"Yes, miss; I be the oldest-I be fifteen; and I will tell you the story of The Lovers, if so be the rest will suffer me to speak." much." By all means, Fanny, I wish to hear the tale very And sitting down upon some felled trees, the party prepared to give their attention to the story of the lovers. Fanny narrated the history, partly in her own phraseology, and partly in that, which she had learnt by heart. A many years agone, Margaret Honeyman was the prettiest girl in Bromley, and several of the best of the village lads wished to keep company with her, but she was of a light and careless fancy, and never minded any of them. Howbeit, she suffered them to court her, and got ribands and laces at fair-days, and many envied, and some found fault with her, but she and her mother were well to do in the world, and no one could fix any real fault upon them. At last, one day, a recruiting party came to our village, and several families lamented that the military should stay in the village, for they wiled away some of the choicest of the young farmers, to leave their ploughs, and homes, and enlist to go beyond seas. While all this was going on, Sergeant May (I think they called him) fell to courting Margaret, and he was, they say, a very comely man, and full of book-learning; he could write as well, or better nor the sexton, and after some weeks he carried off Margaret's heart; and it was all settled that they should be married, as soon as Sergeant May could come back from asking his father's leave, who was a weaver by trade, as lived at Richmond. It was, however, necessary, that he should first inform his captain of his intention; and Captain Goldburn told him that a soldier should not marry till very late in life, and that his gun and his sword should be his wife and children; Sergeant May, however, was a favourite of his captain's, and, after much entreaty, the captain consented to the sergeant's marriage. He had only, therefore, to go and get his father's consent, and persuade him to give them some money, that Margaret might set up house with, in times of peace, though she was determined, she said, to be a good soldier's wife, and follow the drum, wherever her husband went; but then her poor old mother would require more to keep her, when she would not be with her, to take care of and cherish her; so that she wanted a little money to add to her stock, and to comfort old Margery for her loss-for the child's marriage, which may be a gain to the child, is a loss to the parent whom she leaves, I've heard say. Well, Sergeant May left Bromley, and when he got to Richmond, he was obliged to remain many weeks there, for his mother died, and his father was broken hearted, and he was a good son, and he could not leave him, till such time as the old man should begin to cheer up; but he wrote to Margaret, and told her he would soon be able to make almost a lady of her, and that he loved her dearly, and longed to be back with her. In the mean time Captain Goldburn saw Margaret one day, as she came to the barracks with her mother, to help to carry some of the men's washing to their cottage; and he thought her very handsome; and he made some excuse or another about Sergeant May, and went and paid her a visit. From one visit he paid her many; and he gave her presents, and her old mother too; and he persuaded her to walk with him in this very walk, and the village folk did call it thence the Lovers' Walk; but they all found fault with Margaret for being 'gaged like to the sergeant, and yet listening to the captain's speeches. At last, she listened so often, and so long, that he came to tell her it would be a shame so pretty a girl should be a sergeant's wife, that if she would go with him she should ride in her coach and go to plays and masquerades, and lead a very different life, full of nothing but pleasure and fun. So she listened and listened till she began to love him far better than poor May, and at last consented to go with him wherever he chose to take her: then they met late and early, sometimes in the churchyard, sometimes down by Bromley Wall, but oftenest in the Lovers' Walk; and there they were one night a love-making, she saying that she never before knew what it was to love a man, when they heard foots eps advancing, and, by the light of the moon, who should they see but Sergeant May. He directly stops, and laying his hand on Margaret's arm, asks her if she was not ashamed to behave so-she who had promised to be his wedded wife. 666 'But,' he added, ́ Margaret, you shall never be more to me nor a worthless woman. Nevertheless, I will not be treated so by any man without my revenge, and though you be my captain, and Captain Goldburn though you be, we are man and man now pursuing the same woman, I honourably, you dishonourably. Yes, you are a villain and a coward, if you do not resent this blow.' "And he struck the captain, and spat on him. A party of soldiers, who chanced to be loitering about not far from the spot, hearing high words, approached, and the captain desired them to take Sergeant May into custody for drunkenness and disorderly conduct. "I am not drunk,' said May, 'and there is not a man of you, worthy of the name of man, who would not do as I have done; nevertheless, I must abide my sentence." 