas!” said Frank; “you must not throw away the hopes of years,
and for me, too! Oh, how just was your parable! Ah! mother mine! to
what use is all my scholarship and my philosophy, when this dear simple
sailor-lad outdoes me at the first trial of courtesy!”
“My children, my children, which of you shall I love best? Which of you
is the more noble? I thanked God this morning for having given me one
such son; but to have found that I possess two!” And Mrs. Leigh laid her
head on the table, and buried her face in her hands, while the generous
battle went on.
“But, dearest Amyas!--”
“But, Frank! if you don't hold your tongue, I must go forth. It
was quite trouble enough to make up one's mind, without having you
afterwards trying to unmake it again.”
“Amyas! if you give her up to me, God do so to me, and more also, if I
do not hereby give her up to you!”
“He had done it already--this morning!” said Mrs. Leigh, looking up
through her tears. “He renounced her forever on his knees before me!
only he is too noble to tell you so.”
“The more reason I should copy him,” said Amyas, setting his lips, and
trying to look desperately determined, and then suddenly jumping up,
he leaped upon Frank, and throwing his arms round his neck, sobbed out,
“There, there, now! For God's sake, let us forget all, and think about
our mother, and the old house, and how we may win her honor before we
die! and that will be enough to keep our hands full, without fretting
about this woman and that.--What an ass I have been for years! instead
of learning my calling, dreaming about her, and don't know at this
minute whether she cares more for me than she does for her father's
'prentices!”
“Oh, Amyas! every word of yours puts me to fresh shame! Will you believe
that I know as little of her likings as you do?”
“Don't tell me that, and play the devil's game by putting fresh hopes
into me, when I am trying to kick them out. I won't believe it. If she
is not a fool, she must love you; and if she don't, why, be hanged if
she is worth loving!”
“My dearest Amyas! I must ask you too to make no more such speeches to
me. All those thoughts I have forsworn.”
“Only this morning; so there is time to catch them again before they are
gone too far.”
“Only this morning,” said Frank, with a quiet smile: “but centuries have
passed since then.”
“Centuries? I don't see many gray hairs yet.”
“I should not have been surprised if you had, though,” answered Frank,
in so sad and meaning a tone that Amyas could only answer--
“Well, you are an angel!”
“You, at least, are something even more to the purpose, for you are a
man!”
And both spoke truth, and so the battle ended; and Frank went to his
books, while Amyas, who must needs be doing, if he was not to dream,
started off to the dockyard to potter about a new ship of Sir Richard's,
and forget his woes, in the capacity of Sir Oracle among the sailors.
And so he had played his move for Rose, even as Eustace had, and lost
her: but not as Eustace had.