That little space of rust-coloured iron and grey stonework—just visible under the hanging branches of the trees—had an attraction for her far outstripping the gaudy changes of the sunset.
Thus ran her reflections:—“Walter said he would come—perhaps not before evening. ’Tis a visit to papa—only him! What can be its purpose? Maybe something relating to the trouble that has fallen upon us? Us said he is against the king, and for the people. ’Twas on that account Dorothy Dayrell spoke slightingly of him. For that shall not I. No—never—never! She said he must be peasant born. ’Tis a false slander. He is gentle, or I know not a gentleman.
“What am I to think of yesterday—that girl and her flowers? I wish there had not been a fête. I shall never go to another!
“I was so happy when I saw my glove upon his beaver. If ’tis gone, and those flowers have replaced it, I shall not care to live longer—not a day—not an hour!”
A sudden change came over both the attitude and reflections of Marion Wade.
Some one had opened the gate! It was a man—a rider—bestriding a black horse!
An instinct stronger than ordinary aided in the identification of this approaching horseman. The eyes of love need not the aid of a glass; and Marion saw him with such.
“It is he!” she repeated in full confidence, as the cavalier, emerging from the shadow of the trees commenced ascending the slope of the hill.
Marion kept her eyes bent upon the advancing horseman, in straining gaze; and thus continued until he had arrived within a hundred yards of the moat that surrounded the mansion. One might have supposed that she was still uncertain as to his identity.
But her glance was directed neither upon his face nor form, but towards a point higher than either—towards the brow of his beaver—where something white appeared to have fixed her regard. This soon assumed the form and dimensions of a lady’s gauntlet—its slender fingers tapering towards the crown of the hat, and outlined conspicuously against the darker background.