FRIDA; OR, THE LOVER'S LEAP, A LEGEND OF THE WEST COUNTRY. 

By R. D. Blackmore

From "SLAIN BY THE DOONES" by R. D. BlackmoreCopyright: Dodd, Mead And Company, 1895

CHAPTER I. 

On the very day when Charles I. Was crowned with duerejoicings--Candlemasday, in the year of our Lord 1626--a loyalty, quiteas deep and perhaps even more lasting, was having its beer at LeyManor in the north of Devon. A loyalty not to the king, for the oldWest-country folk knew little and cared less about the house that cameover the Border; but to a lord who had won their hearts by dwellingamong them, and dealing kindly, and paying his way every Saturday night. When this has been done for three generations general and genial respectmay almost be relied upon. 

The present Baron de Wichehalse was fourth in descent from that Hugh deWichehalse, the head of an old and wealthy race, who had sacrificed hiscomfort to his resolve to have a will of his own in matters of religion. That Hugh de Wichehalse, having an eye to this, as well as the otherworld, contrived to sell his large estates before they were confiscated, and to escape with all the money, from very sharp measures thenenforced, by order of King Philip II. , in the unhappy Low Countries. Landing in England, with all his effects and a score of trustyfollowers, he bought a fine property, settled, and died, and left agood name behind him. And that good name had been well kept up, and theproperty had increased and thriven, so that the present lord was lovedand admired by all the neighbourhood. 

In one thing, however, he had been unlucky, at least in his own opinion. Ten years of married life had not found issue in parental life. Allhis beautiful rocks and hills, lovely streams and glorious woods, greenmeadows and golden corn lands, must pass to his nephew and not to hischild, because he had not gained one. Being a good man, he did hisbest to see this thing in its proper light. Children, after all, are aplague, a risk, and a deep anxiety. His nephew was a very worthy boy, and his rights should be respected. Nevertheless, the baron often longedto supersede them. Of this there was every prospect now. The lady of thehouse had intrusted her case to a highly celebrated simple-woman, wholived among rocks and scanty vegetation at Heddon's Mouth, gatheringwisdom from the earth and from the sea tranquillity. De Wichehalse wasnaturally vexed a little when all this accumulated wisdom culminatedin nothing grander than a somewhat undersized, and unhappily femalechild--one, moreover, whose presence cost him that of his faithful andloving wife. So that the heiress of Ley Manor was greeted, after all, with a very brief and sorry welcome. "Jennyfried, " for so they namedher, soon began to grow into a fair esteem and good liking. Her father, after a year or two, plucked up his courage and played with her; and themore he played the more pleased he was, both with her and his own kindself. Unhappily, there were at that time no shops in the neighbourhood;unhappily, now there are too many. Nevertheless, upon the whole, she hadall the toys that were good for her; and her teeth had a fair chance offitting themselves for life's chief operation in the absence of sugaredallurements. 

A brief and meagre account is this of the birth, and growth, andcondition of a maiden whose beauty and goodness still linger in thewinter tales of many a simple homestead. For, sharing her father'sgenial nature, she went about among the people in her soft and playfulway; knowing all their cares, and gifted with a kindly wonder at them, which is very soothing. All the simple folk expected condescension fromher; and she would have let them have it, if she had possessed it. 

At last she was come to a time of life when maidens really must beginto consider their responsibilities--a time when it does matter how thedress sits and what it is made of, and whether the hair is well arrangedfor dancing in the sunshine and for fluttering in the moonlight; alsothat the eyes convey not from that roguish nook the heart any betrayalof "hide and seek"; neither must the risk of blushing tremble onperpetual brinks; neither must--but, in a word, 'twas the seventeenthyear of a maiden's life. 

More and more such matters gained on her motherless necessity. Strictlyanxious as she was to do the right thing always, she felt more and moreupon every occasion (unless it was something particular) that her cousinneed not so impress his cousinly salutation. 

Albert de Wichehalse (who received that name before it became soinevitable) was that same worthy boy grown up as to whom the baronhad felt compunctions, highly honourable to either party, touching hisdefeasance; or rather, perhaps, as to interception of his presumptiveheirship by the said Albert, or at least by his mother contemplated. AndAlbert's father had entrusted him to his uncle's special care and love, having comfortably made up his mind, before he left this evil world, that his son should have a good slice of it. 

Now, therefore, the baron's chief desire was to heal all breachesand make things pleasant, and to keep all the family property snug bymarrying his fair Jennyfried (or "Frida, " as she was called at home)to her cousin Albert, now a fine young fellow of five-and-twenty. DeWichehalse was strongly attached to his nephew, and failed to see anygood reason why a certain large farm near Martinhoe, quite a huge cantlefrom the Ley estates, which by a prior devise must fall to Albertupon his own demise, should be allowed to depart in that way from hisposthumous control. 

However, like most of our fallible race, he went the worst possible wayto work in pursuit of his favourite purpose. He threw the young peopletogether daily, and dinned into the ears of each perpetual praise ofthe other. This seemed to answer well enough in the case of the simpleAlbert. He could never have too much of his lively cousin's company, neither could he weary of sounding her sweet excellence. But with theyoung maid it was not so. She liked the good Albert well enough, andnever got out of his way at all. Moreover, sometimes his curly hair andbright moustache, when they came too near, would raise not a positiveflutter, perhaps, but a sense of some fugitive movement in theunexplored distances of the heart. Still, this might go on for years, and nothing more to come of it. Frida loved her father best of all theworld, at present. 

CHAPTER II. 

