There was rejoicing at Ruardean. After two years of forced absence, the
master of Hollymead had returned to his ancestral home, and the faces of
his beautiful daughters once more gladdened the eyes of the villagers.
Out of the world's way as was this quaint little place, it too had
suffered the severities of the war. More than one visit had been paid
to it by patrols and scouting parties of the Royalist soldiery; which
meant very much the same as if the visitors had been very bandits. They
made free with everything they could lay hands on worth the trouble of
taking--goods, apparel, furniture, even to the most cherished household
goods; invading the family sanctuary, and at each re-appearance
stripping it cleaner and cleaner.
Ruardean had, indeed, become an impoverished place, as all the rural
district around. The "chimney tapestry" had disappeared from the
farmer's kitchen, neither flitch nor ham to be seen in it; empty his
pigsties, unstocked his pastures; and if a horse remained in his stable
it was one no Cavalier would care to bestride. The King's Commissioners
of Array had requisitioned all, calling it a purchase, and paying with
bits of stamped paper, which the reluctant vendor knew to be worth just
nothing. But, _nolens volens_, he must accept it, or take the
alternative, sure of being made severe for him.
So afflicted ever since the surrender of Bristol to Rupert, no wonder
the Forest people had grown a-weary of the war, and were glad when they
heard of Wintour's defeat at Beachley, and soon after of Monmouth being
taken by the Parliamentarians. It seemed earnest of a coming peace;
while to the people of the Ruardean district Ambrose Powell once more
appearing among them was like the confirmation of it.
Something besides gave them security, for the time at least. A squadron
of horse had taken up quarters in their village; not the freebooting
Cavaliers, bullying and fleecing them; but soldiers who treated them
kindly, paid full price for everything, in short, behaved to them as
friends and protectors. For many of them were their friends their own
relatives, the body of horse being that commanded by Colonel Walwyn,
with Rob Wilde as its head sergeant.
Alike secure felt the ladies in Hollymead House, safe as within
Gloucester. How could it be otherwise, with Sir Richard having his
headquarters there and Eustace Trevor under the same roof?
The happy times seemed to have returned; and the sisters, after their
long irksome residence in walled towns, more than ever enjoyed that
country life, to which from earliest years they had been accustomed.
And once again went they out hawking, with the same cast of peregrines
and the same little merlin. For Van Dorn, living in a sequestered spot,
and unaffected by the events of the war, had kept the falcons up to
their training.
Once more to the marsh at the base of Ruardean Hill, the party almost
identical with that which had repaired thither two years before. And as
before rang out the falconer's _hooha-ha-ha-ha_! and shrill whistle, as
a heron rose up from the sedge; again a _white_ heron, the great egret!
Singular coincidence, and strangely gratifying to the fair owner of the
peregrines, for she especially wanted an egret. How she watched as it
made for upper air, with the falcons doing their best to mount above it;
watched with eager, anxious eyes, fearing it might get away. Not that
she was cruel, only just then she so desired to have a _white_ heron;
would give anything for one.
She did not need to have a fear. Van Dorn had done his duty by the
hawks, and, the chased bird had no chance of escaping. Soon its
pursuers were seen above it, with spread trains and quivering sails;
then one _stooped, raked_, and rose over again; while the other stooped
to _bind_; both ere long becoming bound; when all three birds came
fluttering back to earth.
With triumphant "whoop?" the falconer pronounced it a kill; but this
time, seemingly without being told, he plucked out the tail coverts, and
handed them to his young mistress. Days before, however, Van Dorn had
received injunctions to procure such if possible. There was a hat that
wanted a plume.
"To replace that you lost, dear Eustace," she said, passing them over to
him.
"'Tis so good of you to think of it, darling?"
How different their mode of addressing one another from the time when
they were last upon that spot! No painstaking coyness now; but heart
knowing heart, troth plighted, and loves mutually reliant.
"I shall take better care of this one," he added, adjusting the feathers
into a _panache_. "Never man sadder than I when the other was taken
from me. For I feared it would be the loss of what I far more valued."
