You may go walk, and give me leave a while,

My lessons make no music in three parts.

TAMING OF THE SHREW

Whether the dark pool really showed Sir Marmaduke Thistlewood or

not, at the moment that his son desired that his image should be

called up, the good knight was, in effect, sitting nodding over the

tankard of sack with which his supper was always concluded, while

the rest of the family, lured out of the sunny hall by the charms

of a fresh summer evening, had dispersed into the gardens or hall.

Presently a movement in the neighbourhood made him think it

incumbent on him to open his eyes wide, and exclaim, 'I'm not

asleep.'

'Oh no! you never are asleep when there's anything you ought to

see!' returned Dame Annora, who was standing by him with her hand

on his chair.

'How now? Any tidings of the lads?' he exclaimed.

'Of the lads? No, indeed; but there will be bad tidings for the

lads if you do not see to it! Where do you think your daughter is,

Sir Duke?'

'Where? How should I know? She went out to give her sisters some

strawberries, I thought.'

'See here,' said Lady Thistlewood, leading the way to the north end

of the hall, where a door opened into what was called the Yew-tree

Grove. This consisted of five rows of yew-trees, planted at

regular intervals, and their natural mode of growth so interfered

with by constant cutting, that their ruddy trunks had been obliged

to rise branchless, till about twelve feet above ground they had

been allowed to spread out their limbs in the form of ordinary

forest trees; and, altogether, their foliage became a thick,

unbroken, dark, evergreen roof, impervious to sunshine, and almost

impervious to rain, while below their trunks were like columns

forming five arcades, floored only by that dark red crusty earth

and green lichen growth that seems peculiar to the shelter of yew-

trees.

The depth of the shade and the stillness of the place made

it something peculiarly soothing and quiet, more especially when,

as now, the sunset light came below the branches, richly tinted the

russet pillars, cast long shadows, and gleamed into all the

recesses of the interlacing boughs and polished leafage above.

'Do you see, Sir Duke?' demanded his lady.

'I see my little maids making a rare feast under the trees upon

their strawberries set out on leaves. Bless their little hearts!

what a pretty fairy feast they've made of it, with the dogs looking

on as grave as judges! It takes me young again to get a smack of

the haut-bois your mother brought from Chelsea Gardens.'

'Haut-bois! He'd never see if the house ere afire overhead.

What's that beyond?'

'No fire, my dear, but the sky all aglow with sunset, and the red

cow standing up against the light, chewing her cud, and looking as

well pleased as though she knew there wasn't her match in Dorset.'

Lady Thistlewood fairly stamped, and pointed with her fan, like a

pistol, down a side aisle of the grove, where two figures were

slowly moving along.

'Eh! what? Lucy with her apron full of rose-leaves, letting them

float away while she cons the children's lesson for the morrow with

Merrycourt? They be no great loss, when the place is full of

roses. Or why could you not call to the wench to take better heed

of them, instead of making all this pother?'

'A pretty sort of lesson it is like to be! A pretty sort of return

for my poor son, unless you take the better heed!'

'Would that I saw any return at all for either of the poor dear

lads,' sighed the knight wearily; 'but what you may be driving at I

cannot perceive.'

'What! When 'tis before your very eyes, how yonder smooth-tongued

French impostor, after luring him back to his ruin beyond seas, is

supplanting him even here, and your daughter giving herself over to

the wily viper!'

'The man is a popish priest,' said Sir Marmaduke; 'no more given to

love than Mr. Adderley or Friar Rogers.'

The dame gave a snort of derision:' Prithee, how many popish

priests be now wedded parsons? Nor, indeed, even if his story be

true, do I believe he is a priest at all. I have seen many a young

abbe, as they call themselves, clerk only in name, loitering at

court, free to throw off the cassock any moment they chose, and as

insolent as the rest. Why, the Abbe de Lorraine, cardinal that is

now, said of my complexion---'

'No vows, quotha!' muttered Sir Marmaduke, well aware of the

Cardinal de Lorraine's opinion of his lady's complexion. 'So much

the better; he is too good a young fellow to be forced to mope

single, and yet I hate men's breaking their word.'

'And that's all you have to say!' angrily cried her ladyship. 'No

one save myself ever thinks how it is to be with my poor dear

wounded, heart-broken son, when he comes home, to find himself so

scurvily used by that faithless girl of yours, ready---'

'Hold, madam,' said Sir Marmaduke, with real sternness; 'nothing

rash against my daughter. How should she be faithless to a man who

has been wedded ever since she knew him?'

