"The huge, broad-breasted old oak-tree."
Northberry Manor house was a heavy, grey stone building, with a small
court in the centre, and four little round towers at the corners. A
moat surrounded it, crossed by a drawbridge, which, however, was rarely
raised. England still felt the benefit of the strong government of
Henry the Fifth, and all was at peace. The gates stood open, save at
night; the servants and retainers stood idling about the court, and the
great hunting-dogs sat in the sun and enjoyed life, one lovely morning
in Whitsun week, as Nella Northberry, in all the delight of a holiday,
came running out of the hall-door among them, calling them to her, and
stroking and petting them with fearless affection.
"Oh, how much nicer this is than embroidery!" she cried, clapping her
hands.
"And oh, how shocked Dame Agnes would be to hear you say so?" said a
tall, slim lad, with a ruddy brown skin, bright hazel eyes, and an air
of alert and cheerful activity.
"Ah, but, Harry, I have improved so much. See, this is my new green
holiday kirtle, and I worked the border to it, I did indeed. Sister
Katharine showed me the stitch."
"It is a very fine kirtle, truly," said the boy. "See, you have let
Lion lay his paws all over the front of it."
"It will brush, it is made of serge," said Nella, blushing. "But now,
Harry, I have something very serious to speak of. Where will you come
and talk to me about it?"
"Let us come on to the tower battlements then," said Harry, struck with
the air of serious purpose that suddenly changed the girl's laughing
face.
Harry Hartsed also had relations in Portugal, and his father, a poor
squire, lived not many miles from the manor. Sir Walter Northberry,
after the fashion of the time, had taken him into his household that he
might acquire the education of a gentleman, and he was now about
seventeen, a fine, high-spirited boy, earnest and ambitious. He and
Nella took their way on to the top of one of the little towers, from
which they could see over miles of forest, in every variety of spring
colouring.
Nella leaned against the battlement, the wind freshening her rosy cheeks
and blowing her long hair about her shoulders. She fixed her eyes on
Harry, and said--
"Now I am going to tell you a secret. I want you to help me, but I will
never forgive you if you speak to any one else about it."
"I always keep your secrets, Nella; you need not scold me beforehand,"
said Harry.
"Well," said Nella, too much in earnest to reply to his challenge, "it
is about my--my sister."
Her eyes fell, and she coloured deeply, with the awe of one approaching
a mystery.
"Your sister! But you know nothing about her, Nella," said Harry,
tenderly and rather shyly.
"No; but I mean to find out. I began to think of her on Whitsun Eve,
when I was making a garland for Our Lady. I want to know what has
become of Catalina. I am sure she is alive."
"But it is quite impossible that you can find out about her, Nell," said
Harry. "Either she is dead--God rest her soul!--or lost to you for
ever."
"I am going to ask the witch in the forest," said Nella, coolly.