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diff --git a/old/51497-0.txt b/old/51497-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index fa37f65..0000000 --- a/old/51497-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4584 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Tales From the Telling-House, by R. D. Blackmore - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Tales From the Telling-House - -Author: R. D. Blackmore - -Release Date: March 19, 2016 [EBook #51497] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM THE TELLING-HOUSE *** - - - - -Produced by Charlie Howard and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - TALES FROM - THE TELLING-HOUSE - - - - -[Illustration: - - TALES FROM THE - TELLING-HOUSE - - - BY - - R. D. BLACKMORE - AUTHOR OF “LORNA DOONE,” ETC. - - - 1. SLAIN BY THE DOONES - 2. FRIDA; OR, THE LOVER’S LEAP - 3. GEORGE BOWRING - 4. CROCKER’S HOLE - - - LONDON - - SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY - LIMITED - St. Dunstan’s House - 1896 -] - - - - -PREFACE. - - -Sometimes of a night, when the spirit of a dream flits away for a waltz -with the shadow of a pen, over dreary moors and dark waters, I behold -an old man, with a keen profile, under a parson’s shovel hat, riding -a tall chestnut horse up the western slope of Exmoor, followed by his -little grandson upon a shaggy and stuggy pony. - -In the hazy folds of lower hills, some four or five miles behind them, -may be seen the ancient Parsonage, where the lawn is a russet sponge of -moss, and a stream tinkles under the dining-room floor, and the pious -rook, poised on the pulpit of his nest, reads a hoarse sermon to the -chimney-pots below. There is the home not of rooks alone, and parson, -and dogs that are scouring the moor; but also of the patches of hurry -we can see, and the bevies of bleating haste, converging by force of -men and dogs towards the final _rendezvous_, the autumnal muster of the -clans of wool. - -For now the shrill piping of the northwest wind, and the browning -of furze and heather, and a scollop of snow upon Oare-oak Hill, -announce that the roving of soft green height, and the browsing of -sunny hollow, must be changed for the durance of hurdled quads, and -the monotonous munch of turnips. The joy of a scurry from the shadow -of a cloud, the glory of a rally with a hundred heads in line, the -pleasure of polishing a coign of rock, the bliss of beholding flat -nose, brown eyes, and fringy forehead, approaching round a corner for -a sheepish talk, these and every other jollity of freedom--what is -now become of them? Gone! Like a midsummer dream, or the vision of a -blue sky, pastured--to match the green hill--with white forms floating -peacefully; a sky, where no dog can be, much less a man, only the -fleeces of the gentle flock of heaven. Lackadaisy, and well-a-day! How -many of you will be woolly ghosts like them, before you are two months -older! - -My grandfather knows what fine mutton is, though his grandson indites -of it by memory alone. “Ha, ha!” shouts the happier age, amid the -bleating turmoil, the yelping of dogs, and the sprawling of shepherds; -“John Fry, put your eye on that wether, the one with his J. B. upside -down, we’ll have a cut out of him on Sunday week, please God. Why, you -stupid fellow, you don’t even know a B yet! That is Farmer Passmore’s -mark you have got hold of. Two stomachs to a B; will you never -understand? Just look at what you’re doing! Here come James Bowden’s -and he has got a lot of ours! _Shep_ is getting stupid, and deaf as a -post. _Watch_ is worth ten of him. Good dog, good dog! You won’t let -your master be cheated. How many of ours, John Fry? Quick now! You can -tell, if you can’t read; and I can read quicker than I can tell.” - -“Dree score, and vower Maister; ‘cardin’ to my rackonin’. Dree score -and zax it waz as us toorned out, zeventh of June, God knows it waz. -Wan us killed, long of harvest-taime; and wan tummled into bog-hole, -across yanner to Mole’s Chimmers.” - -“But,” says the little chap on the shaggy pony, “John Fry, where are -the four that ought to have R. D. B. on them? You promised me, on the -blade of your knife, before I went to school again, that my two lambs -should have their children marked the same as they were.” - -John turns redder than his own sheep’s-redding. He knows that he has -been caught out in a thumping lie, and although that happens to him -almost every day, his conscience has a pure complexion still. “’Twaz -along of the rains as wasshed ’un out.” In vain has he scratched his -head for a finer lie. - -“Grandfather, you know that I had two lambs, and you let me put -R. D. B. on them with both my hands, after the shearing-time last year, -and I got six shillings for their wool the next time, and I gave it to -a boy who thrashed a boy that bullied me. And Aunt Mary Anne wrote to -tell me at school that my two lambs had increased two each, all of them -sheep; and there was sure to be a lot of money soon for me. And so I -went and promised it right and left, and how can I go back to school, -and be called a liar? You call this the _Telling-house_, because -people come here to tell their own sheep from their neighbours’, when -they fetch them home again. But I should say it was because they tell -such stories here. And if that is the reason, I know who can tell the -biggest ones.” - -With the pride of a conscious author, he blushes, that rogue of a John -Fry blushes, wherever he has shaved within the last three weeks of his -false life. - -“Never mind, my boy; story-telling never answers in the end,” says my -Grandfather--oh how could he thus foresee my fate? “Be sure you always -speak the truth.” - -That advice have I followed always. And if I lost my four sheep then, -through the plagiarism of that bad fellow, by hook or crook I have -fetched four more out of the wilderness of the past; and I only wish -they were better mutton, for the pleasure of old friends who like a -simple English joint. - - R.D.B. - - _Old Christmas Day, 1896_ - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - - SLAIN BY THE DOONES: - - I. AFTER A STORMY LIFE, 1 - - II. BY A QUIET RIVER, 12 - - III. WISE COUNSEL, 22 - - IV. A COTTAGE HOSPITAL, 33 - - V. MISTAKEN AIMS, 43 - - VI. OVER THE BRIDGE, 55 - - FRIDA; OR, THE LOVER’S LEAP, 69 - - GEORGE BOWRING, 135 - - CROCKER’S HOLE, 203 - - - - -SLAIN BY THE DOONES. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -AFTER A STORMY LIFE. - - -To hear people talking about North Devon, and the savage part called -Exmoor, you might almost think that there never was any place in the -world so beautiful, or any living men so wonderful. It is not my -intention to make little of them, for they would be the last to permit -it; neither do I feel ill will against them for the pangs they allowed -me to suffer; for I dare say they could not help themselves, being -so slow-blooded, and hard to stir even by their own egrimonies. But -when I look back upon the things that happened, and were for a full -generation of mankind accepted as the will of God, I say, that the -people who endured them must have been born to be ruled by the devil. -And in thinking thus I am not alone; for the very best judges of that -day stopped short of that end of the world, because the law would not -go any further. Nevertheless, every word is true of what I am going -to tell, and the stoutest writer of history cannot make less of it by -denial. - -My father was Sylvester Ford of Quantock, in the county of Somerset, -a gentleman of large estate as well as ancient lineage. Also of high -courage and resolution not to be beaten, as he proved in his many -rides with Prince Rupert, and woe that I should say it! in his most -sad death. To this he was not looking forward much, though turned of -threescore years and five; and his only child and loving daughter, -Sylvia, which is myself, had never dreamed of losing him. For he -was exceeding fond of me, little as I deserved it, except by loving -him with all my heart and thinking nobody like him. And he without -anything to go upon, except that he was my father, held, as I have -often heard, as good an opinion of me. - -Upon the triumph of that hard fanatic, the Brewer, who came to a -timely end by the justice of high Heaven--my father, being disgusted -with England as well as banished from her, and despoiled of all his -property, took service on the Continent, and wandered there for many -years, until the replacement of the throne. Thereupon he expected, as -many others did, to get his estates restored to him, and perhaps to be -held in high esteem at court, as he had a right to be. But this did -not so come to pass. Excellent words were granted him, and promise of -tenfold restitution; on the faith of which he returned to Paris, and -married a young Italian lady of good birth and high qualities, but with -nothing more to come to her. Then, to his great disappointment, he -found himself left to live upon air--which, however distinguished, is -not sufficient--and love, which, being fed so easily, expects all who -lodge with it to live upon itself. - -My father was full of strong loyalty; and the king (in his value of -that sentiment) showed faith that it would support him. His majesty -took both my father’s hands, having learned that hearty style in -France, and welcomed him with most gracious warmth, and promised him -more than he could desire. But time went on, and the bright words -faded, like a rose set bravely in a noble vase, without any nurture -under it. - -Another man had been long established in our hereditaments by the -Commonwealth; and he would not quit them of his own accord, having a -sense of obligation to himself. Nevertheless, he went so far as to -offer my father a share of the land, if some honest lawyers, whom he -quoted, could find proper means for arranging it. But my father said: -“If I cannot have my rights, I will have my wrongs. No mixture of the -two for me.” And so, for the last few years of his life, being now -very poor and a widower, he took refuge in an outlandish place, a house -and small property in the heart of Exmoor, which had come to the Fords -on the spindle side, and had been overlooked when their patrimony was -confiscated by the Brewer. Of him I would speak with no contempt, -because he was ever as good as his word. - -In the course of time, we had grown used to live according to our -fortunes. And I verily believe that we were quite content, and -repined but little at our lost importance. For my father was a very -simple-minded man, who had seen so much of uproarious life, and the -falsehood of friends, and small glitter of great folk, that he was glad -to fall back upon his own good will. Moreover he had his books, and me; -and as he always spoke out his thoughts, he seldom grudged to thank the -Lord for having left both of these to him. I felt a little jealous of -his books now and then, as a very poor scholar might be; but reason is -the proper guide for women, and we are quick enough in discerning it, -without having to borrow it from books. - -At any rate now we were living in a wood, and trees were the only -creatures near us, to the best of our belief and wish. Few might say -in what part of the wood we lived, unless they saw the smoke ascending -from our single chimney; so thick were the trees, and the land they -stood on so full of sudden rise and fall. But a little river called the -Lynn makes a crooked border to it, and being for its size as noisy a -water as any in the world perhaps, can be heard all through the trees -and leaves to the very top of the Warren Wood. In the summer all this -was sweet and pleasant; but lonely and dreary and shuddersome, when the -twigs bore drops instead of leaves, and the ground would not stand to -the foot, and the play of light and shadow fell, like the lopping of a -tree, into one great lump. - -Now there was a young man about this time, and not so very distant from -our place--as distances are counted there--who managed to make himself -acquainted with us, although we lived so privately. To me it was a -marvel, both why and how he did it; seeing what little we had to offer, -and how much we desired to live alone. But Mrs. Pring told me to look -in the glass, if I wanted to know the reason; and while I was blushing -with anger at that, being only just turned eighteen years, and thinking -of nobody but my father, she asked if I had never heard the famous -rhymes made by the wise woman at Tarr-steps: - - “Three fair maids live upon Exymoor, - The rocks, and the woods, and the dairy-door. - The son of a baron shall woo all three, - But barren of them all shall the young man be.” - -Of the countless things I could never understand, one of the very -strangest was how Deborah Pring, our only domestic, living in the -lonely depths of this great wood, and seeming to see nobody but -ourselves, in spite of all that contrived to know as much of the doings -of the neighbourhood as if she went to market twice a week. But my -father cared little for any such stuff; coming from a better part of -the world, and having been mixed with mighty issues and making of great -kingdoms, he never said what he thought of these little combings of -petty pie crust, because it was not worth his while. And yet he seemed -to take a kindly liking to the young De Wichehalse; not as a youth -of birth only, but as one driven astray perhaps by harsh and austere -influence. For his father, the baron, was a godly man,--which is much -to the credit of anyone, growing rarer and rarer, as it does,--and -there should be no rasp against such men, if they would only bear in -mind that in their time they had been young, and were not quite so -perfect then. But lo! I am writing as if I knew a great deal more than -I could know until the harrow passed over me. - -No one, however, need be surprised at the favour this young man -obtained with all who came into his converse. Handsome, and beautiful -as he was, so that bold maids longed to kiss him, it was the sadness -in his eyes, and the gentle sense of doom therein, together with a -laughing scorn of it, that made him come home to our nature, in a way -that it feels but cannot talk of. And he seemed to be of the past -somehow, although so young and bright and brave; of the time when -greater things were done, and men would die for women. That he should -woo three maids in vain, to me was a stupid old woman’s tale. - -“Sylvia,” my father said to me, when I was not even thinking of -him, “no more converse must we hold with that son of the Baron de -Wichehalse. I have ordered Pring to keep the door; and Mistress Pring, -who hath the stronger tongue, to come up if he attempted to dispute; -the while I go away to catch our supper.” - -He was bearing a fishing rod made by himself, and a basket strapped -over his shoulders. - -“But why, father? Why should such a change be? How hath the young -gentleman displeased thee?” I put my face into his beard as I spoke, -that I might not appear too curious. - -“Is it so?” he answered, “then high time is it. No more shall he enter -this”--_house_ he would have said, but being so truthful changed it -into--“hut. I was pleased with the youth. He is gentle and kind; but -weak--my dear child, remember that. Why are we in this hut, my dear? -and thou, the heiress of the best land in the world, now picking up -sticks in the wilderness? Because the man who should do us right is -weak, and wavering, and careth but for pleasure. So is this young -Marwood de Wichehalse. He rideth with the Doones. I knew it not, but -now that I know, it is enough.” - -My father was of tall stature and fine presence, and his beard shone -like a cascade of silver. It was not the manner of the young as yet -to argue with their elders, and though I might have been a little -fluttered by the comely gallant’s lofty talk and gaze of daring -melancholy, I said good-bye to him in my heart, as I kissed my noble -father. Shall I ever cease to thank the Lord that I proved myself a -good daughter then? - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -BY A QUIET RIVER. - - -Living as we did all by ourselves, and five or six miles away from -the Robbers’ Valley, we had felt little fear of the Doones hitherto, -because we had nothing for them to steal except a few books, the sight -of which would only make them swear and ride away. But now that I -was full-grown, and beginning to be accounted comely, my father was -sometimes uneasy in his mind, as he told Deborah, and she told me; for -the outlaws showed interest in such matters, even to the extent of -carrying off young women who had won reputation thus. Therefore he left -Thomas Pring at home, with the doors well-barred, and two duck guns -loaded, and ordered me not to quit the house until he should return -with a creel of trout for supper. Only our little boy Dick Hutchings -was to go with him, to help when his fly caught in the bushes. - -My father set off in the highest spirits, as anglers always seem to -do, to balance the state in which they shall return; and I knew not, -neither did anyone else, what a bold stroke he was resolved upon. When -it was too late, we found out that, hearing so much of that strange -race, he desired to know more about them, scorning the idea that men -of birth could ever behave like savages, and forgetting that they had -received no chance of being tamed, as rough spirits are by the lessons -of the battlefield. No gentleman would ever dream of attacking an -unarmed man, he thought; least of all one whose hair was white. And so -he resolved to fish the brook which ran away from their stronghold, -believing that he might see some of them, and hoping for a peaceful -interview. - -We waited and waited for his pleasant face, and long, deliberate step -upon the steep, and cheerful shout for his Sylvia, to come and ease -down his basket, and say--“Well done, father!” But the shadows of the -trees grew darker, and the song of the gray-bird died out among them, -and the silent wings of the owl swept by, and all the mysterious sounds -of night in the depth of forest loneliness, and the glimmer of a star -through the leaves here and there, to tell us that there still was -light in heaven--but of an earthly father not a sign; only pain, and -long sighs, and deep sinking of the heart. - -But why should I dwell upon this? All women, being of a gentle and -loving kind,--unless they forego their nature,--know better than I at -this first trial knew, the misery often sent to us. I could not believe -it, and went about in a dreary haze of wonder, getting into dark -places, when all was dark, and expecting to be called out again and -asked what had made such a fool of me. And so the long night went at -last, and no comfort came in the morning. But I heard a great crying, -sometime the next day, and ran back from the wood to learn what it -meant, for there I had been searching up and down, not knowing whither -I went or why. And lo, it was little Dick Hutchings at our door, and -Deborah Pring held him by the coat-flap, and was beating him with one -of my father’s sticks. - -“I tell ’ee, they Doo-uns has done for ’un,” the boy was roaring -betwixt his sobs; “dree on ’em, dree on ’em, and he’ve a killed one. -The squire be layin’ as dead as a sto-un.” - -Mrs. Pring smacked him on the mouth, for she saw that I had heard it. -What followed I know not, for down I fell, and the sense of life went -from me. - -There was little chance of finding Thomas Pring, or any other man to -help us, for neighbours were none, and Thomas was gone everywhere he -could think of to look for them. Was I likely to wait for night again, -and then talk for hours about it? I recovered my strength when the sun -went low; and who was Deborah Pring, to stop me? She would have come, -but I would not have it; and the strength of my grief took command of -her. - -Little Dick Hutchings whistled now, I remember that he whistled, as he -went through the wood in front of me. Who had given him the breeches on -his legs and the hat upon his shallow pate? And the poor little coward -had skiddered away, and slept in a furze rick, till famine drove him -home. But now he was set up again by gorging for an hour, and chattered -as if he had done a great thing. - -There must have been miles of rough walking through woods, and tangles, -and craggy and black boggy hollows, until we arrived at a wide open -space where two streams ran into one another. - -“Thic be Oare watter,” said the boy, “and t’other over yonner be -Badgery. Squire be dead up there; plaise, Miss Sillie, ’ee can goo -vorrard and vaind ’un.” - -He would go no further; but I crossed the brook, and followed the -Badgery stream, without knowing, or caring to know, where I was. The -banks, and the bushes, and the rushing water went by me until I came -upon--but though the Lord hath made us to endure such things, he hath -not compelled us to enlarge upon them. - -In the course of the night kind people came, under the guidance of -Thomas Pring, and they made a pair of wattles such as farmers use for -sheep, and carried home father and daughter, one sobbing and groaning -with a broken heart, and the other that should never so much as sigh -again. Troubles have fallen upon me since, as the will of the Lord is -always; but none that I ever felt like that, and for months everything -was the same to me. - -But inasmuch as it has been said by those who should know better, -that my father in some way provoked his merciless end by those vile -barbarians, I will put into plainest form, without any other change, -except from outlandish words, the tale received from Dick Hutchings, -the boy, who had seen and heard almost everything while crouching in -the water and huddled up inside a bush. - -“Squire had catched a tidy few, and he seemed well pleased with -himself, and then we came to a sort of a hollow place where one brook -floweth into the other. Here he was a-casting of his fly, most careful, -for if there was ever a trout on the feed, it was like to be a big one, -and lucky for me I was keeping round the corner when a kingfisher bird -flew along like a string-bolt, and there were three great men coming -round a fuzz-bush, and looking at squire, and he back to them. Down -goes I, you may say sure enough, with all of me in the water but my -face, and that stuck into a wutts-clump, and my teeth making holes in -my naked knees, because of the way they were shaking. - -“‘Ho, fellow!’ one of them called out to squire, as if he was no better -than father is, ‘who give thee leave to fish in our river?’ - -“‘Open moor,’ says squire, ‘and belongeth to the king, if it belongeth -to anybody. Any of you gentlemen hold his majesty’s warrant to forbid -an old officer of his?’ - -“That seemed to put them in a dreadful rage, for to talk of a warrant -was unpleasant to them. - -“‘Good fellow, thou mayest spin spider’s webs, or jib up and down like -a gnat,’ said one, ‘but such tricks are not lawful upon land of ours. -Therefore render up thy spoil.’ - -“Squire walked up from the pebbles at that, and he stood before the -three of them, as tall as any of them. And he said, ‘You be young men, -but I am old. Nevertheless, I will not be robbed by three, or by thirty -of you. If you be cowards enough, come on.’ - -“Two of them held off, and I heard them say, ‘Let him alone, he is a -brave old cock.’ For you never seed anyone look more braver, and his -heart was up with righteousness. But the other, who seemed to be the -oldest of the three, shouted out something, and put his leg across, and -made at the squire with a long blue thing that shone in the sun, like -a looking-glass. And the squire, instead of turning round to run away -as he should have, led at him with the thick end of the fishing rod, to -which he had bound an old knife of Mother Pring’s for to stick it in -the grass, while he put his flies on. And I heard the old knife strike -the man in his breast, and down he goes dead as a door-nail. And before -I could look again almost, another man ran a long blade into squire, -and there he was lying as straight as a lath, with the end of his white -beard as red as a rose. At that I was so scared that I couldn’t look no -more, and the water came bubbling into my mouth, and I thought I was at -home along of mother. - -“By and by, I came back to myself with my face full of scratches in -a bush, and the sun was going low, and the place all as quiet as -Cheriton church. But the noise of the water told me where I was; and I -got up, and ran for the life of me, till I came to the goyal. And then -I got into a fuzz-rick, and slept all night, for I durstn’t go home to -tell Mother Pring. But I just took a look before I began to run, and -the Doone that was killed was gone away, but the squire lay along with -his arms stretched out, as quiet as a sheep before they hang him up to -drain.” - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -WISE COUNSEL. - - -Some pious people seem not to care how many of their dearest hearts -the Lord in heaven takes from them. How well I remember that in later -life, I met a beautiful young widow, who had loved her husband with -her one love, and was left with twin babies by him. I feared to speak, -for I had known him well, and thought her the tenderest of the tender, -and my eyes were full of tears for her. But she looked at me with some -surprise, and said: “You loved my Bob, I know,” for he was a cousin of -my own, and as good a man as ever lived, “but, Sylvia, you must not -commit the sin of grieving for him.” - -It may be so, in a better world, if people are allowed to die there; -but as long as we are here, how can we help being as the Lord has made -us? The sin, as it seems to me, would be to feel or fancy ourselves -case-hardened against the will of our Maker, which so often is--that -we should grieve. Without a thought how that might be, I did the -natural thing, and cried about the death of my dear father until I was -like to follow him. But a strange thing happened in a month or so of -time, which according to Deborah saved my life, by compelling other -thoughts to come. My father had been buried in a small churchyard, with -nobody living near it, and the church itself was falling down, through -scarcity of money on the moor. The Warren, as our wood was called, lay -somewhere in the parish of Brendon, a straggling country, with a little -village somewhere, and a blacksmith’s shop and an ale house, but no -church that anyone knew of, till you came to a place called Cheriton. -And there was a little church all by itself, not easy to find, though -it had four bells, which nobody dared to ring, for fear of his head -and the burden above it. But a boy would go up the first Sunday of each -month, and strike the liveliest of them with a poker from the smithy. -And then a brave parson, who feared nothing but his duty, would make -his way in, with a small flock at his heels, and read the Psalms of the -day, and preach concerning the difficulty of doing better. And it was -accounted to the credit of the Doones that they never came near him, -for he had no money. - -The Fords had been excellent Catholics always; but Thomas and Deborah -Pring, who managed everything while I was overcome, said that the -church, being now so old, must have belonged to us, and therefor might -be considered holy. The parson also said that it would do, for he was -not a man of hot persuasions. And so my dear father lay there, without -a stone, or a word to tell who he was, and the grass began to grow. - -Here I was sitting one afternoon in May, and the earth was beginning to -look lively; when a shadow from the west fell over me, and a large, -broad man stood behind it. If I had been at all like myself, a thing of -that kind would have frightened me; but now the strings of my system -seemed to have nothing like a jerk in them, for I cared not whither I -went, nor how I looked, nor whether I went anywhere. - -“Child! poor child!” It was a deep, soft voice of distant yet large -benevolence. “Almost a woman, and a comely one, for those who think of -such matters. Such a child I might have owned, if Heaven had been kind -to me.” - -Low as I was of heart and spirit, I could not help looking up at him; -for Mother Pring’s voice, though her meaning was so good, sounded -like a cackle in comparison to this. But when I looked up, such -encouragement came from a great benign and steadfast gaze that I turned -away my eyes, as I felt them overflow. But he said not a word, for his -pity was too deep, and I thanked him in my heart for that. - -“Pardon me if I am wrong,” I said, with my eyes on the white flowers -I had brought and arranged as my father would have liked them; “but -perhaps you are the clergyman of this old church.” For I had lain -senseless and moaning on the ground when my father was carried away to -be buried. - -“How often am I taken for a clerk in holy orders! And in better times I -might have been of that sacred vocation, though so unworthy. But I am a -member of the older church, and to me all this is heresy.” - -There was nothing of bigotry in our race, and we knew that we must put -up with all changes for the worst; yet it pleased me not a little that -so good a man should be also a sound Catholic. - -“There are few of us left, and we are persecuted. Sad calumnies are -spread about us,” this venerable man proceeded, while I gazed on the -silver locks that fell upon his well-worn velvet coat. “But of such -things we take small heed, while we know that the Lord is with us. -Haply even you, young maiden, have listened to slander about us.” - -I told him with some concern, although not caring much for such things -now, that I never had any chance of listening to tales about anybody, -and was yet without the honour of even knowing who he was. - -“Few indeed care for that point now,” he answered, with a toss of his -glistening curls, and a lift of his broad white eyebrows. “Though there -has been a time when the noblest of this earth--but vanity, vanity, the -wise man saith. Yet some good I do in my quiet little way. There is a -peaceful company among these hills, respected by all who conceive them -aright. My child, perhaps you have heard of them?” - -I replied sadly that I had not done so, but hoped that he would forgive -me as one unacquainted with that neighbourhood. But I knew that there -might be godly monks still in hiding, for the service of God in the -wilderness. - -“So far as the name goes, we are not monastics,” he said, with a -sparkle in his deep-set eyes; “we are but a family of ancient lineage, -expelled from our home in these irreligious times. It is no longer -in our power to do all the good we would, and therefore we are much -undervalued. Perhaps you have heard of the Doones, my child?” - -To me it was a wonder that he spoke of them thus, for his look was of -beautiful mildness, instead of any just condemnation. But his aspect -was as if he came from heaven; and I thought that he had a hard job -before him, if he were sent to conduct the Doones thither. - -“I am not severe; I think well of mankind,” he went on, as I looked at -him meekly; “perhaps because I am one of them. You are very young, my -dear, and unable to form much opinion as yet. But let it be your rule -of life ever to keep an open mind.” - -This advice impressed me much, though I could not see clearly what it -meant. But the sun was going beyond Exmoor now, and safe as I felt with -so good an old man, a long, lonely walk was before me. So I took up my -basket and rose to depart, saying, “Good-bye, sir; I am much in your -debt for your excellent advice and kindness.” - -He looked at me most benevolently, and whatever may be said of him -hereafter, I shall always believe that he was a good man, overcome -perhaps by circumstances, yet trying to make the best of them. He -has now become a by-word as a hypocrite and a merciless self-seeker. -But many young people, who met him as I did, without possibility of -prejudice, hold a larger opinion of him. And surely young eyes are the -brightest. - -“I will protect thee, my dear,” he said, looking capable in his -great width and wisdom of protecting all the host of heaven. “I have -protected a maiden even more beautiful than thou art. But now she hath -unwisely fled from us. Our young men are thoughtless, but they are not -violent, at least until they are sadly provoked. Your father was a -brave man, and much to be esteemed. My brother, the mildest man that -ever lived, hath ridden down hundreds of Roundheads with him. Therefore -thou shalt come to no harm. But he should not have fallen upon our -young men as if they were rabble of the Commonwealth.” - -Upon these words I looked at him I know not how, so great was the -variance betwixt my ears and eyes. Then I tried to say something, but -nothing would come, so entire was my amazement. - -“Such are the things we have ever to contend with,” he continued, -as if to himself, with a smile of compassion at my prejudice. “Nay, -I am not angry; I have seen so much of this. Right and wrong stand -fast, and cannot be changed by any facundity. But time is short, and -will soon be stirring. Have a backway from thy bedroom, child. I am -Councillor Doone; by birthright and in right of understanding, the -captain of that pious family, since the return of the good Sir Ensor -to the land where there are no lies. So long as we are not molested in -our peaceful valley, my will is law; and I have ordered that none shall -go near thee. But a mob of country louts are drilling in a farmyard -up the moorlands, to plunder and destroy us, if they can. We shall -make short work of them. But after that, our youths may be provoked -beyond control, and sally forth to make reprisal. They have their eyes -on thee, I know, and thy father hath assaulted us. An ornament to our -valley thou wouldst be; but I would reproach myself if the daughter of -my brother’s friend were discontented with our life. Therefore have -I come to warn thee, for there are troublous times in front. Have a -backway from thy bedroom, child, and slip out into the wood if a noise -comes in the night.” - -Before I could thank him, he strode away, with a step of no small -dignity, and as he raised his pointed hat, the western light showed -nothing fairer or more venerable than the long wave of his silver -locks. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -A COTTAGE HOSPITAL. - - -Master Pring was not much of a man to talk. But for power of thought he -was considered equal to any pair of other men, and superior of course -to all womankind. Moreover, he had seen a good deal of fighting, not -among outlaws, but fine soldiers well skilled in the proper style of -it. So that it was impossible for him to think very highly of the -Doones. Gentlemen they might be, he said, and therefore by nature well -qualified to fight. But where could they have learned any discipline, -any tactics, any knowledge of formation, or even any skill of sword or -firearms? “Tush, there was his own son, Bob, now serving under Captain -Purvis, as fine a young trooper as ever drew sword, and perhaps on his -way at this very moment, under orders from the Lord Lieutenant, to rid -the country of that pestilent race. Ah, ha! We soon shall see!” - -And in truth we did see him, even sooner than his own dear mother had -expected, and long before his father wanted him, though he loved him so -much in his absence. For I heard a deep voice in the kitchen one night -(before I was prepared for such things, by making a backway out of my -bedroom), and thinking it best to know the worst, went out to ask what -was doing there. - -A young man was sitting upon the table, accounting too little of our -house, yet showing no great readiness to boast, only to let us know -who he was. He had a fine head of curly hair, and spoke with a firm -conviction that there was much inside it. “Father, you have possessed -small opportunity of seeing how we do things now. Mother is not to be -blamed for thinking that we are in front of what used to be. What do -we care how the country lies? We have heared all this stuff up at Oare. -If there are bogs, we shall timber them. If there are rocks, we shall -blow them up. If there are caves, we shall fire down them. The moment -we get our guns into position----” - -“Hush, Bob, hush! Here is your master’s daughter. Not the interlopers -you put up with; but your real master, on whose property you were born. -Is that the position for your guns?” - -Being thus rebuked by his father, who was a very faithful-minded -man, Robert Pring shuffled his long boots down, and made me a low -salutation. But, having paid little attention to the things other -people were full of, I left the young man to convince his parents, and -he soon was successful with his mother. - -Two, or it may have been three days after this, a great noise arose in -the morning. I was dusting my father’s books, which lay open just as -he had left them. There was “Barker’s Delight” and “Isaac Walton,” -and the “Secrets of Angling by J. D.” and some notes of his own about -making of flies; also fish hooks made of Spanish steel, and long hairs -pulled from the tail of a gray horse, with spindles and bits of quill -for plaiting them. So proud and so pleased had he been with these -trifles, after the clamour and clash of life, that tears came into my -eyes once more, as I thought of his tranquil and amiable ways. - -“’Tis a wrong thing altogether to my mind,” cried Deborah Pring, -running in to me. “They Doones was established afore we come, and why -not let them bide upon their own land? They treated poor master amiss, -beyond denial; and never will I forgive them for it. All the same, he -was catching what belonged to them; meaning for the best no doubt, -because he was so righteous. And having such courage he killed one, -or perhaps two; though I never could have thought so much of that old -knife. But ever since that, they have been good, Miss Sillie, never -even coming anigh us; and I don’t believe half of the tales about them.” - -All this was new to me; for if anybody had cried shame and death upon -that wicked horde, it was Deborah Pring, who was talking to me thus! I -looked at her with wonder, suspecting for the moment that the venerable -Councillor--who was clever enough to make a cow forget her calf--might -have paid her a visit while I was away. But very soon the reason of the -change appeared. - -“Who hath taken command of the attack?” she asked, as if no one would -believe the answer; “not Captain Purvis, as ought to have been, nor -even Captain Dallas of Devon, but Spy Stickles by royal warrant, the -man that hath been up to Oare so long! And my son Robert, who hath come -down to help to train them, and understandeth cannon guns----” - -“Captain Purvis? I seem to know that name very well. I have often heard -it from my father. And your son under him! Why, Deborah, what are you -hiding from me?” - -Now good Mrs. Pring was beginning to forget, or rather had never -borne properly in mind, that I was the head of the household now, and -entitled to know everything, and to be asked about it. But people who -desire to have this done should insist upon it at the outset, which I -had not been in proper state to do. So that she made quite a grievance -of it, when I would not be treated as a helpless child. However, I soon -put a stop to that, and discovered to my surprise much more than could -be imagined. - -And before I could say even half of what I thought, a great noise -arose in the hollow of the hills, and came along the valleys, like the -blowing of a wind that had picked up the roaring of mankind upon its -way. Perhaps greater noise had never arisen upon the moor; and the -cattle, and the quiet sheep, and even the wild deer came bounding from -unsheltered places into any offering of branches, or of other heling -from the turbulence of men. And then a gray fog rolled down the valley, -and Deborah said it was cannon-smoke, following the river course; but -to me it seemed only the usual thickness of the air, when the clouds -hang low. Thomas Pring was gone, as behooved an ancient warrior, to see -how his successors did things, and the boy Dick Hutchings had begged -leave to sit in a tree and watch the smoke. Deborah and I were left -alone, and a long and anxious day we had. - -At last the wood-pigeons had stopped their cooing,--which they kept -up for hours, when the weather matched the light,--and there was not -a tree that could tell its own shadow, and we were contented with the -gentle sounds that come through a forest when it falls asleep, and -Deborah Pring, who had taken a motherly tendency toward me now, as if -to make up for my father, was sitting in the porch with my hands in -her lap, and telling me how to behave henceforth, as if the whole world -depended upon that, when we heard a swishing sound, as of branches -thrust aside, and then a low moan that went straight to my heart, as I -thought of my father when he took the blow of death. - -“My son, my Bob, my eldest boy!” cried Mistress Pring, jumping up and -falling into my arms, like a pillow full of wire, for she insisted upon -her figure still. But before I could do anything to help her---- - -“Hit her on the back, ma’am; hit her hard upon the back. That is what -always brings mother round,” was shouted, as I might say, into my ear -by the young man whom she was lamenting. - -“Shut thy trap, Braggadose. To whom art thou speaking? Pretty much thou -hast learned of war to come and give lessons to thy father! Mistress -Sylvia, it is for thee to speak. Nothing would satisfy this young -springal but to bring his beaten captain here, for the sake of mother’s -management. I told un that you would never take him in, for his father -have taken in you pretty well! Captain Purvis of the Somerset I know -not what--for the regiments now be all upside down. _Raggiments_ is the -proper name for them. Very like he be dead by this time, and better die -out of doors than in. Take un away, Bob. No hospital here!” - -“Thomas Pring, who are you,” I said, for the sound of another low groan -came through me, “to give orders to your master’s daughter? If you -bring not the poor wounded gentleman in, you shall never come through -this door yourself.” - -“Ha, old hunks, I told thee so!” - -The young man who spoke raised his hat to me, and I saw that it had a -scarlet plume, such as Marwood de Wichehalse gloried in. “In with thee, -and stretch him that he may die straight. I am off to Southmolton for -Cutcliffe Lane, who can make a furze-fagot bloom again. My filly can -give a land-yard in a mile to Tom Faggus and his Winnie. But mind one -thing, all of you; it was none of us that shot the captain, but his -own good men. Farewell, Mistress Sylvia!” With these words he made me a -very low bow, and set off for his horse at the corner of the wood--as -reckless a gallant as ever broke hearts, and those of his own kin -foremost; yet himself so kind and loving. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -MISTAKEN AIMS. - - -Captain Purvis, now brought to the Warren in this very sad condition, -had not been shot by his own men, as the dashing Marwood de Wichehalse -said; neither was it quite true to say that he had been shot by anyone. -What happened to him was simply this: While behaving with the utmost -gallantry and encouraging the militia of Somerset, whose uniforms were -faced with yellow, he received in his chest a terrific blow from the -bottom of a bottle. This had been discharged from a culverin on the -opposite side of the valley by the brave but impetuous sons of Devon, -who wore the red facings, and had taken umbrage at a pure mistake on -the part of their excellent friends and neighbours, the loyal band of -Somerset. Either brigade had three culverins; and never having seen -such things before, as was natural with good farmers’ sons, they felt -it a compliment to themselves to be intrusted with such danger, and -resolved to make the most of it. However, when they tried to make them -go, with the help of a good many horses, upon places that had no roads -for war, and even no sort of road at all, the difficulty was beyond -them. But a very clever blacksmith near Malmesford, who had better, -as it proved, have stuck to the plough, persuaded them that he knew -all about it, and would bring their guns to bear, if they let him have -his way. So they took the long tubes from their carriages, and lashed -rollers of barked oak under them, and with very stout ropes, and great -power of swearing, dragged them into the proper place to overwhelm the -Doones. - -Here they mounted their guns upon cider barrels, with allowance of roll -for recoil, and charged them to the very best of their knowledge, -and pointed them as nearly as they could guess at the dwellings of -the outlaws in the glen; three cannons on the north were of Somerset, -and the three on the south were of Devonshire; but these latter had -no balls of metal, only anything round they could pick up. Colonel -Stickles was in command, by virtue of his royal warrant, and his -plan was to make his chief assault in company with some chosen men, -including his host, young farmer Ridd, at the head of the valley -where the chief entrance was, while the trainbands pounded away on -either side. And perhaps this would have succeeded well, except for a -little mistake in firing, for which the enemy alone could be blamed -with justice. For while Captain Purvis was behind the line rallying -a few men who showed fear, and not expecting any combat yet, because -Devonshire was not ready, an elderly gentleman of great authority -appeared among the bombardiers. On his breast he wore a badge of -office, and in his hat a noble plume of the sea eagle, and he handed -his horse to a man in red clothes. - -“Just in time,” he shouted; “and the Lord be thanked for that! By order -of His Majesty, I take supreme command. Ha, and high time, too, for it! -You idiots, where are you pointing your guns? What allowance have you -made for windage? Why, at that elevation, you’ll shoot yourselves. Up -with your muzzles, you yellow jackanapes! Down on your bellies! Hand me -the linstock! By the Lord, you don’t even know how to touch them off!” - -The soldiers were abashed at his rebukes, and glad to lie down on their -breasts for fear of the powder on their yellow facings. And thus they -were shaken by three great roars, and wrapped in a cloud of streaky -smoke. When this had cleared off, and they stood up, lo! the houses of -the Doones were the same as before, but a great shriek arose on the -opposite bank, and two good horses lay on the ground; and the red men -were stamping about, and some crossing their arms, and some running for -their lives, and the bravest of them stooping over one another. Then as -Captain Purvis rushed up in great wrath, shouting: “What the devil do -you mean by this?” another great roar arose from across the valley, and -he was lying flat, and two other fine fellows were rolling in a furze -bush without knowledge of it. But of the general and his horse there -was no longer any token. - -This was the matter that lay so heavily on the breast of Captain -Purvis, sadly crushed as it was already by the spiteful stroke bitterly -intended for him. His own men had meant no harm whatever, unless to the -proper enemy; although they appear to have been deluded by a subtle -device of the Councillor, for which on the other hand none may blame -him. But those redfaced men, without any inquiry, turned the muzzles of -their guns upon Somerset, and the injustice rankled for a generation -between two equally honest counties. Happily they did not fight it out -through scarcity of ammunition, as well as their mutual desire to go -home and attend to their harvest business. - -But Anthony Purvis, now our guest and patient, became very difficult -to manage; not only because of his three broken ribs, but the lowness -of the heart inside them. Dr. Cutcliffe Lane, a most cheerful man -from that cheerful town Southmolton, was able (with the help of -Providence) to make the bones grow again without much anger into their -own embraces. It is useless, however, for the body to pretend that it -is doing wonders on its own account, and rejoicing and holiday making, -when the thing that sits inside it and holds the whip, keeps down upon -the slouch and is out of sorts. And truly this was the case just now -with the soul of Captain Purvis. Deborah Pring did her very best, and -was in and out of his room every minute, and very often seemed to me -to run him down when he deserved it not; on purpose that I might be -started to run him up. But nothing of that sort told at all according -to her intention. I kept myself very much to myself; feeling that my -nature was too kind, and asking at some little questions of behaviour, -what sort of returns my dear father had obtained for supposing other -people as good as himself. - -Moreover, it seemed an impossible thing that such a brave warrior, and -a rich man too--for his father, Sir Geoffrey, was in full possession -now of all the great property that belonged by right to us--that an -officer who should have been in command of this fine expedition, if he -had his dues, could be either the worse or the better of his wound, -according to his glimpses of a simple maid like me. It was useless for -Deborah Pring, or even Dr. Cutcliffe Lane himself, to go on as they -did about love at first sight, and the rising of the heart when the -ribs were broken, and a quantity of other stuff too foolish to repeat. -“I am neither a plaster nor a poultice,” I replied to myself, for I -would not be too cross to them--and beyond a little peep at him, every -afternoon, I kept out of the sight of Captain Purvis. - -But these things made it very hard for me to be quite sure how to -conduct myself, without father and mother to help me, and with Mistress -Pring, who had always been such a landmark, becoming no more than a -vane for the wind to blow upon as it listed; or, perhaps, as she listed -to go with it. And remembering how she used to speak of the people who -had ousted us, I told her that I could not make it out. Things were -in this condition, and Captain Purvis, as it seemed to me, quite fit -to go and make war again upon some of His Majesty’s subjects, when a -thing, altogether out of reason, or even of civilisation, happened; -and people who live in lawful parts will accuse me of caring too -little for the truth. But even before that came about, something less -unreasonable--but still unexpected--befell me. To wit, I received -through Mistress Pring an offer of marriage, immediate and pressing, -from Captain Anthony Purvis! He must have been sadly confused by that -blow on his heart to think mine so tender, or that this was the way to -deal with it, though later explanations proved that Deborah, if she -had been just, would have taken the whole reproach upon herself. The -captain could scarcely have seen me, I believe more than half a dozen -times to speak of; and generally he had shut his eyes, gentle as they -were and beautiful; not only to make me feel less afraid, but to fill -me with pity for his weakness. Having no knowledge of mankind as yet, -I was touched to the brink of tears at first; until when the tray came -out of his room soon after one of these pitiful moments, it was plain -to the youngest comprehension that the sick man had left very little -upon a shoulder of Exmoor mutton, and nothing in a bowl of thick onion -sauce. - -For that I would be the last to blame him, and being his hostess, I -was glad to find it so. But Deborah played a most double-minded part; -leading him to believe that now she was father and mother in one to me; -while to me she went on, as if I was most headstrong, and certain to go -against anything she said, though for her part she never said anything. -Nevertheless he made a great mistake, as men always do, about our ways; -and having some sense of what is right, I said, “Let me hear no more of -Captain Purvis.” - -This forced him to leave us; which he might have done, for aught -I could see to the contrary, a full week before he departed. He -behaved very well when he said good-bye,--for I could not deny him -that occasion,--and, perhaps, if he had not assured me so much of -his everlasting gratitude, I should have felt surer of deserving it. -Perhaps I was a little disappointed also, that he expressed no anxiety -at leaving our cottage so much at the mercy of turbulent and triumphant -outlaws. But it was not for me to speak of that; and when I knew the -reason of his silence, it redounded tenfold to his credit. Nothing, -however, vexed me so much as what Deborah Pring said afterward: that he -could not help feeling in the sadness of his heart that I had behaved -in that manner to him just because his father was in possession of -our rightful home and property. I was not so small as that; and if he -truly did suppose it, there must have been some fault on my part, for -his nature was good to everybody, and perhaps all the better for not -descending through too many high generations. - -There is nothing more strange than the way things work in the mind of a -woman, when left alone, to doubt about her own behaviour. With men it -can scarcely be so cruel; because they can always convince themselves -that they did their best; and if it fail, they can throw the fault upon -Providence, or bad luck, or something outside their own power. But we -seem always to be denied this happy style of thinking, and cannot -put aside what comes into our hearts more quickly, and has less stir -of outward things, to lead it away and to brighten it. So that I fell -into sad, low spirits; and the glory of the year began to wane, and the -forest grew more and more lonesome. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -OVER THE BRIDGE. - - -The sound of the woods was with me now, both night and day, to dwell -upon. Exmoor in general is bare of trees, though it hath the name of -forest; but in the shelter, where the wind flies over, are many thick -places full of shade. For here the trees and bushes thrive, so copious -with rich moisture that, from the hills on the opposite side, no eye -may pick holes in the umbrage; neither may a foot that gets amid them -be sure of getting out again. And now was the fullest and heaviest -time, for the summer had been a wet one, after a winter that went -to our bones; and the leaves were at their darkest tone without any -sense of autumn. As one stood beneath and wondered at their countless -multitude, a quick breathing passed among them, not enough to make them -move, but seeming rather as if they wished, and yet were half ashamed -to sigh. And this was very sad for one whose spring comes only once for -all. - -One night toward the end of August I was lying awake thinking of the -happier times, and wondering what the end would be--for now we had very -little money left, and I would rather starve than die in debt--when I -heard our cottage door smashed in and the sound of horrible voices. The -roar of a gun rang up the stairs, and the crash of someone falling and -the smoke came through my bedroom door, and then wailing mixed with -curses. “Out of the way, old hag!” I heard, and then another shriek; -and then I stood upon the stairs and looked down at them. The moon was -shining through the shattered door, and the bodies and legs of men -went to and fro, like branches in a tempest. Nobody seemed to notice -me, although I had cast over my night-dress--having no more sense in -the terror--a long silver coat of some animal shot by my father in his -wanderings, and the light upon the stairs glistened round it. Having no -time to think, I was turning to flee and jump out of my bedroom window, -for which I had made some arrangements, according to the wisdom of -the Councillor, when the flash of some light or the strain of my eyes -showed me the body of Thomas Pring, our faithful old retainer, lying at -the foot of the broken door, and beside it his good wife, creeping up -to give him the last embrace of death. And lately she had been cross to -him. At the sight of this my terror fled, and I cared not what became -of me. Buckling the white skin round my waist, I went down the stairs -as steadily as if it were breakfast time, and said: - -“Brutes, murderers, cowards! you have slain my father; now slay me!” - -Every one of those wicked men stood up and fixed his eyes on me; and -if it had been a time to laugh, their amazement might have been -laughed at. Some of them took me for a spirit--as I was told long -afterward--and rightly enough their evil hearts were struck with dread -of judgment. But even so, to scare them long in their contemptuous, -godless vein was beyond the power of Heaven itself; and when one of my -long tresses fell, to my great vexation, down my breast, a shocking -sneer arose, and words unfit for a maiden’s ear ensued. - -“None of that! This is no farmhouse wench, but a lady of birth and -breeding. She shall be our queen, instead of the one that hath been -filched away. Sylvia, thou shalt come with me.” - -The man who spoke with this mighty voice was a terror to the others, -for they fell away before him, and he was the biggest monster -there--Carver Doone, whose name for many a generation shall be used -to frighten unruly babes to bed. And now, as he strode up to me and -bowed,--to show some breeding,--I doubt if the moon, in all her rounds -of earth and sky and the realms below, fell ever upon another face so -cold, repulsive, ruthless. - -To belong to him, to feel his lips, to touch him with anything but a -dagger! Suddenly I saw my father’s sword hanging under a beam in the -scabbard. With a quick spring I seized it, and, leaping up the stairs, -had the long blade gleaming in the moonlight. The staircase would not -hold two people abreast, and the stairs were as steep as narrow. I -brought the point down it, with the hilt against my breast, and there -was no room for another blade to swing and strike it up. - -“Let her alone!” said Carver Doone, with a smile upon his cold and -corpselike face. “My sons, let the lady have her time. She is worthy to -be the mother of many a fine Doone.” - -The young men began to lounge about in a manner most provoking, as if -I had passed from their minds altogether; and some of them went to -the kitchen for victuals, and grumbled at our fare by the light of a -lantern which they had found upon a shelf. But I stood at my post, with -my heart beating, so that the long sword quivered like a candle. Of my -life they might rob me, but of my honour, never! - -“Beautiful maiden! Who hath ever seen the like? Why, even Lorna hath -not such eyes.” - -Carver Doone came to the foot of the stairs and flashed the lantern -at me, and, thinking that he meant to make a rush for it, I thrust my -weapon forward; but at the same moment a great pair of arms was thrown -around me from behind by some villain who must have scaled my chamber -window, and backward I fell, with no sense or power left. - -When my scattered wits came back I felt that I was being shaken -grievously, and the moon was dancing in my eyes through a mist of -tears, half blinding them. I remember how hard I tried to get my -fingers up to wipe my eyes, so as to obtain some knowledge; but jerk -and bump and helpless wonder were all that I could get or take; for my -hands were strapped, and my feet likewise, and I seemed like a wave -going up and down, without any judgment, upon the open sea. - -But presently I smelled the wholesome smell which a horse of all -animals alone possesses, though sometimes a cow is almost as good, and -then I felt a mane coming into my hair, and then there was the sound -of steady feet moving just under me, with rise and fall and swing -alternate, and a sense of going forward. I was on the back of a great, -strong horse, and he was obeying the commands of man. Gradually I began -to think, and understood my awful plight. The Doones were taking me to -Doone Glen to be some cut-throat’s light-of-love; perhaps to be passed -from brute to brute--me, Sylvia Ford, my father’s darling, a proud and -dainty and stately maiden, of as good birth as any in this English -realm. My heart broke down as I thought of that, and all discretion -vanished. Though my hands were tied my throat was free, and I sent -forth such a scream of woe that the many-winding vale of Lynn, with all -its wild waters could not drown, nor with all its dumb foliage smother -it; and the long wail rang from crag to crag, as the wrongs of men echo -unto the ears of God. - -“Valiant damsel, what a voice thou hast! Again, and again let it strike -the skies. With them we are at peace, being persecuted here, according -to the doom of all good men. And yet I am loth to have that fair throat -strained.” - -It was Carver Doone who led my horse; and his horrible visage glared -into my eyes through the strange, wan light that flows between the -departure of the sinking moon and the flutter of the morning when it -cannot see its way. I strove to look at him; but my scared eyes fell, -and he bound his rank glove across my poor lips. “Let it be so,” I -thought; “I can do no more.” - -Then, when my heart was quite gone in despair, and all trouble shrank -into a trifle, I heard a loud shout, and the trample of feet, and the -rattle of arms, and the clash of horses. Contriving to twist myself a -little, I saw that the band of the Doones were mounting a saddle-backed -bridge in a deep wooded glen, with a roaring water under them. On the -crown of the bridge a vast man stood, such as I had never descried -before, bearing no armour that I could see, but wearing a farmer’s hat, -and raising a staff like the stem of a young oak tree. He was striking -at no one, but playing with his staff, as if it were a willow in the -morning breeze. - -“Down with him! Ride him down! Send a bullet through him!” several of -the Doones called out, but no one showed any hurry to do it. It seemed -as if they knew him, and feared his mighty strength, and their guns -were now slung behind their backs on account of the roughness of the -way. - -“Charlie, you are not afraid of him,” I heard that crafty Carver say -to the tallest of his villains, and a very handsome young man he was; -“if the girl were not on my horse, I would do it. Ride over him, and -you shall have my prize, when I am tired of her.” - -I felt the fire come into my eyes, to be spoken of so by a brute; -and then I saw Charlie Doone spur up the bridge, leaning forward and -swinging a long blade round his head. - -“Down with thee, clod!” he shouted; and he showed such strength and -fury that I scarce could look at the farmer, dreading to see his great -head fly away. But just as the horse rushed at him, he leaped aside -with most wonderful nimbleness, and the rider’s sword was dashed out of -his grasp, and down he went, over the back of the saddle, and his long -legs spun up in the air, as a juggler tosses a two-pronged fork. - -“Now for another!” the farmer cried, and his deep voice rang above the -roar of Lynn; “or two at once, if it suits you better. I will teach -you to carry off women, you dogs!” - -But the outlaws would not try another charge. On a word from their -leader they all dismounted, and were bringing their long guns to bear, -and I heard the clink of their flints as they fixed the trigger. Carver -Doone, grinding his enormous teeth, stood at the head of my horse, who -was lashing and plunging, so that I must have been flung if any of the -straps had given way. In terror of the gun flash I shut my eyes, for if -I had seen that brave man killed, it would have been the death of me as -well. Then I felt my horse treading on something soft. Carver Doone was -beneath his feet, and an awful curse came from the earth. - -“Have no fear!” said the sweetest voice that ever came into the ears -of despair. “Sylvia, none can harm you now. Lie still, and let this -protect your face.” - -“How can I help lying still?” I said, as a soft cloak was thrown over -me, and in less than a moment my horse was rushing through branches -and brushwood that swept his ears. At his side was another horse, and -my bridle rein was held by a man who stooped over his neck in silence. -Though his face was out of sight, I knew that Anthony Purvis was -leading me. - -There was no possibility of speaking now, but after a tumult of speed -we came to an open glade where the trees fell back, and a gentle brook -was gurgling. Then Captain Purvis cut my bonds, and lifting me down -very softly, set me upon a bank of moss, for my limbs would not support -me; and I lay there unable to do anything but weep. - -When I returned to myself, the sun was just looking over a wooded -cliff, and Anthony, holding a horn of water, and with water on his -cheeks, was regarding me. - -“Did you leave that brave man to be shot?” I asked, as if that were all -my gratitude. - -“I am not so bad as that,” he answered, without any anger, for he saw -that I was not in reason yet. “At sight of my men, although we were but -five in all, the robbers fled, thinking the regiment was there; but it -is God’s truth that I thought little of anyone’s peril compared with -thine. But there need be no fear for John Ridd; the Doones are mighty -afraid of him since he cast their culverin through their door.” - -“Was that the John Ridd I have heard so much of? Surely I might have -known it, but my wits were shaken out of me.” - -“Yes, that was the mighty man of Exmoor, to whom thou owest more than -life.” - -In horror of what I had so narrowly escaped, I fell upon my knees and -thanked the Lord, and then I went shyly to the captain’s side and said: -“I am ashamed to look at thee. Without Anthony Purvis, where should I -be? Speak of no John Ridd to me.” - -For this man whom I had cast forth, with coldness, as he must have -thought--although I knew better, when he was gone--this man (my -honoured husband now, who hath restored me to my father’s place, when -kings had no gratitude or justice), Sir Anthony Purvis, as now he is, -had dwelled in a hovel and lived on scraps, to guard the forsaken -orphan, who had won, and shall ever retain, his love. - - - - -FRIDA; OR, THE LOVER’S LEAP. - -A LEGEND OF THE WEST COUNTRY. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -On the very day when Charles I. was crowned with due -rejoicings--Candlemas-day, in the year of our Lord 1626--a loyalty, -quite as deep and perhaps even more lasting, was having its beer at Ley -Manor in the north of Devon. A loyalty not to the king, for the old -West-country folk knew little and cared less about the house that came -over the Border; but to a lord who had won their hearts by dwelling -among them, and dealing kindly, and paying his way every Saturday -night. When this has been done for three generations general and genial -respect may almost be relied upon. The present Baron de Wichehalse was -fourth in descent from that Hugh de Wichehalse, the head of an old and -wealthy race, who had sacrificed his comfort 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 other world, contrived to sell his large -estates before they were confiscated, and to escape with all the money, -from very sharp measures then enforced, by order of King Philip II., -in the unhappy Low Countries. Landing in England, with all his effects -and a score of trusty followers, he bought a fine property, settled, -and died, and left a good name behind him. And that good name had been -well kept up, and the property had increased and thriven, so that the -present lord was loved and 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. All his beautiful rocks and hills, lovely streams and glorious -woods, green meadows and golden corn lands, must pass to his nephew -and not to his child, because he had not gained one. Being a good man, -he did his best to see this thing in its proper light. Children, after -all, are a plague, a risk, and a deep anxiety. His nephew was a very -worthy boy, and his rights should be respected. Nevertheless, the baron -often longed to supersede them. - -Of this there was every prospect now. The lady of the house had -intrusted her case to a highly celebrated simple-woman, who lived among -rocks and scanty vegetation at Heddon’s Mouth, gathering wisdom from -the earth and from the sea tranquillity. De Wichehalse was naturally -vexed a little when all this accumulated wisdom culminated in nothing -grander than a somewhat undersized, and unhappily female child--one, -moreover, whose presence cost him that of his faithful and loving wife. -So that the heiress of Ley Manor was greeted, after all, with a very -brief and sorry welcome. “Jennyfried,” for so they named her, 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 the -more he played the more pleased he was, both with her and his own kind -self. Unhappily, there were at that time no shops in the neighbourhood; -unhappily, now there are too many. Nevertheless, upon the whole, she -had all the toys that were good for her; and her teeth had a fair -chance of fitting themselves for life’s chief operation in the absence -of sugared allurements. - -A brief and meagre account is this of the birth, and growth, and -condition of a maiden whose beauty and goodness still linger in the -winter tales of many a simple homestead. For, sharing her father’s -genial nature, she went about among the people in her soft and playful -way; knowing all their cares, and gifted with a kindly wonder at them, -which is very soothing. All the simple folk expected condescension -from her; 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 -begin to consider their responsibilities--a time when it does matter -how the dress sits and what it is made of, and whether the hair is -well arranged for dancing in the sunshine and for fluttering in the -moonlight; also that the eyes convey not from that roguish nook the -heart any betrayal of “hide and seek”; neither must the risk of -blushing tremble on perpetual brinks; neither must--but, in a word, -’twas the seventeenth year of a maiden’s life. - -More and more such matters gained on her motherless necessity. Strictly -anxious as she was to do the right thing always, she felt more and -more upon every occasion (unless it was something particular) that her -cousin need not so impress his cousinly salutation. - -Albert de Wichehalse (who received that name before it became so -inevitable) was that same worthy boy grown up as to whom the baron -had felt compunctions, highly honourable to either party, touching his -defeasance; or rather, perhaps, as to interception of his presumptive -heirship by the said Albert, or at least by his mother contemplated. -And Albert’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 breaches and -make things pleasant, and to keep all the family property snug by -marrying his fair Jennyfried (or “Frida,” as she was called at home) -to her cousin Albert, now a fine young fellow of five-and-twenty. De -Wichehalse was strongly attached to his nephew, and failed to see any -good reason why a certain large farm near Martinhoe, quite a huge -cantle from the Ley estates, which by a prior devise must fall to -Albert upon his own demise, should be allowed to depart in that way -from his posthumous control. - -However, like most of our fallible race, he went the worst possible way -to work in pursuit of his favourite purpose. He threw the young people -together daily, and dinned into the ears of each perpetual praise of -the other. This seemed to answer well enough in the case of the simple -Albert. He could never have too much of his lively cousin’s company, -neither could he weary of sounding her sweet excellence. But with -the young maid it was not so. She liked the good Albert well enough, -and never got out of his way at all. Moreover, sometimes his curly -hair and bright moustache, when they came too near, would raise not a -positive flutter, perhaps, but a sense of some fugitive movement in the -unexplored 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 the -world, at present. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -There happened to be at this time an old fogy--of course it is most -distressing to speak of anyone disrespectfully; but when one thinks -of 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, came -in 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 -some exchange of land with his old friend, our De Wichehalse. The baron -and the baronet had been making a happy day of it. Each knew pretty -well exactly 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 drew refreshment of mind through their outward lips by means -of long reeden tubes 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 come -when he must have to think again. Suddenly a light form flitted over -the rocks, as the shadows flit; and though Frida ran away for fear of -interrupting them, they knew who it was, and both, of course, began to -think about her. - -The baron gave a puff of his pipe, and left the baronet to begin. In -course of time Sir Maunder spoke, with all that breadth and beauty of -the vowels and the other things which a Devonshire man commands, from -the lord lieutenant downward. - -“If so be that ’ee gooth vor to ax me, ai can zay wan thing, and wan -oney.” - -“What one thing is it, good neighbour? I am well content with her as -she is.” - -“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. Sir -Maunder Meddleby, I have the honour of craving your opinion.” - -Sir Maunder Meddleby thought for a while, or, at any rate, meant to -be thinking, ere ever he dared to deliver himself of all his weighty -judgment. - -“I’ve a-knowed she, my Lord Witcher, ever since her wore that haigh. A -purty 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 had -lived so mild a life among the folk who loved him that any fear of -worry in great places was too much for him. And yet sometimes he could -not help a little prick of thought about his duty to his daughter. -Hence it came that common sense was driven wild by conscience, as -forever happens with the few who keep that gadfly. Six great horses, -who knew no conscience but had more fleshly tormentors, were ordered -out, and the journey began, and at last it ended. - -Everything in London now was going almost anyhow. Kind and worthy -people scarcely knew the way to look at things. They desired to respect -the king and all his privilege, and yet they found his mind so wayward -that they had no hold of him. - -The court, however, was doing its best, from place to place in its -wanderings, to despise the uproar and enjoy itself as it used to do. -Bright and beautiful ladies gathered round the king, when the queen was -gone, persuading him and one another that they must have their own way. - -Of the lords who helped these ladies to their strong opinions there -was none in higher favour with the queen and the king himself than the -young Lord Auberley. His dress was like a sweet enchantment, and his -tongue was 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 such a marvel, such a mirror of the skies, as a maid can only -dream of in the full moon of St. John. - -Little dainty glance, and flushing, and the fear to look too much, and -the stealthy joy of feeling that there must be something meant, yet the -terror 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 with -anyone to love oneself--time is wasted in recounting this that always -must 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 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 Minehead 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 forward 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. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -The stir of the general rising of the kingdom against the king had not -disturbed these places yet beyond what might be borne with. Everybody -liked 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 there -came great news of a real battle fought, and lost by Englishmen against -Englishmen, the indignation of all the country ran against both parties. - -Baron de Wichehalse had been thinking, after his crop of hay was -in,--for such a faithful hay they have that it will not go from root -to rick by less than two months of worrying,--from time to time, and -even in the middle of his haycocks, this good lord had not been able to -perceive his proper course. Arguments there were that sounded quite as -if a baby must be perfectly convinced by them; and then there would be -quite a different line of reason taken by someone who knew all about -it and despised the opposite. So that many of a less decided way of -thinking every day embraced whatever had been last confuted. - -This most manly view of matters and desire to give fair play was -scorned, of course, by the fairer (and unfairer) half of men. Frida -counted 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 I were 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 -you bid 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 was his duty to support her slender form; neither were those dulcet -murmurs absent which forever must be present when the female kind -begin to have the best of it. - -So they went on once or twice, and would have gone on fifty times if -fortune had allowed them thus to hang on one another. All the world was -fair around them; and themselves, as fair as any, vouched the whole -world to attest their everlasting constancy. - -But one soft November evening, when the trees were full of drops, and -gentle mists were creeping up the channels of the moorlands, and snipes -(come home from foreign parts) were cheeping at their borings, and -every weary man was gladdened by the glance of a bright wood fire, and -smell of 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 the people saw at once that it was quite impossible to make at -all too much of him, because he must be full of news, which (after -victuals) is the greatest need of human nature. So he had his own way -as to everything he ordered; and, having ridden into much experience of -women, kept himself as warm as could be, without any jealousy. - -This stern man bore urgent order for the Viscount Auberley to join the -king at once at Oxford, and bring with him all his gathering. Having -gathered no men yet, but spent the time in plucking roses and the wild -myrtles of Devonshire love, the young lord was for once a little taken -aback at this order. Moreover, though he had been grumbling, half a -dozen times a day--to make himself more precious--about the place, and -the people, and the way they cooked his meals, he really meant it less -and less as he came to know the neighbourhood. These are things which -nobody can understand without seeing them. - -“I grieve, my lord,” said the worthy baron, “that you must leave us in -this hot haste.” On the whole, however, this excellent man was partly -glad to be quit of him. - -“And I am deeply indebted to your lordship for the grievance; but it -must 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 -with an Englishman.” - -“Ah, there! Foreign again! My lord, you will never speak English.” - -De Wichehalse could never be quite sure, though his race had been long -in this country, whether he or they could speak born English as it -ought to be. - -“Perhaps you will find,” he said at last, with grief as well as -courtesy, “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’ve -a-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, smiling -brightly at himself, but sadly at his subject. - -“Even so!” the young man answered; “I will forth and pay my duty. The -rusty weathercock, my lord, is often too late for the oiling.” - -With this conceit he left De Wichehalse, and, while his grooms were -making ready, sauntered down the zigzag path, which, through rocks -and stubbed oaks, made toward the rugged headland known, far up and -down the Channel, by the name of Duty Point. Near the end of this walk -there lurked a soft and silent bower, made by Nature, and with all -of Nature’s art secluded. The ledge that wound along the rock-front -widened, and the rock fell back and left a little cove, retiring into -moss and ferny shade. 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 deep capacity 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 young -self. Round her all was calm and lovely; and the soft brown hand of -autumn, with the sun’s approval, tempered every mellow mood of leaves. - -Aubyn Auberley was not of a sentimental cast of mind. He liked the -poets of the day, whenever he deigned to read them; nor was he at -all above accepting the dedication of a book. But it was not the -fashion now--as had been in the noble time of Watson, Raleigh, and -Shakspere--for men to look around and love the greater things they grow -among. - -Frida was surprised to see her dainty lord so early. She came here in -the morning always, when it did not rain too hard, to let her mind have -pasture on the landscape of sweet memory. And even sweeter hope was -always fluttering in the distance, on the sea, or clouds, or flitting -vapour of the morning. Even so she now was looking at the mounting -glory of the sun above the sea-clouds, the sun that lay along the -land, and made the distance roll away. - -“Hard and bitter is my task,” the gallant lord began with her, “to say -farewell to all I love. But so it ever must be.” - -Frida looked at his riding-dress, and cold fear seized her suddenly, -and then warm hope that he might only be riding after the bustards. - -“My lord,” she said, “will you never grant me that one little prayer of -mine--to spare poor birds, and make those cruel gaze-hounds run down -one another?” - -“I shall never see the gaze-hounds more,” he answered petulantly; “my -time 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’s -sake; “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 flow -began 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 -how the words she tried to utter fell away and died within her for the -want of 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 -for the moment even of his vanities. - -“Frida!” he said, with her hand in his, and bending one knee on the -moss; “only tell me that I must stay; then stay I will; the rest of the -world may scorn if you approve me.” - -This, of course, sounded very well and pleased her, as it was meant to -do; still, it did not satisfy her--so exacting are young maidens, and -so keen is the ear of love. - -“Aubyn, you are good and true. How very good and true you are! But even -by your dear voice now I know what you are thinking.” - -Lord Auberley, by this time, was as well within himself again as he -generally found himself; so that he began to balance chances very -knowingly. If the king should win the warfare and be paramount again, -this bright star of the court must rise to something infinitely higher -than a Devonshire squire’s child. A fine young widow of a duke, of the -royal blood of France itself, was not far from being quite determined -to accept him, if she only could be certain how these things would -end themselves. Many other ladies were determined quite as bravely to -wait the course of events, and let him have them, if convenient. On -the other hand, if the kingdom should succeed in keeping the king in -order--which was the utmost then intended--Aubyn Auberley might be only -too glad to fall 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 -the size of his chest could compass. After which he spoke as follows, -in a most delicious tone: - -“Sweetest, and my only hope, the one star of my wanderings; although -you send me forth to battle, where my arm is needed, give me one dear -pledge that ever you will live and die my own.” - -This was just what Frida wanted, having trust (as our free-traders, by -vast amplitude of vision, have in reciprocity) that if a man gets the -best of a woman he is sure to give it back. Therefore these two sealed -and delivered certain treaties (all unwritten, but forever engraven -upon the best and tenderest feelings of the lofty human nature) that -nothing less than death, or even greater, should divide them. - -Is there one, among the many who survive such process, unable to -imagine or remember how they parted? The fierce and even desperate -anguish, nursed and made the most of; the pride and self-control that -keep such things for comfort afterward; the falling of the heart that -feels itself the true thing after all. Let it be so, since it must be; -and no sympathy can heal it, since in every case it never, never, was -so bad before! - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -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 -Auberley--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. D. 1643. 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. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -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 Aubyn - 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. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Upon the following day she was not half so wretched and lamentable as -was expected of her. She even showed a brisk and pleasant air to the -chief seamstress, and bade her keep some pretty things for the time of -her own wedding. Even to her father she behaved as if there had been -nothing more than happens every day. The worthy baron went to fold -her in 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, being -disappointed of his outlet, thought (as all his life he had been forced -to think continually) that any sort of woman, whether young or old, is -wonderful. 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 -alone could feel the want of any faith remaining, the ache of ever -stretching forth and laying hold on nothing. Her mind had never been -encouraged--as with maidens nowadays--to magnify itself, and soar, and -scorn the heart that victuals it. All the deeper was her trouble, being -less to be explained. - -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 baby -as her father had considered her, even he was awed from asking what she -meant to do about it. Something seemed to keep her back from speaking -of her trouble, or bearing to have it spoken of. Only to her faithful -hound, with whom she now began again to wander in the oak-wood, to him -alone had she the comfort of declaring anything. This was a dog of fine -old English breed and high connections, his great-grandmother having -owned 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 to extremes of ill-behaviour toward his raiment, that for -months young Frida had been forced to keep him chained, and take her -favourite walks without him. - -“Ah, Lear!” now she cried, with sense of long injustice toward him; -“you were 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 -(as seems more likely) from his peculiar way of contemplating the world -at his own angle, shook his ears when thus addressed, and looked too -wise for 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 -led her, without care or even thought on her part, to a hut upon the -beach of Woody Bay; where Albert had set up his staff, to think of -her and watch her. This, her cousin and true lover, had been grieving -for her sorrow to the utmost power of a man who wanted her himself. It -may have been beyond his power to help saying to himself sometimes, -“How this serves 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 of -childish troubles and of strong protection thrilled her with a helpless -hope of something to be done for her. So she looked at him, and let him -see the state her eyes were in with constant crying, when there was -not anyone to notice it. Also, she allowed him to be certain what her -hands were like, and to be surprised how much she had fallen away in -her figure. Neither was she quite as proud as might have been expected, -to keep her voice from trembling or her plundered heart from sobbing. -Only, let not anybody say a word to comfort her. Anything but that she -now could bear, as she bore everything. It was, of course, the proper -thing for everyone to scorn her. That, of course, she had fully earned, -and met it, therefore, with disdain. Only, she could almost hate -anybody who tried to comfort her. - -Albert de Wichehalse, with a sudden start of intuition, saw what her -father had been unable to descry or even dream. The worthy baron’s time -of life for fervid thoughts was over; for him despairing love was but -a poet’s fiction, or a joke against a pale young lady. But Albert felt -from his own case, from burning jealousy suppressed, and cold neglect -put up with, and all the other many-pointed aches of vain devotion, -how sad 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 -the troubles by the firelight. However, this good fellow did the -utmost he could do for her. Love and pity led him into dainty loving -kindness; and when he could not find his way to say the right thing, -he did better--he left her to say it. And so well did he move her -courage, in his old protective way, without a word that could offend -her or depreciate her love, that she for the moment, like a woman, -wondered at her own despair. Also, like a woman, glancing into this -and that, instead of any steadfast gazing, she had wholesome change of -view, winning sudden insight into Albert’s thoughts concerning her. Of -course, she made up her mind at once, although her heart was aching so -for want of any tenant, in a moment to extinguish any such presumption. -Still, she would have liked to have it made a little clearer, if it -were for nothing else than to be sure of something. - -Albert saw her safely climb the steep and shaly walk that led, among -retentive oak trees, or around the naked gully, all the way from his -lonely cottage to the light, and warmth, and comfort of the peopled -Manor House. And within himself he thought, the more from contrast of -his own cold comfort and untended state: - -“Ah! she will forget it soon; she is so young. She will soon get over -that gay frippard’s fickleness. To-morrow I will start upon my little -errand cheerfully. After that she will come round; they cannot feel as -we do.” - -Full of these fond hopes, he started on the following morning with set -purpose to compel the man whom he had once disliked, and now despised -unspeakably, to render some account of despite done to such a family. -For, after all, the dainty viscount was the grandson of a goldsmith, -who by brokerage for the Crown had earned the balls of his coronet. In -quest of this gay fellow went the stern and solid Albert, leaving not -a word about his purpose there behind him, but allowing everybody to -believe what all found out. All found out, as he expected, that he was -gone to sell his hay, perhaps as far as Taunton; and all the parish, -looking forward to great rise of forage, felt indignant that he had not -doubled his price, and let them think. - -Alack-a-day and all the year round! that men perceive not how the women -differ from them in the very source of thought. Albert never dreamed -that his cousin, after doing so long without him, had now relapsed -quite suddenly into her childish dependence upon him. And when she -heard, on the following day, that he was gone for the lofty purpose of -selling his seven ricks of hay, she said not a word, but only felt her -cold heart so much colder. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -She had nothing now to do, and nobody to speak to; though her father -did his utmost, in his kind and clumsy way, to draw his darling close -to him. But she knew that all along he had disliked her idol, and she -fancied, now and then, that this dislike had had something perhaps to -do with what had befallen her. This, of course, was wrong on her part. -But when youth and faith are wronged, the hurt is very apt to fly to -all the tender places. Even the weather also seemed to have taken a -turn against her. No wholesome frost set in to brace the slackened -joints and make her walk until she began to tingle; neither was there -any snow to spread a new cast on the rocks and gift the trees with -airiness; nor even what mild winters, for the most part, bring in -counterpoise--soft, obedient skies, and trembling pleasure of the air -and earth. But--as over her own love--over all the country hung just -enough of mist and chill to shut out cheerful prospect, and not enough -to shut folk in to the hearth of their own comfort. - -In her dull, forlorn condition, Frida still, through force of habit or -the love of solitude, made her daily round of wood and rock, seashore -and moorland. Things seemed to come across her now, instead of her -going to them, and her spirit failed at every rise of the hilly road -against her. In that dreary way she lingered, hoping nothing, fearing -nothing, showing neither sigh nor tear, only seeking to go somewhere -and be lost from self and sorrow in the cloudy and dark day. - -Often thus the soft, low moaning of the sea encompassed her, where she -stood, in forgotten beauty, careless of the wind and wave. The short, -uneasy heave of waters in among the kelpy rocks, flowing from no swell -or 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 invaded -pebbles, the lithe relapse and soft, shampooing lambency of oarweed, -then the lavered boulders pouring gritty runnels back again, and every -basined outlet wavering toward another inlet; these, and every phase -of each innumerable to-and-fro, made or met their impress in her -fluctuating misery. - -“It is the only rest,” she said; “the only chance of being quiet, after -all that I have done, and all that people say of me.” - -None had been dastard enough to say a syllable against her; neither -had she, in the warmest faith of love, forgotten truth; but her own -dejection drove her, not to revile the world (as sour natures do -consistently), but to shrink from sight, and fancy that the world was -reviling her. - -While she fluttered thus and hovered over the cold verge of death, -with her sore distempered spirit, scarcely sure of anything, tidings -came of another trouble, and turned the scale against her. Albert de -Wichehalse, her trusty cousin and true lover, had fallen in a duel with -that recreant and miscreant Lord Auberley. The strictest orders were -given that this should be kept for the present from Frida’s ears; but -what is the use of the strictest orders when a widowed mother raves? -Albert’s mother vowed that “the shameless jilt” should hear it out, -and slipped her guards and waylaid Frida on the morn of Candlemas, and -overbore her with 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 me -to-day. I am going home to be married, auntie. It is the day my Aubyn -always fixed, and he never fails me.” - -“Little fool!” her aunt exclaimed, as Frida kissed her hand and -courtesied, and ran round the corner; “one comfort is to know that she -is as mad as a mole, at any rate.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Frida, knowing--perhaps more deeply than that violent woman -thought--the mischief thus put into her, stole back to her bedroom, -and, without a word to anyone, tired her hair in the Grecian snood -which her lover used to admire so, and arrayed her soft and delicate -form in all the bridal finery. Perhaps, that day, no bride in -England--certainly none of her youth and beauty--treated her favourite -looking-glass with such contempt and ingratitude. She did not care to -examine herself, through some reluctant sense of havoc, and a bitter -fear that someone might be disappointed in her. Then at the last, when -all was ready, she snatched up 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 lovely self. - -After some wonder she fetched a deep sigh--not from clearly thinking -anything, but as an act of nature--and said, “Good-by!” forever, with -a little smile of irony, to her looking-glass, and all the many pretty -things that knew her. - -It was her bad luck, as some people thought thereafter--or her good -luck, as herself beheld it--to get down the stairs and out of the house -without anyone being the wiser. For the widow De Wichehalse, Albert’s -mother, had not been content with sealing the doom of this poor maiden, -but in that highly excited state, which was to be expected, hurried -into the house, to beard the worthy baron in his den. There she found -him; and, although he said and did all sympathy, the strain of parental -feelings could not yield without “hysterics.” - -All the servants, and especially Mother Eyebright (whose chief duty -now was to watch Frida), were called by the terrified baron, and with -one unanimous rush replied; so that the daughter of the house left it -without notice, and before any glances was out of sight, in the rough -ground 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 hope -of meaning kindly--when in the quiet places often, free from any haste -of wind, or hindrances of pattering thaw, small and unimportant flowers -have a little knack of dreaming that the world expects them. Therefore -neither do they wait for leaves to introduce them, nor much weather to -encourage, but in shelfy corners come, in a day, or in a night--no man -knows quite which it is; and there they are, as if by magic, asking, -“Am I 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 -few of these little things delicately trespassing upon the petulance -of spring. Also, though her troubles wrapped her with an icy mantle, -softer breath of Nature came, and sighed for her to listen to it, and -to make the best of all that is not past the sighing. More than once -she stopped to listen, in the hush of the timid south wind creeping -through the dishevelled wood; and once, but only once, she was glad to -see her first primrose and last, and stooped to pluck, but, on second -thoughts, left it to outblossom her. - -So, past many a briered rock, and dingle buff with littered fern, green -holly copse where lurked the woodcock, and arcades of zigzag oak, Frida -kept her bridal robe from spot, or rent, or blemish. Passing all these -little pleadings of the life she had always loved, at last she turned -the craggy corner into the ledge of the windy cliff. - -Now below her there was nothing but repose from shallow thought; rest -from all the little troubles she had made so much of; deep, eternal -satisfaction in the arms of something vast. But all the same, she did -not 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, if -ever anybody found her. There could be no worse luck than that for any -bride on her wedding-day; therefore up the rock-walk Frida kept very -close to the landward side. - -All this way she thought of pretty little things said to her in the -early days of love. Many things that made her smile because they had -gone so otherwise, and one or two that would have fetched her tears, -if she had any. Filled with vain remembrance thus, and counting up -the many presents sent to her for this occasion, but remaining safe -at home, Frida came to the little coving bower just inside the Point, -where she could 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 -something faithful. - -“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 the -tide turns at twelve o’clock. How calm and peaceful is the sea! How -happy are the sea gulls, and how true to one another!” - -She stood where, if she had cared for life, it would have been certain -death to stand, so giddy was the height, and the rock beneath her feet -so slippery. The craggy headland, Duty Point, well known to every -navigator of that rock-bound coast, commands the Channel for many a -league, facing eastward the Castle Rock and Countisbury Foreland, and -westward Highveer Point, across the secluded cove of Leymouth. With -one sheer fall of a hundred fathoms the stern cliff meets the baffled -sea--or met it then, but now the level of the tide is lowering. Air -and sea were still and quiet; the murmur of the multitudinous wavelets -could not climb the cliff; but loops and curves of snowy braiding on -the dark gray water showed the set of tide and shift of current in and -out the buried rocks. - -Standing in the void of fear, and gazing into the deep of death, Frida -loved the pair of sea gulls hovering halfway between her and the soft -gray sea. These good birds had found a place well suited for their -nesting, and sweetly screamed to one another that it was a contract. -Frida watched how proud they were, and how they kept their strong wings -sailing and their gray backs flat and quivering, while with buoyant -bosom each made circles round the other. - -As she watched, she saw the turning of the tide below them. The -streaky bends of curdled water, lately true as fairy-rings, stopped -and wavered, and drew inward on their flowing curves, and outward on -the side toward the ebb. Then the south wind brought the distant toll -of her father’s turret-clock, striking noon with slow deliberation and -dead certainty. - -Frida made one little turn toward her bower behind the cliff, where the -many 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 Lear -had escaped from the chain she had put on him, and, more trusty than -mankind, was come to keep his faith with her. - -“You fine old dog, it is too late! The clock has struck. The tide -has turned. 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, and -drew his grizzled eyelids meekly over his dim and sunken eyes. Before -he lifted them again Frida was below the sea gulls, and beneath the -waves they fished. - -Lear, with a puzzled sniff, arose and shook his head, and peered, with -his old eyes full of wistful wonder, down the fearful precipice. Seeing -something, he made his mind up, gave one long re-echoed howl, then -tossed 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 been -known so clearly as it is known, unless it had happened that Mother -Eyebright, growing uneasy, came round the corner just in time to be too -late. 