University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The Mermaid of Galloway.

It is proper, before we move onward with our
tale, to give some account of affairs at the Rose
Croft, towards which the interest of our lady readers
especially, is very naturally directed.

After Willy of the Flats had departed with the
missive that was designed to frustrate the duel, there
was, for a considerable time, a general restlessness
manifested by the household, extending from Alice
Warden and Blanche, downward through the entire
roll of domestics; for Willy had not omitted to avail
himself of the occasion to give Mistress Coldcale a
circumstantial history of the whole affair of the quarrel
between the Skipper and the Secretary, in the
presence of Michael Mossbank, as well as of the
housemaids, the cook and the scullion, all of whom

were opportunely assembled in the kitchen, at work
amongst the litter and wreck of the last night's feast,
and were, of course, thrown by the recital into a
condition of most extraordinary doubt and curiosity
as to the upshot of the adventure. The restlessness
to which I have referred seemed equally to defy the
consolations of philosophy and the power of remaining
stationary in any one place, by any one body, for
two consecutive minutes. The common topic of apprehension
was that Willy might not reach father
Pierre in season, or if he did, that father Pierre might
not find aid at hand to intercept the combatants; two
very reasonable grounds of distrust, which brought
about that nervous agitation which is not uncommon
in female councils. In the present case, after much
tribulation and perplexity in the two sisters, it was
thought expedient to call Mistress Coldcale to the
consultation regarding what was proper to be done
in the emergency; and the matter was now entertained
in an ambulatory debate, commencing in the
parlour, and moving successively into the hall, thence
up stairs to a chamber window, down again to the
front door, and finally to the verge of the cliff, at the
extremity of the lawn overlooking the river. At this
last spot, Mistress Coldcale cast her eyes over the
water, and there discovered the Skipper's brigantine,
which, as my reader is aware, had been dropped
down to this anchorage early in the morning. This
phenomenon straightway suggested a most ingenious
expedient, which, from the vivacity of its enunciation,
it was obvious the housekeeper considered as
decisive of the question under deliberation.

“Good luck the while!” she exclaimed, “if there
is not Master Cocklescraft's own vessel, the Olive
Branch, lying, fast and firm, in the very mouth of the
creek. How lucky for us! The Skipper, Mistress
Alice, as sure as we are women, is on board, and
intends to go thence to Cornwaleys's Cross;—now, as
he must come within hail of our landing, we have
only to station Michael Mossbank here with the
long Spanish fowling-piece, and cause him to warn
Cocklescraft, in the name of Master Warden, to forbear
coming up the creek on peril of his life. Your
father did so in Fendall's first rebellion, when Sawahega
and his men frightened the priests of St. Inigoe's
yonder out of their wits, by sailing into the creek. Why
should n't we try it with the Skipper? Michael shall
fire upon him if he dare to make light of the warning;
and lest bloodshed might come of it, the gardener
may take his aim somewhat aslant and over-head.
I will promise you, no sailor ventures another
stroke of an oar forward after that.”

“Mercy on us, Mistress Bridget!” ejaculated Alice
Warden, “would you involve us in a war with the
Skipper and his surly comrades?”

“At least till Master Anthony Warden, your worshipful
father, comes home and takes the matter into
his own hands, I would make war, as we may, against
Cocklescraft, or any one else that should come into
our waters to harm Master Albert. Troth, would I!”

“I am sure, I do not know what to do,” said
Blanche, not heeding the belligerent device of the
housekeeper, and looking ruefully, through a tear,

over the waste of waters—“I am sure I do not know
what to do, unless it be to send for our dear Lady
Maria.”

As this last seemed to be the most practicable hint
which had yet been suggested, it was seized upon
and adopted with surprising unanimity; and the consultation
was immediately adjourned to carry it into
operation. Mistress Alice and the housekeeper hurried
to speed measures to that end, and Blanche remained
fixed upon the bank in a brown study, apparently
watching the people upon the deck of the
brigantine.

Luckily, before Michael Mossbank could make
ready a horse to do the errand which Mistress Alice
had confided to him, the Lady Maria was descried,
approaching the house, mounted on her ambling pony,
and followed by a body-guard in the shape of an old
serving-man of the Lord Proprietary. In brief space
she alighted at the door.