'He made no resistance, but as he was being taken away, he said, 66 6 Margaret, as for you, you are not worth an honest man's thought; but remember, that if you trust to such a one as Captain Goldburn, you will come to sin, and shame, and misery." Off with the fellow,' the captain cried, he's drunk, away with him; lock him up till he comes to his senses, and then a good flogging will do the rest." "But there was something in the sergeant's words and manner that sank into Margaret's heart, and she insisted on going home to her mother, notwithstanding Captain Goldburn's fine words; so he cursed and swore, as the story goes, and vowed he'd have his revenge. And so he had, for the poor sergeant was condemned to, I forget how many lashes, and he was tied up, and suffered the punishment without flinching. Twice he was asked to beg his captain's pardon, and the rest of the punishment should be remitted, and twice he refused to do so. "Not,' he said, for any unchristian feeling, but because he would always declare to the last of his blood and his breath, that it was a shame to seduce another man's affianced wife, and then punish him for having told him the truth.' "Tie up the obstinate dog again,' cried the captain; and he was tied up, and he suffered the whole punishment, and was taken away senseless and carried to the hospital, for the doctor said, one more lash and he would die. And he did die as it was, for his wounds mortified, and he sank under the fever that came on; but at his death he asked to see his captain, and holding out his hand he said he forgave him; then he sent for Margaret, and said he forgave her also, but told her to be aware of sin, for we must all come to a death-bed; and then the sore of sin would be greater anguish than even the sores of which he was dying. And Margaret never took her eyes off him till he breathed his last. And then, the story goes, she never closed them more ever after, but the little sleep she got she slept with her eyes wide open. Well, after Sergeant May's death, his captain was arraigned for cruelty, and for having caused his death, and he was scouted by all his officers, and the king took away his commission, for the court pronounced sentence against him, and he was broke, and as he was a very proud man he could not bear it, and so went mad; for pride, they say, comes before a fall, and he is now in some lunatic asylum. As to Margaret, she never rested, and her open eyes were fearful to look upon; nobody could bear to see her but her poor mother, and at the last she disappeared from the place, and none ever found her out; it is thought that she wandered to the sea-coast, for she was traced to Worthing, and some of her clothes were found on a lonely part of the shore, and it is supposed she drowned herself; and they do say her spirit walks about here o' nights, but I never seed it, nor yet that of her old mother, who some pretends hobbles about, leaning on her stick as she used to do when in life, only wailing and wailing dolefully, and crying Margery, pretty Margery; and this is the rightful story of the Lovers' Walk." "What an interesting, what a dreadful history!" exclaimed Miss Herbert. "I never could have been so soft," cried Mr. Clermont, "as to forgive that dog, Captain Goldburn. The man who attempted to cast dishonour upon my wife, my sister, or my mistress, I would shoot without remorse, like a mad dog." "I honour your indignation against crime," observed Lord de Montmorenci, "but I cannot approve your taking vengeance into your own hands.” 66 No, no," cried Lady Herbert shuddering, "vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord; but that is for God alone to say, not for man." "Well, well," rejoined Frederick, with his gay, goodhumoured face, which looked as if he never could harbour any evil passion for two minutes together. "I only hope I may never be put to such a trial.” The party spent two days rambling over the country, and Lord de Montmorenci declared that, though it was not Italy, there was a romance in the sylvan fields, and hedgerows, and hop-grounds, which must be called the romance of nature, and which he averred was to be found every where, and enjoyed by every mind not seared by the world, in a primrose path, alike as in the classic sites of Italy or Greece. "I should think it a great misfortune, and a bad sign of myself, if I lost the sense of pleasure which such scenes afford." But Lady Herbert, "like bird in bondage held that fluttering seeks the skies," longed to return to her home, and to behold again him who was the light of her life, the sunshine of her skies. CHAPTER XVI. THE ANNIVERSARY. Let me not to the marriage of true minds That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose north's unknown, although his height be taken. Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not, with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out, even to the edge of doom. I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS. Ir was on the morning, or rather the afternoon of the 28th of May, 18-, that Lord Herbert opened the door of his wife's dressing-room, and inquired if Sarah was there? She was, and answered to his call; so he entered and sat down, and said, "Sarah, would you like to accompany me and Lennard by water to Richmond to-day?" "To be sure I should," she replied eagerly. "Be ready then at four o'clock." ་ "I will dress directly, papa; and perhaps, mamma, we 1 |