For a short while your eyes will rest upon the more youthful pair—the pretty Lora Lovelace, and her cousin-husband Walter.
’Tis well you have first looked upon them: for your eye will scarce care to return to them. Once bent upon Marion Wade, it will not wish to wander away. There you will behold all those hues most distinguished in nature—the blue of the sky—the gold scattered by the sun—the radiance of the rose. Shapes, too, of divine ideal corresponding to such fair colours: the oval of the forehead; the arched outline of the nose; the spiral curving of the nostrils; the hemisphere expressed in two contiguous bosoms; and the limitless parabola passing downward from her lithesome waist—are all conspicuous proofs that, in the construction of Marion Wade, Nature has employed the most accomplished architects—in her adornment, the most skilful of artists.
The crowd has eyes for no one else. She is alike the cynosure of gentle and simple. It is only when these reflect on their late acquired privileges, that they gaze with grateful pride upon the man who stands by her side,—recognised by all present as one of the patriot heroes who has helped them to their liberty.
On this day of the double marriage, as on that of Walter’s majority, there are morris-dancers; and, as before, are personated the “merry men” of Sherwood Forest. But, with some unnoticeable exceptions, the individuals who now figure as the representatives of the outlawed fraternity are not the same. The huge bearded man, who in grotesque attire personifies Little John, can be recognised as the ex-footpad Gregory Garth. No wonder he plays the part to perfection! The representative of Robin Hood is different; and so also she who performs the métier of Maid Marian.
The latter is a girl with golden hair; and the outlaw chief is the ex-cuirassier Withers—long since transformed into a staunch supporter of the Parliament.
Why is Bet Dancey not there as of yore? And where is the woodman Walford?
There are few upon the ground who could not answer these questions: for the sad tragedy, that will account for the absence of both, is still fresh in the minds of the multitude.
A middle-aged man of herculean frame, leaning against a tree, looks sadly upon the sports. All knew him to be old Dick Dancey the deer-stealer. His colossal form is bowed more than when last seen; for he has not been abroad for months. He has come forth to the marriage fête for the first time—from his lone forest hut; where for months he has been mourning the loss of his only child—daughter. There is sadness in his glance, and sorrow in his attitude. Even the ludicrous sallies of his friend and confederate, Garth, cannot win from him a smile; and, as he looks upon the timid fair-haired representative of Maid Marian, and remembers his own brave, and brown, and beautiful Betsey, a tear, telling of a strong heart’s despair, can be seen trickling down his rudely furrowed cheek.
Ah! the brave and beautiful Betsey—for she was both—well may her father sorrow for her fate: for it was one of the saddest. Her love—her wild passion—for Henry Holtspur, however unholy in its aim, was hallowed by truth, and ennobled by generous unselfishness. It should be regarded with the tear of pity—not the smile of contempt. It led to her untimely end. She died by the hand of the lurching ruffian, who had laid presumptuous claim to her love—by the weapon he had threatened to wield—but dared not—against the man he foolishly believed his rival.
His own end was more just and appropriate. That with which, during all his life, he had been warring, was called into requisition to expedite his exit from the world. He terminated his existence upon a tree!