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.