The Forest Lovers

"You are the son of my father's friend, Sir Prosper," she said, "and

shall never kneel to me."

"My lady," said he, "I shall try to deserve your gracious welcome. My

father, rest his soul, is dead, as you may have heard."

"Alas, yes," the Countess replied, "I know it, and grieve for you and

your brothers. Of my Lord Malise I have also heard something."

"Nothing good, I'll swear," interjected Prosper to himself.

The Countess went on-"Well, Sir Prosper, you stand as I stand, alone in the world. It would

seem we had need of each other."

Prosper bowed, feeling the need of nobody for his part. Remember he

was three-and-twenty to the Countess's thirty-five; and she ten years

a widow. She did not notice his silence, but went on, glowing with her

thoughts.

"We should be brother and sister for the sake of our two fathers," she

said with a gentle blush.

"I never felt to want a sister till now," cried Master Prosper, making

another bow. So it was understood between them that theirs was to be a

nearer relationship than host and guest.

The Countess Isabel--or to give her her due, Isabel, Countess of

Hauterive, Countess Dowager of March and Bellesme, Lady of Morgraunt--

was still a beautiful woman, tall, rather slim, pale, and of a

thoughtful cast of the face. She had a very noble forehead, level,

broad, and white; her eyes beneath arched brows were grey--cold grey,

not so full nor so dark as Isoult's, nor so blue in the whites, but

keener. They were apt to take a chill tinge when she was rather

Countess of Hauterive than that Isabel de Forz who had loved and lost

Fulk de Bréauté. She never forgot him, and for his sake wore nothing

but silk of black and white; but she did not forget herself either;

within walls you never saw her without a thin gold circlet on her

head. Even at Mass she, would have no other covering. She said it was

enough for the Countess of Hauterive, whom Saint Paul probably had not

in his mind when he wrote his epistle. Her hair was a glory, shining

and very abundant, but brown not black. Isoult, you will perceive, was

a warmer, tenderer copy of her mother, owing something to Fulk.

Isoult, moreover, had not been born a countess. Both were

inaccessible, the daughter from the timidity of a wild thing, the

mother from the rarity of her air. Being what she was, twice a widow,

bereft of her only child, and burdened with cares which she was much

too proud to give over, she never had fair judgment she was considered

hard where she was merely lonely. Her greatness made her remote, and

her only comforter the worst in the world--herself. Her lips drooped a

little at the corners; this gave her a wistful look at times. At other

times she looked almost cruel, because of a trick she had of going

with them pressed together. As a matter of fact she was shy as well as

proud, and fed on her own sorrows from lack of the power to declare

them abroad. It was very seldom she took a liking for any stranger;

doubtful if Prosper's lineage had won her to open to him as she had

done. His face was more answerable; that blunt candour of his, the

inquiring blue eyes, the eager throw-back of the head as he walked,

above all the friendly smile he had for a world where everything and

everybody seemed new and delightful and specially designed for his

entertainment--this was what unlocked the Countess's darkened treasury

of thought.