Frida, knowing--perhaps more deeply than that violent woman thought--the
mischief thus put into her, stole back to her bedroom, and, without a
word to anyone, tired her hair in the Grecian snood which her lover used
to admire so, and arrayed her soft and delicate form in all the bridal
finery. Perhaps, that day, no bride in England--certainly none of her
youth and beauty--treated her favourite looking-glass with such contempt
and ingratitude. She did not care to examine herself, through some
reluctant sense of havoc, and a bitter fear that someone might be
disappointed in her. Then at the last, when all was ready, she snatched
up her lover's portrait (which for days had been cast aside and cold),
and, laying it on her bosom, took a snatch of a glance at her lovely
self.
After some wonder she fetched a deep sigh--not from clearly thinking
anything, but as an act of nature--and said, “Good-by!” forever, with
a little smile of irony, to her looking-glass, and all the many pretty
things that knew her.
It was her bad luck, as some people thought thereafter--or her good
luck, as herself beheld it--to get down the stairs and out of the house
without anyone being the wiser. For the widow De Wichehalse, Albert's
mother, had not been content with sealing the doom of this poor maiden,
but in that highly excited state, which was to be expected, hurried into
the house, to beard the worthy baron in his den. There she found him;
and, although he said and did all sympathy, the strain of parental
feelings could not yield without “hysterics.”
All the servants, and especially Mother Eyebright (whose chief duty now
was to watch Frida), were called by the terrified baron, and with
one unanimous rush replied; so that the daughter of the house left it
without notice, and before any glances was out of sight, in the rough
ground where the deer were feeding, and the umber oak-leaves hung.
It was the dainty time when first the year begins to have a little hope
of meaning kindly--when in the quiet places often, free from any haste
of wind, or hindrances of pattering thaw, small and unimportant flowers
have a little knack of dreaming that the world expects them. Therefore
neither do they wait for leaves to introduce them, nor much weather to
encourage, but in shelfy corners come, in a day, or in a night--no man
knows quite which it is; and there they are, as if by magic, asking, “Am
I welcome?” And if anybody sees them, he is sure to answer “Yes.”
Frida, in the sheltered corners and the sunny nooks of rock, saw a few
of these little things delicately trespassing upon the petulance of
spring. Also, though her troubles wrapped her with an icy mantle, softer
breath of Nature came, and sighed for her to listen to it, and to make
the best of all that is not past the sighing. More than once she stopped
to listen, in the hush of the timid south wind creeping through the
dishevelled wood; and once, but only once, she was glad to see her first
primrose and last, and stooped to pluck, but, on second thoughts, left
it to outblossom her.
So, past many a briered rock, and dingle buff with littered fern, green
holly copse where lurked the woodcock, and arcades of zigzag oak, Frida
kept her bridal robe from spot, or rent, or blemish. Passing all these
little pleadings of the life she had always loved, at last she turned
the craggy corner into the ledge of the windy cliff.
Now below her there was nothing but repose from shallow thought; rest
from all the little troubles she had made so much of; deep, eternal
satisfaction in the arms of something vast. But all the same, she did
not feel quite ready for the great jump yet.
The tide was in, and she must wait at least until it began to turn,
otherwise her white satin velvet would have all its pile set wrong, if
ever anybody found her. There could be no worse luck than that for any
bride on her wedding-day; therefore up the rock-walk Frida kept very
close to the landward side.
All this way she thought of pretty little things said to her in the
early days of love. Many things that made her smile because they had
gone so otherwise, and one or two that would have fetched her tears, if
she had any. Filled with vain remembrance thus, and counting up the
many presents sent to her for this occasion, but remaining safe at home,
Frida came to the little coving bower just inside the Point, where she
could go no further. Here she had received the pledges, and the plight,
and honour; and here her light head led her on to look for something
faithful.
“When the tide turns I shall know it. If he does not come by that time,
there will be no more to do. It will be too late for weddings, for the
tide turns at twelve o'clock. How calm and peaceful is the sea! How
happy are the sea gulls, and how true to one another!”
