Forest Days: A Romance of Old Times

natural you should--How could you help yourself, poor youth!" "And you love me as much, Lucy," added the young knight; "Is it not so?" "No!" cried Lucy, "I hate you! You know it quite well, and I shall hate you still more if you tease me about it!" "Hate me in the same way ever," replied Hugh de Monthermer, kissing her cheek, "and I will forgive you, my sweet mistress.--But the case is this, Lucy," he added, in graver tone; "there are difficulties and dangers before us. Why they have brought you here, I do not know. How long they may keep you, I cannot tell; but the moment that I dare to leave you, I must march with all speed towards Wales. Battle and peril are in my way--perhaps I may never see you more. A thousand evils may occur, a thousand dark mischances may separate us for long, if not for ever, and I would fain----" "Say no more, Hugh, say no more," cried Lucy, at once rendered serious by his words; "I do love you, if it will make you happy to hear it. I have never loved any but you--There, I can say no more, can I?" Hugh rewarded the confession as such an acknowledgment may best be rewarded; but still he went on, after a few minutes, in the same tone. "No one can tell dear girl," he proceeded, "what events the future may have in store; but I see clouds gathering in the sky, portending storms which may well dash down the blossom of our hopes, if we put it not under shelter. What I mean is, that we must not fancy our affection will meet with no opposition." "But my father loves you, Hugh," exclaimed Lucy; "he loves, esteems, and praises you." "But your brother does not," replied her lover. "It is in vain, Lucy, that I have sought his regard, by every honest means that a true heart could take. Still he loves me not; and I am apprehensive lest in the coming events some cause of dissension should arise, which might induce him, and perhaps your father also, to endeavour to separate us for ever." Lucy bent down her eyes thoughtfully, and remained for several moments without answering. "One cannot resist the will of a father," she said, at length, "but I am not bound to obey the will of a brother. What is it you would have me to do, Hugh?--I am in a foolish mood for complying," she added, with a smile. "I know not what you men would do, if we women did not sometimes become as soft as wax when the sun shines on it." Hugh de Monthermer paused, for there was a strong temptation at his heart, and, to say the truth, he could scarcely resist it. He saw that Lucy was in a yielding mood--he saw that, taking advantage of the opportunity, he might, perhaps, win her even to give him her hand at once. There were excuses for such a step, which, probably, no other moment would furnish. In a situation of danger and captivity, where she required the protection of one invested with some sacred right--far from her own relatives, and having every reason to believe that her father would approve her choice, a thousand motives for yielding to such a request might easily be urged; and when pleaded by the voice of love would doubtless prevail. These were strong temptations to Hugh de Monthermer, whose heart was not of the most icy nature; but, on the other hand, there were those chivalrous feelings of honour in which he had been educated, which but too few, indeed, of the nobles of his own day entertained, but which were rooted in his mind as principles that even passion could not overthrow. He demanded of himself, Would it be honourable? would it be just?--Treated with kindness and trust as he had lately been by the Earl of Ashby, ought he not to return confidence for confidence, and boldly ask her father for Lucy's hand without taking advantage of her unprotected situation to induce her to grant what might otherwise be refused? "It is like stealing a treasure," said Hugh to himself, "which we have found by chance, but which we know belongs to another man." Lucy looked up, wondering that he did not reply; and her lover, believing that he risked nothing to show her both the passion which was in his heart, and the principles which restrained that passion, answered, at length, "Dear girl, I am sorely tempted--tempted to ask you to be mine at once--tempted to ask you to send for that same priest we talked of but now, and to give me this fair hand before we quit these greenwood shades." "Nay, nay, Hugh," cried Lucy, colouring brightly. "Hear me, Lucy," said her lover; "I only said I was sorely tempted; but I know I must not yield. Yet one thing, Lucy, I may seek, and that fairly, for it is what I would ask were we now in the midst of the gayest hall,--ay! or in that sweet oriel window of your father's castle, where we have whiled away so many an hour with idle words that covered deeper thoughts within. Will you promise to be mine?--Will you promise to be mine whatever betide!" Lucy gazed somewhat sadly in his face--"Sooner or later, Hugh," she said; "sooner or later, I will. I must not resist my father's will. If he oppose, I must obey so far, as to deny you for the time; but never--believe me, Hugh, for I promise by all I hold most sacred--never shall this hand rest as a bride in that of another man. They can but send me to a convent; and that my father will not do, for I know that often, when my brother's rash mood frets him and brings a cloud over the calm evening sunshine of his days, he finds a comfort in my presence, which he would not willingly be without." "But, dear Lucy," said Hugh, "were your father dead, might not your brother doom you to the dark cold shade of the cloister?" "He cannot, Hugh--he dare not!" replied Lucy. "He has no power. The lands I hold are not from him, nor from the King of England. However, they might strip me of them, Hugh, it is true, and Lucy de Ashby might be a dowerless bride, but----" "But the more welcome, dearest Lucy!" replied Hugh. "Would that your father even now would give me this fair hand, with nothing on it but the ring that makes you mine! and should the time ever come when, after his death, your brother opposes our union, but bring me that sweet smile, and the kind word, 'Yes,' at the altar, and I shall think my Lucy dowered well enough." "It is sad, Hugh," said Lucy, "even to look forward to future joys when one of those we love shall be no longer here; and, therefore, I will still trust that my father's eyes may see our wedding, and his voice give us a blessing. But my proud brother, Alured, shall never stand between you and me.