"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 a.s.sent, feeling that there was something about his sister's son that would never a.s.similate 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 inst.i.tuted 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 pa.s.sed, and so merry were the dances being footed on the greensward, in which every pa.s.ser 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 a.s.sembled there to witness the sights. Her sisters had no love for such shows, and n.o.body 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 a.s.sent 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 b.u.t.tresses. Her face was covered with brilliant blushes, whilst he had hold of her hand, and seemed to be pleading with her with impa.s.sioned 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 n.o.ble 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.