"I am afraid that I have not acted very wisely in putting this boy of
ours to the law," said my father to my mother, as they sat together one
summer evening in their little garden, beneath the shade of some tall
poplars.
Yes, there sat my father in the garden chair which leaned against the
wall of his quiet home, the haven in which he had sought rest, and,
praise be to God, found it, after many a year of poorly requited toil;
there he sat, with locks of silver gray which set off so nobly his fine
bold but benevolent face, his faithful consort at his side, and his
trusty dog at his feet--an eccentric animal of the genuine regimental
breed, who, born amongst red-coats, had not yet become reconciled to
those of any other hue, barking and tearing at them when they drew near
the door, but testifying his fond reminiscence of the former by
hospitable waggings of the tail whenever a uniform made its appearance--at
present a very unfrequent occurrence.
"I am afraid I have not done right in putting him to the law," said my
father, resting his chin upon his gold-headed bamboo cane.
"Why, what makes you think so?" said my mother.
"I have been taking my usual evening walk up the road, with the animal
here," said my father; "and, as I walked along, I overtook the boy's
master, Mr. S--- {126}. We shook hands, and after walking a little way
farther, we turned back together, talking about this and that; the state
of the country, the weather, and the dog, which he greatly admired; for
he is a good-natured man, and has a good word for everybody, though the
dog all but bit him when he attempted to coax his head; after the dog, we
began talking about the boy; it was myself who introduced that subject: I
thought it was a good opportunity to learn how he was getting on, so I
asked what he thought of my son; he hesitated at first, seeming scarcely
to know what to say; at length he came out with 'Oh, a very extraordinary
youth, a most remarkable youth, indeed, captain!' 'Indeed,' said I, 'I
am glad to hear it, but I hope you find him steady?' 'Steady, steady,'
said he, 'why, yes, he's steady, I cannot say that he is not steady.'
'Come, come,' said I, beginning to be rather uneasy, 'I see plainly that
you are not altogether satisfied with him; I was afraid you would not be,
for, though he is my own son, I am anything but blind to his
imperfections: but do tell me what particular fault you have to find with
him; and I will do my best to make him alter his conduct.' 'No fault to
find with him, captain, I assure you, no fault whatever; the youth is a
remarkable youth, an extraordinary youth, only'--As I told you before,
Mr. S--- is the best-natured man in the world, and it was only with the
greatest difficulty that I could get him to say a single word to the
disadvantage of the boy, for whom he seems to entertain a very great
regard. At last I forced the truth from him, and grieved I was to hear
it; though I must confess I was somewhat prepared for it. It appears
that the lad has a total want of discrimination."
"I don't understand you," said my mother.
"You can understand nothing that would seem for a moment to impugn the
conduct of that child. I am not, however, so blind; want of
discrimination was the word, and it both sounds well, and is expressive.
It appears that, since he has been placed where he is, he has been guilty
of the grossest blunders; only the other day, Mr. S--- told me, as he was
engaged in close conversation with one of his principal clients, the boy
came to tell him that a person wanted particularly to speak with him;
and, on going out, he found a lamentable figure with one eye, who came to
ask for charity; whom, nevertheless, the lad had ushered into a private
room, and installed in an arm-chair, like a justice of the peace, instead
of telling him to go about his business--now what did that show, but a
total want of discrimination?"
"I wish we may never have anything worse to reproach him with," said my
mother.
