Mistress Jean was making the elder-flower wine--
‘And what brings the
Laird at sic a like time?’
LADY NAIRN, THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN
Summer was nearly ended, and Lucy Thistlewood was presiding in the great
kitchen of the Manor-house, standing under the latticed window near
the large oak-table, a white apron over her dress, presiding over the
collecting of elder-berries for the brew of household-wine for the
winter. The maids stood round her with an array of beechen bowls or red
and yellow crocks, while barefooted, bareheaded children came thronging
in with rush or wicker baskets of the crimson fruit, which the maids
poured in sanguine cascades into their earthenware; and Lucy requited
with substantial slices of bread and cheese, and stout homely garment
mostly of her own sewing.
Lucy was altogether an inmate of her father’s house. She had not even
been at Hurst Walwyn for many months; for her step-mother’s reiterated
hopes that Berenger would make her his consolation for all he had
suffered from his French spouse rendered it impossible to her to meet
him with sisterly unconsciousness; and she therefore kept out of the
way, and made herself so useful at home, that Dame Annora only wondered
how it had been possible to spare her so long, and always wound up her
praises by saying, that Berenger would learn in time how lucky he had
been to lose the French puppet, and win the good English housewife.
If only tidings would have come that the puppet was safe married. That
was the crisis which all the family desired yet feared for Berenger,
since nothing else they saw would so detach his thoughts from the past
as the leave him free to begin life again. The relapse brought on by the
cruel reply to Osbert’s message had been very formidable: he was long
insensible or delirious and then came a state of annihilated thought,
then of frightfully sensitive organs, when light, sound, movement, or
scent were alike agony; and when he slowly revived, it was with such
sunken spirits, that his silence was as much from depression as from
difficulty of speech. His brain was weak, his limbs feeble, the wound in
his mouth never painless; and all this necessarily added to his listless
indifference and weariness, as though all youthful hope and pleasure
were extinct in him. He had ceased to refer to the past. Perhaps he had
thought it over, and seen that the deferred escape, the request for the
pearls, the tryst at the palace, and detention from the king’s chamber,
made an uglier case against Eustacie than he could endure to own even to
himself. If his heart trusted, his mind could not argue out her defence,
and his tongue would not serve him for discussion with his grandfather,
the only person who could act for him. Perhaps the stunned condition of
his mind made the suspense just within the bounds of endurance, while
trust in his wife’s innocence rendered his inability to come to her aid
well-nigh intolerable; and doubt of her seemed both profanity and misery
unspeakable. He could do nothing. He had shot his only shaft by sending
Landry Osbert, and had found that to endeavour to induce his grandfather
to use further measures was worse than useless, and was treated as mere
infatuation. He knew that all he had to do was to endeavour for what
patience he could win from Cecily’s sweet influence and guidance, and
to wait till either certainty should come--that dreadful, miserable
certainty that all looked for, and his very helplessness might be
bringing about--or till he should regain strength to be again effective.
And miserably slow work was this recovery. No one had surgical skill to
deal with so severe a wound as that which Narcisse had inflicted; and
the daily pain and inconvenience it caused led to innumerable drawbacks
that often--even after he had come as far as the garden--brought him
back to his bed in a dark room, to blood-letting, and to speechlessness.
No one knew much of his mind--Cecily perhaps the most; and next to her,
Philip--who, from the time he had been admitted to his step-brother’s
presence, had been most assiduous in tending him--seemed to understand
his least sign, and to lay aside all his boisterous roughness in his
eager desire to do him service. The lads had loved each other from the
moment they had met as children, but never so apparently as now,
when all the rude horse-play of healthy youths was over--and one was
dependent, the other considerate. And if Berenger had made on one else
believe in Eustacie, he had taught Philip to view her as the ‘Queen’s
men’ viewed Mary of Scotland. Philip had told Lucy the rough but
wholesome truth, that ‘Mother talks mere folly. Eustacie is no more to
be spoken of with you than a pheasant with old brown Partlet; and Berry
waits but to be well to bring her off from all her foes. And I’ll go
with him.’
