When the baron at last received the
letter which this rider had been so abashed to deliver,
slow but lasting wrath began to gather in his gray-lashed
eyes. It was the inborn anger of an honest man
at villany mixed with lofty scorn and traversed by
a dear anxiety. Withal he found himself so helpless
that he scarce knew what to do. He had been to
Frida both a father and a mother, as she often used
to tell him when she wanted something; but now he
felt that no man could administer the velvet touches
of the female sympathy.
Moreover, although he was so kind,
and had tried to think what his daughter thought,
he found himself in a most ungenial mood for sweet
condolement. Any but the best of fathers would
have been delighted with the proof of all his prophecies
and the riddance of a rogue. So that even he,
though dwelling in his child’s heart as his own,
read this letter (when the first emotions had exploded)
with a real hope that things, in the long run, would
come round again.
“To my most esteemed and honoured
friend, the Lord de Wichehalse, these from his
most observant and most grateful Aubya Auberley, Under
command of his Majesty, our most Royal Lord and
King, I have this day been joined in bands of holy
marriage with her Highness, the Duchess of B ,
in France. At one time I had hope of favour
with your good Lordship’s daughter, neither
could I have desired more complete promotion.
But the service of the kingdom and the doubt
of my own desert have forced me, in these troublous
times, to forego mine own ambition. Our lord
the King enjoins you with his Royal commendation,
to bring your forces toward Bristowe by the day
of St. Valentine. There shall I be in hope
to meet your Lordship, and again find pleasure
in such goodly company. Until then I am
your Lordship’s poor and humble servant,
“Aubyn Auberley.”
Lord de Wichehalse made his mind up
not to let his daughter know until the following morning
what a heavy blow had fallen on her faith and fealty.
But, as evil chance would have it, the damsels of the
house and most of all the gentle cook-maid could
not but observe the rider’s state of mind toward
them. He managed to eat his supper in a dark state
of parenthesis; but after that they plied him with
some sentimental mixtures, and, being only a man at
best, although a very trusty one, he could not help
the rise of manly wrath at every tumbler. So,
in spite of dry experience and careworn discretion,
at last he let the woman know the whole of what himself
knew. Nine good females crowded round him, and,
of course, in their kind bosoms every word of all his
story germinated ninety-fold.
Hence it came to pass that, after
floods of tears in council and stronger language than
had right to come from under aprons, Frida’s
nurse (the old herb-woman, now called “Mother
Eyebright”) was appointed to let her know that
very night the whole of it. Because my lord might
go on mooning for a month about it, betwixt his love
of his daughter and his quiet way of taking things;
and all that while the dresses might be cut, and trimmed,
and fitted to a size and fashion all gone by before
there came a wedding.
Mother Eyebright so was called both
from the brightness of her eyes and her faith in that
little simple flower, the euphrasia. Though her
own love-tide was over, and the romance of life had
long relapsed into the old allegiance to the hour
of dinner, yet her heart was not grown tough to the
troubles of the young ones; therefore all that she
could do was done, but it was little.
Frida, being almost tired with the
blissful cares of dress, happened to go up that evening
earlier than her wont to bed. She sat by herself
in the firelight, with many gorgeous things around
her wedding presents from great people,
and (what touched her more) the humble offerings of
her cottage friends. As she looked on these and
thought of all the good will they expressed, and how
a little kindness gathers such a heap of gratitude,
glad tears shone in her bright eyes, and she only wished
that all the world could be as blessed as she was.
To her entered Mother Eyebright, now
unworthy of her name; and sobbing, writhing, crushing
anguish is a thing which even Frida, simple and open-hearted
one, would rather keep to her own poor self.