There happened to be at this time an old fogy--of course it is mostdistressing to speak of anyone disrespectfully; but when one thinksof the trouble he caused, and not only that, but he was an old fogy, essentially and pre-eminently--and his name was Sir Maunder Meddleby. This worthy baronet, one of the first of a newly invented order, camein his sled stuffed with goose-feathers (because he was too fat to ride, and no wheels were yet known on the hill tracks) to talk about someexchange of land with his old friend, our De Wiche-halse. The baron andthe baronet had been making a happy day of it. Each knew pretty wellexactly what his neighbour's little rashness might be hoped to lead to, and each in his mind was pretty sure of having the upper hand of it. Therefore both their hearts were open--business being now dismissed, and dinner over--to one another. They sat in a beautiful place, and drewrefreshment of mind through their outward lips by means of long reedentubes with bowls at their ends, and something burning. 

Clouds of delicate vapour wandered round and betwixt them and the sea;and each was well content to wonder whether the time need ever comewhen he must have to think again. Suddenly a light form flitted overthe rocks, as the shadows flit; and though Frida ran away for fear ofinterrupting them, they knew who it was, and both, of course, began tothink about her. 

The baron gave a puff of his pipe, and left the baronet to begin. Incourse of time Sir Maunder spoke, with all that breadth and beauty ofthe vowels and the other things which a Devonshire man commands, fromthe lord lieutenant downward. 

"If so be that 'ee gooth vor to ax me, ai can zay wan thing, and wanoney. "

"What one thing is it, good neighbour? I am well content with her as sheis. "

"Laikely enough. And 'e wad be zo till 'e zeed a zummut fainer. "

"I want to see nothing finer or better than what we have seen just now, sir. "

"There, you be like all varthers, a'most! No zort o' oose to advaise'un. "

"Nay, nay! Far otherwise. I am not by any means of that nature. SirMaunder Meddleby, I have the honour of craving your opinion. "

Sir Maunder Meddleby thought for a while, or, at any rate, meant tobe thinking, ere ever he dared to deliver himself of all his weightyjudgment. 

"I've a-knowed she, my Lord Witcher, ever since her wore that haigh. Apurty wanch, and a peart one. But her wanteth the vinish of the coort. Never do no good wi'out un, whan a coomth, as her must, to coorting. "

This was the very thing De Wichehalse was afraid to hear of. He hadlived so mild a life among the folk who loved him that any fear of worryin great places was too much for him. And yet sometimes he could nothelp a little prick of thought about his duty to his daughter. Hence itcame that common sense was driven wild by conscience, as foreverhappens with the few who keep that gadfly. Six great horses, who knewno conscience but had more fleshly tormentors, were ordered out, and thejourney began, and at last it ended. 

Everything in London now was going almost anyhow. Kind and worthy peoplescarcely knew the way to look at things. They desired to respect theking and all his privilege, and yet they found his mind so wayward thatthey had no hold of him. 

The court, however, was doing its best, from place to place in itswanderings, to despise the uproar and enjoy itself as it used to do. Bright and beautiful ladies gathered round the king, when the queen wasgone, persuading him and one another that they must have their own way. 

Of the lords who helped these ladies to their strong opinions there wasnone in higher favour with the queen and the king himself than the youngLord Auberley. His dress was like a sweet enchantment, and his tonguewas finer still, and his grace and beauty were as if no earth existed. Frida was a new thing to him, in her pure simplicity. He to her was sucha marvel, such a mirror of the skies, as a maid can only dream of in thefull moon of St. John. 

Little dainty glance, and flushing, and the fear to look too much, andthe stealthy joy of feeling that there must be something meant, yet theterror of believing anything in earnest and the hope that, after all, there may be nought to come of it; and when this hope seems over true, the hollow of the heart behind it, and the longing to be at home withanyone to love oneself--time is wasted in recounting this that alwaysmust be. 

Enough that Frida loved this gallant from the depths of her pure heart, while he admired and loved her to the best of his ability. 

CHAPTER III. 

The worthy baron was not of a versatile complexion. When his mind wasquite made up he carried out the whole of it. But he could not now makeup his mind upon either of two questions. Of these questions one wasthis--should he fight for the king or against him, in the struggle nowbegun? By hereditary instincts he was stanch for liberty, for lettingpeople have their own opinions who could pay for them. And aboutreligious matters and the royal view of them, he fell under soremisgiving that his grandfather on high would have a bone to pick withhim. 

His other difficulty was what to say, or what to think, about LordAuberley. To his own plain way of judging, and that human instinctwhich, when highly cultivated, equals that of the weaker dogs, also tohis recollection of what used to be expected in the time when he wasyoung, Viscount Auberley did not give perfect satisfaction. 

Nevertheless, being governed as strong folk are by the gentle ones, theworthy baron winked at little things which did not please him, and wentso far as to ask that noble spark to flash upon the natives of benightedDevon. Lord Auberley was glad enough to retire for a season, both forother reasons and because he saw that bitter fighting must be soonexpected. Hence it happened that the six great Flemish horses werebuckled to, early in September of the first year of the civil war, whilethe king was on his westward march collecting men and money. The queenwas not expected back from the Continent for another month; there hadscarcely been for all the summer even the semblance of a court fitto teach a maiden lofty carriage and cold dignity; so that Lord deWichehalse thought Sir Maunder Meddleby an oaf for sending him toLondon. 

But there was someone who had tasted strong delight and shuddering fear, glowing hope and chill despair, triumph, shame, and all confusion of theheart and mind and will, such as simple maidens hug into their blushingchastity by the moonlight of first love. Frida de Wichehalse knew forcertain, and forever felt it settled, that in all the world of worldsnever had been any body, any mind, or even soul, fit to think of twicewhen once you had beheld Lord Auberley. 

