Lovers come, and lovers go; ecstasies of joy and anguish have their
proper intervals; and good young folk, who know no better, revel in high
misery. But the sun ascends the heavens at the same hour of the day, by
himself dictated; and if we see him not, it is our earth that spreads
the curtain. Nevertheless, these lovers, being out of rule with
everything, heap their own faults on his head, and want him to be
setting always, that they may behold the moon.
Therefore it was useless for the wisest man in the north of Devon, or
even the wisest woman, to reason with young Frida now, or even to let
her have the reason upon her side, and be sure of it. She, for her part,
was astray from all the bounds of reason, soaring on the wings of faith,
and hope, and high delusion. Though the winter-time was coming, and the
wind was damp and raw, and the beauty of the valleys lay down to recover
itself; yet with her the spring was breaking, and the world was lifting
with the glory underneath it. Because it had been firmly pledged--and
who could ever doubt it?--that the best and noblest lover in this world
of noble love would come and grandly claim and win his bride on her next
birthday.
At Christmas she had further pledge of her noble lover's constancy.
In spite of difficulties, dangers, and the pressing need of men, he
contrived to send her by some very valiant messengers (none of whom
would ride alone) a beautiful portrait of himself, set round with
sparkling diamonds; also a necklace of large pearls, as white and pure
as the neck whose grace was to enhance their beauty.
Hereupon such pride and pleasure mounted into her cheeks and eyes, and
flushed her with young gaiety, that all who loved her, being grafted
with good superstition, nearly spoiled their Christmas-time by serious
sagacity. She, however, in the wealth of all she had to think of, heeded
none who trod the line of prudence and cold certainty.
“It is more than I can tell,” she used to say, most prettily, to anybody
who made bold to ask her about anything; “all things go so in and out
that I am sure of nothing else except that I am happy.”
The baron now began to take a narrow, perhaps a natural, view of all
the things around him. In all the world there was for him no sign
or semblance of any being whose desires or strictest rights could be
thought of more than once when set against his daughter's. This, of
course, was very bad for Frida's own improvement. It could not make her
selfish yet, but it really made her wayward. The very best girls ever
seen are sure to have their failings; and Frida, though one of the very
best, was not above all nature. People made too much of this, when she
could no more defend herself.
Whoever may have been to blame, one thing at least is certain--the
father, though he could not follow all his child's precipitance, yet
was well contented now to stoop his gray head to bright lips, and do his
best toward believing some of their soft eloquence. The child, on the
other hand, was full of pride, and rose on tiptoe, lest anybody might
suppose her still too young for anything. Thus between them they looked
forward to a pleasant time to come, hoping for the best, and judging
everyone with charity.
The thing that vexed them most (for always there must, of course, be
something) was the behaviour of Albert, nephew to the baron, and most
loving cousin of Frida. Nothing they could do might bring him to spend
his Christmas with them; and this would be the first time ever since his
long-clothed babyhood that he had failed to be among them, and to lead
or follow, just as might be required of him. Such a guest has no small
value in a lonely neighbourhood, and years of usage mar the circle of
the year without him.
Christmas passed, and New Year's Day, and so did many other days.
The baron saw to his proper work, and took his turn of hunting, and
entertained his neighbours, and pleased almost everybody. Much against
his will, he had consented to the marriage of his daughter with Lord
Auber-ley--to make the best of a bad job, as he told Sir Maunder
Meddleby. Still, this kind and crafty father had his own ideas; for the
moment he was swimming with the tide to please his daughter, even as for
her dear sake he was ready to sink beneath it. Yet, these fathers have
a right to form their own opinions; and for the most part they believe
that they have more experience. Frida laughed at this, of course, and
her father was glad to see her laugh. Nevertheless, he could not escape
some respect for his own opinion, having so rarely found it wrong; and
his own opinion was that something was very likely to happen.
In this he proved to be quite right. For many things began to happen,
some on the-right and some on the left hand of the-baron's auguries. All
of them, however, might be reconciled exactly with the very thing he had
predicted. He noticed this, and it pleased him well, and inspired him so
that he started anew for even truer prophecies. And everybody round the
place was-born so to respect him that, if he missed the mark a little,
they could hit it for him.
Things stood thus at the old Ley Manor--and folk were content to have
them so, for fear of getting worse, perhaps--toward the end of January,
a. d. 1643. De Wichehalse had vowed that his only child--although so
clever for her age, and prompt of mind and body--should not enter into
marriage until she was in her eighteenth year. Otherwise, it would, no
doubt, have all been settled long ago; for Aubyn Auberley sometimes
had been in the greatest hurry. However, hither he must come now,
as everybody argued, even though the fate of England hung on his
stirrup-leather. Because he had even sent again, with his very best
intentions, fashionable things for Frida, and the hottest messages; so
that, if they did not mean him to be quite beside himself, everything
must be smoking for his wedding at the Candlemas.
But when everything and even everybody else--save Albert and the baron,
and a few other obstinate people--was and were quite ready and rejoicing
for a grand affair, to be celebrated with well-springs of wine and
delightfully cordial Watersmeet, rocks of beef hewn into valleys, and
conglomerate cliffs of pudding; when ruddy dame and rosy damsel were
absorbed in “what to wear,” and even steady farmers were in “practice
for the back step”; in a word, when all the country was gone wild about
Frida's wedding--one night there happened to come a man.
This man tied his horse to a gate and sneaked into the back yard, and
listened in a quiet corner, knowing, as he did, the ins and outs and
ways of the kitchen. Because he was that very same man who understood
the women so, and made himself at home, by long experience, in new
places. It had befallen this man, as it always befell any man of
perception, to be smitten with the kindly loveliness of Frida.
Therefore, now, although he was as hungry as ever he had been, his
heart was such that he heard the sound of dishes, yet drew no nearer.
Experience of human nature does not always spoil it.