"Canst put up with my company, good Cuthbert? for I have a mind to
travel with thee."
Cuthbert turned quickly as these words fell upon his ear, and found
himself face to face with a gay-looking youth dressed all in
forester's green, whom at first he took for a stranger, till the
young man with a laugh removed his wide-brimmed hat, so that the
evening light fell full upon his handsome boyish face; and Cuthbert
exclaimed, with a start of surprise:
"Verily, it is Lord Culverhouse!"
"And thy very good cousin, Cuthbert Trevlyn," said the Viscount, as
he linked his arm within that of his would-be comrade. "So let
there be no more ceremony betwixt thee and me; for we are both bent
upon a merry time in the forest, and we will fare forth thither
together as brothers and friends."
"With all my heart," answered Cuthbert warmly; for he loved
companionship, and greatly liked what he had seen of Kate's cousin
and lover, the gay and handsome Lord Culverhouse. He had been once
or twice recently to the great house in the Strand, generally
rowing himself up to the garden steps, and sometimes taking the
Viscount upon the river with him. In this way they had struck up a
certain friendliness and intimacy; and Cuthbert had spoken to Lord
Culverhouse of his proposed visit to the forest on May Day,
although without explaining to him the real and chief object of
that journey. Culverhouse had not at the time expressed any desire
to accompany him, though he had asked a good many questions
respecting the forest and the forest fetes held upon that day.
Cuthbert had observed an unwonted animation in his eyes as he had
done so; but nothing in the young nobleman's manner had prepared
him for this freak on his part, and he had actually failed at the
first moment to recognize this fanciful figure in its smart
forester's dress when first saluted by the wearer. But he was glad
enough of the meeting, and the proposition of travelling in company
was very welcome, though he still had one qualm to set at rest.
"I only go on foot, my lord. Doubtless you have a horse in waiting,
and will soon outride me."
"A horse! not I. I have neither beast nor man in waiting. I travel
alone and on foot, and for the nonce am no more Lord Culverhouse,
but only Rupert de Grey--thy trusty comrade Rupert--and a would-be
follower of bold Robin Hood, did he but hold his court with his
merry, merry men in the free forest now. See, I wear his livery. I
feel as free as air. I marvel I never thought of such a masquerade
before. We will have a right merry time this joyous springtide. How
long dost thou purpose to remain in the greenwood thyself?"
"I know not," answered Cuthbert, as the pair strode southward
together, quickly leaving behind the last houses of London, and
striking away in the direction of the forest whither both were
bound. It was the last day in April: the soft south wind was
blowing in their faces, the trees were beginning to hang out their
tassels of tender green, the hawthorn was bursting into bloom and
filling the air with its fragrance. It was, in fact, the eve of one
of those old-fashioned May Days which seem utterly to have gone by
now, and all nature was rejoicing in the sweet exaltation of the
happy springtide, full of the promises of the golden summer to
come.
Cuthbert's heart swelled with delight as he looked about him and
felt that the strife and bustle of the great city were at last
shaken off. In spite of the spell exercised upon him by the life of
London, he had for some weeks been pining like a caged bird for the
freedom of the country again, the vault of the sky alone above him,
the songs of the birds in his ears. The spring had brought to him
yearnings and desires which he scarcely understood, and latterly he
had been counting the days which must pass ere he should find
himself in the forest once again.
In his uncle's house matters were growing a little strained. Martin
Holt undoubtedly suspected something of the matter betwixt him and
Cherry, and as plainly disapproved. He looked upon Cherry as
promised to her cousin Jacob, and doubtless he thought the steady,
plodding, slow-witted son of the house of Dyson a far safer husband
for his feather-brained youngest than handsome Cuthbert Trevlyn,
with his gentler birth, his quick and keen intelligence, and his
versatile, inquiring mind, which was always inclining him to meddle
in matters better left alone, and to judge for himself with an
independence that was perilous in times like these. Not that Martin
Holt was himself averse to independence of judgment, rather the
reverse; but he knew the dangers besetting the path of those who
were resolved to think and judge for themselves, and he would fain
have seen his youngest and dearest child safely made over to the
care of one who would be content to go through life without asking
troublesome questions or intermeddling with matters of danger and
difficulty, and would conform to all laws, civil and religious,
without a qualm, recognizing the King's will as supreme in all
matters, temporal and spiritual, without a doubt or a scruple.