The good lady had heard nothing of the tidings
which had diffused such sadness over the household
at the Rose Croft, and, it may be imagined, now received
them with a manifestation of concern commensurate
not only with her regard for the Secretary,
but also with the peculiar solicitude which it
seemed to be her province to extend over all matters
relating to the affairs of the young people within her
brother's dominion.

“Oh, the bloody-minded Skipper! and oh, rash
Master Albert!” she exclaimed, after the narrative
was concluded. “I foresaw it—I dreamed of it—I
almost knew some mischief was hatching, ever since

that wicked look which I marked the Skipper give to
Master Albert, when the Secretary chided him for
being too free in his importunity regarding the mantle—as
you may remember, Blanche.”

“I wish the fingers of the sempstress over sea had
been blistered ere they stitched that foul mantle,” said
Blanche, “and the Skipper in the bottom of the Red
Sea, that brought it here!”

“I would rather wish that Master Albert should
find no Skipper at Cornwaleys's Cross to-day,” returned
the lady, not knowing exactly what to wish;
“or that no such place as Cornwaleys's Cross was to
be found in the province.”

“Find no Skipper there!” exclaimed Blanche; “if
a poor wish of mine might bring it to pass, Master
Albert's sword should deal so sharply with him that
he should never again set foot in the Port. It all
comes of that foolish birth-day ball which I must
needs be persuaded by Grace Blackiston to give. I
would I were not eighteen for five years to come!”

“If harm should befall Master Albert,” interposed
the housekeeper, who felt herself privileged in this
time of general tribulation to give her opinion, “it
would be for your comfort that you never saw nor
would see eighteen. If I were Mistress Blanche, I
know I should never find my natural rest again, to
lose so sweet a gentleman as the Secretary. But the
crosses of this life come not by desert, nor spare the
best, as the proverb says. I fear the Skipper is an
overmatch for Master Albert.”

“Surely, Mistress Coldcale,” said Blanche, nettled
at the housekeeper's freedom, as well as at her undervaluing

the Secretary's prowess, “thou hast no warrant
for such speech. Master Albert hath a valiant
heart and a hand to defend himself, and may
match with the Skipper in any quarrel. And if he
were not his match,” she added, with an ill-concealed
struggle to appear indifferent to the result, “he is no
kinsman of mine, I trow, that I should wish myself
dead.” And having thus given vent to an emotion
suggested by that reserve which a maiden feels who
first begins to be conscious of a secret affection for a
lover,—a sentiment that until this day had slumbered
unacknowledged at her heart,—she covered her face
with her hands, and left the room, to weep in private.

At the top of the Collector's dwelling was a small
balcony or platform that had been constructed for an
observatory, from which vessels approaching the Port
might be descried with a perspective glass at the most
remote seaward point. From this elevation, looking
inland, the road leading from the town around the
head of St. Inigoe's, might be discerned for some extent
along the plain, and at intervals, through the
forest, where it became tangled amongst the hills.
To this balcony, in the disquietude of her mind,
Blanche had gone secretly to look out upon the road
and note those who travelled upon it, hoping by this
means to satisfy herself on that anxious question
whether any persons were abroad to prevent the
duel. Long she gazed there, with her brow shaded
by her hand; and when within an hour of noon, she
discerned two figures, on horseback, moving upon the
hill-side almost at a walk,—it was with an emotion
that produced a shudder through her frame that she

recognised at that distance the short dark cloak and
the low cap and feather of the Secretary.

“Oh, blessed Mother!” she exclaimed involuntarily,
“it is Master Albert: our care has been but lost.
So leisurely he moves along, his path has not been
followed; nor is it like to be, for noon has almost
come, and I see no father Pierre behind, although the
road is open townward to my sight full two good miles.
And he hath Master Dauntrees with him, as I take
that companion to be; and Master Dauntrees would
not guide him so much at ease if there were followers.
—Jesu Maria! hither comes the Skipper's boat, skimming
the water with such speed as makes it sure he
shall reach the Cross in time,” she continued, as she
turned her eye from the land to the river, and saw
the shallop cleaving the surface of St. Inigoe's creek,
abreast the Rose Croft, under the lusty stroke of two
oarsmen, and bearing Cocklescraft and his comrades,
so near to her that she was able to distinguish, upon
the bench of the boat, the swords which were to be
used in the combat. “Well-a-day! it is a foredoomed
trial, which may not be averted by any caution of
mine. The Holy Martyrs guard our good Master
Albert, and turn danger from his path! as for his
gentleness and bravery he doth deserve.”

