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
cinamon; 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.