His young lordship, on the whole, was much of the same opinion. Lowfellows must not have the honour to discharge their guns at him. Heliked the king, and really meant no harm whatever to his peace of mindconcerning his Henrietta; and, if the worst came to the worst, everyoneknew that out of France there was no swordsman fit to meet, even witha rapier, the foil of Aubyn Auberley. Neither was it any slur upon hisloyalty or courage that he was now going westward from the world ofcamps and war. It was important to secure the wavering De Wichehalse, the leading man of all the coast, from Mine-head down to Hartland; sothat, with the full consent of all the king's advisers, Lord Auberleyleft court and camp to press his own suit peacefully. What a differencehe found it to be here in mid-September, far away from any knowledgeof the world and every care; only to behold the manner of the treesdisrobing, blushing with a trembling wonder at the freedom of the winds, or in the wealth of deep wood browning into rich defiance; only toobserve the colour of the hills, and cliffs, and glens, and the gloryof the sea underneath the peace of heaven, when the balanced sun wasstriking level light all over them! And if this were not enough tomake a man contented with his littleness and largeness, then to seethe freshened Pleiads, after their long dip of night, over the easternwaters twinkling, glad to see us all once more and sparkling to becounted. 

These things, and a thousand others, which (without a waft ofknowledge or of thought on our part) enter into and become our sweetestrecollections, for the gay young lord possessed no charm, nor eveninterest. "Dull, dull, how dull it is!" was all he thought when hethought at all; and he vexed his host by asking how he could live insuch a hole as that. And he would have vexed his young love, too, ifyoung love were not so large of heart, by asking what the foreign tonguewas which "her people" tried to speak. "Their native tongue and mine, my lord!" cried Frida, with the sweetness of her smile less true thanusual, because she loved her people and the air of her nativity. 

However, take it altogether, this was a golden time for her. Goldentrust and reliance are the well-spring of our nature, and that man isthe happiest who is cheated every day almost. The pleasure is tenfold asgreat in being cheated as to cheat. Therefore Frida was as happy as theday and night are long. Though the trees were striped with autumn, andthe green of the fields was waning, and the puce of the heath was fadedinto dingy cinamon; though the tint of the rocks was darkened by thenightly rain and damp, and the clear brooks were beginning to be hoarsewith shivering floods, and the only flowers left were but widows of thesun, yet she had the sovereign comfort and the cheer of trustfullove. Lord Auberley, though he cared nought for the Valley of Rocksor Watersmeet, for beetling majesty of the cliffs or mantled curvesof Woody Bay, and though he accounted the land a wilderness and theinhabitants savages, had taken a favourable view of the ample spreadof the inland farms and the loyalty of the tenants, which naturallysuggested the raising of the rental. Therefore he grew more attentiveto young Mistress Frida; even sitting in shady places, which it made himdamp to think of when he turned his eyes from her. Also he was moved alittle 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. IfAubyn Auberley had not been despoiled of all true manliness, by thepetting and the froward wit of many a foreign lady, he might have wonthe pure salvation of an earnest love. But, when judged by that Frenchstandard which was now supreme at court, this poor Frida was a rustic, only fit to go to school. There was another fine young fellow whothought wholly otherwise. To him, in his simple power of judging forhimself, and seldom budging from that judgment, there was no one fit todream of in comparison with her. Often, in this state of mind, he longedto come forward and let them know what he thought concerning the wholeof 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. 

CHAPTER IV. 

The stir of the general rising of the kingdom against the king had notdisturbed these places yet beyond what might be borne with. Everybodyliked to talk, and everybody else was ready to put in a word or two;broken heads, however, were as yet the only issue. So that when therecame great news of a real battle fought, and lost by Englishmen againstEnglishmen, the indignation of all the country ran against both parties. 

Baron de Wichehalse had been thinking, after his crop of hay wasin, --for such a faithful hay they have that it will not go from root torick by less than two months of worrying, --from time to time, and evenin the middle of his haycocks, this good lord had not been able toperceive his proper course. Arguments there were that sounded quite asif a baby must be perfectly convinced by them; and then there would bequite a different line of reason taken by someone who knew all aboutit and despised the opposite. So that many of a less decided way ofthinking every day embraced whatever had been last confuted. 

This most manly view of matters and desire to give fair play wasscorned, of course, by the fairer (and unfairer) half of men. Fridacounted all as traitors who-opposed their liege the king. 

"Go forth, my lord; go forth and fight, " she cried to Viscount Auberley, when the doubtful combat of Edgehill was firing new pugnacity; "if Iwere a man, think you that I would let them do so?"

"Alas, fair mistress! it will take a many men to help it. But since youbid me thus away--hi, Dixon! get my trunks packed!" And then, of course, her blushing roses faded to a lily white; and then, of course, it washis duty to support her slender form; neither were those dulcet murmursabsent which forever must be present when the female kind begin to havethe best of it. 

So they went on once or twice, and would have gone on fifty times iffortune had allowed them thus to hang on one another. All the worldwas fair around them; and themselves, as fair as any, vouched the wholeworld to attest their everlasting constancy. 

But one soft November evening, when the trees were full of drops, andgentle mists were creeping up the channels of the moorlands, and snipes(come home from foreign parts) were cheeping at their borings, and everyweary man was gladdened by the glance of a bright wood fire, and smellof what was over it, there happened to come, on a jaded horse, a man, all hat, and cape, and boots, and mud, and sweat, and grumbling. All thepeople saw at once that it was quite impossible to make at all too muchof him, because he must be full of news, which (after victuals) is thegreatest need of human nature. So he had his own way as to everything heordered; and, having ridden into much experience of women, kept himselfas warm as could be, without any jealousy. 

This stern man bore urgent order for the Viscount Auberley to join theking at once at Oxford, and bring with him all his gathering. Havinggathered no men yet, but spent the time in plucking roses and the wildmyrtles of Devonshire love, the young lord was for once a little takenaback at this order. Moreover, though he had been grumbling, half adozen times a day--to make himself more precious--about the place, andthe people, and the way they cooked his meals, he really meant it lessand less as he came to know the neighbourhood. These are things whichnobody can understand without seeing them. 