The maiden muttered these short and almost incoherent
aspirations, half in self-communion, half in
prayer, during which a melancholy expression of
distress rested upon her countenance, and often, like
the forsaken lady of the ballad,

Whilst she thus indulged her secret grief, voices
were heard below in the court-yard.

“It is the Skipper's boat, Michael Mossbank,”
said the voice of Bridget Coldcale, “and the Skipper
in it, with his rufflers at his side. The fowling
piece, Michael!—the long Spanish gun you shoot
ducks with in the winter!—haste ye, man, and fetch
it, or they will be out of thy reach! Was ever such
a lurdan—such a poking old elf!—I have the heart
to load and fire with my own hand. These headstrong
men!”

“Go to thy kitchen-craft, thou silly-witted woman!”
returned the voice of the gardener, with a
hoarse laugh; “thou'rt a fool with thy prating of
the fowling piece! Take a ladle of hot water and
fling it in the wind—it will scald yon sailors, perchance—'tis
but a furlong cast: the creek is but a
half mile wide.”

“It was not so wide, thou crusty mole catcher,
but that his worship from this bank could turn that
savage Sawahega and his canoes back as they came,
I warrant you.”

“Tush, dame Bridget, get thee to peeling onions!
—What dost thou know of Sawahega and his canoes?
Were there not fifty of us with musket and culverin
to boot!—Let these women prate and the world will
be so thick set with lies that they will darken the
light of the sun—a man would lose his way in day-time,
unless he bore a lantern.”

This last hit of the gardener's seemed to be decisive,
for the voice of Mistress Coldcale was immediately

afterwards heard in the house, showing that
she had evidently retreated.

“Ah!” cried the maiden, who still retained her
position in the balcony, as she now unexpectedly
discerned the figures of the Proprietary and father
Pierre riding at a pretty brisk gait along the plain
from the direction of the town—“a blessing on him!
Father Pierre hath got our message and is on his
way with his good Lordship. The saints lend them
speed!—though I fear they go too late. The Skipper's
boat hath turned into St. Luke's and will be at
the Cross ere his Lordship reach the hills,—though
when he reach the hills his journey is but half performed.”

It was not long after this that she heard the bell of
St. Inigoe's across the creek, pealing its customary
announcement of noon, and still the Proprietary and
the priest had not yet ceased to be observed on the
road descending from the highland. The boat of
the Skipper had disappeared in the recesses of St.
Luke's, and the Secretary with his companion had
already abundant time to reach the appointed ground
of the combat. Overcome by doubt, suspense and
apprehension, Blanche retreated, with a stealthy
step, as if afraid even to hear the noise of her own
foot-fall to her chamber, and there, with a throbbing
heart and trembling frame, threw herself upon her
bed. In this condition she lay conjuring up the
phantoms of her imagination, and giving full scope
to that distressing augury of evil which, in moments
when we are compelled passively to contemplate the

dangers to which those we love are exposed, impels
us by an almost superstitious presentiment to believe
and expect the worst. When two hours and more
had elapsed, the housekeeper with precipitate haste
thrust herself panting into the chamber, and roused
the maiden from this unhappy meditation, with an
abruptly-communicated piece of news.

“His Lordship has made safe work of it, Mistress
Blanche,—most joyful work of it!—bless him for a
charitable, careful, pains-taking Lord,—and bless
you, Mistress Blanche, for your thoughtful wisdom
in sending to father Pierre. Oh, I have happy news
for you!”

“Tell it, I pray you, Mistress Bridget!”

“Michael Mossbank, my dear young lady, comes
but now, riding in at full speed from the mill of St.
Inigoe's, where he went an hour ago to have a chat
with goodman Bolt the miller—”

“In mercy, tell me the pith of this story at once,”
interposed the maiden with an impatience which
could not brook the housekeeper's prolixity.