It was on Philip’s arm that Berenger first crept round the
bowling-green, and with Philip at his rein that he first endured to
ride along the avenue on Lord Walwyn’s smooth-paced palfrey; and it
was Philip who interrupted Lucy’s household cares by rushing in and
shouting, ‘Sister, here! I have wiled him to ride over the down, and
he is sitting under the walnut-tree quite spent, and the three little
wenches are standing in a row, weeping like so many little mermaids.
Come, I say!’
Lucy at once followed him through the house, through the deep porch to
the court, which was shaded by a noble walnut-tree, where Sir Marmaduke
loved to sit among his dogs. There not sat Berenger, resting against the
trunk, overcome by the heat and exertion of his ride. His cloak and
hat lay on the ground; the dogs fawned round him, eager for the wonted
caress, and his three little sisters stood a little aloof, clinging to
one another and crying piteously.
It was their first sight of him; and it seemed to them as if he were
behind a frightful mask. Even Lucy was not without a sensation of the
kind, of this effect in the change from the girlish, rosy complexion to
extreme paleness, on which was visible, in ghastly red and purple, the
great scar left by Narcisse, from the temple on the one side to the ear
on the other.
The far more serious would on the cheek was covered with a black patch,
and the hair had almost entirely disappeared from the head, only a few
light brown locks still hanging round the neck and temples, so that
the bald brow gave a strange look of age; and the disfigurement was
terrible, enhanced as it was by the wasting effect of nearly a year of
sickness. Lucy was so much shocked, that she could hardly steady her
voice to chide the children for not giving a better welcome to their
brother. They would have clung round her, but she shook them off, and
sent Annora in haste for her mother’s fan; while Philip arriving with a
slice of diet-bread and a cup of sack, the one fanned him, and the other
fed him with morsels of the cake soaked in the wine, till he revived,
looked up with eyes that were unchanged, and thanked them with a few
faltering words, scarcely intelligible to Lucy. The little girls came
nearer, and curiously regarded him but when he held out his hand to his
favourite Dolly, she shrank back in reluctance.
‘Do not chide her,’ he said wearily. ‘May she never become used to such
marks!’
‘What, would you have her live among cowards?’ exclaimed Philip; but
Berenger, instead of answering, looked up at the front of the house,
one of those fine Tudor facades that seem all carved timber and glass
lattice, and asked, so abruptly that Lucy doubted whether she heard him
alright,--‘How many windows are there in this front?’
‘I never counted,’ said Philip.
‘I have,’ said Annora; ‘there are seven and thirty, besides the two
little ones in the porch.’
‘None shall make them afraid,’ he muttered. ‘Who would dare build such a
defenceless house over yonder?’--pointing south.
‘Our hearts are guarded now,’ said Philip, proudly. Berenger half
smiled, as he was wont to do when he meant more than he could
conveniently utter, and presently he asked, in the same languid, musing
tone, ‘Lucy, were you ever really affrighted?’
Lucy questioned whether he could be really in his right mind, as if the
bewilderment of his brain was again returning; and while she paused,
Annora exclaimed, ‘Yes, when we were gathering cowslips, and the
brindled cow ran at us, and Lucy could not run because she had Dolly in
her arm. Oh! we were frightened then, till you came, brother.’
‘Yes,’ added Bessie; ‘and last winter too, when the owl shrieked at the
window---’
‘And,’ added Berenger, ‘sister, what was your greatest time of revelry?’
Annora again put in her word. ‘I know, brother; you remember the
fair-day, when my Lady Grandame was angered because you and Lucy went on
dancing when we and all then gentry had ceased. And when Lucy said she
had not seen that you were left alone, Aunt Cecily said it was because
the eyes of discretion were lacking.’
‘Oh, the Christmas feast was far grander,’ said Bessie. ‘Then Lucy had
her first satin farthingale, and three gallants, besides my brother,
wanted to dance with her.’
