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. . 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.