'He is free now,' said Lady Thistlewood, beginning to cry (for the

last letters received from Berenger had been those from Paris,

while he still believed Eustacie to have perished at La Sablerie);

'and I do say it is very hard that just when he is rid of the

French baggage, the bane of his life, and is coming home, maybe

with a child upon his hands, and all wounded, scarred, and blurred,

the only wench he would or should have married should throw herself

away on a French vagabond beggar, and you aiding and abetting.'

'Come, come, Dame Nan,' said Sir Marmaduke, 'who told you I was

aiding and abetting?'

'Tell me not, Sir Duke, you that see them a courting under your

very eyes, and will not stir a finger to hinder it. If you like to

see your daughter take up with a foreign adventurer, why, she's no

child of mine, thank Heaven! And I've nought to do with it.'

'Pshaw, dame, there's no taking up in the case; and if there were,

sure it is not you that should be hard on Lucy.'

Whereupon Annora fell into such a flood of tears at the cruelty of

casting such things up to her, that Sir Marmaduke was fain in his

blundering way to declare that he only meant that an honest

Englishman had no chance where a Frenchman once came in, and then

very nearly to surrender at discretion. At any rate, he escaped

from her tears by going out at the door, and calling to Lucy to

mind her rose-leaves; then, as she gazed round, dismayed at the

pink track along the ground, he asked her what she had been doing.

Whereto she answered with bright face and honest eyes, that Mr.

Mericour had been going over with her the ode 'Jam satis,' of

Horatius, wherewith to prepare little Nan for him to-morrow, and

then she ran hurriedly away to secure the remainder of the rose-

leaves, while her companion was already on his knees picking up the

petals she had dropped.

'Master Merrycourt,' said Sir Marmaduke, a little gruffly, 'never

heed the flower-leaves. I want a word with you.'

Claude de Mericour rose hastily, as if somewhat struck by the tone.

'The matter is this,' said the knight, leading him from the house,

and signing back the little girls who had sprung towards them--'it

has been brought to my mind that you are but a youth, and, pardon

me, my young master, but when lads and lasses have their heads

together over one book, tongues wag.'

The colour rushed hotly into young Mericour's face, and he answered

quickly, 'My rank--I mean my order--should answer that.'

'Stay, young man, we are not in France; your order, be it what it

may, has not hindered many a marriage in England; though, look you,

no man should ever wed with my consent who broke his word to God in

so doing; but they tell me your vows are not always made at your

age.'

'Nor are they,' exclaimed Mericour, in a low voice, but with a

sudden light on his countenance. 'The tonsure was given me as a

child, but no vow of celibacy has passed my lips.'

Sir Marmaduke exclaimed, 'Oh!--' with a prolongation of the sound

that lasted till Mericour began again.

'But, sir, let tongues wag as they will, it is for nought. Your

fair daughter was but as ever preparing beforehand with me the

tasks with which she so kindly indoctrinates her little sisters. I

never thought of myself as aught but a religious, and should never

dream of human love.'

'I thought so! I said so!' said Sir Marmaduke, highly gratified.

'I knew you were an honourable man that would never speak of love

to my daughter by stealth, nor without means to maintain her after

her birth.'

The word 'birth' brought the blood into the face of the son of the

peer of France, but he merely bowed with considerable stiffness and

pride, saying, 'You did me justice, sir.'

'Come, don't be hurt, man,' said Sir Marmaduke, putting his hand on

his shoulder. 'I told you I knew you for an honourable man!

You'll be over here to-morrow to hear the little maids their Jam

satis, or whatever you call it, and dine with us after to taste

Lucy's handiwork in jam cranberry, a better thing as I take it.'

Mericour had recovered himself, smiled, shook the good Sir

Marmaduke proffered hand, and, begging to excuse himself from

bidding good night to the ladies on the score of lateness, he

walked away to cross the downs on his return to Combe Walwyn, where

he was still resident, according to the arrangement by which he was

there to await Berenger's return, now deferred so much beyond all

reasonable expectation.

Sir Marmaduke, with a free heart, betook himself to the house,

dreading to find that Lucy had fallen under the objurgations of her

step-mother, but feeling impelled to stand her protector, and

guided to the spot by the high key of Dame Annora's voice.