Blushing deeply, Lucy tried to hush the little ones, much perplexed by
the questions, and confused by the answers. Could he be contrasting the
life where a vicious cow had been the most alarming object, a greensward
dance with a step-brother the greatest gaiety, dye of the elder juice
the deepest stain, with the temptations and perils that had beset one
equally young? Resting his head on his hand, his elbow on his knee,
he seemed to be musing in a reverie that he could hardly brook, as his
young brow was knitted by care and despondency.
Suddenly, the sounds in the village rose from the quiet sleepy summer
hum into a fierce yell of derisive vituperation, causing Philip at once
to leap up, and run across the court to the entrance-gate, while Lucy
called after him some vain sisterly warning against mingling in a fray.
It seemed as if his interposition had a good effect, for the uproar
lulled almost as soon as he had hurried to the scene of action; and
presently he reappeared, eager and breathless. ‘I told them to bring him
up here,’ he said; ‘they would have flogged him at the cart’s-tail, the
rogues, just because my father is out of the way. I could not make out
his jargon, but you can, brother; and make that rascal Spinks let him
go.’
‘What should I have to do with it?’ said Berenger, shrinking from
the sudden exposure of his scarred face and maimed speech. ‘I am no
magistrate.’
‘But you can understand him; he is French, the poor rogue something abut
a letter, and wanting to ask his way. Ah! I thought that would touch
you, and it will cost you little pains, and slouching it over his face,
rose, and, leaning upon Annora’s shoulder, stepped forward, just as the
big burly blacksmith-constable and small shriveled cobbler advanced,
dragging along, by a cord round the wrists, a slight figure with a red
woolen sailor’s shirt, ragged black hosen, bare head, and almost bare
feet.
Doffing their caps, the men began an awkward salutation to the young
Lord on his recovery, but he only touched his beaver in return, and
demanded, ‘How now! what have you bound him for?’
‘You see, my Lord,’ began the constable, ‘there have been a sort of
vagrants of late, and I’ll be bound’ twas no four-legged fox as took
Gaffer Shepherd’s lamb.’
The peroration was broken off, for with a start as if he had been shot,
Berenger cried aloud, ‘Mericour! the Abbe!’
‘Ah, Monsieur, if you know me,’ cried the young man, raising his head,
‘free me from this shame--aid me in my mission!’
‘Loose him, fellows,’ shouted Berenger; ‘Philip, a knife--Lucy, those
scissors.’
‘Tis my duty, my Lord,’ said Spinks, gruffly. ‘All vagabonds to be
apprehended and flogged at the cart’s-tail, by her Grace’s special
commands. How is it to be answered to his Honour, Sir Marmaduke?’
‘Oaf!’ cried Philip, ‘you durst not have used such violence had my
father been at home! Don’t you see my brother knows him?’
With hands trembling with haste, Berenger had seized the scissors
that, house-wife like, hung at Lucy’s waist, and was cutting the
rope, exclaiming in French, ‘Pardon, pardon, friend, for so shameful a
reception.’
‘Sir,’ was the reply, without a sign of recognition, ‘if, indeed, you
know my name, I entreat you to direct me to the chateau of Le Sieur
Tistefote, whose lady was once Baronne de Ribaumont.’
‘My mother! Ah, my friend, my friend! what would you?’ he cried in a
tone of tremulous hope and fear, laying one hand on Mericour’s shoulder,
and about to embrace him.
Mericour retreated from him; but the high-spirited young man crossed his
arms on his breast, and gazing at the group with indignant scorn, made
answer, ‘My message is from her who deems herself a widow, to the
mother of the husband whom she little imagines to be not only alive, but
consoled.’
‘Faithful! Faithful!’ burst out Berenger, with a wild, exultant,
strangely-ringing shout. ‘Woe, woe to those who would have had me doubt
her! Philip--Lucy--hear! Her truth is clear to all the world!’ Then
changing back again to French, ‘Ten thousand blessings on you, Mericour!
You have seen her! Where--how?’
Mericour still spoke with frigid politeness. ‘I had the honour to part
with Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont in the town of La Sablerie, among
humble, Huguenot guardians, to whom she had fled, to save her infant’s
life--when no aid came.’