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 months -afterward; and when her breath came back was enabled to tell tenfold of -all she had seen. - - * * * * * - -One of the strangest things in life is the way in which we mortals take -the great and fatal blows of life. - -For instance, the baron was suddenly told, while waiting for Frida to -sit beside him, at his one o’clock dinner: - -“Plaize, my lard, your lardship’s darter hath a been and jumped off -Duty Point.” - -“What an undutiful thing to do!” was the first thing Lord de Wichehalse -said; and those who knew no better thought that this was how he took it. - -Aubyn Auberley, however, took a different measure of a broken-hearted -father’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. It happened so that he could not make redress of his ruined -life until the middle of the summer. Then, at last, his chance came -to him, and he did not waste it. Viscount Auberley, who had so often -slipped away and laughed at him, was brought to bay beneath a tree in -the famous fight of Lansdowne. - -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, were -enough 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 the -Gueldres ax cleft his curly head, and split what little brain it takes -to fool a trusting maiden. - -So, in early life, deceiver and deceived were quit of harm; and may ere -now have both found out whether it is better to inflict the wrong or -suffer it. - - - - -GEORGE BOWRING. - -A TALE OF CADER IDRIS. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -When I was a young man, and full of spirits, some forty years ago or -more, I lost my best and truest friend in a very sad and mysterious -way. The greater part of my life has been darkened by this heavy blow -and loss, and the blame which I poured upon myself for my own share in -the matter. - -George Bowring had been seven years with me at the fine old school of -Shrewsbury, and trod on my heels from form to form so closely that, -when I became at last the captain of the school, he was second to -me. I was his elder by half a year, and “sapped” very hard, while he -laboured little; so that it will be plain at a glance, although he -never acknowledged it, that he was the better endowed of the two with -natural ability. At that time we of Salop always expected to carry -everything, so far as pure scholarship was concerned, at both the -universities. But nowadays I am grieved to see that schools of quite a -different stamp (such as Rugby and Harrow, and even Marlborough, and -worse of all peddling Manchester) have been running our boys hard, -and sometimes almost beating them. And how have they done it? Why, by -purchasing masters of our prime rank and special style. - -George and myself were at one time likely, and pretty well relied upon, -to keep up the fame of Sabrina’s crown, and hold our own at Oxford. But -suddenly it so fell out that both of us were cut short of classics, and -flung into this unclassic world. In the course of our last half year at -school and when we were both taking final polish to stand for Balliol -scholarships, which we were almost sure to win, as all the examiners -were Shrewsbury men,--not that they would be partial to us, but because -we knew all their questions,--within a week, both George and I were -forced to leave the dear old school, the grand old town, the lovely -Severn, and everything but one another. - -He lost his father; I lost my uncle, a gentleman in Derbyshire, who had -well provided my education; but, having a family of his own, could not -be expected to leave me much. And he left me even less than could, from -his own point of view, have been rational. It is true that he had seven -children; but still a man of £15,000 a year might have done, without -injustice--or, I might say, with better justice--something more than -to leave his nephew a sum which, after much pushing about into divers -insecurities, fetched £72 10s. per annum. - -Nevertheless, I am truly grateful; though, perhaps, at the time I had -not that knowledge of the world which enlarges the grateful organs. It -cannot matter what my feelings were, and I never was mercenary. All my -sentiments at that period ran in Greek senarii; and perhaps it would -show how good and lofty boys were in that ancient time, though now they -are only rude Solecists, if I were to set these verses down--but, after -much consideration, I find it wiser to keep them in. - -George Bowring’s father had some appointment well up in the Treasury. -He seems to have been at some time knighted for finding a manuscript -of great value that went in the end to the paper mills. How he did it, -or what it was, or whether he ever did it at all, were questions for -no one to meddle with. People in those days had larger minds than they -ever seem to exhibit now. The king might tap a man, and say, “Rise, Sir -Joseph,” and all the journals of the age, or, at least, the next day, -would echo “Sir Joseph!” And really he was worthy of it. A knight he -lived, and a knight he died; and his widow found it such a comfort! - -And now on his father’s sudden death, George Bowring was left not so -very well off. Sir Joseph had lived, as a knight should do, in a -free-handed, errant, and chivalrous style; and what he left behind -him made it lucky that the title dropped. George, however, was better -placed, as regards the world, than I was; but not so very much as to -make a difference between us. Having always held together, and being -started in life together, we resolved to face the world (as other -people are always called) side by side, and with a friendship that -should make us as good as one. - -This, however, did not come out exactly as it should have done. Many -things arose between us--such as diverse occupation, different hours -of work and food, and a little split in the taste of trowsers, which, -of course, should not have been. He liked the selvage down his legs, -while I thought it unartistic, and, going much into the graphic line, I -pressed my objections strongly. - -But George, in the handsomest manner--as now, looking back on the case, -I acknowledge--waived my objections, and insisted as little as he could -upon his own. And again we became as tolerant as any two men, at all -alike, can be of one another. - -He, by some postern of influence, got into some dry ditch of the -Treasury, and there, as in an old castle-moat, began to be at home, and -move, gently and after his seniors, as the young ducks follow the old -ones. And at every waddle he got more money. - -My fortune, however, was not so nice. I had not Sir Joseph, of Treasury -cellars, to light me with his name and memory into a snug cell of my -own. I had nothing to look to but courage, and youth, and education, -and three-quarters of a hundred pounds a year, with some little change -to give out of it. Yet why should I have doubted? Now, I wonder at my -own misgivings; yet all of them still return upon me, if I ever am -persuaded just to try Welsh rabbit. Enough, that I got on at last, to -such an extent that the man at the dairy offered me half a year’s milk -for a sketch of a cow that had never belonged to him. - -George, meanwhile, having something better than a brush for a walking -stick and an easel to sit down upon, had taken unto himself a wife--a -lady as sweet and bright as could be--by name Emily Atkinson. In truth, -she was such a charming person that I myself, in a quiet way, had taken -a very great fancy to her before George Bowring saw her; but as soon -as I found what a desperate state the heart of poor George was reduced -to, and came to remember that he was fitted by money to marry, while I -was not, it appeared to me my true duty toward the young lady and him, -and even myself, to withdraw from the field, and have nothing to say if -they set up their horses together. - -So George married Emily, and could not imagine why it was that I strove -in vain to appear as his “best man,” at the rails where they do it. - -For though I had ordered a blue coat and buttons, and a cashmere -waistcoat (amber-coloured, with a braid of peonies), yet at the last -moment my courage failed me, and I was caught with a shivering in the -knees, which the doctor said was ague. This and that shyness of dining -at his house (which I thought it expedient to adopt during the years -of his married life) created some little reserve between us, though -hardly so bad as our first disagreement concerning the stripe down the -pantaloons. - -However, before that dereliction I had made my friend a wedding -present, as was right and proper--a present such as nothing less than a -glorious windfall could have enabled me to buy. For while engaged, some -three years back, upon a grand historical painting of “Cœur de Lion and -Saladin,” now to be seen--but let that pass; posterity will always know -where to find it--I was harassed in mind perpetually concerning the -grain of the fur of a cat. To the dashing young artists of the present -day this may seem a trifle; to them, no doubt, a cat is a cat--or -would be, if they could make it one. Of course, there are cats enough -in London, and sometimes even a few to spare; but I wanted a cat of -peculiar order, and of a Saracenic cast. I walked miles and miles; -till at last I found him residing in a very old-fashioned house in the -Polygon, at Somers Town. Here was a genuine paradise of cats, carefully -ministered to and guarded by a maiden lady of Portuguese birth and of -advanced maturity. Each of these nine cats possessed his own stool--a -mahogany stool, with a velvet cushion, and his name embroidered upon -it in beautiful letters of gold. And every day they sat round the -fire to digest their dinners, all nine of them, each on his proper -stool, some purring, some washing their faces, and some blinking or -nodding drowsily. But I need not have spoken of this, except that one -of them was called “Saladin.” He was the very cat I wanted. I made his -acquaintance in the area, and followed it up on the knife-boy’s board. -And then I had the most happy privilege of saving him from a tail-pipe. -Thus my entrance was secured into this feline Eden; and the lady was -so well pleased that she gave me an order for nine full-length cat -portraits, at the handsome price of ten guineas apiece. And not only -this, but at her demise--which followed, alas! too speedily--she left -me £150, as a proof of her esteem and affection. - -This sum I divided into three equal parts--fifty pounds for a present -for George, another fifty for a duty to myself, and the residue to -be put by for any future purposes. I knew that my friend had no gold -watch; neither, of course, did I possess one. In those days a gold -watch was thought a good deal of, and made an impression in society, -as a three-hundred-guinea ring does now. Barwise was then considered -the best watchmaker in London, and perhaps in the world. So I went to -his shop, and chose two gold watches of good size and substance--none -of your trumpery catchpenny things, the size of a gilt pill trodden -upon--at the price of fifty guineas each. As I took the pair, the -foreman let me have them for a hundred pounds, including also in that -figure a handsome gold key for each, of exactly the same pattern, and a -guard for the fob of watered black-silk ribbon. - -My reason for choosing these two watches, out of a trayful of similar -quality, was perhaps a little whimsical--viz., that the numbers they -bore happened to be sequents. Each had its number engraved on its white -enamel dial, in small but very clear figures, placed a little above -the central spindle; also upon the extreme verge, at the nadir below -the seconds hand, the name of the maker, “Barwise, London.” They were -not what are called “hunting watches,” but had strong and very clear -lunette glasses fixed in rims of substantial gold. And their respective -numbers were 7777 and 7778. - -Carrying these in wash-leather bags, I gave George Bowring his choice -of the two; and he chose the one with four figures of seven, making -some little joke about it, not good enough to repeat, nor even bad -enough to laugh at. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -For six years after this all went smoothly with George Bowring and -myself. We met almost daily, although we did not lodge together (as -once we had done) nor spend the evening hours together, because, of -course, he had now his home and family rising around him. By the summer -of 1832 he had three children, and was expecting a fourth at no very -distant time. His eldest son was named after me, “Robert Bistre,” for -such is my name, which I have often thought of changing. Not that -the name is at all a bad one, as among friends and relations, but -that, when I am addressed by strangers, “Mr. Bistre” has a jingling -sound, suggestive of childish levity. “Sir Robert Bistre,” however, -would sound uncommonly well; and (as some people say) less eminent -artists--but perhaps, after all, I am not so very old as to be in a -hurry. - -In the summer of 1832--as elderly people will call to mind, and the -younger sort will have heard or read--the cholera broke over London -like a bursting meteor. Such panic had not been known, I believe, since -the time of the plague, in the reign of Charles II., as painted (beyond -any skill of the brush) by the simple and wonderful pen of Defoe. -There had been in the interval many seasons--or at least I am informed -so--of sickness more widely spread, and of death more frequent, if not -so sudden. But now this new plague, attacking so harshly a man’s most -perceptive and valued part, drove rich people out of London faster than -horses (not being attacked) could fly. Well, used as I was to a good -deal of poison in dealing with my colours, I felt no alarm on my own -account, but was anxious about my landlady. This was an excellently -honest woman of fifty-five summers at the utmost, but weakly -confessing to as much as forty. She had made a point of insisting upon -a brisket of beef and a flat-polled cabbage for dinner every Saturday; -and the same, with a “cowcumber,” cold on Sunday; and for supper a -soft-roed herring, ever since her widowhood. - -“Mrs. Whitehead,” said I--for that was her name, though she said she -did not deserve it; and her hair confirmed her in that position by -growing darker from year to year--“Madam, allow me to beg you to vary -your diet a little at this sad time.” - -“I varies it every day, Mr. Bistre,” she answered somewhat snappishly. -“The days of the week is not so many but what they all come round -again.” - -For the moment I did not quite perceive the precision of her argument; -but after her death I was able to do more justice to her intellect. -And, unhappily, she was removed to a better world on the following -Sunday. - -To a man in London of quiet habits and regular ways and periods there -scarcely can be a more desperate blow than the loss of his landlady. -It is not only that his conscience pricks him for all his narrow, -plagiaristic, and even irrational suspicions about the low level of his -tea caddy, or a neap tide in his brandy bottle, or any false evidence -of the eyes (which ever go spying to lock up the heart), or the ears, -which are also wicked organs--these memories truly are grievous to -him, and make him yearn now to be robbed again; but what he feels most -sadly is the desolation of having nobody who understands his locks. -One of the best men I ever knew was so plagued with his sideboard -every day for two years, after dinner, that he married a little new -maid-of-all-work--because she was a blacksmith’s daughter. - -Nothing of that sort, however, occurred in my case, I am proud to say. -But finding myself in a helpless state, without anyone to be afraid -of, I had only two courses before me: either to go back to my former -landlady (who was almost too much of a Tartar, perhaps), or else to -run away from my rooms till Providence provided a new landlady. - -Now, in this dilemma I met George Bowring, who saw my distress, and -most kindly pressed me to stay at his house till some female arose to -manage my affairs for me. This, of course, I declined to do, especially -under present circumstances; and, with mutual pity, we parted. But -the very next day he sought me out, in a quiet nook where a few good -artists were accustomed to meet and think; and there he told me that -really now he saw his way to cut short my troubles as well as his own, -and to earn a piece of enjoyment and profit for both of us. And I -happen to remember his very words. - -“You are cramped in your hand, my dear fellow,” said he (for in those -days youths did not call each other “old man”--with sad sense of their -own decrepitude). “Bob, you are losing your freedom of touch. You must -come out of these stony holes, and look at a rocky mountain.” - -My heart gave a jump at these words; and yet I had been too much laid -flat by facts--“sat upon,” is the slang of these last twenty years, and -in the present dearth of invention must serve, no doubt, for another -twenty--I say that I had been used as a cushion by so many landladies -and maids-of-all-work (who take not an hour to find out where they need -do no work), that I could not fetch my breath to think of ever going up -a mountain. - -“I will leave you to think of it, Bob,” said George, putting his hat on -carefully; “I am bound for time, and you seem to be nervous. Consult -your pillow, my dear fellow; and peep into your old stocking and see -whether you can afford it.” - -That last hit settled me. People said, in spite of all my generous -acts--and nobody knows, except myself, the frequency and the extent of -these--without understanding the merits of the case--perfect (or rather -imperfect) strangers said that I was stingy! To prove the contrary, I -resolved to launch into great expenditure, and to pay coach fare all -the way from London toward the nearest mountain. - -Half the inhabitants now were rushing helter-skelter out of London, and -very often to seaside towns where the smell of fish destroyed them. -And those who could not get away were shuddering at the blinds drawn -down, and huddling away from the mutes at the doors, and turning pale -at the funeral bells. And some, who had never thought twice before of -their latter end, now began to dwell with so much unction upon it, that -Providence graciously spared them the waste of perpetual preparation. - -Among the rest, George Bowring had been scared, far more than he liked -to own, by the sudden death of his butcher, between half a dozen chops -for cutlets and the trimming of a wing-bone. George’s own cook had gone -down with the order, and meant to bring it all back herself, because -she knew what butchers do when left to consider their subject. And Mrs. -Tompkins was so alarmed that she gave only six hours’ notice to leave, -though her husband was far on the salt-sea wave, according to her own -account, and she had none to make her welcome except her father’s -second wife. This broke up the household; and hence it was that George -tempted me so with the mountains. - -For he took his wife and children to an old manor-house in Berkshire, -belonging to two maiden aunts of the lady, who promised to see to all -that might happen, but wanted no gentleman in the house at a period of -such delicacy. George Bowring, therefore, agreed to meet me on the 12th -day of September, at the inn in Reading--I forget its name--where the -Regulator coach (belonging to the old company, and leaving White Horse -Cellars at half-past nine in the morning) allowed an hour to dine, from -one o’clock onward, as the roads might be. And here I found him, and -we supped at Oxford, and did very well at the Mitre. On the following -morning we took coach for Shrewsbury, as we had agreed, and, reaching -the town before dark, put up at the Talbot Inn, and sauntered into the -dear old school, to see what the lads had been at since our time; for -their names and their exploits, at Oxford and Cambridge, are scored in -large letters upon the panels, from the year 1806 and onward, so that -soon there will be no place to register any more of them; and we found -that though we ourselves had done nothing, many fine fellows had been -instituted in letters of higher humanity, and were holding up the old -standard, so that we longed to invite them to dinner. But discipline -must be maintained; and that word means, more than anything else, the -difference of men’s ages. - -Now, at Shrewsbury, we had resolved to cast off all further heed -of coaches; and knowing the country pretty well, or recalling it -from our childhood, to strike away on foot for some of the mountain -wildernesses. Of these, in those days, nobody knew much more than -that they were high and steep, and slippery and dangerous, and much to -be shunned by all sensible people who liked a nice fire and the right -side of the window. So that when we shouldered staves with knapsacks -flapping heavily, all the wiser sort looked on us as marching off to -Bedlam. - -In the morning, as we were starting, we set our watches by the old -school dial, as I have cause to remember well. And we staked half a -crown, in a sporting manner, each on his own watch to be the truer -by sun upon our way back again. And thus we left those ancient walls -and the glancing of the river, and stoutly took the Welshpool road, -dreading nought except starvation. - -Although in those days I was not by any means a cripple, George was -far stronger of arm and leg, having always been famous, though we made -no fuss about such things then, for running and jumping, and lifting -weights, and using the boxing-gloves and the foils. A fine, brave -fellow as ever lived, with a short, straight nose and a resolute chin, -he touched the measuring-bar quite fairly at seventy-four inches, -and turned the scales at fourteen stone and a quarter. And so, as my -chattels weighed more than his (by means of a rough old easel and -material for rude sketches), he did me a good turn now and then by -changing packs for a mile or two. And thus we came in four days’ march -to Aber-Aydyr, a village lying under Cader Idris. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -If any place ever lay out of the world, and was proud of itself for -doing so, this little village of Aber-Aydyr must have been very near -it. The village was built, as the people expressed it, of thirty -cottages, one public-house, one shop universal, and two chapels. -The torrent of the Aydyr entered with a roar of rapids, and at the -lower end departed in a thunder of cascades. The natives were all so -accustomed to live in the thick of this watery uproar that, whenever -they left their beloved village to see the inferior outer world, -they found themselves as deaf as posts till they came to a weir or a -waterfall. And they told us that in the scorching summer of the year -1826 the river had failed them so that for nearly a month they could -only discourse by signs; and they used to stand on the bridge and -point at the shrunken rapids, and stop their ears to exclude that -horrible emptiness. Till a violent thunderstorm broke up the drought, -and the river came down roaring; and the next day all Aber-Aydyr was -able to gossip again as usual. - -Finding these people, who lived altogether upon slate, of a quaint and -original turn, George Bowring and I resolved to halt and rest the soles -of our feet a little, and sketch and fish the neighbourhood. For George -had brought his rod and tackle, and many a time had he wanted to stop -and set up his rod and begin to cast; but I said that I would not be -cheated so: he had promised me a mountain, and would he put me off with -a river? Here, however, we had both delights; the river for him and -the mountain for me. As for the fishing, all that he might have, and I -would grudge him none of it, if he fairly divided whatever he caught. -But he must not expect me to follow him always and watch all his dainty -manœuvring; each was to carry and eat his own dinner, whenever we made -a day of it, so that he might keep to his flies and his water, while I -worked away with my brush at the mountains. And thus we spent a most -pleasant week, though we knew very little of Welsh and the slaters -spoke but little English. But--much as they are maligned because they -will not have strangers to work with them--we found them a thoroughly -civil, obliging, and rather intelligent set of men; most of them also -of a respectable and religious turn of mind; and they scarcely ever -poach, except on Saturdays and Mondays. - -On September 25, as we sat at breakfast in the little sanded parlour -of the Cross-Pipes public house, our bedroom being overhead, my dear -friend complained to me that he was tired of fishing so long up and -down one valley, and asked me to come with him further up, into wilder -and rockier districts, where the water ran deeper (as he had been -told) and the trout were less worried by quarrymen, because it was -such a savage place, deserted by all except evil spirits, that even -the Aber-Aydyr slaters could not enjoy the fishing there. I promised -him gladly to come, only keeping the old understanding between us, -that each should attend to his own pursuits and his own opportunities -mainly; so that George might stir most when the trout rose well, and -I when the shadows fell properly. And thus we set forth about nine -o’clock of a bright and cheerful morning, while the sun, like a courtly -perruquier of the reign of George II., was lifting, and shifting, and -setting in order the vapoury curls of the mountains. - -We trudged along thus at a merry swing, for the freshness of autumnal -dew was sparkling in the valley, until we came to a rocky pass, -where walking turned to clambering. After an hour of sharpish work -among slaty shelves and threatening crags, we got into one of those -troughlike hollows hung on each side with precipices, which look as if -the earth had sunk for the sake of letting the water through. On our -left hand, cliff towered over cliff to the grand height of Pen y Cader, -the steepest and most formidable aspect of the mountain. Rock piled -on rock, and shingle cast in naked waste disdainfully, and slippery -channels scooped by torrents of tempestuous waters, forbade one to -desire at all to have anything more to do with them--except, of course, -to get them painted at a proper distance, so that they might hang at -last in the dining rooms of London, to give people appetite with sense -of hungry breezes, and to make them comfortable with the sight of -danger. - -“This is very grand indeed,” said George, as he turned to watch me; for -the worst part of our business is to have to give an opinion always -upon points of scenery. But I am glad that I was not cross, or even -crisp with him that day. - -“It is magnificent,” I answered; “and I see a piece of soft sward -there, where you can set up your rod, old fellow, while I get my -sticks in trim. Let us fill our pipes and watch the shadows; they do -not fall quite to suit me yet.” - -“How these things make one think,” cried Bowring, as we sat on a stone -and smoked, “of the miserable littleness of men like you and me, Bob!” - -“Speak for yourself, sir,” I said, laughing at his unaccustomed, but -by no means novel, reflection. “I am quite contented with my size, -although I am smaller than you, George. Dissatisfied mortal! Nature -wants no increase of us, or she would have had it.” - -“In another world we shall be much larger,” he said, with his eyes on -the tops of the hills. “Last night I dreamed that my wife and children -were running to meet me in heaven, Bob.” - -“Tush! You go and catch fish,” I replied; for tears were in his large, -soft eyes, and I hated the sentimental. “Would they ever let such a -little Turk as Bob Bistre into heaven, do you think? My godson would -shout all the angels deaf and outdrum all the cherubim.” - -“Poor little chap! He is very noisy; but he is not half a bad sort,” -said George. “If he only comes like his godfather I shall wish no -better luck for him.” - -These were kind words, and I shook his hand to let him know that I felt -them; and then, as if he were ashamed of having talked rather weakly, -he took with his strong legs a dangerous leap of some ten or twelve -feet downward, and landed on a narrow ledge that overhung the river. -Here he put his rod together, and I heard the click of reel as he drew -the loop at the end of the line through the rings, and so on; and I -heard him cry “Chut!” as he took his flies from his Scotch cap and -found a tangle; and I saw the glistening of his rod, as the sunshine -pierced the valley, and then his tall, straight figure pass the corner -of a crag that stood as upright as a tombstone; and after that no more -of any live and bright George Bowring. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Swift is the flight of Time whenever a man would fain lay hold of him. -All created beings, from Behemoth to a butterfly, dread and fly (as -best they may) that universal butcher--man. And as nothing is more -carefully killed by the upper sort of mankind than Time, how can he -help making off for his life when anybody wants to catch him? - -Of course, I am not of that upper sort, and make no pretence to be so; -but Time, perhaps, may be excused for thinking--having had such a very -short turn at my clothes--that I belonged to the aristocracy. At any -rate, while I drew, and rubbed, and dubbed, and made hieroglyphics, -Time was uneasily shifting and shuffling the lines of the hills, as a -fever patient jerks and works the bed-clothes. And, worse than that, -he was scurrying westward (frightened, no doubt, by the equinox) at -such a pace that I was scared by the huddling together of shadows. -Awaking from a long, long dream--through which I had been working hard, -and laying the foundations of a thousand pounds hereafter--I felt the -invisible damp of evening settling in the valleys. The sun, from over -the sea, had still his hand on Cader Idris; but every inferior head and -height was gray in the sweep of his mantle. - -I threw my hair back--for an artist really should be picturesque; and, -having no other beauty, must be firm to long hair, while it lasts--and -then I shouted, “George!” until the strata of the mountain (which dip -and jag, like veins of oak) began and sluggishly prolonged a slow -zigzag of echoes. No counter-echo came to me; no ring of any sonorous -voice made crag, and precipice, and mountain vocal with the sound of -“Bob!” - -“He must have gone back. What a fool I must be never to remember -seeing him! He saw that I was full of rubbish, and he would not disturb -me. He is gone back to the Cross-Pipes, no doubt. And yet it does not -seem like him.” - -“To look for a pin in a bundle of hay” would be a job of sense and -wisdom rather than to seek a thing so very small as a very big man -among the depth, and height, and breadth of river, shingle, stone, and -rock, crag, precipice, and mountain. And so I doubled up my things, -while the very noise they made in doubling flurried and alarmed me; -and I thought it was not like George to leave me to find my way back -all alone, among the deep bogs, and the whirlpools, and the trackless -tracts of crag. - -When I had got my fardel ready, and was about to shoulder it, the -sound of brisk, short steps, set sharply upon doubtful footing, struck -my ear, through the roar of the banks and stones that shook with -waterfall. And before I had time to ask, “Who goes there?”--as in this -solitude one might do--a slight, short man, whom I knew by sight as -a workman of Aber-Aydyr, named Evan Peters, was close to me, and was -swinging a slate-hammer in one hand, and bore in the other a five-foot -staff. He seemed to be amazed at sight of me, but touched his hat with -his staff, and said: “Good-night, gentleman!” in Welsh; for the natives -of this part are very polite. “Good-night, Evan!” I answered, in his -own language, of which I had picked up a little; and he looked well -pleased, and said in his English: “For why, sir, did you leave your -things in that place there? A bad mans come and steal them, it is very -likely.” - -Then he wished me “Good-night” again, and was gone--for he seemed to be -in a dreadful hurry--before I had the sense to ask him what he meant -about “my things.” But as his footfall died away a sudden fear came -over me. - -“The things he meant must be George Bowring’s,” I said to myself; and I -dropped my own, and set off, with my blood all tingling, for the place -toward which he had jerked his staff. How long it took me to force my -way among rugged rocks and stubs of oak I cannot tell, for every moment -was an hour to me. But a streak of sunset glanced along the lonesome -gorge, and cast my shadow further than my voice would go; and by it I -saw something long and slender against a scar of rock, and standing far -in front of me. Toward this I ran as fast as ever my trembling legs -would carry me, for I knew too well that it must be the fishing-rod of -George Bowring. - -It was stuck in the ground--not carelessly, nor even in any hurry; but -as a sportsman makes all snug, when for a time he leaves off casting. -For instance, the end fly was fixed in the lowest ring of the butt, and -the slack of the line reeled up so that the collar lay close to the rod -itself. Moreover, in such a rocky place, a bed to receive the spike -could not have been found without some searching. For a moment I was -reassured. Most likely George himself was near--perhaps in quest of -blueberries (which abound at the foot of the shingles and are a very -delicious fruit), or of some rare fern to send his wife, who was one -of the first in England to take much notice of them. And it shows what -confidence I had in my friend’s activity and strength, that I never -feared the likely chance of his falling from some precipice. - -But just as I began, with some impatience--for we were to have dined -at the Cross-Pipes about sundown, five good (or very bad) miles away, -and a brace of ducks was the order--just as I began to shout, “George! -Wherever have you got to?” leaping on a little rock, I saw a thing that -stopped me. At the further side of this rock, and below my feet, was a -fishing basket, and a half-pint mug nearly full of beer, and a crust -of the brown, sweet bread of the hills, and a young white onion, half -cut through, and a clasp-knife open, and a screw of salt, and a slice -of the cheese, just dashed with goat’s milk, which George was so fond -of, but I disliked; and there may have been a hard-boiled egg. At the -sight of these things all my blood rushed to my head in such a manner -that all my power to think was gone. I sat down on the rock where -George must have sat while beginning his frugal luncheon, and I put -my heels into the marks of his, and, without knowing why, I began to -sob like a child who has lost his mother. What train of reasoning went -through my brain--if any passed in the obscurity--let metaphysicians or -psychologists, as they call themselves, pretend to know. I only know -that I kept on whispering, “George is dead! Unless he had been killed, -he never would have left his beer so!” - -I must have sat, making a fool of myself, a considerable time in this -way, thinking of George’s poor wife and children, and wondering what -would become of them, instead of setting to work at once to know what -was become of him. I took up a piece of cheese-rind, showing a perfect -impression of his fine front teeth, and I put it in my pocketbook, as -the last thing he had touched. And then I examined the place all around -and knelt to look for footmarks, though the light was sadly waning. - -For the moment I discovered nothing of footsteps or other traces to -frighten or to comfort me. A little narrow channel (all of rock and -stone and slaty stuff) sloped to the river’s brink, which was not more -than five yards distant. In this channel I saw no mark except that some -of the smaller stones appeared to have been turned over; and then I -looked into the river itself, and saw a force of water sliding smoothly -into a rocky pool. - -“If he had fallen in there,” I said, “he would have leaped out again -in two seconds; or even if the force of the water had carried him down -into that deep pool, he can swim like a duck--of course he can. What -river could ever drown you, George?” - -And then I remembered how at Salop he used to swim the flooded Severn -when most of us feared to approach the banks; and I knew that he could -not be drowned, unless something first had stunned him. And after that -I looked around, and my heart was full of terror. - -“It is a murder!” I cried aloud, though my voice among the rocks might -well have brought like fate upon me. “As sure as I stand here, and God -is looking down upon me, this is a black murder!” - -In what way I got back that night to Aber-Aydyr I know not. All I -remember is that the people would not come out of their houses to me, -according to some superstition, which was not explained till morning; -and, being unable to go to bed, I took a blanket and lay down beneath a -dry arch of the bridge, and the Aydyr, as swiftly as a spectre gliding, -hushed me with a melancholy song. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Now, as sure as ever I lay beneath the third arch of Aber-Aydyr Bridge, -in a blanket of Welsh serge or flannel, with a double border, so surely -did I see, and not dream, what I am going to tell you. - -The river ran from east to west; and the moon, being now the harvest -moon, was not very high, but large and full, and just gliding over the -crest of the hill that overhangs the quarry-pit; so that, if I can put -it plainly, the moon was across the river from me, and striking the -turbulent water athwart, so that her face, or a glimmer thereof, must -have been lying upon the river if any smooth place had been left for -it. But of this there was no chance, because the whole of the river was -in a rush, according to its habit, and covered with bubbles, and froth, -and furrows, even where it did not splash, and spout, and leap, as -it loved to do. In the depth of the night, when even the roar of the -water seemed drowsy and indolent, and the calm trees stooped with their -heavy limbs overhanging the darkness languidly, and only a few rays of -the moon, like the fluttering of a silver bird, moved in and out the -mesh-work, I leaned upon my elbow, and I saw the dead George Bowring. - -He came from the pit of the river toward me, quietly and without stride -or step, gliding over the water like a mist or the vapour of a calm -white frost; and he stopped at the ripple where the shore began, and he -looked at me very peacefully. And I felt neither fear nor doubt of him, -any more than I do of this pen in my hand. - -“George,” I said, “I have been uneasy all the day about you and I -cannot sleep, and I have had no comfort. What has made you treat me so?” - -He seemed to be anxious to explain, having always been so -straightforward; but an unknown hand or the power of death held him, -so that he could only smile. And then it appeared to me as if he -pointed to the water first and then to the sky, with such an import -that I understood (as plainly as if he had pronounced it) that his body -lay under the one and his soul was soaring on high through the other; -and, being forbidden to speak, he spread his hands, as if entrusting me -with all that had belonged to him; and then he smiled once more, and -faded into the whiteness of the froth and foam. - -And then I knew that I had been holding converse, face to face, with -Death; and icy fear shook me, and I strove in vain to hide my eyes from -everything. And when I awoke in the morning there was a gray trunk of -an alder tree, just George Bowring’s height and size, on the other side -of the water, so that I could have no doubt that himself had been there. - -After a search of about three hours we found the body of my dear -friend in a deep black pool of the Aydyr--not the first hole below -the place in which he sat down to his luncheon, but nearly a hundred -yards farther down, where a bold cliff jutted out and bent the water -scornfully. Our quarrymen would not search this pool until the sunlight -fell on it, because it was a place of dread with a legend hovering over -it. “The Giant’s Tombstone” was the name of the crag that overhung it; -and the story was that the giant Idris, when he grew worn out with -age, chose this rock out of many others near the top of the mountain, -and laid it under his arm and came down here to drink of the Aydyr. -He drank the Aydyr dry because he was feverish and flushed with age; -and he set down the crag in a hole he had scooped with the palms of -his hands for more water; and then he lay down on his back, and Death -(who never could reach to his knee when he stood) took advantage of -his posture to drive home the javelin. And thus he lay dead, with the -crag for his headstone, and the weight of his corpse sank a grave for -itself in the channel of the river, and the toes of his boots are still -to be seen after less than a mile of the valley. - -Under this headstone of Idris lay the body of George Bowring, fair and -comely, with the clothes all perfect, and even the light cap still on -the head. And as we laid it upon the grass, reverently and carefully, -the face, although it could smile no more, still appeared to wear a -smile, as if the new world were its home, and death a mere trouble left -far behind. Even the eyes were open, and their expression was not of -fright or pain, but pleasant and bright, with a look of interest such -as a man pays to his food. - -“Stand back, all of you!” I said sternly; “none shall examine him but -myself. Now all of you note what I find here.” - -I searched all his pockets, one after another; and tears came to my -eyes again as I counted not less than eleven of them, for I thought -of the fuss we used to make with the Shrewsbury tailor about them. -There was something in every pocket, but nothing of any importance at -present, except his purse and a letter from his wife, for which he had -walked to Dolgelly and back on the last entire day of his life. - -“It is a hopeless mystery!” I exclaimed aloud, as the Welshmen -gazed with superstitious awe and doubt. “He is dead as if struck by -lightning, but there was no storm in the valley!” - -“No, no, sure enough; no storm was there. But it is plain to see what -has killed him!” This was Evan Peters, the quarryman, and I glanced at -him very suspiciously. “Iss, sure, plain enough,” said another; and -then they all broke into Welsh, with much gesticulation; and “e-ah, -e-ah,” and “otty, otty,” and “hanool, hanool,” were the sounds they -made--at least to an ignorant English ear. - -“What do you mean, you fools?” I asked, being vexed at their offhand -way of settling things so far beyond them. “Can you pretend to say what -it was?” - -“Indeed, then, and indeed, my gentleman, it is no use to talk no more. -It was the Caroline Morgan.” - -“Which is the nearest house?” I asked, for I saw that some of them -were already girding up their loins to fly, at the mere sound of that -fearful name; for the cholera morbus had scared the whole country; and -if one were to fly, all the rest would follow, as swiftly as mountain -sheep go. “Be quick to the nearest house, my friends, and we will send -for the doctor.” - -This was a lucky hit; for these Cambrians never believed in anyone’s -death until he had “taken the doctor.” And so, with much courage and -kindness, “to give the poor gentleman the last chance,” they made -a rude litter, and, bearing the body upon sturdy shoulders, betook -themselves to a track which I had overlooked entirely. Some people have -all their wits about them as soon as they are called for, but with me -it is mainly otherwise. And this I had shown in two things already; the -first of which came to my mind the moment I pulled out my watch to see -what the time was. “Good Heavens!” it struck me, “where is George’s -watch? It was not in any of his pockets; and I did not feel it in his -fob.” - -In an instant I made them set down the bier; and, much as it grieved -me to do such a thing, I carefully sought for my dear friend’s watch. -No watch, no seals, no ribbon, was there! “Go on,” I said; and I fell -behind them, having much to think about. In this condition, I took -little heed of the distance, or of the ground itself; being even -astonished when, at last, we stopped; as if we were bound to go on -forever. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -We had stopped at the gate of an old farmhouse, built with massive -boulder stones, laid dry, and flushed in with mortar. As dreary a -place as was ever seen; at the head of a narrow mountain-gorge, with -mountains towering over it. There was no sign of life about it, except -that a gaunt hog trotted forth, and grunted at us, and showed his -tusks, and would perhaps have charged us, if we had not been so many. -The house looked just like a low church-tower, and might have been -taken for one at a distance if there had been any battlements. It -seemed to be four or five hundred years old, and perhaps belonged to -some petty chief in the days of Owen Glendower. - -“Knock again, Thomas Edwards. Stop, let me knock,” said one of our -party impatiently. “There, waddow, waddow, waddow!” - -Suiting the action to the word, he thumped with a big stone heavily, -till a middle-aged woman, with rough black hair, looked out of a -window and screamed in Welsh to ask what this terrible noise was. To -this they made answer in the same language, pointing to their sad -burden, and asking permission to leave it for the doctor’s inspection -and the inquest, if there was to be one. And I told them to add that -I would pay well--anything, whatever she might like to ask. But she -screamed out something that sounded like a curse, and closed the -lattice violently. Knowing that many superstitions lingered in these -mountains--as, indeed, they do elsewhere plentifully--I was not -surprised at the woman’s stern refusal to admit us, especially at this -time of pest; but I thought it strange that her fierce black eyes -avoided both me and the poor rude litter on which the body of George -lay, covered with some slate-workers’ aprons. - -“She is not the mistress!” cried Evan Peters, in great excitement, as I -thought. “Ask where is Hopkin--Black Hopkin--where is he?” - -At this suggestion a general outcry arose in Welsh for “Black Hopkin”; -an outcry so loud and prolonged that the woman opened the window again -and screamed--as they told me afterward--“He is not at home, you noisy -fools; he is gone to Machynlleth. Not long would you dare to make this -noise if Hopkin ap Howel was at home.” - -But while she was speaking the wicket-door of the great arched gate was -thrown open, and a gun about six feet long and of very large bore was -presented at us. The quarrymen drew aside briskly, and I was about to -move somewhat hastily, when the great, swarthy man who was holding the -gun withdrew it, and lifted his hat to me, proudly and as an equal. - -“You cannot enter this house,” he said in very good English, and by no -means rudely. “I am sorry for it, but it cannot be. My little daughter -is very ill, the last of seven. You must go elsewhere.” - -With these words he bowed again to me, while his sad eyes seemed to -pierce my soul; and then he quietly closed the wicket and fastened it -with a heavy bolt, and I knew that we must indeed go further. - -This was no easy thing to do; for our useless walk to “Crug y Dlwlith” -(the Dewless Hills), as this farm was called, had taken us further -at every step from the place we must strive for after all--the good -little Aber-Aydyr. The gallant quarrymen were now growing both weary -and uneasy; and in justice to them I must say that no temptation of -money, nor even any appeal to their sympathies, but only a challenge of -their patriotism held them to the sad duties owing from the living to -the dead. But knowing how proud all Welshmen are of the fame of their -race and country, happily I exclaimed at last, when fear was getting -the mastery, “What will be said of this in England, this low cowardice -of the Cymro?” Upon that they looked at one another and did their best -right gallantly. - -Now, I need not go into any further sad details of this most sad time, -except to say that Dr. Jones, who came the next day from Dolgelly, made -a brief examination by order of the coroner. Of course, he had too much -sense to suppose that the case was one of cholera; but to my surprise -he pronounced that death was the result of “asphyxia, caused by too -long immersion in the water.” And knowing nothing of George Bowring’s -activity, vigour, and cultivated power in the water, perhaps he was not -to be blamed for dreaming that a little mountain stream could drown -him. I, on the other hand, felt as sure that my dear friend was foully -murdered as I did that I should meet him in heaven--if I lived well for -the rest of my life, which I resolved at once to do--and there have -the whole thing explained, and perhaps be permitted to glance at the -man who did it, as Lazarus did at Dives. - -In spite of the doctor’s evidence and the coroner’s own persuasion, the -jury found that “George Bowring died of the Caroline Morgan”--which -the clerk corrected to cholera morbus--“brought on by wetting his feet -and eating too many fish of his own catching.” And so you may see it -entered now in the records of the court of the coroners of the king for -Merioneth. - -And now I was occupied with a trouble, which, after all, was more -urgent than the enquiry how it came to pass. When a man is dead, it -must be taken as a done thing, not to be undone; and, happily, all -near relatives are inclined to see it in that light. They are grieved, -of course, and they put on hatbands and give no dinner parties; and -they even think of their latter ends more than they might have desired -to do. But after a little while all comes round. Such things must be -happening always, and it seems so unchristian to repine; and if any -money has been left them, truly they must attend to it. On the other -hand, if there has been no money, they scarcely see why they should -mourn for nothing; and, as a duty, they begin to allow themselves to be -roused up. - -But when a wife becomes a widow, it is wholly different. No money -can ever make up to her the utter loss of the love-time and the -loneliness of the remaining years; the little turns, and thoughts, and -touches--wherever she goes and whatever she does--which at every corner -meet her with a deep, perpetual want. She tries to fetch her spirit up -and to think of her duties to all around--to her children, or to the -guests whom trouble forces upon her for business’ sake, or even the -friends who call to comfort (though the call can fetch her none); but -all the while how deeply aches her sense that all these duties are as -different as a thing can be from her love-work to her husband! - -What could I do? I had heard from George, but could not for my life -remember, the name of that old house in Berkshire where poor Mrs. -Bowring was on a visit to two of her aunts, as I said before. I -ventured to open her letter to her husband, found in his left-hand -side breast-pocket, and, having dried it, endeavoured only to make out -whence she wrote; but there was nothing. Ladies scarcely ever date a -letter both with time and place, for they seem to think that everybody -must know it, because they do. So the best I could do was to write -to poor George’s house in London, and beg that the letter might be -forwarded at once. It came, however, too late to hand. For, although -the newspapers of that time were respectably slow and steady, compared -with the rush they all make nowadays, they generally managed to outrun -the post, especially in the nutting season. They told me at Dolgelly, -and they confirmed it at Machynlleth, that nobody must desire to get -his letters at any particular time, in the months of September and -October, when the nuts were ripe. For the postmen never would come -along until they had filled their bags with nuts, for the pleasure of -their families. And I dare say they do the same thing now, but without -being free to declare it so. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -The body of my dear friend was borne round the mountain slopes to -Dolgelly and buried there, with no relative near, nor any mourner -except myself; for his wife, or rather his widow, was taken with sudden -illness (as might be expected), and for weeks it was doubtful whether -she would stay behind to mourn for him. But youth and strength at last -restored her to dreary duties and worldly troubles. - -Of the latter, a great part fell on me; and I did my best--though you -might not think so, after the fuss I made of my own--to intercept all -that I could, and quit myself manfully of the trust which George had -returned from the dead to enjoin. And, what with one thing and another, -and a sudden dearth of money which fell on me (when my cat-fund was all -spent, and my gold watch gone up a gargoyle), I had such a job to feed -the living that I never was able to follow up the dead. - -The magistrates held some enquiry, of course, and I had to give my -evidence; but nothing came of it, except that the quarryman, Evan -Peters, clearly proved his innocence. Being a very clever fellow, and -dabbling a bit in geology, he had taken his hammer up the mountains, as -his practice was when he could spare the time, to seek for new veins of -slate, or lead, or even gold, which is said to be there. He was able -to show that he had been at Tal y Llyn at the time of day when George -would be having his luncheon; and the people who knew Evan Peters were -much more inclined to suspect me than him. But why should they suspect -anybody, when anyone but a fool could see “how plain it was of the -cholera?” - -Twenty years slipped by (like a rope paid out on the seashore, “hand -over hand,” chafing as it goes, but gone as soon as one looks after -it), and my hair was gray, and my fame was growing (slowly, as it -appeared to me, but as all my friends said “rapidly”; as if I could -never have earned it!) when the mystery of George Bowring’s death was -solved without an effort. - -I had been so taken up with the three dear children, and working for -them as hard as if they were my own (for the treasury of our British -empire was bankrupt to these little ones--“no provision had been made -for such a case,” and so we had to make it)--I say that these children -had grown to me and I to them in such degree that they all of them -called me “Uncle!” - -This is the most endearing word that one human being can use to -another. A fellow is certain to fight with his brothers and sisters, -his father, and perhaps even his mother. Tenfold thus with his wife; -but whoever did fight with his uncle? Of course I mean unless he was -his heir. And the tenderness of this relation has not escaped _vox -populi_, that keen discriminator. Who is the most reliable, cordial, -indispensable of mankind--especially to artists--in every sense of the -word the dearest? A pawnbroker; he is our uncle. - -Under my care, these three children grew to be splendid “members of -society.” They used to come and kick over my easel with legs that were -quite Titanic; and I could not scold them when I thought of George. -Bob Bistre, the eldest, was my apprentice, and must become famous in -consequence; and when he was twenty-five years old, and money became no -object to me (through the purchase by a great art critic of the very -worst picture I ever painted; half of it, in fact, was Bob’s!), I gave -the boy choice of our autumn trip to California, or the antipodes. - -“I would rather go to North Wales, dear uncle,” he answered, and then -dropped his eyes, as his father used when he had provoked me. That -settled the matter. He must have his way; though as for myself, I must -confess that I have begun, for a long time now, upon principle, to -shun melancholy. - -The whole of the district is opened up so by those desperate railways -that we positively dined at the Cross-Pipes Hotel the very day after -we left Euston Square. Our landlady did not remember me, which was -anything but flattering. But she jumped at Bob as if she would have -kissed him; for he was the image of his father, whose handsome face had -charmed her. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -The Aydyr was making as much noise as ever, for the summer had been a -wet one; and of course all the people of Aber-Aydyr had their ears wide -open. I showed Bob the bridge and the place of my vision, but did not -explain its meaning, lest my love for him should seem fiduciary; and -the next morning, at his most urgent request, we started afoot for that -dark, sad valley. It was a long walk, and I did not find that twenty -years had shortened it. - -“Here we are at last,” I said, “and the place looks the same as ever. -There is the grand old Pen y Cader, with the white cloud rolling as -usual; to the left and right are the two other summits, the arms of -the chair of Idris; and over the shoulder of that crag you can catch a -glassy light in the air--that is the reflection of Tal y Llyn.” - -“Yes, yes!” he answered impatiently. “I know all that from your -picture, uncle. But show me the place where my father died.” - -“It lies immediately under our feet. You see that gray stone down in -the hollow, a few yards from the river brink. There he sat, as I have -often told you, twenty years ago this day. There he was taking his -food, when someone----Well, well! God knows, but we never shall. My -boy, I am stiff in the knees; go on.” - -He went on alone, as I wished him to do, with exactly his father’s -step, and glance, figure, face, and stature. Even his dress was of the -silver-gray which his father had been so fond of, and which the kind -young fellow chose to please his widowed mother. I could almost believe -(as a cloudy mantle stole in long folds over the highland, reproducing -the lights, and shades, and gloom of that mysterious day) that the -twenty years were all a dream, and that here was poor George Bowring -going to his murder and his watery grave. - -My nerves are good and strong, I trow; and that much must have long -been evident. But I did not know what young Bob’s might be, and -therefore I left him to himself. No man should be watched as he stands -at the grave of his wife or mother: neither should a young fellow who -sits on the spot where his father was murdered. Therefore, as soon as -our Bob had descended into the gray stone-pit, in which his dear father -must have breathed his last, I took good care to be out of sight, -after observing that he sat down exactly as his father must have sat, -except that his attitude, of course, was sad, and his face pale and -reproachful. Then, leaving the poor young fellow to his thoughts, I -also sat down to collect myself. - -But before I had time to do more than wonder at the mysterious ways -of the world, or of Providence in guiding it; at the manner in which -great wrong lies hidden, and great woe falls unrecompensed; at the -dark, uncertain laws which cover (like an indiscriminate mountain -cloud) the good and the bad, the kind and the cruel, the murdered and -the murderer--a loud shriek rang through the rocky ravine, and up the -dark folds of the mountain. - -I started with terror, and rushed forward, and heard myself called, and -saw young Bowring leap up, and stand erect and firm, although with a -gesture of horror. At his feet lay the body of a man struck dead, flung -on its back, with great hands spread on the eyes, and white hair over -them. - -No need to ask what it meant. At last the justice of God was manifest. -The murderer lay, a rigid corpse, before the son of the murdered. - -“Did you strike him?” I asked. - -“Is it likely,” said the youth, “that I would strike an aged man like -that? I assure you I never had such a fright in my life. This poor old -fellow came on me quite suddenly, from behind a rock, when all my mind -was full of my father; and his eyes met mine, and down he fell, as if I -had shot him through the heart!” - -“You have done no less,” I answered; and then I stooped over the corpse -(as I had stooped over the corpse of its victim), and the whole of my -strength was required to draw the great knotted hands from the eyes, -upon which they were cramped with a spasm not yet relaxed. - -“It is Hopkin ap Howel!” I cried, as the great eyes, glaring with the -horror of death, stood forth. “Black Hopkin once, white Hopkin now! -Robert Bowring, you have slain the man who slew your father.” - -“You know that I never meant to do it,” said Bob. “Surely, uncle, it -was his own fault!” - -“How did he come? I see no way. He was not here when I showed you the -place, or else we must have seen him.” - -“He came round the corner of that rock, that stands in front of the -furze-bush.” - -Now that we had the clue, a little examination showed the track. Behind -the furze-bush, a natural tunnel of rock, not more than a few yards -long, led into a narrow gorge covered with brushwood, and winding into -the valley below the farmhouse of the Dewless Crags. Thither we hurried -to obtain assistance, and there the whole mystery was explained. - -Black Hopkin (who stole behind George Bowring and stunned, or, perhaps, -slew him with one vile blow) has this and this only to say at the -Bar--that he did it through love of his daughter. - -Gwenthlian, the last of seven, lay dying on the day when my friend and -myself came up the valley of the Aydyr. Her father, a man of enormous -power of will and passion, as well as muscle, rushed forth of the house -like a madman, when the doctor from Dolgelly told him that nothing more -remained except to await the good time of heaven. It was the same -deadly decline which had slain every one of his children at that same -age, and now must extinguish a long descended and slowly impoverished -family. - -“If I had but a gold watch I could save her!” he cried in his agony, as -he left the house. “Ever since the old gold watch was sold, they have -died--they have died! They are gone, one after one, the last of all my -children!” - -In these lonely valleys lurks a strange old superstition that even -Death must listen to the voice of Time in gold; that, when the scanty -numbered moments of the sick are fleeting, a gold watch laid in the -wasted palm, and pointing the earthly hours, compels the scythe of -Death to pause, the timeless power to bow before the two great gods of -the human race--time and gold. - -Poor George in the valley must have shown his watch. The despairing -father must have been struck with crafty madness at the sight. The -watch was placed in his daughter’s palm; but Death had no regard for -it. Thenceforth Black Hopkin was a blasted man, racked with remorse and -heart-disease, sometimes raving, always roving, but finding no place -of repentance. And it must have been a happy stroke--if he had made -his peace above, which none of us can deal with--when the throb of his -long-worn heart stood still at the vision of his victim, and his soul -took flight to realms that have no gold and no chronometer. - - - - -CROCKER’S HOLE. - - - - -PART I. - - -The Culm, which rises in Somersetshire, and hastening into a fairer -land (as the border waters wisely do) falls into the Exe near -Killerton, formerly was a lovely trout stream, such as perverts the -Devonshire angler from due respect toward Father Thames and the other -canals round London. In the Devonshire valleys it is sweet to see how -soon a spring becomes a rill, and a rill runs on into a rivulet, and a -rivulet swells into a brook; and before one has time to say, “What are -you at?”--before the first tree it ever spoke to is a dummy, or the -first hill it ever ran down has turned blue, here we have all the airs -and graces, demands and assertions of a full-grown river. - -But what is the test of a river? Who shall say? “The power to drown a -man,” replies the river darkly. But rudeness is not argument. Rather -shall we say that the power to work a good undershot wheel, without -being dammed up all night in a pond, and leaving a tidy back-stream to -spare at the bottom of the orchard, is a fair certificate of riverhood. -If so, many Devonshire streams attain that rank within five miles of -their spring; aye, and rapidly add to it. At every turn they gather -aid, from ash-clad dingle and aldered meadow, mossy rock and ferny -wall, hedge-trough roofed with bramble netting, where the baby water -lurks, and lanes that coming down to ford bring suicidal tribute. -Arrogant, all-engrossing river, now it has claimed a great valley of -its own; and whatever falls within the hill scoop, sooner or later -belongs to itself. Even the crystal “shutt” that crosses the farmyard -by the woodrick, and glides down an aqueduct of last year’s bark for -Mary to fill the kettle from; and even the tricklets that have no -organs for telling or knowing their business, but only get into unwary -oozings in and among the water-grass, and there make moss and forget -themselves among it--one and all, they come to the same thing at last, -and that is the river. - -The Culm used to be a good river at Culmstock, tormented already by -a factory, but not strangled as yet by a railroad. How it is now the -present writer does not know, and is afraid to ask, having heard of a -vile “Culm Valley Line.” But Culmstock bridge was a very pretty place -to stand and contemplate the ways of trout; which is easier work than -to catch them. When I was just big enough to peep above the rim, or -to lie upon it with one leg inside for fear of tumbling over, what a -mighty river it used to seem, for it takes a treat there and spreads -itself. Above the bridge the factory stream falls in again, having -done its business, and washing its hands in the innocent half that has -strayed down the meadows. Then under the arches they both rejoice and -come to a slide of about two feet, and make a short, wide pool below, -and indulge themselves in perhaps two islands, through which a little -river always magnifies itself, and maintains a mysterious middle. But -after that, all of it used to come together, and make off in one body -for the meadows, intent upon nurturing trout with rapid stickles, and -buttercuppy corners where fat flies may tumble in. And here you may -find in the very first meadow, or at any rate you might have found, -forty years ago, the celebrated “Crocker’s Hole.” - -The story of Crocker is unknown to me, and interesting as it doubtless -was, I do not deal with him, but with his Hole. Tradition said that he -was a baker’s boy who, during his basket-rounds, fell in love with a -maiden who received the cottage-loaf, or perhaps good “Households,” for -her master’s use. No doubt she was charming, as a girl should be, but -whether she encouraged the youthful baker and then betrayed him with -false _rôle_, or whether she “consisted” throughout,--as our cousins -across the water express it,--is known to their _manes_ only. Enough -that she would not have the floury lad; and that he, after giving in -his books and money, sought an untimely grave among the trout. And -this was the first pool below the bread-walk deep enough to drown a -five-foot baker boy. Sad it was; but such things must be, and bread -must still be delivered daily. - -A truce to such reflections,--as our foremost writers always say, when -they do not see how to go on with them,--but it is a serious thing -to know what Crocker’s Hole was like; because at a time when (if he -had only persevered, and married the maid, and succeeded to the oven, -and reared a large family of short-weight bakers) he might have been -leaning on his crutch beside the pool, and teaching his grandson to -swim by precept (that beautiful proxy for practice)--at such a time, -I say, there lived a remarkably fine trout in that hole. Anglers are -notoriously truthful, especially as to what they catch, or even more -frequently have not caught. Though I may have written fiction, among -many other sins,--as a nice old lady told me once,--now I have to deal -with facts; and foul scorn would I count it ever to make believe that -I caught that fish. My length at that time was not more than the butt -of a four-jointed rod, and all I could catch was a minnow with a pin, -which our cook Lydia would not cook, but used to say, “Oh, what a -shame, Master Richard! they would have been trout in the summer, please -God! if you would only a’ let ’em grow on.” She is living now, and will -bear me out in this. - -But upon every great occasion there arises a great man; or to put it -more accurately, in the present instance, a mighty and distinguished -boy. My father, being the parson of the parish, and getting, need it -be said, small pay, took sundry pupils, very pleasant fellows, about -to adorn the universities. Among them was the original “Bude Light,” -as he was satirically called at Cambridge, for he came from Bude, -and there was no light in him. Among them also was John Pike, a born -Zebedee, if ever there was one. - -John Pike was a thick-set younker, with a large and bushy head, keen -blue eyes that could see through water, and the proper slouch of -shoulder into which great anglers ripen; but greater still are born -with it; and of these was Master John. It mattered little what the -weather was, and scarcely more as to the time of year, John Pike must -have his fishing every day, and on Sundays he read about it, and made -flies. All the rest of the time he was thinking about it. - -My father was coaching him in the fourth book of the Æneid and all -those wonderful speeches of Dido, where passion disdains construction; -but the only line Pike cared for was of horsehair. “I fear, Mr. Pike, -that you are not giving me your entire attention,” my father used to -say in his mild dry way; and once when Pike was more than usually -abroad, his tutor begged to share his meditations. “Well, sir,” said -Pike, who was very truthful, “I can see a green drake by the strawberry -tree, the first of the season, and your derivation of ‘barbarous’ put -me in mind of my barberry dye.” In those days it was a very nice point -to get the right tint for the mallard’s feather. - -No sooner was lesson done than Pike, whose rod was ready upon the lawn, -dashed away always for the river, rushing headlong down the hill, and -away to the left through a private yard, where “no thoroughfare” was -put up, and a big dog stationed to enforce it. But Cerberus himself -could not have stopped John Pike; his conscience backed him up in -trespass the most sinful when his heart was inditing of a trout upon -the rise. - -All this, however, is preliminary, as the boy said when he put his -father’s coat upon his grandfather’s tenterhooks, with felonious intent -upon his grandmother’s apples; the main point to be understood is this, -that nothing--neither brazen tower, hundred-eyed Argus, nor Cretan -Minotaur--could stop John Pike from getting at a good stickle. But, -even as the world knows nothing of its greatest men, its greatest men -know nothing of the world beneath their very nose, till fortune sneezes -dexter. For two years John Pike must have been whipping the water as -hard as Xerxes, without having ever once dreamed of the glorious trout -that lived in Crocker’s Hole. But why, when he ought to have been at -least on bowing terms with every fish as long as his middle finger, why -had he failed to know this champion? The answer is simple--because of -his short cuts. Flying as he did like an arrow from a bow, Pike used to -hit his beloved river at an elbow, some furlong below Crocker’s Hole, -where a sweet little stickle sailed away down stream, whereas for the -length of a meadow upward the water lay smooth, clear, and shallow; -therefore the youth, with so little time to spare, rushed into the -downward joy. - -And here it may be noted that the leading maxim of the present period, -that man can discharge his duty only by going counter to the stream, -was scarcely mooted in those days. My grandfather (who was a wonderful -man, if he was accustomed to fill a cart in two days of fly-fishing on -the Barle) regularly fished down stream; and what more than a cartload -need anyone put into his basket? - -And surely it is more genial and pleasant to behold our friend the -river growing and thriving as we go on, strengthening its voice and -enlargening its bosom, and sparkling through each successive meadow -with richer plenitude of silver, than to trace it against its own grain -and good-will toward weakness, and littleness, and immature conceptions. - -However, you will say that if John Pike had fished up stream, he would -have found this trout much sooner. And that is true; but still, as it -was, the trout had more time to grow into such a prize. And the way in -which John found him out was this. For some days he had been tormented -with a very painful tooth, which even poisoned all the joys of fishing. -Therefore he resolved to have it out, and sturdily entered the shop of -John Sweetland, the village blacksmith, and there paid his sixpence. -Sweetland extracted the teeth of the village, whenever they required -it, in the simplest and most effectual way. A piece of fine wire was -fastened round the tooth, and the other end round the anvil’s nose, -then the sturdy blacksmith shut the lower half of his shop door, which -was about breast-high, with the patient outside and the anvil within; a -strong push of the foot upset the anvil, and the tooth flew out like a -well-thrown fly. - -When John Pike had suffered this very bravely, “Ah, Master Pike,” said -the blacksmith, with a grin, “I reckon you won’t pull out thic there -big vish,”--the smithy commanded a view of the river,--“clever as you -be, quite so peart as thiccy.” - -“What big fish?” asked the boy, with deepest interest, though his mouth -was bleeding fearfully. - -“Why that girt mortial of a vish as hath his hover in Crocker’s Hole. -Zum on ’em saith as a’ must be a zammon.” - -Off went Pike with his handkerchief to his mouth, and after him ran -Alec Bolt, one of his fellow-pupils, who had come to the shop to enjoy -the extraction. - -“Oh, my!” was all that Pike could utter, when by craftily posting -himself he had obtained a good view of this grand fish. - -“I’ll lay you a crown you don’t catch him!” cried Bolt, an impatient -youth, who scorned angling. - -“How long will you give me?” asked the wary Pike, who never made rash -wagers. - -“Oh! till the holidays if you like; or, if that won’t do, till -Michaelmas.” - -Now the midsummer holidays were six weeks off--boys used not to talk of -“vacations” then, still less of “recesses.” - -“I think I’ll bet you,” said Pike, in his slow way, bending forward -carefully, with his keen eyes on this monster; “but it would not be -fair to take till Michaelmas. I’ll bet you a crown that I catch him -before the holidays--at least, unless some other fellow does.” - - - - -PART II. - - -The day of that most momentous interview must have been the 14th of -May. Of the year I will not be so sure; for children take more note -of days than of years, for which the latter have their full revenge -thereafter. It must have been the 14th, because the morrow was our -holiday, given upon the 15th of May, in honour of a birthday. - -Now, John Pike was beyond his years wary as well as enterprising, -calm as well as ardent, quite as rich in patience as in promptitude -and vigour. But Alec Bolt was a headlong youth, volatile, hot, and -hasty, fit only to fish the Maëlstrom, or a torrent of new lava. And -the moment he had laid that wager he expected his crown piece; though -time, as the lawyers phrase it, was “expressly of the essence of the -contract.” And now he demanded that Pike should spend the holiday in -trying to catch that trout. - -“I shall not go near him,” that lad replied, “until I have got a new -collar.” No piece of personal adornment was it, without which he -would not act, but rather that which now is called the fly-cast, or -the gut-cast, or the trace, or what it may be. “And another thing,” -continued Pike; “the bet is off if you go near him, either now or at -any other time, without asking my leave first, and then only going as I -tell you.” - -“What do I want with the great slimy beggar?” the arrogant Bolt made -answer. “A good rat is worth fifty of him. No fear of my going near -him, Pike. You shan’t get out of it that way.” - -Pike showed his remarkable qualities that day, by fishing exactly as he -would have fished without having heard of the great Crockerite. He