The White Gauntlet. Reid Mayne

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 be likely, just then, to exercise it.

      Marion’s fears were fulfilled. She perceived from Lora’s looks that the gauntlet – cruel and conspicuous tell-tale – was under her eye and in her thoughts.

      “It is yours, Marion!” whispered the latter, pointing towards the plumed hat of the cavalier, and looking up, with an air more affirmative than enquiring.

      “Mine! what, Lora? Yonder black beaver and plumes? What have I to do with them?”

      “Ah! Marion, you mock me. Look under the plumes. What see you there?”

      “Something that looks like a lady’s glove. Is it one, I wonder?”

      “It is, Marion.”

      “So it is, in troth! This strange gentleman must have a mistress, then. Who would have thought of it?”

      “It is yours, cousin.”

      “Mine? My glove – do you mean? You are jesting, little Lora?”

      “It is you who jest, Marion. Did you not tell me that you had lost your glove?”

      “I did. I dropped it. I must have dropped it – somewhere.”

      “Then the gentleman must have picked it up?” rejoined Lora, with significant emphasis.

      “But, dear cousin; do you really think yonder gauntlet is mine?”

      “O Marion, Marion! you know it is yours?”

      Lora spoke half upbraidingly.

      “How do you know you are not wronging me?” rejoined Marion, in an evasive tone. “Let me take a good look at it. Aha! My word, Lora, I think you are right. It does appear, as if it were my gauntlet – at least it is very like the one I lost the other day, when out a-hawking; and for the want of which my poor skin got so sadly scratched. It’s wonderfully like my glove!”

      “Yes; so like, that it is the same.”

      “If so, how came it СКАЧАТЬ