The White Gauntlet
By Captain Mayne Reid
Published by G.W. Dillingham, New York.
This edition dated 1892.
The White Gauntlet, by Captain Mayne Reid.
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THE WHITE GAUNTLET, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.
Volume One, Chapter I.
A woman in a wood--encountered accidentally, and alone. 'Tis an
encounter to challenge curiosity--even though she be but a gipsy, or a
peasant girl gathering sticks.
If a high-born dame, beautiful,--and, above all, bright-haired,--
curiosity is no longer the word; but admiration, involuntary,
unrestrained--bordering upon adoration. It is but the instinct of man's
heart to worship the fairest object, upon which man's eye may rest; and
this is a beautiful woman, with bright hair, met in the middle of a
wood.
Marion Wade possessed all the conditions to merit such exalted
admiration. She was high-born, beautiful, and bright-haired. She was
alone in a wood.
It did not detract from the interest of the situation, that she was
mounted on a white horse, carried a hawk on her hand, and was followed
by a hound.
She was unaccompanied by human creature--hawk, hound, and horse being
her only companions.
It must have been her choice to be thus unattended. Wishing it, the
daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade might have had for escort a score of
retainers.
Autumn was in the sky: and along with it a noon-day sun. The golden
light straggling through the leaves was reflected upon a field of blue,
brilliant as the canopy whence it came. It was not the blue of the
hyacinth gleaming in the forest glade, nor the modest violet that
empurples the path. In October it could not be either. More attractive
was that cerulean tint, seen in the iris of a woman's eye--the eye of
Marion Wade.
The sunbeams danced upon her yellow hair, with apparent delight, kissing
its tresses of kindred colour--kissing her radiant cheek, that, even
under the shadow of the trees, looked luminous.
What does she in the wild wood unguarded--unattended? Is she a-hawking?
The kestrel perched upon her gloved hand should say, yes. But more than
once game has sprung up temptingly before her; and still the hood has
been suffered to stay upon the hawk, and its jesses are retained in
leash.
Has she lost her way--is she wandering?
Equally unlike. She is upon a path. A noble park is in sight, with a
road that runs parallel to its palings. Through the trees she can
obtain glimpses of a stately mansion standing within its enclosure. It
is the famed park of Bulstrode--ancient as Alfred the Great. As she is
the mistress of its mansion she cannot have lost her way? She cannot be
wandering?
And yet, why does she fret her palfrey in its paces--now checking, now
urging it onward? If not wandering in her way, surely is she astray in
her thoughts?
She does not appear to be satisfied with the silent solitude of that
forest path: she stops at short intervals, and leans forward in her
saddle, as if listening for sounds.
Her behaviour would lead to the belief, that she is expecting some one?
A hoof-stroke is heard. There is a horseman coming through the wood.
He is not yet in sight; but the sound of his horse's hoofs striking the
solid turf--tells that he is riding upon the track, and towards her.
There is an opening in the forest glade, of some six roods in extent.
It is cut in twain by a path, which parts from the high road near one of
the gates of Bulstrode Park; thence treading over the hills in a
north-westerly direction.
On this path rides Marion Wade, straying, or dallying--certainly not
travelling.
She has entered the aforementioned opening. Near its centre stands a
tree--a beech of magnificent dimensions--whose wide-spreading boughs
seem determined to canopy the whole area of the opening. The road runs
beneath its branches.
Under its shadow, the fair equestrian checks her palfrey to a stand--as
if to shelter, hawk, hound, and horse, from the fervent rays of the
noon-day sun.
But no: her object is different. She has halted there to wait the
approach of the horseman; and, at this moment, neither hawk, hound, nor
horse claims the slightest share of her thoughts.
She sits scanning the road in the direction whence the hoof-strokes are
heard. Her eyes sparkle with a pleasant anticipation.
The horseman soon appears, cantering around a corner--a rustic in rude
garb, astride of a common roadster!
Surely he is not the expected one of Marion Wade?
The question is answered by the scornful exclamation that escapes from
her pouted lips.
"'Sh! I might have known by the clattering it wasn't the footfall of
that noble steed. A peasant!"
The despised rustic rides on--as he passes making awkward obeisance, by
a spasmodic pluck at his forelock.