He found Lucy--who, on the race occasions when good-natured Lady

Thistlewood was really angry with her, usually cowered meekly--now

standing her ground, and while the dame was pausing for breath, he

heard her gentle voice answering steadily, 'No, madam, to him I

could never owe faith, nor troth, nor love, save such as I have for

Philip.'

'Then it is very unfeeling and ungrateful of you. Nor did you

think so once, but it is all his scars and---'

By this time Sir Marmaduke had come near enough to put his arm

round his daughter, and say, 'No such thing, dame. It had been

unseemly in the lass had it been otherwise. She is a good girl and

a discreet; and the Frenchman, if he has made none of their vows,

feels as bound as though he had. He's an honest fellow, thinking

of his studies and not of ladies or any such trumpery. So give me

a kiss, Lucy girl, and thou shalt study Jam satis, or any other

jam he pleases, without more to vex thee.'

Lucy, now that the warfare was over, had begun to weep so profusely

that so soon as her father released her, she turned, made a mute

gesture to ask permission to depart, and hurried away; while Lady

Thistlewood, who disliked above all that her husband should think

her harsh to her step-children, began to relate the exceeding

tenderness of the remonstrance which had been followed with such

disproportionate floods of tears.

Poor Sir Marmaduke hoped at least that the veil of night had put an

end to the subject which harassed him at a time when he felt less

capable than usual of bearing vexation, for he was yearning sadly

after his only son. The youths had been absent ten months, and had

not been heard of for more than three, when they were just leaving

Paris in search of the infant. Sir Francis Walsingham, whose

embassy had ended with the death of Charles IX., knew nothing of

them, and great apprehensions respecting them were beginning to

prevail, and, to Sir Marmaduke especially, seemed to be eating out

the peace and joy of his life. Philip, always at his father's side

ever since he could run alone, was missed at every visit to stable

or kennel; the ring of his cheery voice was wanting to the house;

and the absence of his merry whistle seemed to make Sir Marmaduke's

heart sink like lead as he donned his heavy boots, and went forth

in the silver dew of the summer morning to judge which of his

cornfields would soonest be ready for the sickle. Until this

expedition of his sons he had, for more than fourteen years never

been alone in those morning rounds on his farm; and much as he

loved his daughters, they seemed to weigh very light in the scale

compared with the sturdy heir who loved every acre with his own

ancestral love. Indeed, perhaps, Sir Marmaduke had deeper, fonder

affection for the children of his first marriage, because he had

barely been able to give his full heart to their mother before she

was taken from him, and he had felt almost double tenderness to be

due to them, when he at length obtained his first and only true

love. Now, as he looked over the shinning billows of the waving

barley, his heart was very sore with longing for Philip's gladsome

shout at the harvest-field, and he thought with surprise and

compunction how he had seen Lucy leave him struggling with a flood

of tears. While he was still thus gazing, a head appeared in the

narrow path that led across the fields, and presently he recognized

the slender, upright form of the young Frenchman.

'A fair good morrow to you, Master Merrycourt! You come right

early to look after your ode?'

'Sir,' said Mericour, gravely saluting him, 'I come to make you my

confession. I find that I did not deal truly with you last night,

but it was all unwittingly.'

'How?' exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, recollecting Lucy's tears and

looking much startled. 'You have not---' and there he broke off,

seeing Mericour eager to speak.

'Sir,' he said, 'I was bred as one set apart from love. I had

never learnt to think it possible to me,--I thought so even when I

replied to you last evening; but, sir, the words you then spoke,

the question you asked me set my heart burning, and my senses

whirling---' And between agitation and confusion he stammered and

clasped his hands passionately, trying to continue what he was

saying, but muttering nothing intelligible.

Sir Marmaduke filled up the interval with a long whistle of

perplexity; but, too kind not to pity the youth's distress, he laid

his hand on his shoulder, saying, 'You found out you were but a

hot-blooded youth after all, but an honest one. For, as I well

trust, my lass knows nought of this.'

'How should she know, sir, what I knew not myself?'

'Ha! ha!' chuckled Sir Duke to himself, 'so 'twas all Dame Nan's

doing that the flame has been lighted! Ho! ho! But what is to

come next is the question?' and he eyed the French youth from head

to foot with the same considering look with which he was wont to

study a bullock.