was -up and away upon the mill-stream before breakfast; and the forenoon he -devoted to his favourite course--first down the Craddock stream, a very -pretty confluent of the Culm, and from its junction, down the pleasant -hams, where the river winds toward Uffculme. It was my privilege to -accompany this hero, as his humble Sancho; while Bolt and the faster -race went up the river ratting. We were back in time to have Pike’s -trout (which ranged between two ounces and one-half pound) fried for -the early dinner; and here it may be lawful to remark that the trout -of the Culm are of the very purest excellence, by reason of the flinty -bottom, at any rate in these the upper regions. For the valley is the -western outlet of the Black-down range, with the Beacon hill upon the -north, and Hackpen long ridge to the south; and beyond that again the -Whetstone hill, upon whose western end dark port-holes scarped with -white grit mark the pits. But flint is the staple of the broad Culm -Valley, under good, well-pastured loam; and here are chalcedonies and -agate stones. - -At dinner everybody had a brace of trout--large for the larger folk, -little for the little ones, with coughing and some patting on the back -for bones. What of equal purport could the fierce rat-hunter show? Pike -explained many points in the history of each fish, seeming to know -them none the worse, and love them all the better, for being fried. We -banqueted, neither a whit did soul get stinted of banquet impartial. -Then the wielder of the magic rod very modestly sought leave of absence -at the tea time. - -“Fishing again, Mr. Pike, I suppose,” my father answered pleasantly; “I -used to be fond of it at your age; but never so entirely wrapped up in -it as you are.” - -“No, sir; I am not going fishing again. I want to walk to Wellington, -to get some things at Cherry’s.” - -“Books, Mr. Pike? Ah! I am very glad of that. But I fear it can only be -fly-books.” - -“I want a little Horace for eighteen-pence--the Cambridge one just -published, to carry in my pocket--and a new hank of gut.” - -“Which of the two is more important? Put that into Latin, and answer -it.” - -“Utrum pluris facio? Flaccum flocci. Viscera magni.” With this vast -effort Pike turned as red as any trout spot. - -“After that who could refuse you?” said my father. “You always tell the -truth, my boy, in Latin or in English.” - -Although it was a long walk, some fourteen miles to Wellington and -back, I got permission to go with Pike; and as we crossed the bridge -and saw the tree that overhung Crocker’s Hole, I begged him to show me -that mighty fish. - -“Not a bit of it,” he replied. “It would bring the blackguards. If the -blackguards once find him out, it is all over with him.” - -“The blackguards are all in factory now, and I am sure they cannot see -us from the windows. They won’t be out till five o’clock.” - -With the true liberality of young England, which abides even now as -large and glorious as ever, we always called the free and enlightened -operatives of the period by the courteous name above set down, and it -must be acknowledged that some of them deserved it, although perhaps -they poached with less of science than their sons. But the cowardly -murder of fish by liming the water was already prevalent. - -Yielding to my request and perhaps his own desire--manfully kept -in check that morning--Pike very carefully approached that pool, -commanding me to sit down while he reconnoitred from the meadow upon -the right bank of the stream. And the place which had so sadly quenched -the fire of the poor baker’s love filled my childish heart with dread -and deep wonder at the cruelty of women. But as for John Pike, all he -thought of was the fish and the best way to get at him. - -Very likely that hole is “holed out” now, as the Yankees well express -it, or at any rate changed out of knowledge. Even in my time a very -heavy flood entirely altered its character; but to the eager eye of -Pike it seemed pretty much as follows, and possibly it may have come to -such a form again: - -The river, after passing though a hurdle fence at the head of the -meadow, takes a little turn or two of bright and shallow indifference, -then gathers itself into a good strong slide, as if going down a slope -instead of steps. The right bank is high and beetles over with yellow -loam and grassy fringe; but the other side is of flinty shingle, low -and bare and washed by floods. At the end of this rapid, the stream -turns sharply under an ancient alder tree into a large, deep, calm -repose, cool, unruffled, and sheltered from the sun by branch and -leaf--and that is the hole of poor Crocker. - -At the head of the pool (where the hasty current rushes in so -eagerly, with noisy excitement and much ado) the quieter waters from -below, having rested and enlarged themselves, come lapping up round -either curve, with some recollection of their past career, the hoary -experience of foam. And sidling toward the new arrival of the impulsive -column, where they meet it, things go on, which no man can describe -without his mouth being full of water. A “V” is formed, a fancy letter -V, beyond any designer’s tracery, and even beyond his imagination, -a perpetually fluctuating limpid wedge, perpetually crenelled and -rippled into by little ups and downs that try to make an impress, but -can only glide away upon either side or sink in dimples under it. And -here a gray bough of the ancient alder stretches across, like a thirsty -giant’s arm, and makes it a very ticklish place to throw a fly. Yet -this was the very spot our John Pike must put his fly into, or lose his -crown. - -Because the great tenant of Crocker’s Hole, who allowed no other fish -to wag a fin there, and from strict monopoly had grown so fat, kept -his victualing yard--if so low an expression can be used concerning -him--within about a square yard of this spot. He had a sweet hover, -both for rest and recreation, under the bank, in a placid antre, where -the water made no noise, but tickled his belly in digestive ease. The -loftier the character is of any being, the slower and more dignified -his movements are. No true psychologist could have believed--as -Sweetland the blacksmith did, and Mr. Pook the tinman--that this trout -could ever be the embodiment of Crocker. For this was the last trout in -the universal world to drown himself for love; if truly any trout has -done so. - -“You may come now, and try to look along my back,” John Pike, with -a reverential whisper, said to me. “Now don’t be in a hurry, young -stupid; kneel down. He is not to be disturbed at his dinner, mind. You -keep behind me, and look along my back; I never clapped eyes on such a -whopper.” - -I had to kneel down in a tender reminiscence of pasture land, and gaze -carefully; and not having eyes like those of our Zebedee (who offered -his spine for a camera, as he crawled on all fours in front of me), it -took me a long time to descry an object most distinct to all who have -that special gift of piercing with their eyes the water. See what is -said upon this subject in that delicious book, “The Gamekeeper at Home.” - -“You are no better than a muff,” said Pike, and it was not in my power -to deny it. - -“If the sun would only leave off,” I said. But the sun, who was having -a very pleasant play with the sparkle of the water and the twinkle of -the leaves, had no inclination to leave off yet, but kept the rippling -crystal in a dance of flashing facets, and the quivering verdure in a -steady flush of gold. - -But suddenly a May-fly, a luscious gray-drake, richer and more delicate -than canvas-back or woodcock, with a dart and a leap and a merry -zigzag, began to enjoy a little game above the stream. Rising and -falling like a gnat, thrilling her gauzy wings, and arching her elegant -pellucid frame, every now and then she almost dipped her three long -tapering whisks into the dimples of the water. - -“He sees her! He’ll have her as sure as a gun!” cried Pike, with a -gulp, as if he himself were “rising.” “Now, can you see him, stupid?” - -“Crikey, crokums!” I exclaimed, with classic elegance; “I have seen -that long thing for five minutes; but I took it for a tree.” - -“You little”--animal quite early in the alphabet--“now don’t you stir a -peg, or I’ll dig my elbow into you.” - -The great trout was stationary almost as a stone, in the middle of the -“V” above described. He was gently fanning with his large clear fins, -but holding his own against the current mainly by the wagging of his -broad-fluked tail. As soon as my slow eyes had once defined him, he -grew upon them mightily, moulding himself in the matrix of the water, -as a thing put into jelly does. And I doubt whether even John Pike saw -him more accurately than I did. His size was such, or seemed to be -such, that I fear to say a word about it; not because language does not -contain the word, but from dread of exaggeration. But his shape and -colour may be reasonably told without wounding the feeling of an age -whose incredulity springs from self-knowledge. - -His head was truly small, his shoulders vast; the spring of his back -was like a rainbow when the sun is southing; the generous sweep of his -deep elastic belly, nobly pulped out with rich nurture, showed what -the power of his brain must be, and seemed to undulate, time for time, -with the vibrant vigilance of his large wise eyes. His latter end was -consistent also. An elegant taper run of counter, coming almost to a -cylinder, as a mackered does, boldly developed with a hugeous spread to -a glorious amplitude of swallow-tail. His colour was all that can well -be desired, but ill-described by any poor word-palette. Enough that -he seemed to tone away from olive and umber, with carmine stars, to -glowing gold and soft pure silver, mantled with a subtle flush of rose -and fawn and opal. - -Swoop came a swallow, as we gazed, and was gone with a flick, having -missed the May-fly. But the wind of his passage, or the skir of wing, -struck the merry dancer down, so that he fluttered for one instant on -the wave, and that instant was enough. Swift as the swallow, and more -true of aim, the great trout made one dart, and a sound, deeper than a -tinkle, but as silvery as a bell, rang the poor ephemerid’s knell. The -rapid water scarcely showed a break; but a bubble sailed down the pool, -and the dark hollow echoed with the music of a rise. - -“He knows how to take a fly,” said Pike; “he has had too many to be -tricked with mine. Have him I must; but how ever shall I do it?” - -All the way to Wellington he uttered not a word, but shambled along -with a mind full of care. When I ventured to look up now and then, -to surmise what was going on beneath his hat, deeply-set eyes and -a wrinkled forehead, relieved at long intervals by a solid shake, -proved that there are meditations deeper than those of philosopher or -statesman. - - - - -PART III. - - -Surely no trout could have been misled by the artificial May-fly -of that time, unless he were either a very young fish, quite new -to entomology, or else one afflicted with a combination of myopy -and bulimy. Even now there is room for plenty of improvement in our -counterfeit presentment; but in those days the body was made with -yellow mohair, ribbed with red silk and gold twist, and as thick as a -fertile bumble-bee. John Pike perceived that to offer such a thing to -Crocker’s trout would probably consign him--even if his great stamina -should over-get the horror--to an uneatable death, through just and -natural indignation. On the other hand, while the May-fly lasted, a -trout so cultured, so highly refined, so full of light and sweetness, -would never demean himself to low bait, or any coarse son of a maggot. - -Meanwhile Alec Bolt allowed poor Pike no peaceful thought, no calm -absorption of high mind into the world of flies, no placid period of -cobblers’ wax, floss-silk, turned hackles, and dubbing. For in making -of flies John Pike had his special moments of inspiration, times of -clearer insight into the everlasting verities, times of brighter -conception and more subtle execution, tails of more elastic grace -and heads of a neater and nattier expression. As a poet labours at -one immortal line, compressing worlds of wisdom into the music of -ten syllables, so toiled the patient Pike about the fabric of a fly -comprising all the excellence that ever sprang from maggot. Yet Bolt -rejoiced to jerk his elbow at the moment of sublimest art. And a swarm -of flies was blighted thus. - -Peaceful, therefore, and long-suffering, and full of resignation as he -was, John Pike came slowly to the sad perception that arts avail not -without arms. The elbow, so often jerked, at last took a voluntary jerk -from the shoulder and Alec Bolt lay prostrate, with his right eye full -of cobbler’s wax. This put a desirable check upon his energies for a -week or more, and by that time Pike had flown his fly. - -When the honeymoon of spring and summer (which they are now too -fashionable to celebrate in this country), the hey-day of the whole -year marked by the budding of the wild rose, the start of the wheatear -from its sheath, the feathering of the lesser plantain, and flowering -of the meadow-sweet, and, foremost for the angler’s joy, the caracole -of May-flies--when these things are to be seen and felt (which has not -happened at all this year), then rivers should be mild and bright, -skies blue and white with fleecy cloud, the west wind blowing softly, -and the trout in charming appetite. - -On such a day came Pike to the bank of Culm, with a loudly beating -heart. A fly there is, not ignominious, or of cowdab origin, neither -gross and heavy-bodied, from cradlehood of slimy stones, nor yet of -menacing aspect and suggesting deeds of poison, but elegant, bland, -and of sunny nature, and obviously good to eat. Him or her--why quest -we which?--the shepherd of the dale, contemptuous of gender, except in -his own species, has called, and as long as they two coexist will call, -the “Yellow Sally.” A fly that does not waste the day in giddy dances -and the fervid waltz, but undergoes family incidents with decorum and -discretion. He or she, as the case may be,--for the natural history of -the river bank is a book to come hereafter, and of fifty men who make -flies not one knows the name of the fly he is making,--in the early -morning of June, or else in the second quarter of the afternoon, this -Yellow Sally fares abroad, with a nice well-ordered flutter. - -Despairing of the May-fly, as it still may be despaired of, Pike came -down to the river with his master-piece of portraiture. The artificial -Yellow Sally is generally always--as they say in Cheshire--a mile or -more too yellow. On the other hand, the “Yellow Dun” conveys no idea -of any Sally. But Pike had made a very decent Sally, not perfect (for -he was young as well as wise), but far above any counterfeit to be had -in fishing-tackle shops. How he made it, he told nobody. But if he -lives now, as I hope he does, any of my readers may ask him through the -G. P. O., and hope to get an answer. - -It fluttered beautifully on the breeze, and in such living form, that -a brother or sister Sally came up to see it, and went away sadder and -wiser. Then Pike said: “Get away, you young wretch,” to your humble -servant who tells this tale; yet being better than his words, allowed -that pious follower to lie down upon his digestive organs and with deep -attention watch. There must have been great things to see, but to see -them so was difficult. And if I huddle up what happened, excitement -also shares the blame. - -Pike had fashioned well the time and manner of this overture. He knew -that the giant Crockerite was satiate now with May-flies, or began to -find their flavour failing, as happens to us with asparagus, marrow-fat -peas, or strawberries, when we have had a month of them. And he thought -that the first Yellow Sally of the season, inferior though it were, -might have the special charm of novelty. With the skill of a Zulu, -he stole up through the branches over the lower pool till he came to -a spot where a yard-wide opening gave just space for spring of rod. -Then he saw his desirable friend at dinner, wagging his tail, as a -hungry gentleman dining with the Lord Mayor agitates his coat. With one -dexterous whirl, untaught by any of the many books upon the subject, -John Pike laid his Yellow Sally (for he cast with one fly only) as -lightly as gossamer upon the rapid, about a yard in front of the big -trout’s head. A moment’s pause, and then, too quick for words, was the -things that happened. - -A heavy plunge was followed by a fearful rush. Forgetful of current the -river was ridged, as if with a plough driven under it; the strong line, -though given out as fast as might be, twanged like a harp-string as it -cut the wave, and then Pike stood up, like a ship dismasted, with the -butt of his rod snapped below the ferrule. He had one of those foolish -things, just invented, a hollow butt of hickory; and the finial ring of -his spare top looked out, to ask what had happened to the rest of it. -“Bad luck!” cried the fisherman; “but never mind, I shall have him next -time, to a certainty.” - -When this great issue came to be considered, the cause of it was sadly -obvious. The fish, being hooked, had made off with the rush of a shark -for the bottom of the pool. A thicket of saplings below the alder tree -had stopped the judicious hooker from all possibility of following; and -when he strove to turn him by elastic pliance, his rod broke at the -breach of pliability. “I have learned a sad lesson,” said John Pike, -looking sadly. - -How many fellows would have given up this matter, and glorified -themselves for having hooked so grand a fish, while explaining that -they must have caught him, if they could have done it! But Pike only -told me not to say a word about it, and began to make ready for -another tug of war. He made himself a splice-rod, short and handy, of -well-seasoned ash, with a stout top of bamboo, tapered so discreetly, -and so balanced in its spring, that verily it formed an arc, with any -pressure on it, as perfect as a leafy poplar in a stormy summer. “Now -break it if you can,” he said, “by any amount of rushes; I’ll hook you -by your jacket collar; you cut away now, and I’ll land you.” - -This was highly skilful, and he did it many times; and whenever I was -landed well, I got a lollypop, so that I was careful not to break his -tackle. Moreover he made him a landing net, with a kidney-bean stick, -a ring of wire, and his own best nightcap of strong cotton net. Then -he got the farmer’s leave, and lopped obnoxious bushes; and now the -chiefest question was: what bait, and when to offer it? In spite of -his sad rebuff, the spirit of John Pike had been equable. The genuine -angling mind is steadfast, large, and self-supported, and to the vapid, -ignominious chaff, tossed by swine upon the idle wind, it pays as -much heed as a big trout does to a dance of midges. People put their -fingers to their noses and said: “Master Pike, have you caught him -yet?” and Pike only answered: “Wait a bit.” If ever this fortitude and -perseverance is to be recovered as the English Brand (the one thing -that has made us what we are, and may yet redeem us from niddering -shame), a degenerate age should encourage the habit of fishing and -never despairing. And the brightest sign yet for our future is the -increasing demand for hooks and gut. - -Pike fished in a manlier age, when nobody would dream of cowering from -a savage because he was clever at skulking; and when, if a big fish -broke the rod, a stronger rod was made for him, according to the usage -of Great Britain. And though the young angler had been defeated, he did -not sit down and have a good cry over it. - -About the second week in June, when the May-fly had danced its day, -and died,--for the season was an early one,--and Crocker’s trout had -recovered from the wound to his feelings and philanthropy, there came -a night of gentle rain, of pleasant tinkling upon window ledges, and -a soothing patter among young leaves, and the Culm was yellow in the -morning. “I mean to do it this afternoon,” Pike whispered to me, as -he came back panting. “When the water clears there will be a splendid -time.” - -The lover of the rose knows well a gay voluptuous beetle, whose -pleasure is to lie embedded in a fount of beauty. Deep among the -incurving petals of the blushing fragrance, he loses himself in his -joys sometimes, till a breezy waft reveals him. And when the sunlight -breaks upon his luscious dissipation, few would have the heart to oust -him, such a gem from such a setting. All his back is emerald sparkles; -all his front red Indian gold, and here and there he grows white spots -to save the eye from aching. Pike put his finger in and fetched him -out, and offered him a little change of joys, by putting a Limerick -hook through his thorax, and bringing it out between his elytra. -_Cetonia aurata_ liked it not, but pawed the air very naturally, and -fluttered with his wings attractively. - -“I meant to have tried with a fern-web”, said the angler; “until I -saw one of these beggars this morning. If he works like that upon the -water, he will do. It was hopeless to try artificials again. What a -lovely colour the water is! Only three days now to the holidays. I have -run it very close. You be ready, younker.” - -With these words he stepped upon a branch of the alder, for the tone of -the waters allowed approach, being soft and sublustrous, without any -mud. Also Master Pike’s own tone was such as becomes the fisherman, -calm, deliberate, free from nerve, but full of eye and muscle. He -stepped upon the alder bough to get as near as might be to the fish, -for he could not cast this beetle like a fly; it must be dropped gently -and allowed to play. “You may come and look,” he said to me; “when the -water is so, they have no eyes in their tails.” - -The rose-beetle trod upon the water prettily, under a lively vibration, -and he looked quite as happy, and considerably more active, than when -he had been cradled in the anthers of the rose. To the eye of a fish he -was a strong individual, fighting courageously with the current, but -sure to be beaten through lack of fins; and mercy suggested, as well as -appetite, that the proper solution was to gulp him. - -“Hooked him in the gullet. He can’t get off!” cried John Pike, -labouring to keep his nerves under; “every inch of tackle is as strong -as a bell-pull. Now, if I don’t land him, I will never fish again!” - -Providence, which had constructed Pike, foremost of all things, for -lofty angling--disdainful of worm and even minnow--Providence, I say, -at this adjuration, pronounced that Pike must catch that trout. Not -many anglers are heaven-born; and for one to drop off the hook halfway -through his teens would be infinitely worse than to slay the champion -trout. Pike felt the force of this, and rushing through the rushes, -shouted: “I am sure to have him, Dick! Be ready with my nightcap.” - -Rod in a bow, like a springle-riser; line on the hum, like the string -of Paganini; winch on the gallop, like a harpoon wheel, Pike, the -head-centre of everything, dashing through thick and thin, and once -taken overhead--for he jumped into the hole, when he must have lost -him else, but the fish too impetuously towed him out, and made off in -passion for another pool, when, if he had only retired to his hover, -the angler might have shared the baker’s fate--all these things (I -tell you, for they all come up again, as if the day were yesterday) so -scared me of my never very steadfast wits, that I could only holloa! -But one thing I did, I kept the nightcap ready. - -“He is pretty nearly spent, I do believe,” said Pike; and his voice was -like balm of Gilead, as we came to Farmer Anning’s meadow, a quarter of -a mile below Crocker’s Hole. “Take it coolly, my dear boy, and we shall -be safe to have him.” - -Never have I felt, through forty years, such tremendous responsibility. -I had not the faintest notion how to use a landing net; but a mighty -general directed me. “Don’t let him see it; don’t let him see it! Don’t -clap it over him; go under him, you stupid! If he makes another rush, -he will get off, after all. Bring it up his tail. Well done! You have -him!” - -The mighty trout lay in the nightcap of Pike, which was half a fathom -long, with a tassel at the end, for his mother had made it in the -winter evenings. “Come and hold the rod, if you can’t lift him,” my -master shouted, and so I did. Then, with both arms straining, and his -mouth wide open, John Pike made a mighty sweep, and we both fell upon -the grass and rolled, with the giant of the deep flapping heavily -between us, and no power left to us, except to cry, “Hurrah!” - - -THE END. - - - CHISWICK PRESS:--CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. - TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a -predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not -changed. - -Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced -quotation marks retained. - -Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. - -Page 30: “facundity” was printed that way. - -Page 86: “cinamon” was printed that way. - -Page 125: “tired her hair in the Grecian snood” was printed that way. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales From the Telling-House, by R. D. 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