"I don't know what worse we could reproach him with," said my father: "I
mean of course as far as his profession is concerned: discrimination is
the very key-stone; if he treated all people alike, he would soon become
a beggar himself; there are grades in society as well as in the army; and
according to those grades we should fashion our behaviour, else there
would instantly be an end of all order and discipline. I am afraid that
the child is too condescending to his inferiors, whilst to his superiors
he is apt to be unbending enough; I don't believe that would do in the
world; I am sure it would not in the army. He told me another anecdote
with respect to his behaviour, which shocked me more than the other had
done. It appears that his wife, who, by-the-bye, is a very fine woman,
and highly fashionable, gave him permission to ask the boy to tea one
evening, for she is herself rather partial to the lad; there had been a
great dinner party there that day, and there were a great many
fashionable people, so the boy went and behaved very well and modestly
for some time, and was rather noticed, till, unluckily, a very great
gentleman, an archdeacon I think, put some questions to him, and, finding
that he understood the languages, began talking to him about the
classics. What do you think? the boy had the impertinence to say that
the classics were much overvalued, and amongst other things that some
horrid fellow or other, some Welshman I think (thank God it was not an
Irishman), was a better poet than Ovid; the company were of course
horrified; the archdeacon, who is seventy years of age, and has 7000
pounds a year, took snuff and turned away. Mrs. S--- turned up her eyes,
Mr. S---, however, told me with his usual good-nature (I suppose to spare
my feelings) that he rather enjoyed the thing, and thought it a capital
joke."
"I think so too," said my mother.
"I do not," said my father; "that a boy of his years should entertain an
opinion of his own--I mean one which militates against all established
authority--is astounding; as well might a raw recruit pretend to offer an
unfavourable opinion on the manual and platoon exercise; the idea is
preposterous; the lad is too independent by half. I never yet knew one
of an independent spirit get on in the army; the secret of success in the
army is the spirit of subordination."
"Which is a poor spirit after all," said my mother; "but the child is not
in the army."
"And it is well for him that he is not," said my father; "but you do not
talk wisely, the world is a field of battle, and he who leaves the ranks,
what can he expect but to be cut down? I call his present behaviour
leaving the ranks, and going vapouring about without orders; his only
chance lies in falling in again as quick as possible; does he think he
can carry the day by himself? an opinion of his own at these years! I
confess I am exceedingly uneasy about the lad."
["I am not," said my mother; "I have no doubt that Providence will take
care of him."
"I repeat that I am exceedingly uneasy," said my father; "I can't help
being so, and would give my largest piece of coin to know what kind of
part he will play in life."
"Such curiosity is blamable," said my mother, "highly so. Let us leave
these things to Providence, and hope for the best; but to wish to pry
into the future, which is hidden from us, and wisely too, is mighty
wicked. _Tempt not Providence_. I early contracted a dread of that sin.
When I was only a child, something occurred connected with diving into
the future, which had, I hope, a salutary effect on my subsequent
conduct. The fright which I got then, I shall never forget. But it is
getting dark, and we had better go into the house."
"We are well enough here," said my father; "go on with your discourse.
You were speaking of tempting Providence, and of having been frightened."
"It was a long time ago," said my mother, "when I was quite a child, and
I was only a humble assistant in the affair. Your wish to dive into the
future brought it to my recollection. It was, perhaps, only a foolish
affair after all, and I would rather not talk about it, especially as it
is growing dark. We had better go in."
"A tale with any terror in it is all the better for being told in the
dark hour," said my father; "you are not afraid, I hope."
"Afraid, indeed! Of what should I be afraid? And yet I know not how it
is, I feel a chill, as if something was casting a cold shadow upon me. By-
the-bye, I have often heard that child talk of an indescribable fear
which sometimes attacks him and which he calls the shadow. I wonder if
it at all resembles what I am feeling now!"
"Never mind the child or his shadow," said my father, "but let us hear
the story."
"I have no objection to tell it; but perhaps after all it is mere
nonsense and will only make you laugh."
"Why, then, so much the better; it will perhaps drive from my head what
Mr. Simpson told me, which I certainly considered to be no laughing
matter, though you and he did. I would hear the story by all means."
"Well, so you shall. 'Tis said, however, that a superstition lies at the
bottom of it, as old as the Danes. So, at least, says the child, who by
some means or other has of late become acquainted with their language. He
says that of old they worshipped a god whose name was Frey, and that this
Frey had a wife."
"Indeed!" said my father, "and who told you this?"
"Why, the child," said my mother hesitatingly; "it was he that told me."