"I grieve, my lord, " said the worthy baron, "that you must leave us inthis high haste. " On the whole, however, this excellent man was partlyglad to be quit of him. 

"And I am deeply indebted to your lordship for the grievance; but itmust be so. _Que voulez-vous?_ You talk the French, _mon baron?_"

"With a Frenchman, my lord; but not when I have the honour to speak withan Englishman. "

"Ah, there Foreign again! My lord, you will never speak English. "

De Wichehalse could never be quite sure, though his race had been longin this country, whether he or they could speak born English as it oughtto be. 

"Perhaps you will find, " he said at last, with grief as well ascourtesy, "many who speak one language Striving to silence one another. "

"He fights best who fights the longest You will come with us, my lord?"

"Not a foot, not half an inch, " the baron answered sturdily. "I'vea-laboured hard to zee my best, and 'a can't zee head nor tail to it. "

Thus he spoke in imitation of what his leading tenant said, smilingbrightly at himself, but sadly at his subject. 

"Even so!" the young man answered; "I will forth and pay my duty. Therusty-weathercock, my lord, is often too late for the oiling. "

With this conceit he left De Wichehalse, and, while his grooms weremaking ready, sauntered down the zigzag path, which, through rocks andstubbed oaks, made toward the rugged headland known, far up-and downthe Channel, by the name of Duty Point. Near the end of this walk therelurked a soft and silent bower, made by Nature, and with all of Nature'sart secluded. The ledge that wound along the rock-front widened, andthe rock fell back and left a little cove, retiring into moss and fernyshade. Here the maid was well accustomed every day to sit and think, gazing down at the calm, gray sea, and filled with rich content and deepcapacity of dreaming. 

Here she was, at the present moment, resting in her pure love-dream, believing all the world as good, and true, and kind as her own youngself. Round her all was calm and lovely; and the soft brown hand ofautumn, with the sun's approval, tempered every mellow mood of leaves. 

Aubyn Auberley was not of a sentimental cast of mind. He liked the poetsof the day, whenever he deigned to read them; nor was he at all aboveaccepting the dedication of a book. But it was not the fashion now--ashad been in the noble time of Watson, Raleigh, and Shakspere--for men tolook around and love the greater things they grow among. 

Frida was surprised to see her dainty lord so early. She came here inthe morning always, when it did not rain too hard, to let her mind havepasture on the landscape of sweet memory. And even sweeter hope wasalways fluttering in the distance, on the sea, or clouds, or flittingvapour of the morning. Even so she now was looking at the mounting gloryof the sun above the sea-clouds, the sun that lay along the land, andmade the distance roll away. 

"Hard and bitter is my task, " the gallant lord began with her, "to sayfarewell to all I love. But so it ever must be. "

Frida looked at his riding-dress, and cold fear seized her suddenly, andthen warm hope that he might only be riding after the bustards. 

"My lord, " she said, "will you never grant me that one little prayer ofmine--to spare poor birds, and make those cruel gaze-hounds run down oneanother?"

"I shall never see the gaze-hounds more, " he answered petulantly; "mytime for sport is over. I must set forth for the war to-day. "

"To-day!" she cried; and then tried to say a little more for pride'ssake; "to go to the war to-day, my lord!"

"Alas! it is too true. Either I must go, or be a traitor and a dastard. "

Her soft blue eyes lay full on his, and tears that had not time to flowbegan to spread a hazy veil between her and the one she loved. 

He saw it, and he saw the rise and sinking of her wounded heart, and howthe words she tried to utter fell away and died within her for the wantof courage; and light and hard, and mainly selfish as his nature was, the strength, and depth, and truth of love came nigh to scare him forthe moment even of his vanities. 

"Frida!" he said, with her hand in his, and bending one knee on themoss; "only tell me that I must stay; then stay I will; the rest of theworld may scorn if you approve me. "

This, of course, sounded very well and pleased her, as it was meant todo; still, it did not satisfy her--so exacting are young maidens, and sokeen is the ear of love. 

"Aubyn, you are good and true. How very good and true you are! But evenby your dear voice now I know what you are thinking. "

Lord Auberley, by this time, was as well within himself again as hegenerally found himself; so that he began to balance chances veryknowingly. If the king should win the warfare and be paramount again, this bright star of the court must rise to something infinitely higherthan a Devonshire squire's child. A fine young widow of a duke, of theroyal blood of France itself, was not far from being quite determinedto accept him, if she only could be certain how these things would endthemselves. Many other ladies were determined quite as bravely to waitthe course of events, and let him have them, if convenient. On the otherhand, if the kingdom should succeed in keeping the king in order--whichwas the utmost then intended--Aubyn Auberley might be only too glad tofall back upon Frida. 

Thinking it wiser, upon the whole, to make sure of this little lamb, with nobler game in prospect, Lord Auberley heaved as deep a sigh as thesize of his chest could compass. After which he spoke as follows, in amost delicious tone:

"Sweetest, and my only hope, the one star of my wanderings; althoughyou send me forth to battle, where my arm is needed, give me one dearpledge that ever you will live and die my own. "

This was just what Frida wanted, having trust (as our free-traders, byvast amplitude of vision, have in reciprocity) that if a man gets thebest of a woman he is sure to give it back. Therefore these two sealedand delivered certain treaties (all unwritten, but forever engraven uponthe best and ten-derest feelings of the lofty human nature) that nothingless than death, or even greater, should divide them. 

Is there one, among the many who survive such process, unable to imagineor remember how they parted? The fierce and even desperate anguish, nursed and made the most of; the pride and self-control that keep suchthings for comfort afterward; the falling of the heart that feelsitself the true thing after all. Let it be so, since it must be; and nosympathy can heal it, since in every case it never, never, was so badbefore!

CHAPTER V. 