His salutation is scarcely returned: or only with a nod, apparently
supercilious. He wonders at this: for he knows that the lady is the
daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade--Mistress Marion--usually so
condescending to, and a favourite with, all of his class. He cannot
guess the chagrin he has given her.
He is soon out of her sight, and equally out of her thoughts: for it is
not the sound of his departing hoof-strokes her ear is now re-quickened
to catch; but others of bolder bound, and clearer resonance awaking the
echoes of the wood.
These are soon heard more distinctly; and presently a second horseman
appears, advancing around an angle of the road.
A striking contrast does the new comer present to the rustic who has
just ridden past. A cavalier of elegant carriage, spurred and plumed;
mounted on a superb steed, of jet-black colour--his counter clouted with
flakes of snow-white froth loosened from his chamfering lips.
A glance at the horse is sufficient to show that he is the "noble steed"
mentioned in that muttered soliloquy; and half a glance at the rider
proclaims him the individual for whom Marion Wade has been waiting.
As yet she has not given him half a glance. She has not even turned her
eyes in the direction whence he is approaching. She sits silent in her
saddle, and to all appearance calmly indifferent. But this air of
_insouciance_ is only assumed. The quivering of the kestrel, roosted
upon her wrist, tells that she is trembling; while the high heaving of
her bosom indicates the presence of some strong emotion.
Going at a gentle gallop, the horseman glides out into the opening.
Perceiving the lady, he checks his steed to a slower pace--as if to pass
more respectfully.
Marion continues to affect an air of non-observance--studied and severe:
though the cavalier coming forward, is at that moment the sole subject
of her thoughts.
Her reflections will disclose the character of these thoughts; and
enable us to obtain an insight into the relations existing between these
two splendid equestrians, whom chance, or design, has brought together
upon the lonely forest road.
"If he should speak to me," soliloquises the lady, "what shall I say to
him? What can I? He must know it is not accident that has brought me
hither--and now so often. If I thought he knew the truth, I should die
of shame!
"I wish him to speak; and yet I fear it. Ah! there need be no fear. He
will not. How many times has he passed me without a word! And yet his
glances--do they not tell me that he would--Oh!--this etiquette of out
high life--that without shame strangers may not be civil to one another!
"Would I were a peasant--and he the same--only handsome as he is now!
'Tis cruel, to be thus constrained by silly social custom! My sex, too,
against me. I dare not speak first. Even in _his_ eyes it would undo
me!
"He is going to pass me as before? Is there no way by which this
painful reticence may be removed?"
The fair equestrian appeared to ponder on some plan--only half-formed
and half-resolved, as her muttered reflections indicated.
"Dare I do it? What would my proud father say, if he were to know?
Even gentle cousin Lora would chide me? A stranger whose name I only
know, and that's all. Perhaps _not a gentleman_? Oh--yes--yes--yes!
He can not be other. He may not be a lord of the land--but he is _lord
of my poor heart_! I cannot restrain myself from soliciting him--even
if it bring shame and repentance. I shall do it--I shall do it!"
The speech betrayed a determination. To do what?
The act itself, following close upon the words, answered the question.
With a quick jerk the lady dislodged the kestrel from its perch, tossing
the bird to the neck of her palfrey--where it clung, clutching the
snow-white mane. Then drawing off her glove, a _white gauntlet_, she
dropped it negligently by her side--permitting it to slide down the
skirt of her riding-dress. It fell into the middle of the road.
A short moment intervened. The lady apparently unconscious of the loss
she had sustained, tightened the rein upon her palfrey, and with a
slight touch of the whip moved out from under the branches of the
beech--her horse's head turned in a direction opposite to that in which
the cavalier was approaching.
At first she rode slowly--apparently desirous of being overtaken.
Presently she increased the pace; then faster, and faster, until she
went at a gallop--as though by a sudden change of thought she had
determined to avoid an interview! The thick tresses of her golden hair
escaping from the comb swept down upon the croup behind her. The
natural red of her cheeks had become heightened to the hue of carmine.
It was the suffusion of burning blushes. Her eyes were flashing with a
strange excitement in an expression that spoke of something like shame.
She had repented of what she had done, and dreaded to wait the
consequence of the act!
For all that she was dying to look back, but dared not.