--Hark! there are steps upon the stairs!" she exclaimed; "before they come, let me bind myself by bonds that cannot be broken.--I promise you that, sooner or later, I will be yours, Hugh; and that I will never be the bride of another; so help me Heaven at my need!" CHAPTER XII. All the principal streets of the old town of Hereford were thronged with personages of various conditions and degrees, towards the evening of one of those soft, but cloudy summer days, when the sun makes his full warmth felt, but without the glare which dazzles the eye when he shines unveiled upon the world. That street, however, to which we shall conduct the reader, was narrow, so that not more than three or four horsemen could ride abreast, and yet it was one of the best in the town. But, in reality, the space for passengers was much wider than it seemed; for, as was then very common, especially upon the frontiers of Wales, one half of the ground-floor of the houses was taken up by a long, open arcade, which sheltered the pedestrians from the rain at some periods of the year, and from the heat at others. From the first floors of these houses--just high enough to allow a tall horse, mounted by a tall man with a lance in his hand to pass, without striking the head of the cavalier or the weapon he carried--projected long poles, usually gilt; and suspended therefrom appeared many of the various signs which are now restricted to inns and taverns, but were then common to every mansion of any importance. Down this street, and underneath innumerable symbols of swans, and horses, and eagles, and mermaids, and falcons, and doves, and of all those heterogeneous mixtures of birds, beasts, and fishes, which the fertile fancy of man ever confounded, were riding, at the time I speak of, various groups of horsemen, while ever and anon the progress of one party or another would be stopped by some man, woman, or child, darting out from the arcade at the side, and holding a conversation, short or long, as the circumstances might be, with one of the equestrians. Amongst other groups in the gay and animated scene, was one which remained ungreeted by any of the good people of the town, but which was suffered to pass along uninterrupted till it reached a second-rate inn, called the Maypole. It consisted of four human beings and three beasts--namely, three men and a woman, two horses, and a sleek, vicious-looking mule. On one of the horses was mounted a tall sturdy man in the guise of a servant; on the other was evidently a fellow-labourer in the same vineyard; but he was not alone, for on a pillion behind him appeared a female from, covered with a thick veil which shrouded the face, so that it was impossible to see whether there was beauty beneath or not, although the figure gave indications of youth and grace which were not to be mistaken. Jogging along upon the mule, with his legs hanging down easily by the side of the animal, and his fat stomach resting peacefully upon the saddle, was a jolly friar clothed in grey, with his capuche thrown back, the sun not being troublesome, and a bald head--the glistening smoothness of which had descended by tradition even to Shakspeare's days, and was recorded by him in his Two Gentlemen of Verona--peeping out from a narrow ring of jet black hair, scarcely streaked with grey. His face was large and jovial, which, in good sooth, was no distinction in those times between one friar and another; but there was withal a look of roguish fun about the corners of his small grey eyes; and a jeering smile, full of arch satire, quivered upon his upper lip, completely neutralizing the somewhat sensual and food-loving expression of the under one, which moved up and down every time he spoke, like a valve, to let out the words that could never come in again. Indeed, he seemed to be one of those easy-living friars who, knowing neither sorrow nor privation in their own persons, appeared to look upon grief and care with a ready laugh and a light joke, as if no such things in reality exist. His rosy gills, his double chin, and his large round ear, all spoke of marrow and fatness; and, indeed, at the very first sight, the spectator saw that he was not only a well-contented being, but one who had good reason to be so. Just as they reached the entrance of the tavern which we have mentioned, the friar, by some mismanagement, contrived to get his mule's hind quarters towards the servant, who was riding singly on horseback, and by a touch of the heel, given, apparently, to make the beast put itself into a more convenient position for all parties, he produced a violent fit of kicking, in the course of which the horseman received a blow upon the fleshy part of his thigh, which made him roar with pain. The seat upon the vicious beast's back was no easy one, but yet the fat monk kept his position, laughing heartily, and calling his mule a petulant rogue, while he held him by his left ear, or patted his pampered neck. As soon as the fit was done, he rolled quietly off at the side, and looking up to his companion, saw, or appeared to see, for the first time, the wry faces which the servant man was making. "Bless my heart!" he cried, "has he touched thee, the good-for-nothing