Lovers come, and lovers go; ecstasies of joy and anguish have theirproper intervals; and good young folk, who know no better, revel in highmisery. But the sun ascends the heavens at the same hour of the day, byhimself dictated; and if we see him not, it is our earth that spreadsthe curtain. Nevertheless, these lovers, being out of rule witheverything, heap their own faults on his head, and want him to besetting always, that they may behold the moon. 

Therefore it was useless for the wisest man in the north of Devon, oreven the wisest woman, to reason with young Frida now, or even to lether 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 thewind was damp and raw, and the beauty of the valleys lay down to recoveritself; yet with her the spring was breaking, and the world was liftingwith the glory underneath it. Because it had been firmly pledged--andwho could ever doubt it?--that the best and noblest lover in this worldof noble love would come and grandly claim and win his bride on her nextbirthday. 

At Christmas she had further pledge of her noble lover's constancy. In spite of difficulties, dangers, and the pressing need of men, hecontrived to send her by some very valiant messengers (none of whomwould ride alone) a beautiful portrait of himself, set round withsparkling diamonds; also a necklace of large pearls, as white and pureas the neck whose grace was to enhance their beauty. 

Hereupon such pride and pleasure mounted into her cheeks and eyes, andflushed her with young gaiety, that all who loved her, being graftedwith good superstition, nearly spoiled their Christmas-time by serioussagacity. She, however, in the wealth of all she had to think of, heedednone who trod the line of prudence and cold certainty. 

"It is more than I can tell, " she used to say, most prettily, to anybodywho made bold to ask her about anything; "all things go so in and outthat I am sure of nothing else except that I am happy. "

The baron now began to take a narrow, perhaps a natural, view of allthe things around him. In all the world there was for him no signor semblance of any being whose desires or strictest rights could bethought of more than once when set against his daughter's. This, ofcourse, was very bad for Frida's own improvement. It could not make herselfish yet, but it really made her wayward. The very best girls everseen are sure to have their failings; and Frida, though one of the verybest, was not above all nature. People made too much of this, when shecould no more defend herself. 

Whoever may have been to blame, one thing at least is certain--thefather, though he could not follow all his child's precipitance, yetwas well contented now to stoop his gray head to bright lips, and do hisbest toward believing some of their soft eloquence. The child, on theother hand, was full of pride, and rose on tiptoe, lest anybody mightsuppose her still too young for anything. Thus between them they lookedforward to a pleasant time to come, hoping for the best, and judgingeveryone with charity. 

The thing that vexed them most (for always there must, of course, besomething) was the behaviour of Albert, nephew to the baron, and mostloving cousin of Frida. Nothing they could do might bring him to spendhis Christmas with them; and this would be the first time ever since hislong-clothed babyhood that he had failed to be among them, and to leador follow, just as might be required of him. Such a guest has no smallvalue in a lonely neighbourhood, and years of usage mar the circle ofthe 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, andentertained his neighbours, and pleased almost everybody. Much againsthis will, he had consented to the marriage of his daughter with LordAuber-ley--to make the best of a bad job, as he told Sir MaunderMeddleby. Still, this kind and crafty father had his own ideas; for themoment he was swimming with the tide to please his daughter, even as forher dear sake he was ready to sink beneath it. Yet, these fathers havea right to form their own opinions; and for the most part they believethat they have more experience. Frida laughed at this, of course, andher father was glad to see her laugh. Nevertheless, he could not escapesome respect for his own opinion, having so rarely found it wrong; andhis 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. Allof them, however, might be reconciled exactly with the very thing he hadpredicted. He noticed this, and it pleased him well, and inspired him sothat he started anew for even truer prophecies. And everybody round theplace 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 havethem so, for fear of getting worse, perhaps--toward the end of January, a. D. 1643. De Wichehalse had vowed that his only child--although soclever for her age, and prompt of mind and body--should not enter intomarriage until she was in her eighteenth year. Otherwise, it would, nodoubt, have all been settled long ago; for Aubyn Auberley sometimeshad been in the greatest hurry. However, hither he must come now, as everybody argued, even though the fate of England hung on hisstirrup-leather. Because he had even sent again, with his very bestintentions, fashionable things for Frida, and the hottest messages; sothat, if they did not mean him to be quite beside himself, everythingmust 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 rejoicingfor a grand affair, to be celebrated with well-springs of wine anddelightfully cordial Watersmeet, rocks of beef hewn into valleys, andconglomerate cliffs of pudding; when ruddy dame and rosy damsel wereabsorbed in "what to wear, " and even steady farmers were in "practicefor the back step"; in a word, when all the country was gone wild aboutFrida's wedding--one night there happened to come a man. 

This man tied his horse to a gate and sneaked into the back yard, andlistened in a quiet corner, knowing, as he did, the ins and outs andways of the kitchen. Because he was that very same man who understoodthe women so, and made himself at home, by long experience, in newplaces. It had befallen this man, as it always befell any man ofperception, to be smitten with the kindly loveliness of Frida. Therefore, now, although he was as hungry as ever he had been, hisheart was such that he heard the sound of dishes, yet drew no nearer. Experience of human nature does not always spoil it. 

CHAPTER VI. 

When the baron at last received the letter which this rider had beenso abashed to deliver, slow but lasting wrath began to gather in hisgray-lashed eyes. It was the inborn anger of an honest man at villanymixed with lofty scorn and traversed by a dear anxiety. Withal he foundhimself so helpless that he scarce knew what to do. He had been toFrida both a father and a mother, as she often used to tell him whenshe wanted something; but now he felt that no man could administer thevelvet touches of the female sympathy. 