“Well, there, Michael spied, as he was talking to
the miller,—he spied, riding along the road from
Cornwaleys's Cross towards the town, who do you
think?—Why, his Lordship and father Pierre, both
looking as long faced as the oldest drudge-horse
that takes a meal bag to mill—and after them, some
good distance behind, riding as silent as if they were
going to a funeral, Master Albert,—our dear Master
Albert,—and that old sinner and evil adviser, Captain
Dauntrees of the Fort. And as this plainly signified
that all was over and no harm done, Michael mounts

his nag and comes clinking home here as fast as
four legs can bring him. Isn't it precious news,
Mistress?”

“Art sure of it, Mistress Coldcale?” demanded
Blanche, with a sudden sunshine bursting out upon
her face and chasing away the clouds of grief which
but a moment before lowered upon it—“Art truly
sure of it, sweet Bridget?”

“As sure of it,—bless you for a happy young lady!
—as that my name was Bridget Skewer till my dear
goodman, peace to his bones! changed it into Coldcale.”

Blanche laughed outright, and went straight into
the parlour to share the pleasure of this piece of intelligence
with her sister and the Lady Maria. These
ladies, however, had already been apprised of all
that the housekeeper had told to the maiden, and the
pony being in waiting at the door, the sister of the
Proprietary hurried off with a speed stimulated by
her eagerness to learn every thing from her brother,
leaving Alice and the maiden happy in finding that
at least no serious harm had befallen the Secretary.

Albert Verheyden, although keenly sensitive to
the displeasure of the Proprietary, in reviewing his
conduct throughout the quarrel with the Skipper, felt
a lively satisfaction at the course he had pursued.
The provocation had been so flagrant and the bearing
of Cocklescraft towards him so evidently exasperated
by the favour he had won from the maiden,
that it was with a natural exultation he looked back
upon the recent meeting and its result. His sentiment
towards his adversary in this retrospect, was

somewhat of the nature of that imputed, in the metrical
tale, to the Chieftain at his triumph over his unnatural
brothers—

He had foiled his enemy at his boasted weapon,
and sent him humbled from the field. But what was
chiefly pleasing to him in the review was, that the
strife had arisen in the cause of Blanche Warden,
and that he had, like a knight of ancient adventure,
rescued her from the importunity of a disagreeable
suitor. The reproof of the Proprietary was almost
lost sight of in the gratulation of his own heart upon
the successful issue of this his first essay of manhood;
and, besides, he felt a secret consciousness that however
his Lordship might openly chide him for this
infraction of the law, still he could not undervalue
him for his prompt resentment of an offence to which,
especially in that age, it would have been a foul dishonour
to submit. Then the bland interposition and
affectionate support of father Pierre, who rebuked as
became a churchman the rude appeal to arms, and
yet stood by him as a friend to share the pleasure of
his triumph, gave him still further confidence that he
should lose neither the countenance nor the esteem of
the Proprietary by what had happened. With a disburdened
heart, therefore, and a contented spirit of
self-approbation, he went to his bed that night, and
enjoyed a sleep as refreshing and deep as the slumber
of childhood.

The duel was attended by another consequence

still more important. The Secretary had become
the champion of the maiden of the Rose Croft, and
it was no more than a natural sequence, justified and
approved by all experience, that he should claim to
think of her as his mistress, and to render the open
homage of a lover. Heretofore his demeanour towards
her had been marked by a quiet humility, an
almost worshipping deference—reserved and struggling
to conceal the passion which glowed in his bosom:
but he now became aware of a sudden change
in his estimate of himself, and of a consciousness
that his manhood entitled him to speak to the mistress
of his heart with bolder speech and more unquestionable
pretension.

When morning broke upon him it found his spirits
enlivened by gay thoughts, and his countenance
made cheerful by the impression of pleasant dreams,
—dreams that had conducted him into fairy bowers
where all the images that enchanted his view bore
some reference to the Rose of St. Mary's. He
sprang from his couch with the buoyancy of unusual
health, and, whilst he made his toilet, his mind ran
with an impatient resolve upon an early visit to the
Rose Croft.

Accordingly, as soon in the day as he might with
propriety visit at the Collector's dwelling—for all at
once he grew scrupulous as to these observances
which, until now, had never entered into his reckonings—he
was mounted on his steed and forth and
away, a gallant cavalier seeking the bower of his
lady-love.

When he arrived at the Rose Croft, Blanche and

her father were just prepared to set out on a morning's
walk, and were upon the lawn sauntering
around the rustic temple which contained the altar
of St. Therese.