A turn in the road, at length, offered her the opportunity. As she
reined her palfrey around the corner, she glanced towards the spot where
she had abandoned her glove.
The tableau that saluted her eye was not displeasing. The cavalier,
bending down from his saddle, was just lifting the gauntlet upon the
point of his glistening rapier!
What would he do with it?
She waited not to see. Her palfrey passed behind the trees, and the
horseman was hidden from her sight. On that splendid steed he might
easily have overtaken her: but, although listening, as she rode on, she
heard no hoof-stroke behind her.
She did not desire to be overtaken. For that day she had submitted
herself to sufficient humiliation--self-administered--it is true; but
she slackened not the pace, till she has passed through the gates of the
park, and sighted the walls of the paternal mansion.
Volume One, Chapter II.
If tumultuous were the emotions of Marion Wade, as she let fall that
significant token, not less so were those of _Henry Holtspur_ as he took
it up.
Had the lady remained a moment longer looking back, she would have seen
her glove taken gently from the point of the cavalier's sword, pressed
with a wild fervour to his lips, and proudly placed alongside the plume
in the frontlet of his beaver.
She only saw that her challenge had been accepted; and, with a thrill of
sweet satisfaction, contending against a sense of shame, she had ridden
rapidly away.
The cavalier, equally gratified, appeared also perplexed: as if
hesitating whether he should follow. But the abrupt departure of the
lady seemed to say that pursuit was prohibited; and, checking his
ardour, along with his steed, he remained by the tree, under the shadow
of which he had halted.
For some minutes he sate in his saddle, apparently absorbed in
reflections. That they were not all of one character was evinced by the
expression upon his countenance, which kept continually changing. Now
it betokened triumph, with its concomitant pleasure; anon could be
traced the lines that indicated doubt, accompanied by pain; and, once or
twice, an expression that told of regret, or _remorse_, was visible.
These facial changes will be better understood by giving in detail the
thoughts that were causing them.
Was it intended for a challenge? Can I doubt it? Had the incident been
alone, I might have deemed it accidental. But the many times we have
met--and upon this lone road! Why should she come this way, unless--?
And her looks? On each occasion bolder, and _lovelier_! Oh! how sweet
to be thus favoured! How different from that other love, that has had
such unhappy ending! Then I was prized but for my position, my
prospects, and my fortune. When these fell from me, only to be
forsaken!
"If she love me, her love cannot rest on circumstances like these. She
knows me not--not even my name! That she may have heard, can suggest
neither rank, nor fortune. _If she love me, it must be for myself_?
'Tis a thrilling thought--thus to believe!"
The eye of the cavalier lighted up with an expression of triumph; and he
sate proudly erect in his saddle.
Only for a short time did he preserve this high attitude. Reflections
of a far different character succeeded, dissipating the happiness he had
for the moment experienced.
"She will know in time? She _must_ know? Even I, myself, must tell her
the terrible secret. And then what is to become of this sweet, but
transient, dream? It will be all over; and instead of her love, I shall
become the object of her hatred--her scorn? O God! To think it must
end thus! To think that I have _won_, and yet can never _wear_!"
The features of the speaker became overspread with a deep gloom.
"Why did I enter upon this intrigue? Why have I permitted it to
proceed? Why do I desire its continuance? To all these questions the
answer is the same. Who could have resisted? Who could resist? It is
not in man's nature to behold such beauty, without yearning to possess
it. As Heaven is my witness, I have struggled to subdue this unholy
passion--to destroy it--to pluck it forth from my bosom. I have tried
to shun the presence of her who inspires it. Perhaps I might have
succeeded, had not she. Alas! I have no longer the power to retreat.
That is gone, and the will as well. I must on--on--like the insect
lured by some fatal light, to a self-sought and certain destruction!"
It was then that remorse became plainly depicted upon the countenance of
the cavalier. What could be causing it? That was a secret he scarcely
dared declare to himself.
"After all," he continued, a new train of thought seeming to suggest
itself, "what if it be an accident--this, that has made me at once so
happy, and yet so wretched? Her looks, too--those glances that have
gladdened my heart, at the same time awaking within me a consciousness
of wrongdoing, as, too ardently, I gave them back--may I not have
misinterpreted them? If she intended that I should take up this glove--
that I should restore it to her--why did she not stay to receive it?