He was obliged to break off, for Berenger, stunned by the sudden rush
of emotion, reeled as he stood, and would have fallen but for the prompt
support of Lucy, who was near enough to guide him back to rest upon the
bench, saying resentfully in French as she did so, ‘My brother is still
very ill. I pray you, sir, have a care.’
She had not half understood the rapid words of the two young men, Philip
comprehended them far less, and the constable and his crew of course
not at all; and Spinks pushed forward among the group as he saw Berenger
sink back on the bench; and once more collaring his prisoner, exclaimed
almost angrily to Philip, ‘There now, sir, you’ve had enough of the
vagabond. We’ll keep him tight ere he bewitches any more of you.’
This rude interference proved an instant restorative. Berenger sprang up
at once, and seizing Spink’s arm, exclaimed, ‘Hands off, fellow! This is
my friend--a gentleman. He brings me tidings of infinite gladness. Who
insults him, insults me.’
Spinks scarcely withdrew his hand from Mericour’s neck; and scowling,
said, ‘Very odd gentleman--very queer tidings, Master Berenger, to fell
you like an ox. I must be answerable for the fellow till his Honour
comes.’
‘Ah! _Eh quoi_, wherefore not show the _canaille_ your sword?’ said
Mericour, impatiently.
‘It may not be here, in England,’ said Berenger (who fortunately was not
wearing his weapon). ‘And in good time here comes my step-father,’ as
the gate swung back, and Sir Marmaduke and Lady Thistlewood rode through
it, the former sending his voice far before him to demand the meaning of
the hurly-burly that filled his court.
Philip was the first to spring to his rein, exclaiming, ‘Father, it is
a Frenchman whom Spinks would have flogged at the cart’s-tail; but it
seems he is a friend of Berenger’s, and has brought him tidings. I know
not what--about his wife, I believe--any way he is beside himself with
joy.’
‘Sir, your Honour,’ shouted Spinks, again seizing Mericour, and striving
to drag him forward, ‘I would know whether the law is to be hindered
from taking its course because my young Lord there is a Frenchman and
bewitched.’
‘Ah,’ shrieked Lady Thistlewood, ‘I knew it. They will have sent secret
poison to finish him. Keep the fellow safe. He will cast it in the air.’
‘Ay, ay, my Lady,’ said Spinks, ‘there are plenty of us to testify
that he made my young Lord fall back as in a swoon, and reel like one
distraught. Pray Heaven it have not gone further.’
‘Sir,’ exclaimed Berenger, who on the other side held his friend’s hand
tight, ‘this is a noble gentleman--the brother of the Duke de Mericour.
He has come at great risk to bring me tidings of my dear and true wife.
And not one word will these demented rascals let me hear with their
senseless clamour.’
‘Berenger! You here, my boy!’ exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, more amazed by
this than all the rest.
‘He touches him--he holds him! Ah! will no one tear him away?’ screamed
Lady Thistlewood. Nor would Spinks have been slow in obeying her if Sir
Marmaduke had not swung his substantial form to the ground, and
stepping up to the prisoner, rudely clawed on one side by Spinks, and
affectionately grasped on the other side by Berenger, shouted--
‘Let go, both!’ does he speak English? Peace, dame! If the lad be
bewitched, it is the right way. He looks like the other man. Eh, lad,
what does your friend say for himself?’
‘Sir,’ said Berenger, interpreting Mericour’s words as they were spoken,
‘he has been robbed and misused at sea by Montgomery’s pirate crews. He
fled from court for the religion’s sake; he met her--my wife’ (the voice
was scarcely intelligible, so tremulously was it spoken), ‘in hiding
among the Huguenots--he brings a letter and a token from her to my
mother.’
‘Ha! And you know him? You avouch him to be what he represents himself?’
‘I knew him at court. I know him well. Father, make these fellows cease
their insults! I have heard nothing yet. See here!’ holding out what
Mericour had put into his hand; ‘this you cannot doubt, mother.’
‘Parted the pearls! Ah, the little minx!’ cried the lady, as she
recognized the jewels.
