She suspected that his life was in peril. She suspected it, from the rumours, that from time to time had reached her—of his bold, almost reckless, bearing, on matters inimical to the Court. Only in whispers had she heard these reports—previous to the day of the fête in her father’s park; but then had she listened to that loud proclamation from his own lips, when charging upon Scarthe, he had cried out “For the people!”
She loved him for that speech; but she had done so even before hearing it; and she could not love him more.
“Cousin Lora!” said she, while both were in the act of disrobing, “you ought to be very happy. What a fortunate little creature you are!”
“Why, Marion!”
“To be admired by so many; and especially by the man you yourself admire.”
“Dear me! If that be all, I am contented. So should you, Marion, for the same reason. If I’m admired by many, all the world pays homage to you. For my part, I don’t want the world to be in love with me—only one.”
“And that’s Walter. Well, I think you’re right, coz. Like you, I should never care to be a coquette. One heart well satisfies me—one lover.”
“And that’s Henry Holtspur.”
“You know too much, child, for me to deny it.”
“But why should I be happier than you? You’ve your cavalier as well as I. He loves you, no doubt, as much as Walter does me; and you love him—I dare say, though I can’t be certain of that—as much as I love Walter. What then, Marion?”