Perhaps I have been misconceiving her motives? After all, am I the
victim of an illusion--following but an _ignis fatuus_ kindled by my own
vanity?"
At the moment the look of remorse gave place to one of chagrin. The
cavalier appeared no longer to regret being too much loved; but rather
that he might not be loved at all--a reflection far more painful.
"Surely! I cannot be mistaken. I saw it on her hand but the instant
before--with the hawk perched upon it. I saw her suddenly fling the
bird to the neck of the horse, and draw off the gauntlet, which the next
moment fell from her fingers! Surely it was design?"
He raised his hand to his hat; took the glove from its place; and once
more pressed it to his lips.
"Oh, that her hand were in it!" he enthusiastically exclaimed, yielding
to a sweet fancy. "If it were her fingers I held thus to my lips--thus
unresisting--then might I believe there was bliss upon earth!"
A footstep, falling upon his ear, interrupted the enraptured speech. It
was light, betokening the proximity of a woman, or rather the presence
of one: for, on turning, his eye rested upon a female figure, standing
by the side of his horse.
The cavalier saw before him a comely face--and something more. He might
have deemed it beautiful; but for that other still present to his
intellectual eye, and altogether engrossing his thoughts.
It was a young girl who had thus silently intruded: and one worthy of a
gracious reception, despite the peasant garb in which she had presented
herself.
Both face and figure were such as could not be regarded with
indifference, nor dismissed without reflection. Neither owed aught to
the adornment of art; but to both had nature been liberal, even to
profuseness.
A girl, closely approximating to womanhood, largely framed, and finely
developed--in arms, limbs, bust, and body, exhibiting those oval
outlines that indicate the possession of strong passions and powers.
Such was the creature who stood by the horse of Henry Holtspur.
But for their blackness, her eyes might have been likened to those of an
eagle; but for its softness, her hair resembled the tail of his own
steed--equally long and luxuriant; and her teeth--there could have been
nothing whiter, even among the chalk of the Chilterns--her native hills.
Robed in silk, satin, or velvet, it was a form that would have done no
discredit to a queen. Encircled with pearls or precious diamonds, it
was a face of which a princess might have been proud. Even under the
ordinary homespun of a rustic gown, that form looked queenly--beneath
those glossy plaits of crow-black hair--bedecked with some
freshly-plucked flowers--that face might have inspired envy in a
princess.
In the glance bestowed upon her by the cavalier there was no sign--
either of surprise or admiration. It was simply a look of recognition,
accompanied by a nod, acknowledging her presence.
In the eye of the maiden there was no such indifference. The most
careless observer could have told, that she was in love with the man
upon whom she was now gazing.
The horseman took no heed of her admiring glances. Perhaps he noticed
them not. His attention was altogether given to an object, which the
girl held in her outstretched hand, and which was instantly transferred
to his. It was a letter, sealed and directed to himself.
"Thanks!" said he, breaking open the seal. "Your father has brought
this from Uxbridge, I suppose?"
"He has, sir. He sent me with it; and bid me ask you if there be an
answer to go back. As you were not at the house, I brought it here. I
hope I have done right, sir?"
"Oh, certainly! But how did you know where to find me? My tongueless
attendant, Oriole, could not have told you?"
"He made sign, sir, that you had taken this road. I thought I should
meet you here; and father said it might be important for you to have the
letter at once."
The red blood mantled higher upon the girl's cheeks, as she offered this
explanation. She knew she had exceeded her father's instructions; which
had been, simply, to leave the letter at "Stone Dean," the residence of
Henry Holtspur.
The cavalier, occupied with the epistle, noticed neither her blushes nor
embarrassment.
"'Tis very considerate of you," said he, turning gratefully towards the
girl, as he finished reading the letter. "Your father has guessed
correctly. It is of the greatest importance that I should have had this
letter in good time. You may tell him that it needs no reply. I must
answer it in person, and at once. But say, Mistress Betsey; what return
can I make you for this kind service? You want a ribbon for your
beautiful black hair? What colour is it to be? I think blue--such as
those flowers are--does not so well become you. Shall it be a red one?"
