“I don’t suppose it, and needn’t. The malignants of Monmouth and Lydney are not likely to be upon this road. If they did, ’twould be at their peril. The men of Ruardean and Drybrook are of a different sort—the right sort. Should we meet any of them, though they may be a little rough in appearance, they won’t be rude. No true Forester ever is to a woman, whether lady or not. That they leave to the foreign elements Sir John Wintour has brought to Lydney, and the so-called Cavaliers on the Monmouth side—those braggarts of their blood and gallant bearing, most of them the veriest scum of the country, its gamesters and tapsters, the sweepings of the alehouse and stable! Cavaliers, indeed! who know not politeness to man nor respect for woman; care neither for national honour nor social decency!”
The enlightened young lady spoke with a warmth bordering upon indignation. With truth, too, as might one of her sort now about Tories and Jingoes. But, alas! now there are but few of her sort, youthful and enthusiastic in the cause of liberty; instead, ancient maidens of wealth and title, some of whose ancestors trod the stage playing at charity for the sake of popularity; patronising play-actors and endowing homes for strayed dogs! showing a shameless sympathy with the foul murdering Turk and his red-handed atrocities; last and latest of all, having the effrontery—impertinent as unfeminine—to counsel, ay, dictate, political action to England’s people, telling them how they should cast their votes!
What a contrast between their doings and the sayings and sentiments of that young Forest girl—all that lies between the mean and the noble!
“But,” she went on, in reference to the gentlemen of the gaming-house and hostelry tap-room, “we needn’t fear meeting them here, nor anywhere through the Forest. The Foresters—brave fellows—are for the Parliament almost to a man. Should we encounter any of them on our walk, I’ll answer for their good behaviour and kind-heartedness—something more, if knowing who we are. Father is a favourite with them for having taken their side against the usurpations of Wintour; though they liked him before that, and I’m proud of their doing so.”
“Oh! so am I, Sabrina. I’m as fond of our dear Foresters as you. It isn’t of them I had any fear. But, apart from all that, I think it’s time we turn our steps homeward. We’re surely now two miles from Hollymead; and see! the sun’s hastening to go down behind the Welsh hills.”
While so delivering herself, she faced round, the Welsh hills being behind their backs as they walked towards Drybrook.
“Hasten as it likes,” rejoined Sabrina, “it can’t get down for at least another hour. That will give us ample time to go on to the top of the hill and back to Hollymead before supper; which last, if I mistake not, is the chief cause of your anxiety to be at home.”
“For shame, Sabrina! You know it isn’t—the last thing in my thoughts.”
Sabrina did know that; knew, also, she was not speaking her own thoughts, but using subterfuge to conceal them. It was herself had proposed the stroll she seemed so desirous of continuing. To her its termination would not be satisfactory without attaining the summit of the ridge whose slope they were ascending.
Thrown back by what her younger sister had said, but still determined to proceed, without giving the true reason, she bethought herself of one, false though plausible.