Now,if you turn to the long and elaborate pedigree of the ancient family of the Horseleighs of Clyfton Horseleigh,you will find no mention whatever of this alliance,notwithstanding the privilege given by the Sovereign and head of the Church;the said Sir John being therein chronicled as marrying,at a date apparently earlier than the above,the daughter and heiress of Richard Phelipson,of Montislope,in Nether Wessex,a lady who outlived him,of which marriage there were issue two daughters and a son,who succeeded him in his estates.How are we to account for these,as it would seem,contemporaneous wives?A strange local tradition only can help us,and this can be briefly told.
One evening in the autumn of the year 1540or 1541,a young sailor,whose Christian name was Roger,but whose surname is not known,landed at his native place of Havenpool,on the South Wessex coast,after a voyage in the Newfoundland trade,then newly sprung into existence.He returned in the ship Primrose with a cargo of 'trayne oyle brought home from the New Founde Lande,'to quote from the town records of the date.During his absence of two summers and a winter,which made up the term of a Newfoundland 'spell,'many unlooked-for changes had occurred within the quiet little seaport,some of which closely affected Roger the sailor.At the time of his departure his only sister Edith had become the bride of one Stocker,a respectable townsman,and part owner of the brig in which Roger had sailed;and it was to the house of this couple,his only relatives,that the young man directed his steps.On trying the door in Quay Street he found it locked,and then observed that the windows were boarded up.
Inquiring of a bystander,he learnt for the first time of the death of his brother-in-law,though that event had taken place nearly eighteen months before.
'And my sister Edith?'asked Roger.
'She's married again--as they do say,and hath been so these twelve months.I don't vouch for the truth o't,though if she isn't she ought to be.'Roger's face grew dark.He was a man with a considerable reserve of strong passion,and he asked his informant what he meant by speaking thus.
The man explained that shortly after the young woman's bereavement a stranger had come to the port.He had seen her moping on the quay,had been attracted by her youth and loneliness,and in an extraordinarily brief wooing had completely fascinated her--had carried her off,and,as was reported,had married her.Though he had come by water,he was supposed to live no very great distance off by land.They were last heard of at Oozewood,in Upper Wessex,at the house of one Wall,a timber-merchant,where,he believed,she still had a lodging,though her husband,if he were lawfully that much,was but an occasional visitor to the place.
'The stranger?'asked Roger.'Did you see him?What manner of man was he?''I liked him not,'said the other.'He seemed of that kind that hath something to conceal,and as he walked with her he ever and anon turned his head and gazed behind him,as if he much feared an unwelcome pursuer.But,faith,'continued he,'it may have been the man's anxiety only.Yet did I not like him.'
'Was he older than my sister?'Roger asked.
'Ay--much older;from a dozen to a score of years older.A man of some position,maybe,playing an amorous game for the pleasure of the hour.Who knoweth but that he have a wife already?Many have done the thing hereabouts of late.'
Having paid a visit to the graves of his relatives,the sailor next day went along the straight road which,then a lane,now a highway,conducted to the curious little inland town named by the Havenpool man.It is unnecessary to describe Oozewood on the South-Avon.It has a railway at the present day;but thirty years of steam traffic past its precincts have hardly modified its original features.
Surrounded by a sort of fresh-water lagoon,dividing it from meadows and coppice,its ancient thatch and timber houses have barely made way even in the front street for the ubiquitous modern brick and slate.It neither increases nor diminishes in size;it is difficult to say what the inhabitants find to do,for,though trades in woodware are still carried on,there cannot be enough of this class of work nowadays to maintain all the householders,the forests around having been so greatly thinned and curtailed.At the time of this tradition the forests were dense,artificers in wood abounded,and the timber trade was brisk.Every house in the town,without exception,was of oak framework,filled in with plaster,and covered with thatch,the chimney being the only brick portion of the structure.Inquiry soon brought Roger the sailor to the door of Wall,the timber-dealer referred to,but it was some time before he was able to gain admission to the lodging of his sister,the people having plainly received directions not to welcome strangers.
She was sitting in an upper room on one of the lath-backed,willow-bottomed 'shepherd's'chairs,made on the spot then as to this day,and as they were probably made there in the days of the Heptarchy.
In her lap was an infant,which she had been suckling,though now it had fallen asleep;so had the young mother herself for a few minutes,under the drowsing effects of solitude.Hearing footsteps on the stairs,she awoke,started up with a glad cry,and ran to the door,opening which she met her brother on the threshold.
'O,this is merry;I didn't expect 'ee!'she said.'Ah,Roger--Ithought it was John.'Her tones fell to disappointment.
The sailor kissed her,looked at her sternly for a few moments,and pointing to the infant,said,'You mean the father of this?''Yes,my husband,'said Edith.
'I hope so,'he answered.
'Why,Roger,I'm married--of a truth am I!'she cried.