The words, though courteously intended, fell with an unpleasant effect
upon the ear of her to whom they were addressed. They were not the
speeches to which she would fain have listened.
"Thanks, sir," said she, in a tone that betrayed pique, or some other
unlooked-for emotion. "A fine ribbon would scarce suit my coarse common
hair. These flowers are good enough for it!"
"Ah! Mistress Betsey! Your beautiful tresses can bear this
disparagement: you know they are neither coarse nor common. Nay; if you
refuse the ribbon, you must accept the price of one. I cannot allow,
that the essential service you have done me should go unrewarded. Take
this piece of gold; and make purchase with it to suit yourself--scarf,
gown, or gloves--whichever you please."
Somewhat to the cavalier's surprise, his liberal largess was rejected--
not with scorn, but rather with an air of sadness--sufficiently marked
to have been noticed by him, had he not been altogether unsuspicious of
the cause.
"Well--well," said he, putting back the coin into his purse, "I am sorry
you will not permit me to make some amends for your kindness. Perhaps I
may find an opportunity on some future occasion? Meanwhile I must be
gone. The letter you have delivered summons me hence,--without delay.
Many thanks, Mistress Betsey, and a fair good morning to you!"
A touch of the spur caused his chafing steed to spring out into the
middle of the road; and the rider, heading him for the highway that
conducted towards Uxbridge, soon swept round the corner--at the same
instant, becoming lost to the sight of the dark-eyed damsel--whose
glance, full of passion and disappointment, had followed him to the
point of his disappearance.
Volume One, Chapter III.
The girl listened awhile to the departing hoof-strokes, as they came
back with clear resonance from the hard causeway. Then, dropping her
eyes to the ground, she stood silent under the tree--her swarth
complexion still further darkened by sombre shadows, now overspreading
every feature of her face.
Not long did she continue in this silent attitude.
"I would have taken the ribbon," muttered she, "as a gift--if he had
meant it that way. But it wasn't so. No. It was only as _wages_ he
offered it to me; and his money--that was worse. Had it been a lock of
his hair. Ah! I would rather he gave me that than all the gold coins
in his purse, or all the silk in the shops of Uxbridge."
"He called my hair beautiful: twice he said so!"
"Did he mean it? Or was it only mocking of me? I am sure I do not
think so myself, though others have told me the same. I wish it were
fair, instead of dark, like that of Mistress Marion Wade. Then perhaps,
it would be beautiful?
"Blue don't become me, he says. Lie there despised colour! Never more
shall blue blossom be seen in the hair of Bet Dancey."
As she said this she plucked the bunch of hare-bells from behind her
comb, and flung the flowers at her feet.
"It was Will that gave them to me," she continued. "He only gathered
them an hour ago. What if he were to see them now? Ah! what care I?
What should I care? I never gave him reason--not the least bit. They
were worn to-day, not to please _him_; but in hopes of pleasing one I do
care for. Had I thought that that one liked not blue, there were plenty
of red ones in the old garden of Stone Dean. I might have gathered some
as I came through it. What a pity I didn't know the colour he likes
best!"
"Ha!" she exclaimed, starting forward upon the path, and bending down
over the spot where the flowers had fallen--and where the dust shewed
signs of having been recently disturbed. "That is not the track of
_his_ horse. That little shoe--I know it--Mistress Marion Wade!"
For a second or two, the speaker preserved her stooping attitude,
silently regarding the tracks. She saw they were fresh--that they had
been made that morning--in fact, within the hour.
Her father was a forester--a woodman by calling--at times, a _stealer of
deer_. She had been born in the forest--brought up under the shadow of
its trees. She was capable of interpreting that sign--too capable for
the tranquillity of her spirit.
"Mistress Marion has been here!" she muttered. "Of late, often have I
seen these tracks; and twice the lady herself. What brings her along
this lonely road? What has she been doing here this morning?--Could it
be to meet _him_?"
She had no time to conjecture a response to this self-asked
interrogatory. As the words passed from her lips, her attention was
attracted to the sound of hoofs--a horse moving at a gallop along the
main road.
Could it be the cavalier coming back?
No. It was a peasant, on a sorry steed--the same who had passed the
other way scarcely an hour before--the same who had given chagrin to
Mistress Marion Wade.
