It was the night of that same day, on which the fête had been held in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade. The unexpected arrival of the cuirassiers—with the exciting circumstances that succeeded—had brought the sports to an early termination.
After incidents of so tragical a character, it was not likely that any one should care to continue the tame diversion of quoits, or balloon. Even single-stick and wrestling appeared insipid—succeeding to that strife, that had well-nigh proved deadly.
Long before night, the old camp had become cleared of its crowd. Though groups lingered later in the park, it was not in pursuance of sport, but out of curiosity, and to converse about what was passing at the mansion—whither the cuirassier captain and his troopers had transported themselves, after reading that ironical appeal to the hospitality of its owner.
Among the earliest who had left the ground was the conqueror in the equestrian combat. He could not have gone direct home; or he must have again ridden abroad: since at a late hour of the night—his horse dappled with sweat and foam—he was seen turning out of the king’s highway, into the bridle-road already described, as running over the ridges in the direction of Stone Dean.
As the woods extended nearly the whole of the way, he rode in shadow—though a bright moon was beaming in the heavens above. He rode in silence too. But the subject of his thoughts may be easily conjectured. Treading a track oft hallowed by her presence, what but Marion Wade could he be thinking of?
More unerringly might his sentiments be divined, when, on reaching the open glade, he stopped under the spreading beech, raised his beaver from his head, and gazed for some seconds upon the white glove, glistening beneath its panache of black plumes.
As he did so, his features exhibited a mingled expression—half fondness, half fear—as if his mind was wavering between confidence and doubt. It was an expression difficult to read; and no one ignorant of the circumstances of his life—perhaps no one but himself—could have given it the true interpretation.
Henry Holtspur had more than one thought to sadden his spirit; but the one which most troubled him then was, that she, who had given the glove—for he fondly clung to the belief that it had been a gift—that she had ceased to think either of it or of him. It was now six days since that token had been received; and, excepting at the fête, he had not met her again. She came no more outside the enclosure of the park—no more was the track of her palfrey impressed upon the forest path.
Why had she discontinued those lonely rides—those wanderings in the wood, that had led to such sweet encounters?