Never met, or never parted,
They had ne’er been broken-hearted.
_Burns._
There is nothing in this care-worn world so sweet and innocent as a
young girl’s first love. Then—when the heart is fresh, when every
thought is pure, when the poetry of life has not yet been crushed out of
the soul, when as we are nearer to our childhood we are nearer to
heaven—then it is that we love with an intensity such as we never love
with again. And thus Margaret loved. She knew it not until it was
impossible for her to drive away her passion. It had crept on her,
slowly but surely, and oh! how sweetly, until it became a part of her
being, and the day in which she did not see her lover, passed tediously
and mournfully to her.
Yet though loving as few love, even in the fervor of a first passion,
Margaret was still ignorant of her lover’s name. Often would she be
tortured by fears lest he might have already forfeited his life in the
career of an outlaw, but as often would she quiet her alarm by
reflecting how impossible that a mere freebooter should be so courteous
and even refined. In all this there was a mystery which did but feed the
love of her highly imaginative mind, and though, day after day, would
she resolve to question her lover so closely respecting himself that he
could not evade her inquiries, yet, day after day, would she be diverted
from, and forget it.
Nearly three weeks had now elapsed, and the period limited for her stay
at the lodge had passed, when a messenger arrived from her father, to
conduct her to one of his castles in the vicinity of London. Who can
tell her feelings at receiving this summons?—a summons which would tear
her from her lover, perhaps forever. But it opened to her more fully
than ever the state of her heart, convinced her of her imprudence in
suffering herself to love an unknown stranger, and determined her to
learn that very day from her lover’s lips his name and station in life.
Ah! pitiable indeed were her feelings as she reflected on her folly. But
a flood of tears afforded her partial relief, and calling for Ruth to
accompany her she set forth into the forest.
What a glorious old place was that royal hunting ground. For miles
before you stretched a succession of hills and dales, covered with
venerable and gigantic trees, or spreading out into rich meadows; while
herds of deer might be seen trotting far off through the vistas of the
forest, and here and there a cottage peeping out from beneath the
verdant foliage. In some places the dark overshadowing trees completely
obscured the light of day, and in others, the sunbeams struggling
between the leaves gilded the greensward beneath. Such was the scene
through which Margaret took her way, until she reached the open glade,
where, of late, she had met her lover. Scarcely had she emerged from the
surrounding woods before he sprang to her side, and in a moment she was
in his arms.
“We meet again, dearest,” said he, kissing the fair cheek that blushed
crimson at his caress.
“And I fear, for the last time,” said Margaret, “my father has sent for
me, and to-morrow I leave this place. Oh! when,” and she looked into his
eyes with all a woman’s tenderness, “shall we meet again?”
“Going!—and so soon!” muttered her lover, abstractedly, “why dearest,
why did you not tell me of this before?”
“It was but this morning that I heard of it. Alas! that we should part
so soon.”
“But how know you, sweet one, that we must part?” said her lover half
smilingly. It recalled to Margaret’s mind her determination to learn her
lover’s history.
“Why,” said she, “are you not a mere,” and her voice faltered, “a mere
soldier of fortune, perhaps—,” and again she faltered and looked down,
“an outlaw? Can you follow me? Oh! would you could,” and the unhappy
maiden burst into tears.
“And why not, dear Margaret? Have not good men and true, at times, been
driven to the greenwood for a temporary livelihood. Know you not how the
good Earl of Huntingdon long kept wassail under the trees of old
Sherwood with his ‘merrie men?’”
“Oh! then say you are like him—say you are not an outlaw! Did you but
know how my heart reproves me for all this—how I weep to think that my
father will never forgive me—and how my only consolation is in your
love—did you know all this, you would keep me in suspense no longer!”
Her lover was deeply moved by her passionate entreaties, and pressing
her to his bosom, kissed the tears from her cheek, and soothed her
agitation by those words of kind endearment which are so eloquent when
coming from one we love. He seemed too about to speak; but if so, he was
prevented by a sudden baying of hounds, mingled with loud and
approaching shouts, and directly a couple of dogs, followed by three
keepers dashed out of the neighboring copse. Margaret, terrified and
agitated, hastily followed whither her lover pointed, and retreated into
the shadow of a cluster of oaks, followed by Ruth. She had scarcely done
so unperceived, when the keepers rushed upon her lover, shouting,
“Down with him—the outlaw—down with him.”
Frightened almost out of consciousness, she could only see that her
lover attempted what resistance he could, and that after a short but
fierce contest he was overpowered, almost unarmed as he was, and borne
to the ground. With all a woman’s devotion she rushed forward to his
protection. But she had scarcely made a step, before she staggered and
fainted. Ruth, too, was so alarmed as to be of little service; yet
while, with trembling hands, she assisted to recover her mistress, so
fearful was she of being discovered, that she would scarcely suffer
herself to breathe.
“Oh! Ruth,” were the first audible words of her mistress “what have they
done with him? Are they gone? Why did you not try to save him?”
“Alas! dear lady, it would have been in vain,” said Ruth, mingling her
tears with those of her mistress, “what could I, or both of us have
done, for one who had broken the forest laws?”