It was the woodman, Will Walford.
The girl appeared desirous of shunning him; but he had caught sight of
her crimson cloak, and an encounter was unavoidable.
"Aw, Bet! be it thee, girl?" he cried out, as he came within speaking
distance. "Why it beeant all o' an hour since I left thee at thy hum!
What's brought thee this way?"
"Father got home, soon after you left. He came by the wood path, and
missed you, I suppose."
"Like enough for that part o' the story," replied the man, appearing to
suspect prevarication; "But that a'nt giein a answer to my question. I
asked as how you yerself coomed this way?"
"Oh! me you mean, Will?"
"Ees--myself Bet!"
"Father brought a letter from Uxbridge for Master Holtspur. He was
tired when he got home; and, as you had the old horse, he sent me over
to Stone Dean with it."
"But Stone Dean a'nt here--not by a good half-mile."
"I went there first. Master Holtspur wasn't at home; and as the dummy
made signs that he was gone along the road, and would be soon back, I
followed him. Father said the letter was important; and told me to give
it to Master Holtspur at once."
"You seed Holtspur then?"
"I did; Will. I overtook him where he was stopping here, under the old
beech tree."
"And what did thee then?"
"Give him the letter--what else should I do?"
"Ay, what else? Dang it, Bet Dancey, thee art too fond o' runnin' after
other people's business, an' this Master Holtspur's in particklar--
that's what thee be."
"It was my father's business. What had I to do with the letter but
deliver it, as I was told?"
"Never mind about it then!" rejoined the surly sweetheart, whose
incipient jealousy was somewhat appeased by the explanation. "Jump up,
an' ride behint! I han't got the pillion; but you won't mind that:
since it's your own nag, and knows it's you, Bet. He'll make his old
rump soft as a cushion for you. Hi--hullo! where's the blue blossoms I
gied you for your hair? Dang me if that beant them, scattered over the
ground thear!"
"Indeed!" said Bet, with a feigned look of surprise, "so it is! They
must have fallen out, as I was fixing my comb. Father started me off in
such a hurry, I hadn't half time to put it in its place. This hair of
mine's a bother, anyhow. It's by half too thick, and gives me constant
trouble to keep it pinned up. I shall have it cut short, I think; like
those Puritan people, who are getting to be so plenty. How would you
like that, Will?"
"Dang it! not at all. It would never do to crop thy bonny locks that
fashion. 'Twould complete spoil it. Never mind them flowers, lass!
Thear be plenty more where they coom from; an' I'm a bit hurried just
now to see thy father. Yee up, then; an' let us haste home'rd."
The girl, not without some show of reluctance, obeyed, what appeared as
much a mandate as a request; and, climbing to the croup, she extended
her arms round the waist of him, who--though calling himself her lover--
was, to her, an object of fear rather than affection.
Volume One, Chapter IV.
Having re-entered the gates of the park, Marion Wade checked her palfrey
into a walk; and, at this pace, continued on towards the paternal
mansion.
The scarlet that late tinted her cheeks had become subdued. There was
pallor in its place. Her lips even showed signs of blanching.
In her eye there was a cowed look--as if she had committed crime, and
feared discovery! But gazing on that face, you could scarce think of
crime. It was too fair to be associated with sin.
She sate negligently in her saddle--the undulating outlines of her
majestic form rendered more conspicuous by the movements of her palfrey,
as it strained up the acclivity of the hill.
The hawk had been restored to its perch; but the gauntlet no longer
shielded her wrist; and the _pounces_ of the bird, penetrating the
tender skin, had drawn blood. A tiny stream laced the silken epidermis
of her hand, and trickled to the tips of her fingers.
She felt not the wound. She beheld not the blood. The emotions of her
soul deadened the external senses; and, absorbed in the contemplation of
her rash act--half repenting of it--she was conscious of nought else,
till her palfrey came to a stop under the windows of the dwelling.
Giving her bridle to a groom, she dropped lightly to her feet; and
glided silently towards a side-door of the house--intending to enter
unobserved. In her own chamber she might more securely give way to that
tumult of thoughts and passions, now agitating her bosom.
Her design was frustrated. As she approached the portal, a clear voice,
ringing along the corridor, called her by name; and, the instant after a
fair form--almost as fair as her own--issuing forth, glided up by her
side.
