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 yonder?” inquired Marion, with an air of apparent perplexity.

“Ah, how?” repeated Lora.

“He must have found it in the forest?”

“It is very impudent of him to be wearing it then.”

“Very; indeed, very.”

“Suppose any one should recognise it as yours? Suppose uncle should do so?”

“There is no fear of that,” interrupted Marion. “I have worn these gloves only twice. You are the only one who has seen them on my hands. Father does not know them. You won’t tell him, Lora?”

“Why should I not?”

“Because – because – it may lead to trouble. May be this strange gentleman has no idea to whom the glove has belonged. He has picked it up on the road somewhere; and stuck it in his hat – out of caprice, or conceit. I’ve heard many such favours are borne with no better authority. Let him keep it, and wear it – if it so please him. I care not – so long as he don’t know whose it is. Don’t you say anything about it to any one. If father should know, or Walter – ah! Walter, young as he is, would insist upon fighting with him; and I have no doubt that this black horseman would be a very dangerous antagonist.”

“Oh! Marion,” cried Lora, alarmed at the very thought of such a contingency. “I shall not mention it – nor you. Do not for the world! Let him keep the glove, however dishonourably he may have come to it. I care not, dear cousin – so long as it does not compromise you.”

“No fear of that,” muttered Marion, in a confident tone, apparently happy at having so easily escaped from a dilemma she had been dreading.

The whispered conversation of the cousins was at this moment interrupted by the approach of Walter, conducting the cavalier into the midst of the distinguished circle.

The youth performed his office of introducer with true courtly grace, keeping his promise to all; and in a few seconds Henry Holtspur had added many new names to the list of his acquaintances.

It is no easy part to play – and play gracefully – that of being conspicuously presented; but the same courage that had distinguished the cavalier in his encounter with Garth and his footpads, was again exhibited in that more imposing – perhaps more dangerous – presence.

The battery of bright eyes seemed but little to embarrass him; and he returned the salutations of the circle with that modest confidence, which is a sure test of the true gentleman.

It was only when being presented to the last individual of the group – strange that Marion Wade should be the last – it was only then, that aught might have been observed beyond the ceremonious formality of an introduction. Then, however, a close observer might have detected an interchange of glances that expressed something more than courtesy; though so quickly and stealthily given, as to escape the observation of all. No one seemed to suspect that Marion Wade and Henry Holtspur had ever met before; and yet ofttimes had they met – ofttimes looked into each other’s eyes – had done everything but speak!

How Marion had longed to listen to that voice, that now uttered in soft, earnest tones, sounded in her ears, like some sweet music!

And yet it spoke not in the language of love. There was no opportunity for this. They were surrounded by watchful eyes, and ears eagerly bent to catch every word passing between them. Not a sentiment of that tender passion, which both were eager to pour forth – not a syllable of it could be exchanged between them.

Under such constraint, the converse of lovers is far from pleasant. It even becomes irksome; and scarce did either regret the occurrence of an incident, which, at that moment, engaging the attention of the crowd, relieved them from their mutual embarrassment.

Volume One – Chapter Seventeen

The incident, thus opportunely interfering, was the arrival upon the ground of a party of morris dancers, who, having finished their rehearsal outside the limits of the camp, now entered, and commenced their performance in front of the elevated moat – upon which Sir Marmaduke and his friends had placed themselves, in order to obtain a better view of the spectacle.

The dancers were of both sexes – maidens and men – the former dressed in gay bodice and kirtle; the latter in their shirt sleeves, clean washed for the occasion – their arms and limbs banded with bright ribbons; bells suspended from their garters; and other adornments in true Morisco fashion.

There were some among them wearing character dresses: one representing the bold outlaw Robin Hood; another his trusty lieutenant, Little John; a third the jolly Friar Tuck, and so forth.

There were several of the girls also in character costumes. “Maid Marian,” the “Queen of the May,” and other popular personages of the rural fancy, were personified.