“Welcome, Master Verheyden,” said the Collector
with a brisk and cordial greeting; “heartily welcome!
Zounds, man, you had brought us into a
fine coil yesterday!—my women here, Alice and
Blanche, yea and Mistress Bridget and Meg and
Sue,—the whole of them,—were as much astir as if
the Sinniquoes had made an inroad upon us. You
have been playing the swashing buckler-man since
we saw you last;—you must try your hand at edge
and point, Master Albert. Marry, after this thou
mayst wear thy toledo with an air, cock thy beaver,
and draw at a word, like a pretty fellow of the rapier.
Give us a hand, good Albert,—I thank thee
for the service thou hast done in lowering the plume
of that saucy sea-urchin. Why didst not run him
through the body?”

The Secretary was not prepared for this bluff
questioning, and as he took the Collector's hand, his
cheek reddened and he replied with a modest mein,
“I sought no quarrel with the Skipper and am thankful
that we parted with so little hurt.”

Notwithstanding the complacency with which
Albert regarded his recent conduct, and the gaiety
of heart with which he now visited the Rose Croft;
and despite his resolution to assume a bolder carriage
in the presence of Blanche, his bearing at this moment
was characterized by more than ordinary diffidence
and show of respect. It was even with some

confusion that he now approached the maiden and
offered her his hand; and, what was equally to be
remarked, Blanche Warden, on her part, seemed to
have lost that confiding and unguarded tone of intimacy
with which she was ever in the habit of receiving
the Secretary. Still, joy sparkled in her eye
and warmed her features with a genial flush, as she
noted Albert's humbleness in her presence, and read
in it his more profound sense of the value of her
favour.

“Our birth-day feast,” he said, after saluting the
maiden, “will be well remembered in the province
for the general content it has given. All voices are
praising Mistress Blanche: and she has won many
sincere wishes from the townspeople for long and
happy life.”

“Alas!” replied the maiden, “whatever others
may think, I have wept sorely for that unlucky feast.
I did not wish it at first, and, in the end, had better
reason to grieve that I had been persuaded to
make it.”

“Master Verheyden,” interposed the Collector,
“thou hast come most seasonably hither: this girl
must have me consent to trail my old limbs after her,
like a young gallant, this morning, in a ramble to
enjoy the air, as she calls it—simply because she
hath happened to leave her nest with the merry
chirp of a spring lark. Thou shalt take my place
as a fitter man for such service. There, Blanche, is
the Secretary for thee—a better squire of thy body
than thy old rusty-jointed father! I have a more profitable
calling on hand to visit my fields. Ha, Master

Albert, you wear a love token on your breast!”
added the old gentleman, with a playful smile, as he
took in his hand a small miniature set in gold, which
hung by a chain from the Secretary's neck, and
had accidentally escaped unobserved from beneath
his vest in the action of dismounting from his
horse; “some lady of the other side of the water,
eh? And on the back, here, letters which my eyes
are too old to make out without my glasses—a posy,
no doubt: `Let fools great Cupid's yoke disdain—'
thou know'st the song, Master; 'tis the way of all
living.”

“'Tis my poor mother's likeness,” said Albert,
gravely, at the same time restoring the miniature to
his bosom. “She put it round my neck with her
own hands whilst she lay upon her death-bed: and I
have worn it ever since. 'Tis the only remembrance
I have of her. I was a child when she died, but not
too young to feel the loss of one who loved me so
well.”

The tear started into the Secretary's eye as he
spoke, and when Mr. Warden saw it, a tear also
came into his, which he brushed away with his hand,
saying, with an assumed vivacity, “Pardon, good
lad! a thousand times I ask your forgiveness for my
rude speech. I did not think of what I said; and I
but love thee the more for thy kind memory of thy
mother. Hang up care by his wing! the world is
overstocked with it. You will stay dinner with us,
good master? I go forth to look after some necessary
affairs, and will be back before this girl has led
you her dance. At dinner I will have much to say

to you concerning that tarpaulin bully. A plague on
the wool cap! I could have found it in my heart to
fight with him myself:—my gray hairs against his
raven locks! Do you know, Master Verheyden, he
was fain to ask my leave to woo our girl here—this
Blanche of mine? See, how the wench hoists her red
ensign on the cheek at the thought of it:—ay, and
pressed it on me so rudely, and with such clap-me-on-the-back
familiarity, as he would have used to
cozen Mistress Dorothy of the Crow and Archer
out of a jack of ale. Thou should'st have spitted him
on thy sword, for a public benefaction, and had the
thanks of the Mayor and Aldermen for thy good
works. I would as lief see him so trussed as the
haunch of a brocket in my own kitchen.”