Cherry would be safe with Jacob, that was Martin's feeling, whilst
with Cuthbert he could have no such security. Cuthbert had still
his way to make in the world, and it had not yet appeared that he
would be of any use in business matters. He was clever with his
pen. He was a good scholar, and had been able to make himself
useful to his uncle in a number of small matters where his
quickness and sharp wits had room to work. He was also of no small
use in the matter of the building and fitting up of the new sloop,
in which he took such keen interest. He would go over every bit of
the work, comparing it with what he saw in other vessels, and
learning quickly to distinguish good workmanship from bad. He
became so ready of resource and suggestion when any small
difficulty occurred, that both Martin Holt and Abraham Dyson
learned to think exceedingly well of his abilities, and employed
him largely in matters where quickness of observation and
apprehension was wanted. But for all that, and despite the fact
that he had earned some considerable sum of money (as he reckoned
it) during the winter and spring months, he had shown no great
desire to settle himself down to any steady occupation or trade,
and neither of the elder men saw any opening for him that should
give him regular and permanent occupation.
"He has too much of the gay gallant about him for my taste,"
Abraham would say. "He is more Trevlyn than Holt; and some folks
say more Wyvern than Trevlyn. Be that as it may, he is a gentleman
to the fingertips; and one might as well try to tame an eagle as
set him down to the round of work that comes natural to lads like
Jacob."
And Martin Holt would nod assent, feeling that there was something
about his sister's son that would never assimilate with the life of
a merchant tradesman. He liked his nephew, and thought well of him
in many ways; but he was not sorry to receive his request for leave
to revisit his old haunts and his own kindred when the long spring
days were upon the world; and he bid the lad please himself for the
future, and return or not as he best liked. There was the gold to
be given up to him when he should make formal claim for it. Martin
had satisfied himself by now that he was worthy to be intrusted
with it; but Cuthbert intended Petronella to have the bulk of that,
so that she might wed Philip, if they were both inclined that way.
As for himself, he was still bent on finding the lost treasure of
Trevlyn, and he had vowed the whole of the long summer to the
search, resolved that he would find it, be the perils and
perplexities what they might.
So that although he saw by his uncle's manner that he was not
especially anxious to see him back soon, and shrewdly guessed that
this was in part on Cherry's account, he did not let the matter
distress him. When good Jacob had had his turn, and had failed in
winning Cherry's hand, and when he himself should return laden with
the treasure which should enable him to place his little love in a
nest in all ways worthy of her, surely then his uncle would give
her up to him without opposition. This was how he spoke to Cherry,
comforting her as the hour for his departure drew near, and vowing
eternal constancy and unchanging love. He was beginning to feel
that he was doing his cause more harm than good by lingering on,
unable to declare himself, yet betraying himself, as he often felt,
in a hundred little nameless ways. It would be better for all when
the wrench was finally made; and neither he nor Cherry doubted for
a moment that he would be successful in his search, and would come
riding up at last to the house on the bridge, the gayest of gay
gallants, to claim Cherry in the sight of all, lifting her upon his
horse, and riding away with her in the fashion of the bold knights
of old, whose deeds of prowess they both so greatly admired.
It was this brilliant prospect of glory to come which consoled
Cherry and reconciled her to the parting of the present. Hard as it
would be to live without Cuthbert, she would strive to do so in the
thought that he would come again ere long and take her away for
ever from the life which was becoming odious to her, she scarce
knew why. So they had parted in hope as well as in sorrow, and
Cuthbert felt all his elasticity of spirit returning to him as he
strode along by his unexpected comrade's side.
"I know not how long I shall be absent from London," he said in
answer to Culverhouse's question. "There be many things depending
on that. I have set myself a task, and I know not how long a time
it will take to accomplish. And you, my good lord, how goes it with
you? Are you about to visit Trevlyn Chase, as you will be thus
near, and see your kinsfolks there?"
"Call me not good lord, call me Rupert, as I have bidden thee
before!" was the quick response, as a flush dyed for the moment the
smooth fair cheek of the Viscount. "Cuthbert, since we are to
travel together, I must needs tell thee my secret. I am not bound
for Trevlyn Chase. My father has forbidden me for the nonce to
visit there, not for any ill will he bears our kinsfolk, but--but
that--"
"But that he fears the bright eyes of Mistress Kate, and hopes by
keeping you apart to help thee to forget? Is it not so, Rupert?"
