Читать книгу The White Gauntlet - Reid Mayne - Страница 16

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.