‘I thought he had been robbed?’ added Sir Marmaduke.
‘The gentleman doubts?’ said Mericour, catching some of the words. ‘He
should know that what is confided in a French gentleman is only taken
from him with his life. Much did I lose; but the pearl I kept hidden in
my mouth.’
Therewith he produced the letter. Lady Thistlewood pronounced that no
power on earth should induce her to open it, and drew off herself and
her little girls to a safe distance from the secret poison she fancied
it contained; while Sir Marmaduke was rating the constables for taking
advantage of his absence to interpret the Queen’s Vagrant Act in their
own violent fashion; ending, however, by sending them round to the
buttery-hatch to drink the young Lord’s health. For the messeger, the
good knight heartily grasped his hand, welcoming him and thanking him
for having ‘brought comfort to you poor lad’s heart.’
But there Sir Marmaduke paused, doubting whether the letter had indeed
brought comfort; for Berenger, who had seized on it, when it was refused
by his mother, was sitting under the tree--turning away indeed, but not
able to conceal that his tears were gushing down like rain. The anxious
exclamation of his step-father roused him at length, but he scarce found
power or voice to utter, as he thrust the letter into the knight’s hand,
‘Ah! see what has she not suffered for me! me, whom you would have had
believed her faithless!’
He then grasped his friend’s arm, and with him disappeared into the
house, leaving Sir Marmaduke holding the letter in a state of the utmost
bewilderment, and calling by turns on his wife and daughter to read and
explain it to him.
And as Lucy read the letter, with her mother could not yet prevail on
herself to touch, she felt at each word more grateful to the good Aunt
Cecily, whose influence had taught her always to view Berenger as a
brother, and not to condemn unheard the poor young wife. If she had not
been thus guarded, what distress might not this day of joy to Berenger
have brought to Lucy! Indeed, Lady Thistlewood was vexed enough as
it was, and ready to carry her incredulity to the most inconsistent
lengths. ‘It was all a trick for getting the poor boy back, that
they might make an end of him altogether. Tell her they thought him
dead.--‘Tilley-valley! It was a mere attempt on her own good-nature, to
get a little French impostor on her hands. Let Sir Duke look well to
it, and take care that her poor boy was not decoyed among them. The
Frenchman might be cutting his throat at that moment! Where was he? Had
Sir Duke been so lost as to let them out of sight together? No one had
either pity or prudence now that her poor father was gone;’ and she
began to weep.
‘No great fear on that score, dame,’ laughed the knight. ‘Did you not
hear the lad shouting for ‘Phil, Phil!’ almost in a voice like old
times? It does one good to hear it.’
Just at twilight, Berenger came down the steps, conducting a graceful
gentleman in black, to whom Lady Thistlewood’s instinct impelled her
to make a low courtesy, before Berenger had said, ‘Madam, allow me to
present to you my friend, the Abbe de Mericour.’
‘Is it the same?’ whispered Bessie to Annora. ‘Surely he is translated!’
‘Only into Philip’s old mourning suit. I know it by the stain on the
knee.
‘Then it is translated too. Never did it look so well on Philip! See,
our mother is quite gracious to him; she speaks to him as though he were
some noble visitor to my Lord.’
Therewith Sir Marmaduke came forward, shook Mericour with all his might
by the hand, shouted to him his hearty thanks for the good he had done
his poor lad and assured him of a welcome from the very bottom of his
heart. The good knight would fain have kept both Berenger and his friend
at the Manor, but Berenger was far too impatient to carry home his joy,
and only begged the loan of a horse for Mericour. For himself, he felt
as if fatigue or dejection would never touch him again, and he kissed
his mother and his sisters, including Lucy, all round, with an effusion
of delight.
‘Is that indeed your step-father?’ said Mericour, as they rode away
together. ‘And the young man, is he your half-brother?’
‘Brother wholly in dear love,’ said Berenger; ‘no blood relation. The
little girls are my mother’s children.’
‘Ah! so large a family all one? All at home? None in convents?’
‘We have no convents.’
‘Ah, no, but all at home! All at peace! This is a strange place, your
England.’