The second was a sense of having transgressed the laws of social life—the unwritten, but well understood statutes of that high-class society, in which the Wades had lived, and moved, since the Conquest—and in all likelihood long before that hackneyed era of historic celebrity.
To have challenged the acquaintance of a stranger—perhaps an adventurer—perhaps a vagabond—ah! more than challenged his acquaintance—provoked the most powerful passion of his soul—thrown down the gauntlet to him—token of love as of war—when did ever Wade—a female Wade—commit such an indiscretion?
It was a bold act—even for the bold and beautiful Marion. No wonder it was succeeded by an arrière pensée, slightly unpleasant.
These two causes of her discomfort were definite—though perhaps least regarded.
There was a third, as we have said; which, though more vague, was the one that gave her the greatest uneasiness. It pointed to peril—the peril of her lover.
The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was not indifferent to the events of the time—nor yet to its sentiments. Though separated from the Court—and well that she was so—she was not ignorant of its trickery and corruption. In the elevated circle, by which she was surrounded, these were but the topics of daily discourse; and from the moderate, yet liberal, views held by her father, she had frequent opportunities of hearing both sides of the question. A soul highly gifted as hers—could not fail to discern the truth; and, long before that time, she had imbibed a love for true liberty in its republican form—a loathing for the effete freedom to be enjoyed under the rule of a king. In political light she was far in advance of her father; and more than once had her counsel guided his wavering resolves; influencing him—perhaps, even more than the late outrage, of which he had been the object—to that determination to which he had at last yielded himself; to declare for the Parliament and People.
Marion had been gratified by the resolve—joyed to see her father surrendering to the exigencies of the times, and becoming one of the popular party, that had long owned her admiration.
A heart thus attuned could not fail to perceive in Henry Holtspur its hero—its immaculate idol; and such to the mind of Marion Wade did he seem. Differing from all the men she had ever known—unlike them in motives, action, and aspect—in joys and griefs, passions and powers—contrasting with those crawling sycophants—pseudo-cavaliers who wore long love-locks, and prated eternally of Court and King—in him she beheld the type of a heroic man, worthy of a woman’s love—a woman’s worship!
She saw, and worshipped!
Notwithstanding the fervour of her admiration, she did not believe him immortal; nor yet invulnerable. He was liable to the laws of humanity—not its frailties, thought she, but its dangers.