But the longest waiting must end. It came on the evening of the very day that the Seigneur of Rozel went to Angèle’s father and bluntly told him he was ready to forego all Norman-Jersey prejudice against the French and the Huguenot religion, and take Angèle to wife without penny or estate.
In reply to the seigneur, Monsieur Aubert said that he was conscious of an honor, and referred monsieur to his daughter, who must answer for herself; but he must tell Monsieur of Rozel that monsieur’s religion would, in his own sight, be a high bar to the union. To that the seigneur said that no religion that he had could be a bar to anything at all, and so long as the young lady could manage her household, drive a good bargain with the craftsmen and hucksters, and have the handsomest face and manners in the Channel Islands, he’d ask no more; and she might pray for him and his salvation without let or hindrance.
The seigneur found the young lady in a little retreat among the rocks, called by the natives La Chaire. Here she sat sewing upon some coarse linen for a poor fisherwoman’s babe when the seigneur came near. She heard the scrunch of his heels upon the gravel, the clank of his sword upon the rocks, and looked up with a flush, her needle poised; for none should know of her presence in this place save her father. When she saw who was her visitor, she rose. After greeting and compliment, none too finely put, but more generous than fitted with Jersey parsimony, the gentleman of Rozel came at once to the point.
“My name is none too bad,” said he—“Raoul Lemprière, of the Lemprières that have been here since Rollo ruled in Normandy. My estate is none worse than any in the whole islands; I have more horses and dogs than any gentleman of my acres; and I am more in favor at court than De Carteret of St. Ouen’s. I am the Queen’s butler, and I am the first that royal favor granted to set up three dove-cotes, one by St. Aubin’s, one by St. Helier’s, and one at Rozel; and—and,” he added, with a lumbering attempt at humor—“and, on my oath, I’ll set up another dove-cote without my sovereign’s favor, with your leave alone. By Our Lady, I do love that color in yon cheek! Just such a color had my mother when she snatched from the head of my cousin of Carteret’s milkmaid-wife the bonnet of a lady of quality and bade her get to her heifers. God’s beauty! but ’tis a color of red primroses in thy cheeks and blue campions in thine eyes. Come, I warrant I can deepen that color”—he bowed low—“Madame of Rozel, if it be not too soon!”
The girl listened to this cheerful and loquacious proposal and courtship all in one, ending with the premature bestowal of a title, in mingled anger, amusement, disdain, and apprehension. Her heart fluttered, then stood still, then flew up in her throat, then grew terribly hot and hurt her, so that she pressed her hand to her bosom as though that might ease it. By the time he had finished, drawn himself up, and struck his foot upon the ground in burly emphasis of his devoted statements, the girl had sufficiently recovered to answer him composedly, and with a little glint of demure humor in her eyes. She loved another man; she did not care so much as a spark for this happy, swearing, swashbuckling gentleman; yet she saw he had meant to do her honor. He had treated her as courteously as was in him to do; he chose her out from all the ladies of his acquaintance to make her an honest offer of his hand—he had said nothing about his heart; he would, should she marry him, throw her scraps of good-humor, bearish tenderness, drink to her health among his fellows, and respect and admire her—even exalt her almost to the rank of a man in his own eyes; and he had the tolerance of the open-hearted and open-handed man. All these things were as much a compliment to her as though she were not a despised Huguenot, an exiled lady of no fortune. She looked at him a moment with an almost solemn intensity, so that he shifted his ground uneasily, but at once smiled encouragingly, to relieve her embarrassment at the unexpected honor done her. She had remained standing; now, as he made a step towards her, she sank down upon the seat and waved him back courteously.
“A moment, Monsieur of Rozel,” she ventured. “Did my father send you to me?”
He inclined his head and smiled again.
“Did you say to him what you have said to me?” she asked, not quite without a touch of malice.
“I left out about the color in the cheek,” he answered, with a smirk at what he took to be the quickness of his wit.
“You kept your paint-pot for me,” she replied, softly.