The stir of the general rising of the kingdom against the king had not
disturbed these places yet beyond what might be borne with. Everybody
liked to talk, and everybody else was ready to put in a word or two;
broken heads, however, were as yet the only issue. So that when there
came great news of a real battle fought, and lost by Englishmen against
Englishmen, the indignation of all the country ran against both parties.
Baron de Wichehalse had been thinking, after his crop of hay was
in,--for such a faithful hay they have that it will not go from root
to rick by less than two months of worrying,--from time to time, and
even in the middle of his haycocks, this good lord had not been able to
perceive his proper course. Arguments there were that sounded quite as
if a baby must be perfectly convinced by them; and then there would be
quite a different line of reason taken by someone who knew all about
it and despised the opposite. So that many of a less decided way of
thinking every day embraced whatever had been last confuted.
This most manly view of matters and desire to give fair play was
scorned, of course, by the fairer (and unfairer) half of men. Frida
counted all as traitors who opposed their liege the king.
“Go forth, my lord; go forth and fight,” she cried to Viscount
Auberley, when the doubtful combat of Edgehill was firing new
pugnacity; “if I were a man, think you that I would let them do so?”
“Alas, fair mistress! it will take a many men to help it. But since
you bid me thus away--hi, Dixon! get my trunks packed!” And then, of
course, her blushing roses faded to a lily white; and then, of course,
it was his duty to support her slender form; neither were those dulcet
murmurs absent which forever must be present when the female kind
begin to have the best of it.
So they went on once or twice, and would have gone on fifty times if
fortune had allowed them thus to hang on one another. All the world was
fair around them; and themselves, as fair as any, vouched the whole
world to attest their everlasting constancy.
But one soft November evening, when the trees were full of drops, and
gentle mists were creeping up the channels of the moorlands, and snipes
(come home from foreign parts) were cheeping at their borings, and
every weary man was gladdened by the glance of a bright wood fire, and
smell of what was over it, there happened to come, on a jaded horse, a
man, all hat, and cape, and boots, and mud, and sweat, and grumbling.
All the people saw at once that it was quite impossible to make at
all too much of him, because he must be full of news, which (after
victuals) is the greatest need of human nature. So he had his own way
as to everything he ordered; and, having ridden into much experience of
women, kept himself as warm as could be, without any jealousy.
This stern man bore urgent order for the Viscount Auberley to join the
king at once at Oxford, and bring with him all his gathering. Having
gathered no men yet, but spent the time in plucking roses and the wild
myrtles of Devonshire love, the young lord was for once a little taken
aback at this order. Moreover, though he had been grumbling, half a
dozen times a day--to make himself more precious--about the place, and
the people, and the way they cooked his meals, he really meant it less
and less as he came to know the neighbourhood. These are things which
nobody can understand without seeing them.
“I grieve, my lord,” said the worthy baron, “that you must leave us in
this hot haste.” On the whole, however, this excellent man was partly
glad to be quit of him.
“And I am deeply indebted to your lordship for the grievance; but it
must be so. _Que voulez-vous?_ You talk the French, _mon baron_?”
“With a Frenchman, my lord; but not when I have the honour to speak
with an Englishman.”
“Ah, there! Foreign again! My lord, you will never speak English.”
De Wichehalse could never be quite sure, though his race had been long
in this country, whether he or they could speak born English as it
ought to be.
“Perhaps you will find,” he said at last, with grief as well as
courtesy, “many who speak one language striving to silence one another.”
“He fights best who fights the longest. You will come with us, my lord?”
“Not a foot, not half an inch,” the baron answered sturdily. “I’ve
a-laboured hard to zee my best, and ’a can’t zee head nor tail to it.”
Thus he spoke in imitation of what his leading tenant said, smiling
brightly at himself, but sadly at his subject.
“Even so!” the young man answered; “I will forth and pay my duty. The
rusty weathercock, my lord, is often too late for the oiling.”
With this conceit he left De Wichehalse, and, while his grooms were
making ready, sauntered down the zigzag path, which, through rocks
and stubbed oaks, made toward the rugged headland known, far up and
down the Channel, by the name of Duty Point. Near the end of this walk
there lurked a soft and silent bower, made by Nature, and with all
of Nature’s art secluded. The ledge that wound along the rock-front
widened, and the rock fell back and left a little cove, retiring into
moss and ferny shade. Here the maid was well accustomed every day to
sit and think, gazing down at the calm, gray sea, and filled with rich
content and deep capacity of dreaming.