'Sir, sir,' cried Mericour, absolutely flinging himself on his knee

before him with national vehemence, 'do give me hope! Oh! I will

bless you, I will---'

'Get up, man,' said the knight, hastily; 'no fooling of this sort.

The milkmaids will be coming. Hope--why, what sort of hope can be

given you in the matter?' he continued; 'you are a very good lad,

and I like you well enough, but you are not the sort of stuff one

gives one's daughter to. Ay, ay, I know you are a great man in

your own country, but what are you here?'

'A miserable fugitive and beggar, I know that,' said Mericour,

vehemently, 'but let me have but hope, and there is nothing I will

not be!'

'Pish!' said Sir Marmaduke.

'Hear me,' entreated the youth, recalled to common sense: 'you know

that I have lingered at the chateau yonder, partly to study

divinity and settle my mind, and partly because my friend Ribaumont

begged me to await his return. I will be no longer idle; my mind

is fixed. To France I cannot return, while she gives me no choice

between such doctrine and practice as I saw at court, and such as

the Huguenots would have imposed on me. I had already chosen

England as my country before--before this wild hope had awakened in

me. Here, I know my nobility counts for nothing, though, truly,

sir, few names in France are prouder. But it shall be no

hindrance. I will become one of your men of the robe. I have

heard that they can enrich themselves and intermarry with your

country noblesse.'

'True, true,' said Sir Marmaduke, 'there is more sense in that

notion than there seemed to be in you at first. My poor brother

Phil was to have been a lawyer if he had lived, but it seems to me

you are a long way off from that yet! Why, our Templars be mostly

Oxford scholars.'

'So it was explained to me,' said Mericour, 'but for some weeks

past the Lady Burnet, to whose sons, as you know, I have been

teaching French, has been praying me to take the charge of them at

Oxford, by which means I should at least be there maintained, and

perchance obtain the means for carrying on my studies at the

Temple.'

'Not ill thought of,' said the knight; 'a fair course enough for

you; but look you, you must have good luck indeed to be in a state

to marry within ten or fifteen years,--very likely not then--having

nothing of your own, and my wench but little, for Lucy's portion

cannot be made equal to her sisters', her mother having been no

heiress like Dame Nan. And would you have me keep the maid

unwedded till she be thirty or thirty-five years old, waiting for

your fortune?'

Mericour looked terribly disconcerted at this.

'Moreover,' added the knight, 'they will all be at me, so soon as

those poor lads come home--Heaven grant they do--to give her to

Berenger.'

'Sir,' said Mericour, looking up with a sudden smile, 'all that I

would ask is, what you are too good a father to do, that you would

not put any force on her inclinations.'

'How now? you said you had never courted her!'

'Nor have I, sir. But I see the force of your words. Should she

love another man, my dream were, of course, utterly vain, but if

not---' He broke off.

'Well, well, I am no man to force a girl to a match against her

will; but never trust to that, man. I know what women are; and let

a fantastic stranger come across them, there's an end of old

friends. But yours is an honest purpose, and you are a good youth;

and if you had anything to keep her with, you should have Lucy to-

morrow, with all my heart.'

Then came the further question whether Mericour should be allowed

an interview with Lucy. Sir Marmaduke was simple enough to fancy

that she need not be made aware of the cause of Mericour's new

arrangement, and decided against it. The young man sorrowfully

acquiesced, but whether such a secret could be kept was another

thing. To him it would have been impossible to renew their former

terms of intercourse without betraying his feelings, and he

therefore absented himself. Lady Thistlewood triumphed openly in

Sir Marmaduke's having found him out and banished him from the

house; Lucy looked white and shed silent tears. Her father's soft

heart was moved, and one Sunday evening he whispered into her ear

that Dame Nan was all wrong, and Mericour only kept away because he

was an honourable man. Then Lucy smiled and brightened, and Sir

Duke fondly asked her if she were fool enough to fancy herself in

love with the man.

'Oh no, how should she, when he had never named love to her? She

was only glad her father esteemed him.'

So then foolish, fond Sir Marmaduke told her all that had passed,

and if it had not been too late, he would have sent for Mericour

from Lady Burnet's; but his own story did almost as well in

bringing back Lucy's soft pink color. She crept up into Cecily's

room one day, and found that she knew all about it, and was as kind

and sympathizing as she could be--when a vocation had been given

up, though no vows had been taken. She did not quite understand

it, but she would take it on trust.




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024