There happened to be at this time an old fogy--of course it is most
distressing to speak of anyone disrespectfully; but when one thinks
of the trouble he caused, and not only that, but he was an old fogy,
essentially and pre-eminently--and his name was Sir Maunder Meddleby.
This worthy baronet, one of the first of a newly invented order, came
in his sled stuffed with goose-feathers (because he was too fat to
ride, and no wheels were yet known on the hill tracks) to talk about
some exchange of land with his old friend, our De Wichehalse. The baron
and the baronet had been making a happy day of it. Each knew pretty
well exactly what his neighbour’s little rashness might be hoped to
lead to, and each in his mind was pretty sure of having the upper hand
of it. Therefore both their hearts were open--business being now
dismissed, and dinner over--to one another. They sat in a beautiful
place, and drew refreshment of mind through their outward lips by means
of long reeden tubes with bowls at their ends, and something burning.
Clouds of delicate vapour wandered round and betwixt them and the sea;
and each was well content to wonder whether the time need ever come
when he must have to think again. Suddenly a light form flitted over
the rocks, as the shadows flit; and though Frida ran away for fear of
interrupting them, they knew who it was, and both, of course, began to
think about her.
The baron gave a puff of his pipe, and left the baronet to begin. In
course of time Sir Maunder spoke, with all that breadth and beauty of
the vowels and the other things which a Devonshire man commands, from
the lord lieutenant downward.
“If so be that ’ee gooth vor to ax me, ai can zay wan thing, and wan
oney.”
“What one thing is it, good neighbour? I am well content with her as
she is.”
“Laikely enough. And ’e wad be zo till ’e zeed a zummut fainer.”
“I want to see nothing finer or better than what we have seen just now,
sir.”
“There, you be like all varthers, a’most! No zort o’ oose to advaise
’un.”
“Nay, nay! Far otherwise. I am not by any means of that nature. Sir
Maunder Meddleby, I have the honour of craving your opinion.”
Sir Maunder Meddleby thought for a while, or, at any rate, meant to
be thinking, ere ever he dared to deliver himself of all his weighty
judgment.
“I’ve a-knowed she, my Lord Witcher, ever since her wore that haigh. A
purty wanch, and a peart one. But her wanteth the vinish of the coort.
Never do no good wi’out un, whan a coomth, as her must, to coorting.”
This was the very thing De Wichehalse was afraid to hear of. He had
lived so mild a life among the folk who loved him that any fear of
worry in great places was too much for him. And yet sometimes he could
not help a little prick of thought about his duty to his daughter.
Hence it came that common sense was driven wild by conscience, as
forever happens with the few who keep that gadfly. Six great horses,
who knew no conscience but had more fleshly tormentors, were ordered
out, and the journey began, and at last it ended.
Everything in London now was going almost anyhow. Kind and worthy
people scarcely knew the way to look at things. They desired to respect
the king and all his privilege, and yet they found his mind so wayward
that they had no hold of him.
The court, however, was doing its best, from place to place in its
wanderings, to despise the uproar and enjoy itself as it used to do.
Bright and beautiful ladies gathered round the king, when the queen was
gone, persuading him and one another that they must have their own way.
Of the lords who helped these ladies to their strong opinions there
was none in higher favour with the queen and the king himself than the
young Lord Auberley. His dress was like a sweet enchantment, and his
tongue was finer still, and his grace and beauty were as if no earth
existed. Frida was a new thing to him, in her pure simplicity. He to
her was such a marvel, such a mirror of the skies, as a maid can only
dream of in the full moon of St. John.
Little dainty glance, and flushing, and the fear to look too much, and
the stealthy joy of feeling that there must be something meant, yet the
terror of believing anything in earnest and the hope that, after all,
there may be nought to come of it; and when this hope seems over true,
the hollow of the heart behind it, and the longing to be at home with
anyone to love oneself--time is wasted in recounting this that always
must be.
Enough that Frida loved this gallant from the depths of her pure heart,
while he admired and loved her to the best of his ability.