"Your life. Ah! so feared I when I heard you were wounded--"
"No, not my life," he said, interrupting. "Something besides."
"What besides?"
"Your love, Vaga; at least your esteem."
"Eustace! How could you think that?"
"From having lost my own, along with my character as a soldier. To be
taken as in a trap."
"Never that, dearest! All knew there was treason. If you were taken so
might a lion, with such numbers against you. And how you delivered
yourself!"
She had learnt all the particulars of his escape--a deed of daring to be
proud of. And proud was she of it.
"Do you know, Eustace," she continued, without waiting his rejoinder,
"that you spared me a journey, and perhaps some humiliation?"
"A journey! Whither?"
"To Goodrich Castle first; and it might have been anywhere after."
"But why?"
"To throw myself at Sir Henry Lingen's feet, and crave mercy for you."
"That would have been humiliation indeed, darling. And I'm glad that
chance hindered you from it."
"Chance! No love: your courage did it, and--"
"My horses's heels, rather say. But for them I should not be here."
He was upon that horse's back then; she on a palfrey by his side.
"Noble Saladin!" she exclaimed, drawing closer, and passing her gloved
hand caressingly over his arched neck. "Dear, good Saladin! If you but
knew how grateful I am!"
Saladin did seem to know, as in soft, gentle neighing he turned his head
round to acknowledge the caress.
A fair picture these betrothed lovers formed as they sate in their
saddles under the greenwood tree. Some change was there in them since
they had been there before. He handsome as ever, perhaps handsomer.
His cheeks embrowned with two years' campaigning, his figure braced to a
terser, firmer manhood; on Saladin's back he seemed the personification
of a young crusader just returned from the Holy Wars.
She lovelier than of erst, if that were possible. A woman now, her
girlhood's beauty had done all Major Grenville said of it, and more.
Sager had she grown, made so by the vicissitudes and trials of the time;
and it became her. Not now clapped she her hands, and echoed the
falconer's "whoop!" when the hawks struck their quarry down. Instead,
took it all quietly; so different from former days!
But there was another cause now sobering, almost saddening, her, one
which affected both. The war was not yet at an end. At any hour, any
moment, might come a summons which would again separate them, perchance
never more to meet! In that tranquil sylvan scene they felt as on the
deck of a storm-tossed, wreck-threatened ship, in the midst of angry
ocean! Cruel war, to beget such reflections--such fears!
And, alas! they were realised almost on the instant. Following the old
course, the hawking party had ascended to the summit of the hill to give
the merlin its turn. The game of its pursuit, more plentiful, was
easily found and flushed, so that soon the courageous creature made a
kill--a landrail the quarry.
But ere it could be cast-off for a second flight, just as once before,
the sport was interrupted by, their seeing a horseman on the opposite
hill coming down the road from the Wilderness to Drybrook.
He might not have been noticed but for the pace, which was a rapid
gallop. This down the steep declivity told of some pressing purpose,
while the sun's glitter upon arms and accoutrements proclaimed him a
soldier.
More definite was the knowledge got of him through a telescope, which
one of the attendants carried. Glancing through it, Sir Richard
recognised the uniform of a Parliamentarian dragoon--one of Massey's own
regiment. Coming that way, and at such a speed, the man must be a
messenger with despatches; and for whom but himself?
Separating from his party, and taking Hilbert with him, the knight
trotted off to the nearest point where the Ruardean road passed over the
shoulder of the hill, there halting till the dragoon should come up.
Nor had he long to wait. As conjectured, the man was a messenger,
bearing a despatch that called for all haste in the delivery, and
therefore came galloping up the slope without lessening his pace. He
seemed some little disconcerted at seeing two horsemen drawn up on the
road before him, but a word from Sir Richard reassured him, as he
perceived it was the knight himself.
As the despatch was for Sir Richard, this brought his gallop to an end;
and, drawing up, he handed over the document, simply saying--
"From Governor Massey, Colonel."