It was Lora--the cousin spoken of in her late soliloquy--Lora Lovelace.
"Give me the little pet," cried Lora, reaching forward, and lifting the
hawk from its perch. "Oh, Marion!" continued she, drawing back at sight
of the blood. "What is this? You are wounded?"
"Ah! indeed yes. I did not notice it before. The kestrel must have
caused it. The wicked jade. Her claws need coping. Don't trouble
about it, child. It's nothing."
"But where is your gauntlet, Marion? If it had been on your hand, you
would not have got scratched in this fashion?"
"Ah! the gauntlet? Where is it? Let me see!"
Marion made search about her dress--in the crown of her beaver--
everywhere that might give concealment to a glove. An idle search.
"I must have dropped it!" added she, feigning surprise. "Perhaps it is
sticking somewhere about the saddle? If not, I must have lost it upon
the road. It don't signify. I must buy me a new pair--that's all."
"Dearest cousin!" said Lora, speaking in a tone of earnest appeal, "the
sight of blood always makes me think of danger. I am never happy when
you are out alone on these distant hawking excursions. Marion, you
should take attendants with you, or remain within the enclosures. I am
sure there's danger outside."
"_Danger outside_! Ha! Ha! Perhaps you are right there, little Lora.
Perhaps it's that which lures me beyond the palings of the park! When I
go forth to hawk or hunt, I don't care to be cooped up by enclosures.
Give me the wild game that has free range of the forest."
"But think, Marion! You know what we've heard about the highwaymen?
It's true about the lady being stopped on Red Hill--in her carriage,
too. Uncle says it is; and that these robbers are growing bolder every
day, on account of the bad government. Oh, cousin! take my advice, and
don't any more go out alone."
"Good counsel, daughter; though it be given you by one younger than
yourself. I hope you will set store by it; and not leave me under the
necessity of strengthening it by a command."
The tall middle-aged gentleman, of noble serious mien--who stepping
forth, had entered thus abruptly into the conversation--was Sir
Marmaduke Wade, the father of Marion, and uncle of Lora.
"Your cousin speaks truly," continued he, "and it's well I am reminded
of it. There's no longer any safety on the roads. Not much in one's
own house, so far as that goes: for there are two kinds of robbery just
now rife in this unhappy land--in the king's court, as on the king's
highway. Henceforth, children, confine your rambles within the limits
of the park. Even with attendants, you may not be safe outside."
"That is true," affirmed Lora. "The lady who was stopped had several
attendants--I think you said so, uncle?"
"Six, of different sorts, escorting her carriage. In sooth a valiant
escort! They all scampered off. Of course they did. How could they be
loyal, with a corrupt administration, such as ours, destroying every
vestige of loyalty and honesty in the realm? Men are sure to become
vile--if only to imitate their masters. But come, my children! Let us
hope for better times: and, to keep up the character of merry Old
England, I've planned an entertainment for you--one that all our friends
and neighbours are to take part in."
"What is it?" asked Lora, whose spirit was, at the moment, more highly
attuned to the idea of pastime, than that of her silent cousin.
"_A fete champetre_."
"Where? Here? In our own park?"
"In our own park, of course."
"And who are to be invited, dear uncle?"
"Everybody for ten miles round; and farther, if they choose to come. I
don't mind an ox or two extra for the occasion."
"Occasion! what, uncle? It isn't Christmas!--it isn't Whitsuntide!--nor
yet May-day!"
"Can you think of nothing except holidays? What say you to a birthday?"
"Oh! true; Walter's will be next week. But, papa, is brother coming
home?"
"That's it. He is to arrive on the eve of his birthday. Poor lad! he's
been a long while from us; not long enough, I hope, to get spoiled in a
dangerous school. Well, we must give him a welcome worthy of old Bucks.
And now, girls! go to work; and see that you do your share in making
preparation for our guests."
With this parting injunction, the knight turned back into the house,
leaving his niece and daughter to discuss the pleasant subject he had
placed before them.
For some seconds, after he was gone, there was no exchange of speech
between the cousins. Each was absorbed in her own thoughts.
"Oh! 'twill be a happy day: for Walter will be here!" was the secret
reflection of Lora.