At the same instant escaped from his lips, partially in salute, and partially as if elicited by surprise, the words—
“Mistress Marion Wade!” There was an interval of embarrassment; how could it be otherwise?
It was brief. Henry Holtspur was over thirty years of age, and Marion Wade had escaped from her teens. The passion that had sprung up between them was not the fond fancy of boyhood or girlhood. On his side it was the love of manhood; on hers an affection with a man for its object—a man mature, with a past to be proud of—one in whose face and features could be traced the souvenirs of gallant deeds—whose romantic mien betrayed a type of heroism not to be mistaken.
With Marion it was her first affection—the first that could be called real. With Holtspur perhaps, it was to be the last love of his life—ever the strongest: since the heart then can hope for no other.
It was not the place of the maiden to speak first; and, though scarce knowing what to say, Holtspur made an effort to break the spell of that hesitating silence.
“Pardon me, for interrupting your walk!” said he, seeing that she had stopped, and stood facing him; “It is but fair to confess that I have been wishing for an opportunity of speaking with you. The unlucky incident of yesterday—of which I believe you were a spectator—hindered me from meeting you again; and I was just reflecting upon having experienced a similar misfortune to-day, when you appeared. I hope, Mistress Wade you will not be offended at being thus waylaid?”
“Oh! certainly not,” answered she, slightly surprised, if not piqued, by the somewhat business-like candour of his speeches. “You have been on a visit to my father, I believe?”
“I have,” replied the cavalier, equally chilled by the indifferent character of the question.
“I hope, sir,” said Marion, throwing a little more warmth into her manner, “you received no hurt from your encounter of yesterday?”
“Thanks, Mistress Marion! not the slightest; except, indeed—”