Moreover, although he was so kind, and had tried to think what hisdaughter thought, he found himself in a most ungenial mood for sweetcondolement. Any but the best of fathers would have been delighted withthe proof of all his prophecies and the riddance of a rogue. So thateven he, though dwelling in his child's heart as his own, read thisletter (when the first emotions had exploded) with a real hope thatthings, 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 untilthe following morning what a heavy blow had fallen on her faith andfealty. But, as evil chance would have it, the damsels of the house--andmost of all the gentle cook-maid--could not but observe the rider'sstate of mind toward them. He managed to eat his supper in a dark stateof parenthesis; but after that they plied him with some sentimentalmixtures, and, being only a man at best, although a very trusty one, hecould not help the rise of manly wrath at every tumbler. So, in spiteof dry experience and careworn discretion, at last he let the woman knowthe whole of what himself knew. Nine good females crowded round him, and, of course, in their kind bosoms every word of all his storygerminated ninety-fold. 

Hence it came to pass that, after floods of tears in council andstronger language than had right to come from under aprons, Frida'snurse (the old herb-woman, now called "Mother Eyebright") was appointedto let her know that very night the whole of it. Because my lord mightgo on mooning for a month about it, betwixt his love of his daughter andhis quiet way of taking things; and all that while the dresses might becut, and trimmed, and fitted to a size and fashion all gone by beforethere came a wedding. 

Mother Eyebright so was called both from the brightness of her eyes andher faith in that little simple flower, the euphrasia. Though her ownlove-tide was over, and the romance of life had long relapsed into theold allegiance to the hour of dinner, yet her heart was not grown toughto the troubles of the young ones; therefore all that she could do wasdone, but it was little. 

Frida, being almost tired with the blissful cares of dress, happened togo up that evening earlier than her wont to bed. She sat by herself inthe firelight, with many gorgeous things around her--wedding presentsfrom great people, and (what touched her more) the humble offerings ofher cottage friends. As she looked on these and thought of all the goodwill they expressed, and how a little kindness gathers such a heap ofgratitude, glad tears shone in her bright eyes, and she only wished thatall 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 andopen-hearted one, would rather keep to her own poor self. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Upon the following day she was not half so wretched and lamentable aswas expected of her. She even showed a brisk and pleasant air to thechief seamstress, and bade her keep some pretty things for the time ofher own wedding. Even to her father she behaved as if there had beennothing more than happens every day. The worthy baron went to fold herin his arms, and let her cry there; but she only gave him a kiss, and asked the maid for some salt butter. Lord de Wichehalse, beingdisappointed of his outlet, thought (as all his life he had been forcedto think continually) that any sort of woman, whether young or old, iswonderful. And so she carried on, and no one well could understand her. 

She, however, in her own heart, knew the ups and downs of it. She alonecould feel the want of any faith remaining, the ache of ever stretchingforth and laying hold on nothing. Her mind had never been encouraged--aswith maidens nowadays--to-magnify itself, and soar, and scorn the heartthat victuals it. All the deeper was her trouble, being less to beexplained. 

For a day or two the story is that she contrived to keep her distance, and her own opinion of what had been done to her. Child and almost babyas her father had considered her, even he was awed from asking what shemeant to do about it. Something seemed to keep her back from speakingof her trouble, or bearing to have it spoken of. Only to her faithfulhound, with whom she now began again to wander in the oak-wood, to himalone had she the comfort of declaring anything. This was a dog of fineold English breed and high connections, his great-grandmother havingowned a kennel at Whitehall itself--a very large and well-conducted dog, and now an old one, going down into his grave without a stain upon him. Only he had shown such foul contempt of Aubyn Auberley, proceeding toextremes of ill-behaviour toward his raiment, that for months youngFrida had been forced to keep him chained, and take her favourite walkswithout him. 

"Ah, Lear!" now she cried, with sense of long injustice toward him; "youwere right, and I was wrong; at least--at least it seems so. "

"Lear, " so called whether by some man who had heard of Shakspere, or (asseems more likely) from his peculiar way of contemplating the world athis own angle, shook his ears when thus addressed, and looked too wisefor any dog to even sniff his wisdom. 

Frida now allowed this dog to lead the way, and she would follow, careless of whatever mischief might be in the road for them. So he ledher, without care or even thought on her part, to a hut upon the beachof Woody Bay; where Albert had set up his staff, to think of her andwatch her. This, her cousin and true lover, had been grieving for hersorrow to the utmost power of a man who wanted her himself. It may havebeen beyond his power to help saying to himself sometimes, "How thisserves her right, for making such a laughing-stock of me!" Nevertheless, he did his utmost to be truly sorrowful. 

And now, as he came forth to meet her, in his fishing dress and boots(as different a figure as could be from Aubyn Auberley), memories ofchildish troubles and of strong protection thrilled her with a helplesshope of something to be done for her. So she looked at him, and let himsee the state her eyes were in with constant crying, when there was notanyone to notice it. Also, she allowed him to be certain what her handswere like, and to be surprised how much she had fallen away in herfigure. Neither was she quite as proud as might have been expected, tokeep her voice from trembling or her plundered heart from sobbing. Only, let not anybody say a word to comfort her. Anything but that she nowcould bear, as she bore everything. It was, of course, the proper thingfor everyone to scorn her. That, of course, she had fully earned, andmet it, therefore, with disdain. Only, she could almost hate anybody whotried to comfort her. 

Albert de Wichehalse, with a sudden start of intuition, saw what herfather had been unable to descry or even dream. The worthy baron's timeof life for fervid thoughts was over; for him despairing love was buta poet's fiction, or a joke against a pale young lady. But Albert feltfrom his own case, from burning jealousy suppressed, and cold neglectput up with, and all the other many-pointed aches of vain devotion, howsad must be the state of things when plighted faith was shattered also, and great ridicule left behind, with only a young girl to face it, motherless, and having none to stroke dishevelled hair, and coax thetroubles by the firelight. However, this good fellow did the utmost hecould do for her. Love and pity led him into dainty loving kindness; andwhen he could not find his way to say the right thing, he did better--heleft her to say it. And so well did he move her courage, in his oldprotective way, without a word that could offend her or depreciateher love, that she for the moment, like a woman, wondered at her owndespair. Also, like a woman, glancing into this and that, instead ofany steadfast gazing, she had wholesome change of view, winning suddeninsight into Albert's thoughts concerning her. Of course, she madeup her mind at once, although her heart was aching so for want of anytenant, in a moment to extinguish any such presumption. Still, she wouldhave liked to have it made a little clearer, if it were for nothing elsethan to be sure of something. 

