The worthy baron was not of a versatile complexion. When his mind was
quite made up he carried out the whole of it. But he could not now make
up his mind upon either of two questions. Of these questions one was
this--should he fight for the king or against him, in the struggle now
begun? By hereditary instincts he was stanch for liberty, for letting
people have their own opinions who could pay for them. And about
religious matters and the royal view of them, he fell under sore
misgiving that his grandfather on high would have a bone to pick with
him.
His other difficulty was what to say, or what to think, about Lord
Auberley. To his own plain way of judging, and that human instinct
which, when highly cultivated, equals that of the weaker dogs, also to
his recollection of what used to be expected in the time when he was
young, Viscount Auberley did not give perfect satisfaction.
Nevertheless, being governed as strong folk are by the gentle ones, the
worthy baron winked at little things which did not please him, and went
so far as to ask that noble spark to flash upon the natives of benighted
Devon. Lord Auberley was glad enough to retire for a season, both for
other reasons and because he saw that bitter fighting must be soon
expected. Hence it happened that the six great Flemish horses were
buckled to, early in September of the first year of the civil war, while
the king was on his westward march collecting men and money. The queen
was not expected back from the Continent for another month; there had
scarcely been for all the summer even the semblance of a court fit
to teach a maiden lofty carriage and cold dignity; so that Lord de
Wichehalse thought Sir Maunder Meddleby an oaf for sending him to
London.
But there was someone who had tasted strong delight and shuddering fear,
glowing hope and chill despair, triumph, shame, and all confusion of the
heart and mind and will, such as simple maidens hug into their blushing
chastity by the moonlight of first love. Frida de Wichehalse knew for
certain, and forever felt it settled, that in all the world of worlds
never had been any body, any mind, or even soul, fit to think of twice
when once you had beheld Lord Auberley.
His young lordship, on the whole, was much of the same opinion. Low
fellows must not have the honour to discharge their guns at him. He
liked the king, and really meant no harm whatever to his peace of mind
concerning his Henrietta; and, if the worst came to the worst, everyone
knew that out of France there was no swordsman fit to meet, even with
a rapier, the foil of Aubyn Auberley. Neither was it any slur upon his
loyalty or courage that he was now going westward from the world of
camps and war. It was important to secure the wavering De Wichehalse,
the leading man of all the coast, from Mine-head down to Hartland; so
that, with the full consent of all the king's advisers, Lord Auberley
left court and camp to press his own suit peacefully. What a difference
he found it to be here in mid-September, far away from any knowledge
of the world and every care; only to behold the manner of the trees
disrobing, blushing with a trembling wonder at the freedom of the winds,
or in the wealth of deep wood browning into rich defiance; only to
observe the colour of the hills, and cliffs, and glens, and the glory
of the sea underneath the peace of heaven, when the balanced sun was
striking level light all over them! And if this were not enough to
make a man contented with his littleness and largeness, then to see
the freshened Pleiads, after their long dip of night, over the eastern
waters twinkling, glad to see us all once more and sparkling to be
counted.
These things, and a thousand others, which (without a waft of
knowledge or of thought on our part) enter into and become our sweetest
recollections, for the gay young lord possessed no charm, nor even
interest. “Dull, dull, how dull it is!” was all he thought when he
thought at all; and he vexed his host by asking how he could live in
such a hole as that. And he would have vexed his young love, too, if
young love were not so large of heart, by asking what the foreign tongue
was which “her people” tried to speak. “Their native tongue and mine,
my lord!” cried Frida, with the sweetness of her smile less true than
usual, because she loved her people and the air of her nativity.
However, take it altogether, this was a golden time for her. Golden
trust and reliance are the well-spring of our nature, and that man is
the happiest who is cheated every day almost. The pleasure is tenfold as
great in being cheated as to cheat. Therefore Frida was as happy as the
day and night are long. Though the trees were striped with autumn, and
the green of the fields was waning, and the puce of the heath was faded
into dingy cinnamon; though the tint of the rocks was darkened by the
nightly rain and damp, and the clear brooks were beginning to be hoarse
with shivering floods, and the only flowers left were but widows of the
sun, yet she had the sovereign comfort and the cheer of trustful
love. Lord Auberley, though he cared nought for the Valley of Rocks
or Watersmeet, for beetling majesty of the cliffs or mantled curves
of Woody Bay, and though he accounted the land a wilderness and the
inhabitants savages, had taken a favourable view of the ample spread
of the inland farms and the loyalty of the tenants, which naturally
suggested the raising of the rental. Therefore he grew more attentive
to young Mistress Frida; even sitting in shady places, which it made him
damp to think of when he turned his eyes from her. Also he was moved a
little by her growing beauty, for now the return to her native hills,
the presence of her lover, and the home-made bread and forest mutton,
combining with her dainty years, were making her look wonderful. If
Aubyn Auberley had not been despoiled of all true manliness, by the
petting and the froward wit of many a foreign lady, he might have won
the pure salvation of an earnest love. But, when judged by that French
standard which was now supreme at court, this poor Frida was a rustic,
only fit to go to school. There was another fine young fellow who
thought wholly otherwise. To him, in his simple power of judging for
himself, and seldom budging from that judgment, there was no one fit to
dream of in comparison with her. Often, in this state of mind, he longed
to come forward and let them know what he thought concerning the whole
of it. But Albert could not see his way toward doing any good with it,
and being of a bashful mind, he kept his heart in order.