_Cel._ Soft! comes he not here?
_As You Like It._
The Earl of Mountfort’s only daughter, the lady Margaret, was at once an
heiress and a beauty. Early deprived of a mother’s care; buried in the
seclusion of her father’s various castles; and knowing nothing of the
great world without, she had attained the age of eighteen, without
suffering any diminution of that enthusiasm which is so beautiful in
early youth, but which a few year’s collision with mankind wears off.
From her earliest childhood Ruth Herewood, the forester’s daughter, had
been her bosom companion; for in that day, when young females of noble
rank could rarely associate together, their handmaidens were often their
sole confidants. Ruth, moreover, was a foster sister to the lady
Margaret, and the tie, therefore, which bound them together was one not
lightly thought of, nor easily severed. It was no unusual thing for the
young heiress, at least once a year, to spend a fortnight or even more
at the lodge of Mr. Herewood, who held the office of a keeper in one of
the king’s forests. At such times she was unattended, except by a few
faithful servants. It was during one of these visits that her life had
been preserved in the manner we have related. With these explanations
let us return to our story.
A significant sign from her mistress put Ruth upon her guard, and as the
stranger had disappeared before her father’s entrance, Mr. Herewood
remained in ignorance of the danger from which the females had escaped.
The motives which prompted Margaret to this concealment we shall not
attempt to divine. Perhaps it was only a passing whim; but if so it was
changed into a settled resolution, when, on the following morning Ruth’s
father acquainted them with the fact that a stag had been found shot in
the forest by the royal hunting party, and that so daring a breach of
the forest laws would assuredly be punished with the utmost penalty that
rigorous code afforded. Alarmed and perplexed, Margaret determined to
conceal all knowledge of the stranger, lest, by her means, he might be
detected; for she feared that her rescuer was one of those outlaws who
were known to infest the forest, and that though he might find immunity
for that particular offence, he could not escape being convicted of
others as heinous.
Yet Margaret could not forget her preserver. In her waking or sleeping
dreams his manly form was ever before her, looking as it did when he
sprang from the copse to her rescue; and as often as the vision recurred
to her memory she owned to herself that she had never seen anyone of
such rare manly beauty. She strolled oftener than ever into the forest,
and Ruth noticed—for are not all women quick to notice such
things?—that whenever her theme of conversation was their unknown
preserver, her mistress listened to her with more than common interest.
Several days had now elapsed since their escape from the stag, when, one
afternoon, Margaret and Ruth, found themselves in that portion of the
forest where their fright had occurred. As it was some distance from the
lodge, they felt fatigued by their walk, and sitting down on a shady
knoll, naturally fell into a conversation on the stranger who had so
opportunely come to their aid. But a few minutes had thus passed when a
light step was heard approaching, and as the females hastily arose, the
stranger stood before them.
“Be not alarmed, fair lady,” said he, lifting his cap, and addressing
Margaret, “I said when we parted the other day that we might meet again.
I redeem my word. But if my presence affrights you I retire.”
The maiden blushed deeply at this address, so unlike that of one in the
speaker’s sphere of life. Her bosom was agitated, meanwhile, with
contending emotions, which produced a momentary embarrassment and
confusion in her countenance, only serving to heighten her beauty in the
stranger’s eyes. At length she spoke.
“But, sir stranger, do you not run a risk by this? Believe me I would
not have you come to ill, but I know that danger besets your footsteps.
Then,” she added, more earnestly than the next moment she thought
maidenly, “fly from the forest.”
The stranger smiled as he answered.
“You think that the outlaw’s life is hazardous; but I have only to sound
this,” and he lightly touched his bugle, “and a score of stout arms are
around me.”
There was something so fascinating in the stranger’s manner that,
despite her better judgment, Margaret felt chained to the spot. Nor did
Ruth show any greater disposition to depart. Before five minutes had
elapsed, Margaret found herself conversing with the gallant outlaw as
freely as if she had known him for months. If, for a moment, she would
think such conduct improper, the next reflection would be had he not
saved her life? Besides was not Ruth at hand? Is it a wonder, therefore,
that the grateful girl suffered the stranger to linger by her side for
nearly an hour, or that after they had parted, she thought of him
oftener than she would have been willing a week before to admit she
could ever think of any one except her father? Is it a wonder that she
often strolled into the forest with Ruth, and that she never returned
without having seen the outlaw? In a word is it any wonder that she
loved?