“It is the glove—my glove!” said she, gasping out the words, as if the recognition had relieved her from some terrible suspense. “Yes, it is still there. O joy!”
All at once the thrill of triumph became checked, by a contrary emotion. Something red was seen protruding from under the rim of the beaver, and close to the glove. Was it a flower?
The flowers given by Maid Marian were of that colour! Was it one of them?
Quick as the suspicion had arisen did it pass away. The red object sparkled in the sun. It was not a flower; but the garnet clasp that held the gauntlet in its place. Marion remembered the clasp. She had noticed it the day before.
She breathed freely again. Her heart was happier than ever. She was too happy to gaze longer on that which was giving her content. She dreaded to exhibit her blushing cheek to the eyes of the man, whose presence caused it to blush; and she retired behind the curtain, to enjoy unobserved a moment of delicious emotion.
Her happiness did not hinder her from once more returning to the window; but too late to see the cavalier as he passed across the parterre. She knew, however, that he had entered the house, and was at that moment below in the library—holding with her father the promised interview.
She knew not the purpose of his visit. It could not have reference to herself. She could only conjecture its connection with the political incidents of the time; which were talked of in every house—even to dividing the sentiments of the family circle, and disturbing the tranquillity of more than one erst happy home.
She was aware that the visit of Henry Holtspur was only to her father. He had come, and might go as he had come, without the chance of her exchanging speech with him; and as this thought came into her mind, she half regretted having retired from the window. By so doing, she had lost the very opportunity long desired—often wished for in vain.
Only a word or two had been spoken between them on the day before,—the stiff ceremonial phrases of introduction—after which the incident of the duel had abruptly parted them.
Now that Holtspur had been presented by a brother—and with the sanction of a father—what reason was there for reserve? Even prudery could not show excuse for keeping aloof. She should have spoken to him from the balcony. She should have welcomed him to the house. He must have seen her at the window? What reflection might he have, about her retiring—as if to hide herself from his gaze? He would scarce consider it courtesy? He might fancy he had given her some offence—perhaps in that very act which had produced such an opposite impression—the triumphant exposure of her glove?