Forest Days: A Romance of Old Times

by G. P. R. James

Kate Greenly was not mistaken. The party consisted of her seducer, and four or five soldiers, whom he had obtained at Hereford, for the purpose of strengthening his little garrison, war being by this time imminent, and the post that he held considered of some importance.

Richard de Ashby sprang down from his horse to meet her, and kissed her repeatedly, with many expressions of tenderness and affection. It is true, he spoke to her lightly; called her "Pretty one," and used those terms with which he might have fondled a child, but which he would never have thought of employing to a woman he much respected. To other ears, this might have marked the difference between Kate Greenly's real situation, and that which fancy almost taught her to believe was hers; but poor Kate saw it not; for happiness swallowed up all other feeling. He was with her--he was kind--he was affectionate--she was no longer a solitary being, without love, or joy, or occupation, or self-respect, and that evening, and the next day, and the next, passed over in happiness, which obliterated every sensation of remorse for the past or apprehension for the future.

Gradually, however, a change came over Richard de Ashby; he lost some of his tenderness--he now and then spoke angrily--he would be out on horseback the whole day, and return at night, tired, imperious and irritable. Kate tried to soothe him, but tried in vain. He uttered harsh and unkind words--he laughed at her tears--he turned from her caresses.

It were painful to pursue and recapitulate the very well-known course of the events which, in nine cases out of ten, follow such conduct as she had adopted. The retribution was beginning. The pangs of ill-requited affection, of betrayed confidence, and of disappointed hope, rapidly took possession of the young, light, wilful heart, which had inflicted the same on others; and, in the gentler paroxysms of her grief, Kate would sit and think of young Ralph Harland, and his true love, of the father she had deceived and disgraced, of the happy scenes of her childhood and her youth, her village companions, her innocent sports, the flowers gathered in the early morning, and the Maypole on the green.

Of all these she would think, I say, in the gentler moments of her sorrow, and would sit and weep for many an hour together. But there were other times, when a fiercer and a haughtier mood would come upon her, when disappointed vanity and irritated pride would raise their voice, as well as injured love; and dark and passionate thoughts would pass through her mind, sometimes flashing forth fiery schemes of vengeance, like lightning from a cloud, soon swallowed up in the obscurity again. An angry word, also, would often break from her when she saw herself trifled with, or neglected, or ill-treated, but it only excited a mocking laugh, or some insulting answer. It seemed, indeed, as if Richard de Ashby took a pleasure in seeing her fair face and beautiful figure wrought by strong passion; for, when he beheld her wrath kindled, he would urge her on, with mirth or taunts, till the fire would flash from her eyes, and then drown itself in tears.

There was still, however, so much of unsated passion yet left in his bosom, as to make him generally soothe her in the end; and, though sometimes Kate's heart would continue to burn for a whole day, after one of these scenes, they generally ended with her face hid on his bosom. The very quickness and fiery nature of her spirit, indeed, gave her charms in his cold, dissolute eyes, which none of the softer and the weaker victims who had preceded her had ever possessed. It kept his sensations alive, amused and excited him, and he treated her as a good cavalier will sometimes treat a fiery horse, which he now spurs into fury, now reins and governs with a strong hand, now soothes and caresses into tranquillity and gentleness.

His servants marked all this, and smiled, and one would turn to another and say, "This has lasted longer than it ever lasted before. She must have some spell upon him, to keep his love for a whole month!" But it was clear to see that, under such constant vehemence and irritation, affection, on her part, at least, could not long endure, or that, as will sometimes happen, love would change its own nature, and act the part of hate.

CHAPTER XIII.

As unpleasant a moment as any in the ordinary course of life is when a conversation with the being we love best--one of the few sweet entrancing resting-places of the heart which fate sometimes affords us in the midst of the ocean of cares, anxieties, sorrows, and trifles, that surrounds us on every side--is interrupted suddenly by some one to whom we are wholly indifferent.

The step upon the stairs, and the knock that followed it at the door, were amongst the most ungrateful sounds that could have struck the ear of Hugh de Monthermer and Lucy de Ashby; and there was no slight impatience in the tone of the former, as he said, "Come in!"