"Marry, thou hast well guessed. Or has it been no guess? Hast thou
heard aught?"
"My cousin Kate herself told me somewhat of it," answered Cuthbert;
"but she laughed to scorn the artifice. She is not made of the
stuff that forgets."
"Heaven's blessing be upon her for a true-hearted maiden!" cried
Culverhouse, with a lover's easily-stirred enthusiasm. "Cuthbert,
since thou knowest so much, thou shalt know more. I have made shift
to write to Kate about this purpose of mine to visit the forest
glades on blithe May Day; and she has sent me a little missive,
fresh and sweet and dainty like herself, to tell me that she will
ride forth herself into the forest that day, and giving the slip to
her sisters or servants, or any who may accompany her, will meet me
without fail in a certain dell that doubtless I shall find from the
directions she gives. There is a giant yew tree in the midst that
would hide six men in its hollow trunk, and a laughing streamlet
circles well-nigh round it. She tells me it has got the name of
Oberon's Horseshoe."
"I know the place well," answered Cuthbert. "I can guide thee
thither. So Mistress Kate will meet thee there! It is like her. She
has a daring spirit. I would I could help her to her dowry."
"Her dowry! thou!" echoed Culverhouse in surprise; and then as they
walked onwards through the dewy night, Cuthbert could not but tell
a little of his purpose to the comrade who had intrusted him with
his own secret; and Culverhouse listened with the greatest
interest, albeit without quite the same sanguine hope of success
that Cuthbert himself entertained. Still, he was of opinion that a
patient search and inquiry instituted by an obscure lad like
Cuthbert, used to rough ways and the life of the forest, would be
more likely to succeed than one set on foot by any person better
known. If the old tradition were true that the gipsies had hidden
the gold again in spite, it was possible that after this lapse of
time the old hatred would have died out, and that somebody might be
willing to betray the precious secret for a sufficient reward. At
any rate Cuthbert's idea of living in the forest and cultivating
and studying these strange folk was amply worth a trial. If his
quest succeeded, the whole Trevlyn family would be once more
wealthy and prosperous; if not, no harm would have been done, and
the youth would have enjoyed his free life and new experiences
after the winter spent in the confinement of the great city.
The travellers walked on through the twilight and until long after
moonrise. They had put a good twelve miles between them and London
before they talked of halting. They had no intention of seeking
shelter for the night in any wayside hostelry. A hollow tree would
give them all the cover they needed, and both had brought with them
such supply of provision as would render them independent of chance
hospitality for twenty-four hours at least.
Cuthbert's quick eyes soon sought out the sort of resting place
they desired--a great oak, into whose hollowed trunk the dead
leaves had drifted, and were now piled up into a soft heap. Lying
luxuriously upon this easy couch, the two travellers took such
refreshment as each needed; and as Cuthbert saw in the distance
before them the bold outlines of the high ground, part of which
went by the name of Hammerton Heath, he recounted to his companion
his adventure there the November previous, and by what means he had
saved his purse from the hands of the robbers.
Culverhouse listened to the story, and when it was done he said:
"Take heed, good Cuthbert, that thou dost not meet with a worse
mischance than the loss of thy purse. I would sooner have mine
filched from me by freebooters than owe aught to Robert Catesby
that could give him any claim upon me."
Cuthbert looked up quickly. Since that night when he had delivered
the papers to Catesby, and had seen and heard so much that was
mysterious, he had gradually let the strange incident slip from his
memory. Nothing had occurred to recall it, or to render him in any
wise uneasy. He had seen nothing of Catesby or his companions.
Father Urban had said that they had all dispersed into the country.
He himself shortly took leave of the Coles, and was taken off by a
boat on a dark night to reach a vessel about to start for Spain.
The whole incident seemed more like a dream than a reality now; and
Cuthbert's vague sense of uneasiness had by this time died quite
away.
"What dost thou mean?" he asked, as the Viscount's words fell on
his ear.