"I am afraid that it will indeed prove a foolish story," said my father;
"the child is mixed up with it already."
"He is _not_ mixed up with it," said my mother. "What I am about to
relate occurred many a long year before he was born. But he is fond of
hearing odd tales; and some time ago when he was poorly, I told him this
one amongst others, and it was then he made the observation that it is a
relic of the worship of the Danes. Truly the child talked both sensibly
and learnedly. The Danes, he said, were once a mighty people, and were
masters of the land where we at present are; that they had gods of their
own, strange and wild like themselves, and that it was their god Frey who
gave his name to what we call Friday."
"All this may be true," said my father, "but I should never think of
quoting the child as an authority."
"You must not be too hard on him," said my mother. "So this Frey had a
wife whose name was Freya, and the child says that the old pagans
considered them as the gods of love and marriage, and worshipped them as
such; and that all young damsels were in the habit of addressing
themselves to Freya in their love adventures, and of requesting her
assistance. He told me, and he quite frightened me when he said it, that
a certain night ceremony, in which I took part in my early youth, and
which is the affair to which I have alluded, was in every point
heathenish, being neither more nor less than an invocation to this Freya,
the wife of the old pagan god."
"And what ceremony might it be?" demanded my father. "It is getting
something dark," he added, glancing around.
"It is so," said my mother; "but these tales, you know, are best suited
to the dark hour. The ceremony was rather a singular one; the child,
however, explains it rationally enough. He says that this Freya was not
only a very comely woman, but also particularly neat in her person, and
that she invariably went dressed in snow-white linen."
"And how came the child to know all this?" demanded my father.
"Oh, that's his affair. I am merely repeating what he tells me. He
reads strange books and converses with strange people. What he says,
however, upon this matter, seems sensible enough. This Freya was fond of
snow-white linen."
"And what has that to do with the story?"
"Everything. I have told you that the young maidens were in the habit of
praying to her and requesting her favour and assistance in their love
adventures, which it seems she readily granted to those whom she took any
interest in. Now the readiest way to secure this interest and to procure
her assistance in any matter of the heart, was to flatter her on the
point where she was the most sensible. Whence the offering."
"And what was the offering?"
"It was once a common belief that the young maiden who should wash her
linen white in pure running water and should 'watch' it whilst drying
before a fire from eleven to twelve at night, would, at the stroke of
midnight, see the face of the man appear before her who was destined to
be her husband, and the child says that this was the '_Wake of Freya_'."
"I have heard of it before," said my father, "but under another name. So
you were engaged in one of these watchings."
"It was no fault of mine," said my mother; "for, as I told you, I was
very young, scarcely ten years of age; but I had a sister considerably
older than myself, a nice girl, but somewhat giddy and rather unsettled.
Perhaps, poor thing, she had some cause; for a young man to whom she had
been betrothed, had died suddenly, which was of course a terrible
disappointment to her. Well, it is at such times that strange ideas,
temptations perhaps, come into our head. To be brief, she had a mighty
desire to know whether she was doomed to be married or not. I remember
that at that time there were many odd beliefs and superstitions which
have since then died away; for those times were not like these; there
were highwaymen in the land, and people during the winter evenings used
to sit round the fire and tell wonderful tales of those wild men and
their horses; and these tales they would blend with ghost stories and the
like. My sister was acquainted with all the tales and superstitions
afloat and believed in them. So she determined upon the wake, the night-
watch of Freya, as the child calls it. But with all her curiosity she
was a timid creature, and was afraid to perform the ceremony alone. So
she told me of her plan, and begged me to stand by her. Now, though I
was a child, I had a spirit of my own and likewise a curiosity; and
though I had other sisters, I loved her best of all of them, so I
promised her that I would stand by her. Then we made our preparations.
The first thing we did was to walk over to the town, which was about
three miles distant--the pretty little rural town which you and the child
admire so much, and in the neighbourhood of which I was born--to purchase
the article we were in need of. After a considerable search we found
such an one as we thought would suit. It was of the best Holland, and I
remember that it cost us all the little pocket money we could muster.
