The song was much applauded, and as both the friar's companions were now sufficiently imbued with drink to be ready for any species of jollity, the same musical propensity seized upon them both in turn, and they poured forth a couple of strains, which, if they could be found written down in the exact terms in which they were sung, might well be considered as invaluable specimens of the English poetry of that early age. As they had no great tendency to edification, however, and contained more ribaldry than wit, the gentle render will probably excuse their omission in this place.
While thus with mirth and revelry three out of the personages whom we saw arrive at the inn passed more than one hour of the night, the fourth was ushered to a chamber hung with dark-painted cloth, while a lamp placed in the window shewed a deep recess projecting over the street, and making, as it were, a room within the room. The hostess accompanied Kate Greenly to her apartment, and for some time bustled about, seeing that all was in order, much to the poor girl's discomfort. In vain she assured the good landlady that she had all she wanted; in vain she expressed weariness and a desire to retire to bed: still the hostess found something to set to rights, some table to place, some stool to dust, while ever and anon she declared that her girls were slatterns, and her chamberlain a lazy knave. At length she turned towards the door, and Kate Greenly thought that she was going to be freed from her presence; but it was only to call for her husband, and to tell him, at the top of her voice, that he was "wonderful slow."
The poor girl could bear it no longer, but approaching the deep recess, where the lamp stood in the window, she mounted the two little steps, which separated it from the rest of the room, and standing close to the light, unfolded a paper which she held in her hand. At first she could scarcely see the words which were written therein, but shading her eyes with her hand, she gazed intently on the lines, and read,--
"Return to your father; leave him not broken-hearted with shame and sorrow! If you are willing to go back, I will soon find means; for I have more help at hand than you wot of. Say but one word to the hostess, and ere daylight to-morrow you shall be on the way to Barnesdale. As I know the whole, so I tell you that the last hope is before you. If you go back you may have peace and ease, though you have cast away happiness; if you go forward, you may have a few hours of joy, but a long life of misery, neglect, destitution, and despair, without the hope of this world or the hope of the next.
"THE FRIAR."
Kate trembled very much, and her whole thoughts seemed to refuse all direction or control; but at that moment the host of the Maypole himself appeared, bearing a small silver chalice of warm wine, and a plate filled with many-coloured comfits.
"I pray you, taste the sleeping-cup," he said, approaching his fair guest; and as she mechanically followed the common custom of the day in taking the cup, putting a few comfits in, and raising it for an instant to her lips, she saw the eyes of both her companions fix upon her countenance with a look of interest and inquiry, and perceived at a glance that they also had, in some way, been made acquainted with her history.
The burning glow of shame--the first time that she had felt it fully--came into Kate Greenly's cheek, but it only roused her pride; and instead of trampling that viper of the human heart under her feet, after a moment's pause to recover herself, she said, with the look and air of a queen--
"I want nothing more. You may go! If I want aught else, I will call."
The host and hostess retired, wishing her good night; but she thought she saw upon the man's lip one of those maddening smiles which say more than words, but do not admit of reply.