"No more than this, that yon Catesby is a dangerous man. I know
naught against him, save that he is a Papist of the type I like
not--a plotting, designing, desperate type, that ofttimes injure
themselves far more than they injure others, yet too often drag
their friends and those who trust them to destruction with
them--and all for some wild and foolish design which they have not
the wits to carry through, and against which Heaven itself fights
to its overthrow. Have no dealings with this same Catesby, good
Cuthbert; thou wilt rue it an thou dost."
"I am not like to see him again," answered Cuthbert slowly. "He is
gone I know not whither. If men look thus darkly upon him,
doubtless he will not adventure himself in London again."
"I know not how that may be. My father hath heard disquieting
rumours of late, and the name of Robert Catesby is mingled in all
of them. However, he speaks little to me of matters of state. Men
in high places are for ever hearing whispers and rumours, and it
boots not to give over-much credence to every idle tale. Only, what
thou spakest of this Catesby recalled the matter to my mind. He is
a man to fear, to avoid. He has a way with him that wins men's
hearts; yet it is but the fatal fascination of the glittering
snake, that snares the fluttering bird to its destruction. So, at
least, I have heard."
Cuthbert made no direct reply. He would have liked to tell
Culverhouse of the incident of the lonely house on the river, and
the dark cellar in which Catesby and others had been at work; but
his tongue was bound by his promise. Moreover, the hour for sleep
was at hand, and the travellers, wrapping themselves in their
cloaks and stretching their limbs upon their soft couch, were soon
lost in the land of dreams.
The following morning dawned as fair and clear and bright as heart
could wish. It was just such a May Day as one pictures in reading
of those old-time festivities incident to that joyous season. And
the forest that day was alive with holiday makers and rustic folks,
enjoying themselves to the full in all the green glades and bosky
dells. Culverhouse and Cuthbert found it hard to push along upon
their way into the heart of the forest, so attractive were the
scenes enacted in every little clearing that had become the site of
a tiny hamlet or village, so full of hospitality to wayfarers was
every house they passed, and so merry were the dances being footed
on the greensward, in which every passer by was expected to take a
part.
Culverhouse, in his green forester's dress, daintily faced with
silver, a silver hunting horn slung round his neck, was an object
of universal admiration, and the fact that he was plainly some
wealthy gentleman masquerading and playing a part did not in any
way detract from the interest his appearance excited. His merry,
courteous ways and well-turned compliments won the hearts of
maidens and matrons alike, whilst his deft and elegant dancing was
the admiration of all who watched; and he was besought on all hands
to stay, and found no small difficulty in pursuing his way into the
forest itself.
However, they had made an early start, and as they drew near to the
denser part of the wood interruptions became less frequent, and
presently ceased altogether. Cuthbert found a track he knew which
led straight to the trysting place with Kate; and though from time
to time the travellers heard distant sounds of mirth and revelry
proceeding from the right hand or the left, they did not come upon
any groups of gipsies or freebooters, who were doubtless enjoying
the day after their own fashion, and the two pursued their way
rapidly and without molestation.
"This is the place," said Cuthbert at length, as the underwood grew
thick and tangled and the path became almost lost. "And see, yonder
is a lady's palfrey tethered to a tree. Mistress Kate is the first
at the tryst. Go down thither to her, and I will wait here and
guard her steed; for there be many afoot in the forest this day,
and all may not be so bent on pleasure taking that they will not
wander about in search of gain, and a fair palfrey like yon would
be no small prize."
Culverhouse readily consented to this arrangement, and for some
time Cuthbert was left to a solitary enjoyment of the forest. He
caressed the horse, which responded with great gentleness and
goodwill; and then he lay down in luxurious ease, his hands crossed
behind his head, his face turned upwards towards the clear blue of
the sunny sky, seen through the delicate tracery of the bursting
buds of elm and beech. It was a perfect feast for eye and ear to
lie thus in the forest, listening to the songs of the birds, and
watching the play of light and shadow. Fresh from the roar and the
bustle of the city, Cuthbert enjoyed it as a thirsty traveller in
the desert enjoys a draught of clear cold water from a spring. He
was almost sorry when at last the sound of voices warned him that
the lovers' stolen interview was at an end, and that they were
approaching him at last.
