The Man-at-Arms; or, Henry De Cerons. Volumes I and II

by G. P. R. James

SONG.
Shut the window, close the door;
See, the brown leaves strew the floor;
Chilling winds are in the sky,
Autumn's gone and spring is nigh,
But winter lies between.
Oh, the brown leaves! oh, the brown,
Best of hues for fields or town,
It outlives the good-by of the green.
Hark, the curfew! Hide the fire;
Let no flame rise like a spire,
But leave enough of ashes bright
To see my Maude's eyes by the light
That the gray embers lend.
Oh, the gray! night's sober gray!
Gold light and blue sky for the day,
But gray on all in the end.

The lady had started up at the very first sounds, and looked in the direction whence they came with some degree of apprehension. As she listened, however, she said, with a more assured countenance, "She has sent her son, the good woodman; yet that does not sound like his voice either. I will creep behind those bushes and watch; but it must be him."

Silently drawing back, and keeping the tree still between her and the path by which the singer seemed to be approaching, she placed herself behind some bushes at the distance of between twenty or thirty yards of the spot where she had been seated. As she there stood, the person whose voice she had heard came forward from the thicker part of the wood, looking, as he advanced, towards the westward, which, it must be remarked, was the quarter from which the lady herself had first appeared. He slackened his pace, too, as he came up, so that there could be but little doubt that it was for her he looked. His dress, too, reassured her; for it consisted of the yellow untanned leather coat of the woodman, which, from the green ochrey earth that was employed to clean it, received a tint very much like that of the young leaves of the trees. The coat, indeed, was not in the very best condition, being a good deal worn, and somewhat ragged at the spot where the heavy axe, thrust through the broad belt, had chafed the thick leather for many a day. There was a large gap, too, and a patch upon the right arm; and the fair girl, who was now advancing, with a heart naturally kindly and expanding, at that moment more particularly, from the happy expectation of receiving tidings, thought that she would give the good woodman wherewithal to renew his leathern coat as a reward for bearing her the letter.

The woodman, unconscious of her presence, was looking the other way; but, though her step was light, his ears soon caught it, and he turned quickly towards her as she came forward.

There might be seen, the instant that he turned, a sudden change in the lady's look. She stopped, gazed at him with a look of astonishment, and then, uttering a cry of surprise and joy, sprang forward to his arms. In her eagerness, the hood and mantle fell off, disclosing the graceful person, the lovely face, and the rich apparel below; and it was a strange sight, certainly, to see so fair and delicate a creature, habited as might become the daughter of a prince, clasped in the arms of one clothed in such rude attire. It wanted, however, but one glance at his countenance to show that he upon whose bosom the lady hung so fondly was not what he seemed; and every moment spoke of long training to graceful exercises and to courtly demeanour, though each limb was well fitted to wield the heavy sword or couch the tough ash spear. He was tall and powerfully made, but his countenance was mild and kind, and his eye, as it rested upon the fair girl whom he now held to his heart, was full of tenderness and affection as well as joy--joy rising out of grief, and not entirely freed from some portion thereof, like a flower opening out after a shower, but with its head still bent down, and its leaves encumbered with the drops that had fallen heavily upon it. All that the young gentleman said for some time was, "Eva, my beloved Eva;" and all that the lady replied was, "Oh, Richard, how long it is since we have met!"

Then succeeded words of joy, and tenderness, and love; but upon these we will not dwell, for to pause and fix our eyes upon moments of such bright happiness is like gazing upon the sun, which, for long after, prevents us from seeing all other things less bright. They had much to say, however, that was not joyful; they had much to tell that was painful to hear; for, though Eva St. Clair assured him again and again that she would never love any one but him; that, sooner than wed any other, she would take that fatal vow by which many a young, a kind, and affectionate heart bound itself, in those days, to cold solitude for ever, she had yet to tell him that she saw no prospect of her father, the well-known Hubert of St. Clair, changing in any degree his determination of refusing her hand to him whom he had once permitted to expect it as a certain treasure; with whom all her years had been passed, and to whom her young affection had been given. The dissension between their fathers, which, as was so often the case in those days, had been permitted to break through the happiness of their children, seemed, she said, of a character rather to be aggravated than diminished by time, at least in the mind of her father, who, though generous to all, and especially kind to her, would not yield on a point where he conceived his honour was concerned. He, too, had to tell much that was painful. He had to inform her that his father was more than ever attached to the cause of the usurper Stephen, and that he, his son, was still bound to fight upon a side where his heart told him that the cause was unjust, and where his own observation showed him that injustice was upheld by tyranny and wrong; a side in defence of which his arm was weak and his sword fell powerless; where he felt that he could never win renown, because his heart was deprived of all those enthusiasms that lead on to high destinies in whatever cause they are enlisted.

Still, however, while they told each other all these sad things, the joy of this meeting again mingled with the sorrow, and many a look of love, and many a fond caress was added, which softened their grief, and made the anticipated evils look far off while hope was born of joy.

Though their meeting, even in the wild chase of the Lords of St. Clair, was a rash and dangerous act, yet they promised to meet again: and still they talked, and still they lingered; nor would they probably have separated for many a moment longer, had not the sound of a horn, echoing through the glades of the green wood, told them that some one was rapidly approaching.

"Fly, Richard, fly!" exclaimed the fair girl; "it is my father; most likely it is my father; and oh, if he were to find you here, how terrible might be the result."

Richard de Lacy pressed her once more to his heart, once more kissed the sweet lips of her who loved him, and then plunged into the deepest part of the wood; while Eva, snatching up the dark mantle she had dropped, gathered it round her, and, with a quick step, bent her way homeward.