Albert saw her safely climb the steep and shaly walk that led, amongretentive oak trees, or around the naked gully, all the way from hislonely cottage to the light, and warmth, and comfort of the peopledManor House. And within himself he thought, the more from contrast ofhis own cold comfort and untended state:

"Ah! she will forget it soon; she is so young. She will soon get overthat gay frippard's fickleness. To-morrow I will start upon my littleerrand cheerfully. After that she will come round; they cannot feel aswe do. "

Full of these fond hopes, he started on the following morning with setpurpose to compel the man whom he had once disliked, and now despisedunspeakably, to render some account of despite done to such a family. For, after all, the dainty viscount was the grandson of a goldsmith, whoby brokerage for the Crown had earned the balls of his coronet. In questof this gay fellow went the stern and solid Albert, leaving not a wordabout his purpose there behind him, but allowing everybody to believewhat all found out. All found out, as he expected, that he was gone tosell his hay, perhaps as far as Taunton; and all the parish, lookingforward to great rise of forage, felt indignant that he had not doubledhis price, and let them think. 

Alack-a-day and all the year round! that men perceive not how the womendiffer from them in the very source of thought Albert never dreamedthat his cousin, after doing so long without him, had now relapsed quitesuddenly into her childish dependence upon him. And when she heard, onthe following day, that he was gone for the lofty purpose of selling hisseven ricks of hay, she said not a word, but only felt her cold heart somuch colder. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

She had nothing now to do, and nobody to speak to; though her fatherdid his utmost, in his kind and clumsy way, to draw his darling closeto him. But she knew that all along he had disliked her idol, and shefancied, now and then, that this dislike had had something perhaps to dowith what had befallen her. This, of course, was wrong on her part. Butwhen youth and faith are wronged, the hurt is very apt to fly to all thetender places. Even the weather also seemed to have taken a turn againsther. No wholesome frost set in to brace the slackened joints and makeher walk until she began to tingle; neither was there any snow to spreada new cast on the rocks and gift the trees with airiness; nor even whatmild winters, for the most part, bring in counterpoise--soft, obedientskies, and trembling pleasure of the air and earth. But--as over her ownlove--over all the country hung just enough of mist and chill to shutout cheerful prospect, and not enough to shut folk in to the hearth oftheir own comfort. 

In her dull, forlorn condition, Frida still, through force of habit orthe love of solitude, made her daily round of wood and rock, seashoreand moorland. Things seemed to come across her now, instead of her goingto them, and her spirit failed at every rise of the hilly road againsther. In that dreary way she lingered, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, showing neither sigh nor tear, only seeking to go somewhere and be lostfrom self and sorrow in the cloudy and dark day. 

Often thus the soft, low moaning of the sea encompassed her, where shestood, in forgotten beauty, careless of the wind and wave. The short, uneasy heave of waters in among the kelpy rocks, flowing from no swellor furrow on the misty glass of sea, but like a pulse of discontent, and longing to go further; after the turn, the little rattle of invadedpebbles, the lithe relapse and soft, shampooing lambency of oarweed, then the lavered boulders pouring gritty runnels back again, and everybasined outlet wavering toward another inlet; these, and every phaseof each innumerable to-and-fro, made or met their impress in herfluctuating misery. 

"It is the only rest, " she said; "the only chance of being quiet, afterall that I have done, and all that people say of me. "

None had been dastard enough to say a syllable against her; neitherhad she, in the warmest faith of love, forgotten truth; but her owndejection drove her, not to revile the world (as sour natures doconsistently), but to shrink from sight, and fancy that the world wasreviling her. 

While she fluttered thus and hovered over the cold verge of death, withher sore distempered spirit, scarcely sure of anything, tidings came ofanother trouble, and turned the scale against her. Albert de Wichehalse, her trusty cousin and true lover, had fallen in a duel with thatrecreant and miscreant Lord Auberley. The strictest orders were giventhat this should be kept for the present from Frida's ears; but what isthe use of the strictest orders when a widowed mother raves? Albert'smother vowed that "the shameless jilt" should hear it out, and slippedher guards and waylaid Frida on the morn of Candlemas, and overbore herwith such words as may be well imagined. 

"Auntie!" said the poor thing at last, shaking her beautiful curls, and laying one little hand to her empty heart, "don't be cross with meto-day. I am going home to be married, auntie. It is the day my Aubynalways fixed, and he never fails me. "

"Little fool!" her aunt exclaimed, as Frida kissed her hand andcourtesied, and ran round the corner; "one comfort is to know that sheis as mad as a mole, at any rate. "

CHAPTER IX. 

Frida, knowing--perhaps more deeply than that violent woman thought--themischief thus put into her, stole back to her bedroom, and, without aword to anyone, tired her hair in the Grecian snood which her lover usedto admire so, and arrayed her soft and delicate form in all the bridalfinery. Perhaps, that day, no bride in England--certainly none of heryouth and beauty--treated her favourite looking-glass with such contemptand ingratitude. She did not care to examine herself, through somereluctant sense of havoc, and a bitter fear that someone might bedisappointed in her. Then at the last, when all was ready, she snatchedup 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 lovelyself. 

After some wonder she fetched a deep sigh--not from clearly thinkinganything, but as an act of nature--and said, "Good-by!" forever, witha little smile of irony, to her looking-glass, and all the many prettythings that knew her. 