Kate's bright face was all alight with happiness and joy as she
appeared, holding fast to her lover's arm. She greeted Cuthbert
with the prettiest air of cousinly affection, asked of himself and
his welfare with undisguised interest, and then told them of some
rustic sports being held at a village only three miles distant, and
begged Culverhouse to take her to see the spectacle. She had set
her heart upon it all day, and there would be no danger of her
being seen in the crowd sure to be assembled there to witness the
sights. Her sisters had no love for such shows, and nobody would be
greatly troubled at her hardihood in escaping from the escort of
her servants. She was always doing the like, and no harm had ever
befallen her. Her father was wont to call her his Madcap, and her
mother sometimes chided, and feared she would come to ill by her
wild freaks; but she had always turned up safe and sound, and her
independent ways had almost ceased to excite comment or uneasiness.
On May Day, when all the world was abroad and in good humour, they
would trouble still less on her account. Kate had no fear of being
overtaken and brought back, and had set her heart on going with
Culverhouse to this village fete and fair. She had heard much of
it, yet had never seen it. Sure this was the very day on which to
go.
Culverhouse would have gone to the moon with her had she asked
it--or would at least have striven to do so--and his assent was
cordially given. Cuthbert knew the place well; and Kate was quickly
mounted on the palfrey, Culverhouse walking at her bridle-rein,
whilst Cuthbert walked on ahead to choose the safest paths, and
warn them of any peril in the road. He could hear scraps of
lover-like dialogue, that sent his heart back to Cherry, and made
him long to have her beside him; but that being impossible, he gave
himself up to the enjoyment of the present, and found pleasure in
everything about him.
He had been before to this gay fair, held every May Day, to which
all the rustic folks from far and near flocked with one accord. He
knew well the look of the tents and booths, the bright dresses of
the women, the feats of skill and strength carried on between the
younger men, the noise, the merriment, the revelry that towards
sundown became almost an orgie.
But in the bright noon-day light all was at its best. Kate was
delighted with everything, especially with the May Queen upon her
throne, surrounded by her attendant maidens in their white holiday
dresses, with their huge posies in their hands. This was the place
for love making, and it attracted the lovers not a little.
Cuthbert, who undertook to tie up the horse in some safe place, and
then wandered alone through the shifting throng, found them still
upon the green when he rejoined them after his ramble. Plainly
there was something of interest greater than before going on in
this quarter. People were flocking to the green, laughing,
chattering, and questioning. Blushing girls were being led along by
their ardent swains; some were protesting, others laughing.
Cuthbert could not make out what it was all about, and presently
asked a countryman why the folks were all in such a coil.
"Why? because the priest has come, and all who will may be wed by
him. He comes like this every May Day, and he stands in the church
porch, and he weds all who come to him for a silver sixpence, and
asks no questions. Half our folks are so wed year by year, for
there be no priest or parson here this many years, not since the
last one was hunted to death by good Queen Bess--Heaven rest her
soul! The church is well nigh falling to pieces as it stands; but
the porch is the best part of it, and the priest who comes says it
is consecrated ground, and so he can use it for his weddings. That
is what the coil is about, young sir. You be a stranger in these
parts, I take it?"
Cuthbert was not quite a stranger, but he had never heard before of
these weddings.
"Are they lawfully wed whom he marries?" he asked; but the man only
shook his head.
"Nay, as for that I know naught, nor do any of the folks hereabouts
neither. But he is a priest, and he says the right words, and joins
their hands and calls them man and wife. No man can do more so far
as my poor wits tell me. Most of our young folks--ay, and some of
the old ones too--have been married that fashion, and I can't see
that there is aught amiss with them. They be as happy and
comfortable as other folks."
Cuthbert moved on with the interested crowd to see these haphazard
weddings. It was plain that the marrying of a number of young
couples was looked upon as part of the May Day sports. It was a
pretty enough sight to see some of the flower-crowned blushing
girls in their festal white, led along by their gaily-bedecked
swains in the direction of the church, which was hard by the open
village green. Some other importunate youths were eagerly pleading
their cause, and striving to drag their mistresses to the nuptial
altar amid the laughter and encouragement of the bystanders.
Cuthbert moved along in search of his companions, greatly amused by
all he saw and heard; and presently he caught sight of Kate and
Culverhouse standing together close beside the church, half hidden
within a small embrasure enclosed between two buttresses. Her face
was covered with brilliant blushes, whilst he had hold of her hand,
and seemed to be pleading with her with impassioned earnestness. As
Cuthbert approached he heard these words:
"Nay, sweetest Kate, why hold back? Have we not loved each other
faithfully and long? Why dost thou fear?"
