The White Gauntlet. Reid Mayne
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.
Marion’s, in a somewhat similar strain, were less affirmative: —
“Oh! ’twould be a happy day, if Holtspur should be here!”
Volume One – Chapter Five
Autumn was still in the sky; but it had passed its mid time, and the beechen forests of Bucks were enrobed in their livery of yellow green. The cuckoo had forsaken the copse; and the swallows were making rendezvous on the spire of the village church. The ringdove sate silent in the dell; and the wood-quests were gathering into groups. The pheasant ventured with her young brood beyond the cover-edge; the partridge carried her chicks across the stubble; and finch, sparrow, and linnet were forming their respective families into full-fledged cohorts – in preparation for those dark, chill days, when they should need such companionship to cheer them.
In truth, it is a right fair land, this same shire of Bucks – lovely in its spring-tide, fair in its summer bloom, and fairer still in its October. You may travel far, without beholding a spot more bewitching than the land of the beechen “weed;” and embosomed within the undulating arms of the Chilterns is many a spot worthy of wider renown. The mountain you meet not; the lake is rare; but the softly-swelling hill, and deep romantic dale, are ever before and around you; and the eye of traveller, or tourist, is continually attracted to scenes of sylvan beauty, upon which it long delights to linger.
So thought a youthful stripling, astride a stout steed, as, emerging from the town-end of Uxbridge, he rode over the old bridge crossing the Colne.
The sun was just sinking behind the Chiltern hills, whose forest-clad spurs stretched down into the plain – as if to meet and welcome him.
It was a fair landscape that unfolded itself before his eyes. Upon the ridge of Red Hill the rays of the descending sun slanted among the leaves of the beeches, heightening their yellow sere to the hue of gold. Here and there the wild cherry tree, of more radiant foliage, the green oak, and the darker green of the holly, mottled the slope; while on either flank, lying low among the hills, the valleys of Alderbourne and Chalfont were gradually becoming shrouded under the purple shadows of the twilight.
Right and left meandered the Colne, through meadows of emerald verdure – its broad unrippled surface reflecting the sapphire sky; while on its banks appeared herds of sleek kine, slowly lounging along the grassy sward, or standing motionless in the stream – as if placed there to give the last touch to a scene typical of tranquillity and contentment.
It was a scene worthy of Watteau or Cuyp – a picture calculated to create a quiet joy even in the breast of a stranger. So might have thought Walter Wade, who, after long absence from this his native shire, now, gazing on its wood-embowered hills and valleys recognised the mise en scène of his boyhood’s home!
The young traveller felt such a happiness. On cresting the high causeway of the old bridge – which brought the Chilterns full before his view – he reined up his horse in the middle of the road; while at the same time an ejaculation escaped from his lips, indicative of the pleasure which the sight afforded.
“Dear old Chilterns!” he exclaimed. “Friends you seem, with arms outstretched to receive me! How bright and fresh you look to one coming from that sooty London! What a pity I did not start an hour earlier – so that I might have enjoyed this fine sunset from the summit of Red Hill! No matter. There will be moonlight anon; and that will do just as well. Sunlight or moonlight, give me a ride through the beechen woods of Bucks. Charming at all hours!”
“I ’faith, I wonder,” continued he, becoming more reflective in his soliloquy, “how any one can fancy a city life! I’m sure, I’ve been well enough placed to enjoy it. The queen has been very kind – very kind indeed. She has twice kissed me. And the king, too, has complimented me on my service – only at parting he was very angry with me. I don’t know why. I did nothing to anger him.
“I wonder why I’m summoned home? Father don’t say in his letter; but I suppose he’ll tell me when I arrive there. No matter. I’m only too glad to get back to dear old Bulstrode. I hope that inveterate deer-stealer, Dick Dancey, hasn’t killed off all our deer. I mean to go in for some grand stalking this winter – that do I.”
“Let me see! Three years – no; it will be three come Christmas – since I took service at Court. I shouldn’t be surprised if cousin Lora is grown a big girl by this, and sister Marion too? Ah! Marion was big enough when I left. Lora won’t be as tall as she. No: she wasn’t the make for that Lora would be what the queen calls petite. For all that, I dare say she’s got to be a grown woman. She was just my own age; and I think I may say, that I’m now a man. Heigho! how time passes!”
And, as if the reflection had suggested the necessity of making as much of the time as possible, the young horseman gave the whip to his steed; shot out from between the parapet walls of the bridge; and passed on at a canter.
Though Walter Wade had pronounced himself a man – somewhat modestly it must be admitted – the statement was scarcely correct; and the error must be attributed to a very common and pardonable weakness of boyhood, ambitious of entering upon manhood.
He was still only a stripling – a youth of nineteen – though well grown for his age; and in point of size might have passed muster among men. A slight moustache already appeared upon his upper lip. It was light-coloured, like his hair – neither of which was red, but of that Saxon “yellow” so often associated with eyes of blue, and which, when met with in woman, presents the fairest type of female beauty.
The Greeks – themselves a dark people, above all others skilled in feminine charms – have acknowledged this truth; though, by that acknowledgment, ignoring the claims of their own race.
To the spume of the sea was the Cyprian goddess indebted for the whiteness of her skin – to the blue sky for the colour of her eyes – to the golden sun for the hue of her hair. Among the classic ancients, the dark-haired Venus elicited but little admiration.
And not very different is the partiality of the moderns. The belle of the ball-room is invariably a blonde; and even the nymphe du pavé, who trails golden pennants from under the rim of her coquettish hat, looks scornfully askance at the darker tresses of her sister in sin!
It is odd that blue eyes do not admire blue eyes – that light-coloured tresses do not wish to be interwoven with those of a like hue. Is there an instinct of approximation between extremes? Do contrasts possess an innate desire for contiguity? If so, it would explain the penchant of the dark Athenians for the fair-skinned Cytherea.
There are fair-haired youths whom man may admire, and woman love. Walter Wade was such an one.
A forehead of fine expanse, crested with curling hair – a nose sufficiently aquiline to exhibit the true aristocratic breed – a chin prominent – lips typical of contempt for aught that was mean. Such were his features.
Gazing upon his face, you might not pronounce it handsome. For a man, it might appear too feminine.