It was her bad luck, as some people thought thereafter--or her goodluck, as herself beheld it--to get down the stairs and out of the housewithout anyone being the wiser. For the widow De Wichehalse, Albert'smother, had not been content with sealing the doom of this poor maiden, but in that highly excited state, which was to be expected, hurried intothe house, to beard the worthy baron in his den. There she found him;and, although he said and did all sympathy, the strain of parentalfeelings could not yield without "hysterics. "

All the servants, and especially Mother Eyebright (whose chief duty nowwas to watch Frida), were called by the terrified baron, and withone unanimous rush replied; so that the daughter of the house left itwithout notice, and before any glances was out of sight, in the roughground 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 hopeof meaning kindly--when in the quiet places often, free from any hasteof wind, or hindrances of pattering thaw, small and unimportant flowershave a little knack of dreaming that the world expects them. Thereforeneither do they wait for leaves to introduce them, nor much weather toencourage, but in shelfy corners come, in a day, or in a night--no manknows quite which it is; and there they are, as if by magic, asking, "AmI 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 fewof these little things delicately trespassing upon the petulance ofspring. Also, though her troubles wrapped her with an icy mantle, softerbreath of Nature came, and sighed for her to listen to it, and to makethe best of all that is not past the sighing. More than once she stoppedto listen, in the hush of the timid south wind creeping through thedishevelled wood; and once, but only once, she was glad to see her firstprimrose and last, and stooped to pluck, but, on second thoughts, leftit to outblossom her. 

So, past many a briered rock, and dingle buff with littered fern, greenholly copse where lurked the woodcock, and arcades of zigzag oak, Fridakept her bridal robe from spot, or rent, or blemish. Passing all theselittle pleadings of the life she had always loved, at last she turnedthe craggy corner into the ledge of the windy cliff. 

Now below her there was nothing but repose from shallow thought; restfrom all the little troubles she had made so much of; deep, eternalsatisfaction in the arms of something vast. But all the same, she didnot 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, ifever anybody found her. There could be no worse luck than that for anybride on her wedding-day; therefore up the rock-walk Frida kept veryclose to the landward side. 

All this way she thought of pretty little things said to her in theearly days of love. Many things that made her smile because they hadgone so otherwise, and one or two that would have fetched her tears, ifshe had any. Filled with vain remembrance thus, and counting up themany presents sent to her for this occasion, but remaining safe at home, Frida came to the little coving bower just inside the Point, where shecould 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 somethingfaithful. 

"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 thetide turns at twelve o'clock. How calm and peaceful is the sea! Howhappy are the sea gulls, and how true to one another!"

She stood where, if she had cared for life, it would have been certaindeath to stand, so giddy was the height, and the rock beneath herfeet so slippery. The craggy headland, Duty Point, well known to everynavigator of that rock-bound coast, commands the Channel for many aleague, facing eastward the Castle Rock and Countisbury Foreland, andwestward High-veer Point, across the secluded cove of Leymouth. Withone sheer fall of a hundred fathoms the stern cliff meets the baffledsea--or met it then, but now the level of the tide is lowering. Air andsea were still and quiet; the murmur of the multitudinous wavelets couldnot climb the cliff; but loops and curves of snowy braiding on the darkgray water showed the set of tide and shift of current in and out theburied rocks. 

Standing in the void of fear, and gazing into the deep of death, Fridaloved the pair of sea gulls hovering halfway between her and the softgray sea. These good birds had found a place well suited for theirnesting, and sweetly screamed to one another that it was a contract. Frida watched how proud they were, and how they kept their strong wingssailing and their gray backs flat and quivering, while with buoyantbosom each made circles round the other. 

As she watched, she saw the turning of the tide below them. The streakybends of curdled water, lately true as fairy-rings, stopped and wavered, and drew inward on their flowing curves, and outward on the side towardthe ebb. Then the south wind brought the distant toll of her father'sturret-clock, striking noon with slow deliberation and dead certainty. 

Frida made one little turn toward her bower behind the cliff, where themany 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 Learhad escaped from the chain she had put on him, and, more trusty thanmankind, was come to keep his faith with her. 

"You fine old dog, it is too late! The clock has struck. The tide hasturned. 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, anddrew his grizzled eyelids meekly over his dim and sunken eyes. Before helifted them again Frida was below the sea gulls, and beneath the wavesthey fished. 

Lear, with a puzzled sniff, arose and shook his head, and peered, withhis old eyes full of wistful wonder, down the fearful precipice. Seeingsomething, he made his mind, up, gave one long re-echoed howl, thentossed 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 beenknown so clearly as it is known, unless it had happened that MotherEyebright, growing uneasy, came round the corner just in time to be toolate. 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 monthsafterward; and when her breath came back was enabled to tell tenfold ofall she had seen. 

One of the strangest things in life is the way in which we mortals takethe great and fatal blows of life. 

For instance, the baron was suddenly told, while waiting for Frida tosit beside him, at his one o'clock dinner:

"Plaize, my lard, your lardship's darter hath a been and jumped off DutyPoint. "

"What an undutiful thing to do!" was the first thing Lord de Wichehalsesaid; and those who knew no better thought that this was how he took it. 

Aubyn Auberley, however, took a different measure of a broken-heartedfather'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. Ithappened so that he could not make redress of his ruined life until themiddle of the summer. Then, at last, his chance came to him, and hedid not waste it. Viscount Auberley, who had so often slipped away andlaughed at him, was brought to bay beneath a tree in the famous fight ofLansdowne. 

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, wereenough 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 theGueldres ax cleft his curly head, and split what little brain it takesto fool a trusting maiden. 

So, in early life, deceiver and deceived were quit of harm; and may erenow have both found out whether it is better to inflict the wrong orsuffer it.