This we brought home; and that same night my sister put it on and wore it
for that once only. We had washed it in a brook on the other side of the
moor. I remember the spot well; it was in a little pool beneath an old
hollow oak. The next night we entered on the ceremony itself.
"It happened to be Saturday, which was lucky for us, as my father that
night would be at the town, whither he went every Saturday to sell grain;
for he farmed his own little estate, as you know."
"I remember him well," said my father; "he preferred ale to wine."
"My father was of the old race," said my mother, "and lived in the days
of the highwaymen and their horses, when 'ale was ale,' as he used to
say, and 'was good for man and beast'. We knew that on the night in
question he would not be home till very late; so we offered to sit up for
him in lieu of the servant, who was glad enough in such weather, and
after a hard day's work, to escape to her bed. My mother was indisposed
and had retired to rest early. Well do I remember that night; it was the
beginning of December, and the weather for some time past had been
piercingly cold. The wind howled through the leafless boughs, and there
was every appearance of an early and severe winter, as indeed befel. Long
before eleven o'clock all was hushed and quiet within the house, and
indeed without (nothing was heard), except the cold wind which howled
mournfully in gusts. The house was an old farm-house, and we sat in the
large kitchen with its stone floor, awaiting the first stroke of the
eleventh hour. It struck at last, and then all pale and trembling we
hung the garment to dry before the fire which we had piled up with wood,
and set the door ajar, for that was an essential point. The door was
lofty and opened upon the farmyard, through which there was a kind of
thoroughfare, very seldom used, it is true, and at each end of it there
was a gate by which wayfarers occasionally passed to shorten the way.
There we sat without speaking a word, shivering with cold and fear,
listening to the clock which went slowly, tick, tick, and occasionally
starting as the door creaked on its hinges, or a half-burnt billet fell
upon the hearth. My sister was ghastly white, as white as the garment
which was drying before the fire. And now half an hour had elapsed and
it was time to turn. . . . This we did, I and my sister, without saying a
word, and then we again sank on our chairs on either side of the fire. I
was tired, and as the clock went tick-a-tick, I began to feel myself
dozing. I did doze, I believe. All of a sudden I sprang up. The clock
was striking one, two, but ere it could give the third chime, mercy upon
us! we heard the gate slam to with a tremendous noise. . ."
"Well, and what happened then?"
"Happened! before I could recover myself, my sister had sprung to the
door and both locked and bolted it. The next moment she was in
convulsions. I scarcely knew what happened; and yet it appeared to me
for a moment that something pressed against the door with a low moaning
sound. Whether it was the wind or not, I can't say. I shall never
forget that night. About two hours later, my father came home. He had
been set upon by a highwayman whom he beat off."
"And what was the result?"
"The result? why, my sister was ill for many weeks. Poor thing, she
never throve, married poorly, flung herself away."
"I don't see much in the story," said my father; "I should have laughed
at it, only there is one thing I don't like."
"What is that?"
"Why, the explanation of that strange child. It seems so odd that he
should be able to interpret it. The idea came this moment into my head.
I daresay it's all nonsense, but, but . . ."
"Oh, I daresay it's nonsense. Let us go in."
"If, after all, it should have been the worship of a demon! Your sister
was punished, you say--she never throve; now how do we know that you may
not be punished too? That child with his confusion of tongues--"
"I really think you are too hard upon him. After all, though not,
perhaps, all you could wish, he is not a bad child; he is always ready to
read the Bible. Let us go in; he is in the room above us; at least he
was two hours ago. I left him there bending over his books; I wonder
what he has been doing all this time. Let us go in, and he shall read to
us."]
"I am getting old," said my father; "and I love to hear the Bible read to
me, for my own sight is something dim; yet I do not wish the child to
read to me this night, I cannot so soon forget what I have heard; but I
hear my eldest son's voice, he is now entering the gate; he shall read
the Bible to us this night. What say you?"