The starling flew to his mother's window stane,

It whistled and it sang,

And aye, the ower word of the tune

Was 'Johnnie tarries lang.'--JOHNNIE OF BREDISLEE

There had been distrust and dissatisfaction at home for many a day

past. Berenger could hardly be censured for loving his own wife,

and yet his family were by not means gratified by the prospect of

his bringing home a little French Papist, of whom Lady Thistlewood

remembered nothing good.

Lucy was indignantly fetched home by her stepmother, who insisted

on treating her with extreme pity as a deserted maiden, and thus

counteracting Aunt Cecily's wise representations, that there never

should, and therefore never could, have been anything save

fraternal affection between the young people, and that pity was

almost an insult to Lucy. The good girl herself was made very

uncomfortable by there demonstrations, and avoided them as much as

possible, chiefly striving in her own gentle way to prepare her

little sisters to expect numerous charms in brother Berenger's

wife, and heartily agreeing with Philip that Berenger knew his own

mind best.

'And at any rate,' quoth Philip, 'we'll have the best bonfire that

ever was seen in the country! Lucy, you'll coax my father to give

us a tar-barrel!'

The tar-barrel presided over a monstrous pile of fagots, and the

fisher-boys were promised a tester to whoever should first bring

word to Master Philip that the young lord and lady were in the

creek.

Philip gave his pony no rest, between the lock-out on the downs and

the borders of the creek; but day after day passed, and still the

smacks from Jersey held no person worth mentioning; and still the

sense of expectation kept Lucy starting at every sound, and hating

herself for her own folly.

At last Philip burst into Combe Manor, fiery red with riding and

consternation. 'Oh! father, father, Paul Duval's boat is come in,

and he says that the villain Papists have butchered every

Protestant in France.'

Sir Marmaduke's asseveration was of the strongest, that he did not

believe a word of it. Nevertheless, he took his horse and rode

down to interrogate Paul Duval, and charge him not to spread the

report was in the air. He went to the Hall, and the butler met him

with a grave face, and took him to the study, where Lord Walwyn was

sitting over letter newly received from London, giving hints from

the Low Countries of bloody work in France. And when he returned

to his home, his wife burst out upon him in despair. Here had they

been certainly killing her poor buy. Not a doubt that he was dead.

All from this miserable going to France, that had been quite

against her will.

Stoutly did Sir Marmaduke persevere in his disbelief; but every day

some fresh wave of tidings floated in. Murder wholesale had surely

been perpetrated. Now came stories of death-bells at Rouen from

the fishermen on the coast; now markets and petty sessions

discussed the foul slaughter of the Ambassador and his household;

truly related how the Queen had put on mourning, and falsely that

she had hung the French Ambassador, La Mothe Feneon. And Burleigh

wrote to his old friend from London, that some horrible carnage had

assuredly taken place, and that no news had yet been received of

Sir Francis Walsingham or of his suite.

All these days seems so many years taken from the vital power of

Lord Walwyn. Not only had his hopes and affections would

themselves closely around his grandson, but he reproached himself

severely with having trusted him in his youth and inexperience

among the seductive perils of Paris.




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