Apparently terrified at having strayed so far, at such a late hour—for the sun was now hidden behind the trees—she faced round, and commenced retracing her steps towards the mansion.
True, there was an expression upon her face resembling fear; but it was not that of alarm at the late hour, nor the distance that lay between her and the dwelling. Rather was it the fear one feels in doing some act that may expose to censure or shame.
Marion Wade was upon the eve of committing such an act. She had long since abandoned the idea of that self-deception—with which upon starting forth she had tried to still the scruples of her conscience. She was no longer looking for Lora Lovelace or Walter Wade; but for one who was now dearer to her than either cousin or brother. She was waiting for Henry Holtspur—that noble cavalier, whose graceful image had taken complete possession of her heart—waiting and watching for him, with all the eagerness that a powerful passion can inspire.
It was still only twilight; and any one, coming down the avenue, might have noticed a white object, appearing at intervals round the stems of the trees that skirted the path. This object would remain stationary for a moment, and be then withdrawn—to appear again at another point, a little nearer to the house. A good eye might have told it to be the head of a woman, wearing a white hood—the graceful coif or coverchief of the time.
Henry Holtspur observed it as he rode down the slope of the hill—after having taken leave of Sir Marmaduke Wade. He simply supposed it to be some peasant girl coming up the path—for in such a light, and at such distance, who could tell the difference between a cottager and a queen?
Had he known who it was—had he suspected the bright object moving like a meteor from tree to tree was the beautiful Marion Wade, it would have sent the blood tingling from the stirrups under his feet to the crown of his head.
No such suspicion was in his mind. He was too busy chafing at the disappointment of having left the house, without seeing her, to imagine for a moment that such a splendid fortune was still in store for him.
And the blood did tingle from the stirrups beneath his feet to the crown of his head—thrilled through every vein of his body—as, arriving opposite to the advancing form, he perceived it to be no peasant, but the peerless Marion Wade—she so exclusively occupying his thoughts.
To check his steed to a stand, as if threatened by some sudden danger—to raise the beaver from his head, and bow to the peak of his saddle—were acts that proceeded rather from instinct than any reasoned design.