Here she was, at the present moment, resting in her pure love-dream,
believing all the world as good, and true, and kind as her own young
self. Round her all was calm and lovely; and the soft brown hand of
autumn, with the sun’s approval, tempered every mellow mood of leaves.
Aubyn Auberley was not of a sentimental cast of mind. He liked the
poets of the day, whenever he deigned to read them; nor was he at
all above accepting the dedication of a book. But it was not the
fashion now--as had been in the noble time of Watson, Raleigh, and
Shakspere--for men to look around and love the greater things they grow
among.
Frida was surprised to see her dainty lord so early. She came here in
the morning always, when it did not rain too hard, to let her mind have
pasture on the landscape of sweet memory. And even sweeter hope was
always fluttering in the distance, on the sea, or clouds, or flitting
vapour of the morning. Even so she now was looking at the mounting
glory of the sun above the sea-clouds, the sun that lay along the
land, and made the distance roll away.
“Hard and bitter is my task,” the gallant lord began with her, “to say
farewell to all I love. But so it ever must be.”
Frida looked at his riding-dress, and cold fear seized her suddenly,
and then warm hope that he might only be riding after the bustards.
“My lord,” she said, “will you never grant me that one little prayer of
mine--to spare poor birds, and make those cruel gaze-hounds run down
one another?”
“I shall never see the gaze-hounds more,” he answered petulantly; “my
time for sport is over. I must set forth for the war to-day.”
“To-day!” she cried; and then tried to say a little more for pride’s
sake; “to go to the war to-day, my lord!”
“Alas! it is too true. Either I must go, or be a traitor and a dastard.”
Her soft blue eyes lay full on his, and tears that had not time to flow
began to spread a hazy veil between her and the one she loved.
He saw it, and he saw the rise and sinking of her wounded heart, and
how the words she tried to utter fell away and died within her for the
want of courage; and light and hard, and mainly selfish as his nature
was, the strength, and depth, and truth of love came nigh to scare him
for the moment even of his vanities.
“Frida!” he said, with her hand in his, and bending one knee on the
moss; “only tell me that I must stay; then stay I will; the rest of the
world may scorn if you approve me.”
This, of course, sounded very well and pleased her, as it was meant to
do; still, it did not satisfy her--so exacting are young maidens, and
so keen is the ear of love.
“Aubyn, you are good and true. How very good and true you are! But even
by your dear voice now I know what you are thinking.”
Lord Auberley, by this time, was as well within himself again as he
generally found himself; so that he began to balance chances very
knowingly. If the king should win the warfare and be paramount again,
this bright star of the court must rise to something infinitely higher
than a Devonshire squire’s child. A fine young widow of a duke, of the
royal blood of France itself, was not far from being quite determined
to accept him, if she only could be certain how these things would
end themselves. Many other ladies were determined quite as bravely to
wait the course of events, and let him have them, if convenient. On
the other hand, if the kingdom should succeed in keeping the king in
order--which was the utmost then intended--Aubyn Auberley might be only
too glad to fall back upon Frida.
Thinking it wiser, upon the whole, to make sure of this little lamb,
with nobler game in prospect, Lord Auberley heaved as deep a sigh as
the size of his chest could compass. After which he spoke as follows,
in a most delicious tone:
“Sweetest, and my only hope, the one star of my wanderings; although
you send me forth to battle, where my arm is needed, give me one dear
pledge that ever you will live and die my own.”
This was just what Frida wanted, having trust (as our free-traders, by
vast amplitude of vision, have in reciprocity) that if a man gets the
best of a woman he is sure to give it back. Therefore these two sealed
and delivered certain treaties (all unwritten, but forever engraven
upon the best and tenderest feelings of the lofty human nature) that
nothing less than death, or even greater, should divide them.
Is there one, among the many who survive such process, unable to
imagine or remember how they parted? The fierce and even desperate
anguish, nursed and made the most of; the pride and self-control that
keep such things for comfort afterward; the falling of the heart that
feels itself the true thing after all. Let it be so, since it must be;
and no sympathy can heal it, since in every case it never, never, was
so bad before!