The morris dancers soon became the centre of general attraction. The humbler guests of Sir Marmaduke – having partaken of the cheer which he had so liberally provided for them – had returned into the camp; and now stood clustered around the group of Terpsichoreans, with faces expressing the liveliest delight.

Balloons, bowls, wrestling, and single-stick were for the time forsaken: for the morris dance was tacitly understood, and expected, to be the chief attraction of the day.

It is true, that only peasant girls were engaged in it; but among these was more than one remarkable for a fine figure and comely face – qualities by no means rare in the cottage-homes of the Chilterns.

Two were especially signalised for their good looks – the representatives of Maid Marian and the Queen of the May – the former a dark brunette of the gipsy type – while the queen was a contrasting blonde, with hazel eyes, and hair of flaxen hue.

Many a young peasant among their partners in the dance – and also in the circle of spectators – watched the movements of these rustic belles with interested eyes. Ay, and more than one cavalier might have been observed casting sly glances towards Maid Marian, and the Queen of the May.

While those were bestowing their praises upon the peasant girls, in stereotyped phrases of gallantry, some of the stately dames standing around might have found cause to be jealous; and some were so.

Was Marion Wade among the number?

Alas! it was even so. New as the feeling was, and slight the incident that called it forth, that fell passion had sprung up within her heart. It was the first time it had been touched with such a sting: for it was her first love, and too recent to have met with a reverse. A pang never felt before, she scarce comprehended its nature. She only knew its cause. Holtspur was standing in the front rank of spectators – close to the ring in which the morris dancers were moving. As the beautiful Bet Dancey – who represented Maid Marian – went whirling voluptuously through the figures of the dance, her dark gipsy eyes, gleaming with amorous excitement, seemed constantly turned upon him. Marion Wade could not fail to observe the glance: for it was recklessly given. It was not this, however, that caused that pain to spring up within her bosom. The forest maiden might have gazed all day long upon the face of Henry Holtspur, without exciting the jealousy of the lady – had her gaze failed to elicit a return. But once, as the latter turned quickly towards him, she fancied she saw the glance of the girl given back, and the passionate thought reciprocated!

A peculiar pang, never felt before, like some poisoned dart, pierced to the very core of her heart – almost causing her to cry out. In the rustic belle she recognised a rival!

The pain was not the less poignant, from its being her first experience of it. On the contrary, it was, perhaps, more so; and from that moment Marion Wade stood, cowed and cowering, with blanched brow – her blue eye steadily fixed upon the countenance of Henry Holtspur – watching with keen anxiety every movement of his features.

The dark doubt that had arisen in her mind was not to be resolved in that hour. Scarce had she entered upon her anxious surveillance when an incident arose, causing the morris dance to be suddenly interrupted.

Amidst the shouts, laughter, and cheering that accompanied the spectacle, only a few who had strayed outside the enclosure of the camp, caught the first whisperings of a strange, and to them, inexplicable sound. It appeared to proceed from some part of the road – outside the main entrance of the camp; and resembled a continued tinkling of steel implements, mingled with the hoof-strokes of a multitude of horses – not going at will, but ridden with that cadenced step that betokens the passage of a squadron of cavalry.

They who first heard it, had scarce time to make this observation – much less to communicate their thoughts to the people inside the camp – when another sound reached their ears – equally significant of the movement of mounted men. It was the call of a cavalry bugle commanding the “Halt.”

At the same instant the hoof-strokes ceased to be heard; and, as the last notes of the bugle died away in the distant woods, there was an interim of profound silence, broken only by the soft cooing of the wood-quest, or the shriller piping of the thrush.

Equally within the camp was the silence complete. The cheers had been checked, and the laughter subdued, at that unusual sound. The ears of all were bent to listen for its repetition; while all eyes were turned in the direction whence it appeared to have proceeded.

There was something ominous in the sudden interruption of the sports, by a sound unexpected, as it was ill understood; and some faces, but the moment before beaming with joy, assumed a serious aspect.