"O Culverhouse, methinks it would be wrong. How can we know that
such wedlock would be lawful? Methinks my mother would break her
heart did she think the knot had been thus loosely tied."
"Nay, but, Kate, thou scarce takest my meaning as yet. This pledge
given betwixt us before yon priest would be to us but the betrothal
troth plight. I doubt myself whether such wedlock would be lawful;
nor would I dare to call thee my wife did none but he tie the knot.
But listen, sweet coz: if we go before him and thus plight our
troth and join our hands together, none will dare to bid us wed
another. It will be too solemn a pledge to be lightly broken. Men
think gravely of such matters as solemn betrothal, and in days to
come if they should urge upon thee or me to wed with another, we
have but to tell of what was done this day, and they will cease to
strive to come between us more.
"O sweetest mistress, fairest Kate, let us not part today without
some pledge of mutual faith and constancy! Let me hold this little
hand and place my token on thy finger; then be the time of waiting
never so long, I shall know that at last I may call thee mine
before all the world!"
Kate was quivering, blushing, trembling with excitement, though not
with fear; for she loved Culverhouse too completely to feel aught
but the most perfect confidence in him and his honour and faith.
"If only I could be sure it was not wrong!" she faltered.
"Wrong to plight thy hand, when thy heart is long since given?" he
asked, with tender playfulness. "Where can the wrong be there?"
"I know not. I would fain be altogether thine. But what would my
father and mother say?"
It was plain already that she was yielding. Culverhouse drew her
tenderly towards him.
"Nay, sweet coz, there be times when the claim of the parent must
give place to the closer claim of the lover, the husband. Does not
Scripture itself tell us as much? Trust me, I speak for our best
good. Let us but go together before this priest and speak the words
that, said in church, would make us man and wife, and none will
dare to keep us apart for ever, or bid us wed with another. Such
words must be binding upon the soul, be the legal bond little or
much. It is hard to say what the force of such a pledge may be; but
well I know that neither my father nor thine would dare to try to
break it, once they were told how and when it had been made. Thou
wilt be mine for ever, Kate, an thou wilt do this thing."
The temptation was too great to be resisted. To plight her troth
thus to Culverhouse, in a fashion which might not be wholly ignored
or set aside, was a thing but too congenial to the daring and
ardent temperament of the girl. With but a few more quivers of
hesitation she let herself be persuaded; and Culverhouse, turning
round with a radiant smile of triumph, saw that Cuthbert was
standing beside them, sympathy and interest written upon his face.
"Thou wilt be witness to our espousals, good cousin," he said
gaily, as he led his betrothed to the porch, where the crowd made
way for them right and left, seeing well the purpose for which
these gentlefolks had come. It pleased them mightily that this fine
young forester with his air of noble birth, and this high-born
maiden in her costly riding dress, should condescend to come before
the priest here in their own little church porch, and plight their
troth as their own young folks were doing.
A hush of eager expectation fell upon the crowd as Culverhouse led
his betrothed love before the priest; and when the ring, bought
from an old peddler who always attended at such times and found
ready sale for his wares, was placed on Kate's slim finger, a
murmur of applause and sympathy ran through the crowd, and Kate
quivered from head to foot at the thought of her own daring.
The thing was done. She and Culverhouse had plighted themselves in
a fashion solemn enough to hinder any person from trying to make
light of their betrothal. Right or wrong, the deed was done, and
neither looked as though he or she wished the words unsaid.
But Kate dared not linger longer. Cuthbert fetched her palfrey, and
Culverhouse lifted her to the saddle; and hiring a steed from a
farmer for a brief hour, promising to bring it back in time for the
good man to jog home again at dusk, the newly-plighted pair rode
off into the forest together, he promising to see her to within
sight of her own home before taking a last adieu.
Cuthbert stood looking after them with a smile on his lips.
"Now, if Heaven will but speed my quest and give me happy success,
I trow those twain may yet be wed again, no man saying them nay;
for if sweet Mistress Kate can but bring with her the dower the
treasure will afford, none will forbid the union: she will be
welcomed by Lord Andover as a fitting wife for his son and heir!"