She stood where, if she had cared for life, it would have been certain
death to stand, so giddy was the height, and the rock beneath her
feet so slippery. The craggy headland, Duty Point, well known to every
navigator of that rock-bound coast, commands the Channel for many a
league, facing eastward the Castle Rock and Countisbury Foreland, and
westward High-veer Point, across the secluded cove of Leymouth. With
one sheer fall of a hundred fathoms the stern cliff meets the baffled
sea--or met it then, but now the level of the tide is lowering. Air and
sea were still and quiet; the murmur of the multitudinous wavelets could
not climb the cliff; but loops and curves of snowy braiding on the dark
gray water showed the set of tide and shift of current in and out the
buried rocks.
Standing in the void of fear, and gazing into the deep of death, Frida
loved the pair of sea gulls hovering halfway between her and the soft
gray sea. These good birds had found a place well suited for their
nesting, and sweetly screamed to one another that it was a contract.
Frida watched how proud they were, and how they kept their strong wings
sailing and their gray backs flat and quivering, while with buoyant
bosom each made circles round the other.
As she watched, she saw the turning of the tide below them. The streaky
bends of curdled water, lately true as fairy-rings, stopped and wavered,
and drew inward on their flowing curves, and outward on the side toward
the ebb. Then the south wind brought the distant toll of her father's
turret-clock, striking noon with slow deliberation and dead certainty.
Frida made one little turn toward her bower behind the cliff, where the
many sweet words spoken drew her to this last of hope. All was silent.
There was no one Now was the time to go home at last.
Suddenly she felt a heavy drag upon her velvet skirt. Ancient Lear
had escaped from the chain she had put on him, and, more trusty than
mankind, was come to keep his faith with her.
“You fine old dog, it is too late! The clock has struck. The tide has
turned. There is no one left to care for me; and I have ruined everyone.
Good-by, you only true one!”
Submissive as he always was, the ancient dog lay down when touched, and
drew his grizzled eyelids meekly over his dim and sunken eyes. Before he
lifted them again Frida was below the sea gulls, and beneath the waves
they fished.
Lear, with a puzzled sniff, arose and shook his head, and peered, with
his old eyes full of wistful wonder, down the fearful precipice. Seeing
something, he made his mind, up, gave one long re-echoed howl, then
tossed his mane, like a tawny wave, and followed down the death-leap.
Neither body was ever found; and the whole of this might not have been
known so clearly as it is known, unless it had happened that Mother
Eyebright, growing uneasy, came round the corner just in time to be too
late. She, like a sensible woman, never dreamed of jumping after them,
but ran home so fast that she could not walk to church for three months
afterward; and when her breath came back was enabled to tell tenfold of
all she had seen.
One of the strangest things in life is the way in which we mortals take
the great and fatal blows of life.
For instance, the baron was suddenly told, while waiting for Frida to
sit beside him, at his one o'clock dinner:
“Plaize, my lard, your lardship's darter hath a been and jumped off Duty
Point.”
“What an undutiful thing to do!” was the first thing Lord de Wichehalse
said; and those who knew no better thought that this was how he took it.
Aubyn Auberley, however, took a different measure of a broken-hearted
father's strength. For the baron buckled on the armour of a century ago,
which had served his grandsire through hard blows in foreign battles,
and, with a few of his trusty servants, rode to join the Parliament. It
happened so that he could not make redress of his ruined life until the
middle of the summer. Then, at last, his chance came to him, and he
did not waste it. Viscount Auberley, who had so often slipped away and
laughed at him, was brought to bay beneath a tree in the famous fight of
Lansdowne.
The young man offered to hold parley, but the old man had no words.
His snowy hair and rugged forehead, hard-set mouth and lifted arm, were
enough to show his meaning. The gallant, being so skilled of fence,
thought to play with this old man as he had with his daughter; but the
Gueldres ax cleft his curly head, and split what little brain it takes
to fool a trusting maiden.
So, in early life, deceiver and deceived were quit of harm; and may ere
now have both found out whether it is better to inflict the wrong or
suffer it.