The White Gauntlet. Reid Mayne

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 fête champètre.”

      “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.

      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. СКАЧАТЬ