“Nay, my dear father,” interrupted Blanche, as
she saw a storm rising on the Collector's brow, “pray
you say no more about the Skipper. Master Albert
doth not like to be tasked with discourse of his quarrel;
and besides, the Skipper—”

“Hath had his belly full, I warrant thou would'st
say, girl. Well, well, I will order my horse, and
away; so go your own road. Farewell, Master
Albert, until I see you again at dinner.”

The Secretary and the maiden now set forth upon
their walk, and directed their steps along the upper
margin of the bank which overhung the river, until
they were soon shaded in the forest that grew thickly
upon the steep slope by which the plain descended
to the beach. Out of this bank, at frequent intervals,
gushed forth pure springs of water, that found their
way to the river through beds of matted grass and

leaves. A light sunny haze mantled the whole landscape
of forest, field, and river, and threw a warm
and rich tint over the perspective. The grass was
still green as in spring; but the woods glittered, as
the light breeze shook their bright and many-coloured
foliage, which autumn had flung like a harlequin-garb
over every spray. The scene, at all times preeminent
for its beauty, was now fraught with its
greatest attraction for the eye: and the genial temperature
of the season—that delightful period when
the first frosts vanish at the touch of the sun—still
enhanced the pleasure which the spectator felt in
wandering over the landscape.

“Heaven hath garnished out no fairer land than
this,” said the Secretary, as at length, after pursuing
a path that wound through this wilderness,—sometimes
descending to the pebbly beach and again
rising to the level of the plain above—Blanche had
seated herself upon the trunk of a fallen tree, in a
position from which the whole extent of the river, the
fort, and the upper headland, with the Town House,
were visible; “nor is there a nook upon this wide
globe which I would more contentedly make my
home.”

“It will ever be your home, Master Albert,” was
the maiden's reply; “for they who come hither from
the old world seldom think of going back. You can
find no reason to return.”

“My fortunes are guided by our good Lord,” returned
the Secretary, “and even now he sometimes
speaks of going hence again to England. With my
own free will, methinks, I should never leave this

sunny land. These woods are richer to my eye than
pent-up cities; these spreading oaks and stately poplars,
than our groined and shafted cathedrals and
our cloistered aisles: yes, and I more love to think of
the free range of this woodland life, these forest-fed
deer, and flight of flocking wild fowl, than all the
busy assembling of careful men which throng the
great marts of trade.”

“Surely his Lordship would not take you hence
against your will,” said Blanche, thoughtfully. “Indeed
we could not,”—she continued, and then suddenly
checking herself, as if upon some self-reproof for
speaking more freely than was proper, added, “his
Lordship will not leave the province again,—or if he
does—”

“I am but an humble Secretary of his Lordship,”
interrupted Albert, “and needs must follow as he shall
command.”

“He will not command it, Master Albert. Our
dear Lady Maria loves you well, as I have heard her
say, and will persuade his Lordship to command you
stay.”

“I need not his command,” replied the Secretary;
“it would be enough for me I was not constrained
to go hence; your wish, Mistress Blanche,—nay,
your permission would keep me here, even if my inclination
tended back again to the old world.”

“My wish, Master Albert! how could I have other
wish but that thou should'st stay?” inquired the
maiden, in all singleness of heart. “Do we not sing
and play together; ride, sail, hawk, and hunt together?
Have you not promised to render that history

of the good Chevalier into English for me? Am I not
to be skilled in the French tongue, under your teaching?
Oh, how could I wish other than that you stay
with us, Master Albert!”

“Come what hazards may,” said the Secretary,
with deep emotion, as he took the maiden's hand,
“I swear by this good day and by this beauteous
world, that I will never leave thee.”

But few words more passed—and these were of
such an import as my reader may well conceive,
from what has gone before—till Albert Verheyden
kneeled at the maiden's feet and vowed unalterable
devotion to her happiness, and rose a betrothed lover.
With lingering steps and freer speech, Blanche hanging
on Albert's arm, the plighted pair slowly returned
to the Rose Croft.