“Soldiers!” exclaimed several voices in the same breath; while the crowd, forsaking the spectacle of the morris dance, rushed up to the top of the moat, and stood listening as before.

Once more came the clear tones of the cavalry trumpet, this time directing the “Forward”; and, before the signal had ceased to echo over the undulations of the park, the first files of a squadron of cuirassiers were seen passing between the massive piers of the main entrance, and advancing along the drive that led towards the mansion.

File followed file in regular order – each horseman, as he debouched from under the shadow of the trees, appearing to become a-blaze through the sudden flashing of the sunbeams upon the plates of his polished armour.

As the troop, riding by two’s, had half advanced into the open ground, and still continued advancing, it presented the appearance of some gigantic snake gliding in through the gateway – the steel armour representing its scales, and the glittering files answering to the vertebrae of the reptile.

When all had ridden inside, and commenced winding up the slope that conducted to the dwelling, still more perfect was this resemblance to some huge serpent – beautiful but dangerous – crawling slowly on to the destruction of its victim.

“The cuirassiers of the king!”

There were many in the camp who needed not this announcement to make known to them the character of the new comers. The cuirass covering the buff doublet – the steel cap and gorget – the cuisses on the thighs – the pauldrons protecting the shoulders – the rear and vam-braces on the arms – all marked the mailed costume of the cuirassier; while the royal colours, carried in front by the cornet of the troop, proclaimed them the cuirassiers of the king.

By the side of this officer rode another, whose elegant equipments and splendidly caparisoned horse announced him to be the officer in command – the captain.

“The cuirassiers of the king!” What wanted they in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade? Or what was their business at his mansion: for thither were they directing their march?

This question was put by more than one pair of lips; but by none less capable of answering it than those of Sir Marmaduke himself.

The spectacle of the morris dance had been altogether abandoned. Both actors and spectators had rushed promiscuously towards the moat – on that side fronting to the park – and having taken stand upon its crest, were uttering exclamations of astonishment, or exchanging interrogatories about this new interlude not mentioned in the programme of the entertainments.

At this moment the bugle once more brayed out the “Halt”; and, in obedience to the signal, the cuirassiers again reined up.

As by this the head of the troop had arrived opposite to the old camp – and was at no great distance from it – some words that passed between the two officers, could be heard distinctly by the people standing upon the moat.

“I say, Stubbs,” called out the captain, spurring a length or two out from the troop, and pointing towards the camp, “What are those rustics doing up yonder? Can you guess?”

“Haven’t the most distant idea,” answered the individual addressed.

“They appear to be in their holiday toggery – best bibs and tuckers. Is’t a Whitsun-ale or a May-making?”

“Can’t be either,” rejoined Stubbs. “Isn’t the season. No, by Ged!”

“By the smock of Venus! there appear to be some pretty petticoats among them? Mayn’t be such dull quarters after all.”

“No, by Ged! Anything but dull, I should say.”

“Ride within speaking distance; and ask them, what the devil they are doing.”

The cornet, thus commanded, clapped spurs to his horse; and, after galloping within fifty paces of the fosse, pulled up.

“What the devil are you doing?” cried he, literally delivering the order with which he had been entrusted.

Of course to such a rude interrogatory, neither Sir Marmaduke, nor any of those standing around him, vouchsafed response. Some of the common people in the crowd, however, called out – “We’re merry-making. It’s a fête – a birthday celebration.”

“Oh! that’s it,” muttered the cornet, turning and riding back to communicate the intelligence to his superior officer.

“Let’s go up, and make their acquaintance,” said the latter, as Stubbs delivered his report. “We shall reconnoitre these rustic beauties of Bucks, giving them the advantage of their holiday habiliments. What say you, Stubbs?”

“Agreeable,” was the laconic reply of the cornet.

“Allons! as they say in France. We may find something up yonder worth climbing the hill for. As they also say in France, nous verrons!”

Ordering the troopers to dismount, and stand by their horses – their own being given to a brace of grooms – the two officers, in full armour as they were, commenced ascending the slope that led to the Saxon encampment.