The White Gauntlet. Reid Mayne
others to read your secret, cousin! I entreat you – .”
“You are welcome to your suspicions,” said Marion, interrupting her. “And now I shall relieve you from them, by making them a certainty. It is of no use trying any longer to keep that a secret, which in time you would be sure to discover for yourself – I suppose. I am in love. As you’ve said, I’m in love with one who is not here. Why should I feel ashamed to tell it you? Nay, if I only thought he loved me as I do him, I’d care little that the whole company knew it – and much less either Winifred Wayland, or Dorothy Dayrell. Let them – ”
Just then the voice of this last-mentioned personage was heard in animated conversation – interspersed with peals of laughter, in which a large party was joining.
It was nothing new for Dorothy to be the centre of a circle of laughing listeners: for she was one of the wits of the time. Her talk might not have terminated the dialogue between the cousins, but for the mention of a name – to Marion Wade of all-absorbing interest.
Walter had just finished relating his adventure of the preceding night.
“And this wonderful cavalier,” asked Dorothy, “who braved the bullying captain, and frightened the fierce footpads – did he favour you with his name, Master Wade?”
“Oh yes!” answered Walter, “he gave me that – Henry Holtspur.”
“Henry Holtspur! Henry Holtspur!” cried several in a breath, as if the name was not new to them, but had some peculiar signification.
“It’s the cavalier who rides the black horse,” explained one. “The ‘black horseman,’ the people called him. One lately come into this neighbourhood. Lives in the old house of Stone Dean. Nobody knows him.”
“And yet everybody appears to be talking of him! Mysterious individual! Some troubadour returned from the East?” suggested Winifred Wayland.
“Some trader from the West, more like,” remarked Dorothy Dayrell, with a sneer, “whence, I presume, he has imported his levelling sentiments, and a savage for his servant, too, ’tis said. Did you see aught of his Indian, Master Wade?”
“No,” said the youth, “and very little of himself: as our ride together was after night. But I have hopes of seeing more of him to-day. He promised to be here.”
“And is not?”
“I think not. I haven’t yet encountered him. ’Tis just possible he may be among the crowd over yonder; or somewhere through the camp. With your permission, ladies, I shall go in search of him.”
“Oh! do! do!” exclaimed half a score of sweet voices. “By all means, Master Wade, find the gentleman. You have our permission to introduce him. Tell him we’re all dying to make his acquaintance.”
Walter went off among the crowd; traversed the camp in all directions; and came back without the object of his search.
“How cruel of him not to come!” remarked the gay Dayrell, as Walter was seen returning alone. “If he only knew the disappointment he is causing! We might have thought less of it, Master Walter, if you hadn’t told us he intended to be here. Now I for one shall fancy your fête very stupid without him.”
“He may still come,” suggested Walter. “I think there are some other guests who have not arrived.”
“You are right, Master Wade,” interposed one of the bystanders; “yonder’s somebody – a man on horseback – on the Heath, outside the palings of the park. He appears to be going towards the gate?”
All eyes were turned in the direction indicated. A horseman was seen upon the Heath outside, about a hundred yards distant from the enclosure; but he was not going towards the gate.
“Not a bit of it,” cried Dorothy Dayrell. “He’s changed his mind about that. See! He heads his horse at the palings! Going to take them? He is in troth! High – over! There’s a leap worth looking at!”
And the fair speaker clapped her pretty hands in admiration of the feat.
There was one other who beheld it with an admiration, which, though silent, was not less enthusiastic. The joy that had shone sparkling in the eyes of Marion Wade, as soon as the strange horseman appeared in sight, was now heightened to an expression of proud triumph.
“Who is he?” asked half a score of voices, as the bold horseman cleared the enclosure.
“It is he – the cavalier we have just been speaking of,” answered Walter, hurrying away to receive his guest, who was now coming on at an easy gallop towards the camp.
“The black horseman! – the black horseman!” was the cry that rose up from the crowd; while the rustics rushed up to the top of the moat to give the new comer a welcome.
“The black horseman! huzza!” proclaimed a voice, with that peculiar intonation that suggests a general cheer – which was given, as the cavalier, riding into their midst, drew his steed to a stand.
“They know him, at least,” remarked the fair Dayrell, with a toss of her aristocratic head. “How popular he appears to be! Can any one explain it?”
“It’s always the way with new people,” said a sarcastic gentleman who stood near, “especially when they make their débût a little mysteriously. The rustic has a wonderful relish for the unknown.”
Marion stood silent. Her eye sparkled with pride, on beholding the homage paid to her own heart’s hero. The sneering interrogatories of Dorothy Dayrell she answered only in thought.
“Grand and noble!” was her reflection. “That is the secret of his popularity. Ah! the instincts of the people rarely err in their choice. He is true to them. No wonder they greet him as their God!”
For Marion, herself, a sweet triumph was in store.
The curiosity of the crowd, that had collected on the arrival of the black horseman, was passing away. The people had returned to their sports; or, with admiring looks, were following the famous steed to his stand under the trees. From an instinct of delicacy, peculiar to the country people, they had abandoned the cavalier to the companionship of his proper host – who was now conducting him towards the promised presentation.
They had arrived within a few paces of the spot where Marion was standing. Her face was averted: as if she knew not who was advancing. But her heart told her he was near. So, too, the whisperings of those who stood around. She dared not turn towards him. She dreaded to encounter his eye, lest it might look slightingly upon her.
That studied inattention could not continue. She looked towards him at last. Her gaze became fixed, not upon his face, but, upon an object which appeared conspicuous upon the brow of his beaver —a white gauntlet!
Joy supreme! Words could not have spoken plainer. The token had been taken up, and treasured. Love’s challenge had been accepted!
Volume One – Chapter Sixteen
A glove, a ribbon, a lock of hair, in the hat of a gentleman, was but the common affectation of the cavalier times; and only proclaimed its wearer the recipient of some fair lady’s favour. There were many young gallants on the ground, who bore such adornments; and therefore no one took any notice of the token in the hat of Henry Holtspur – excepting those for whom it had a particular interest.
There were two who felt this interest; though from different motives. They were Marion Wade, and Lora Lovelace. Marion identified the glove with a thrill of joy; and yet the moment after she felt fear. Why? She feared it might be identified by others. Lora saw it with surprise. Why? Because it was identified. At the first glance Lora had recognised the gauntlet; and knew it to have belonged to her cousin.
It was just this, that the latter had been dreading. She feared not its being recognised by any one else – not even by her father. She knew the good knight had more important matters upon his mind, and could not have told one of her gloves from another. But far different was it with her cousin; who having a more intelligent discrimination in such trifles, would