When the last of the company appeared to have arrived, the expression deepened to chagrin.

Her reflections, had they been uttered aloud, would have given a clue to the discontent betraying itself on her countenance.

"He comes not--he wills not to come! Was there nothing in those looks?

I've been mad to do as I have done! And what will he think of me? What _can_ he? He took up my glove--perhaps a mere freak of curiosity, or caprice--only to fling it down again in disdain? Now I know he cares not to come--else would he have been here. Walter promised to introduce him--to _me_--to _me_! Oh! there was no lure in that. He knows he might have introduced himself. Have I not invited him? Oh! the humiliation!"

Despite her painful reflections, the lady tried to look gay. But the effort was unsuccessful. Among those standing near there were some, who did not fail to notice her wan brow and wandering glance; dames envious of her distinction--gallants, who for one smile from her proud, pretty lips, would have instantly sacrificed their long _love-locks_, and plucked from their hats those trivial tokens, they had sworn so hypocritically to wear.

There was only one, however, who could guess at the cause; and that one could only _guess_ at it. Her cousin alone had any suspicion, that the heart of Marion was wandering, as well as her eyes. A knowledge of this fact would have created surprise--almost wonder--in the circle that surrounded her. Marion Wade was a full-grown woman; had been so for more than a year. She had been wooed by many--by some worshipped almost to idolatry. Wealth and t.i.tle, youth and manhood, lands and lordships, had been laid at her feet; and all alike rejected--not with the proud flourish of the triumphant flirt, but with the tranquil dignity of a true woman, who can only be _wed_ after being _won_.

Among the many aspirants to her hand, there was not one who could tell the tale of conquest. More than once had that tale been whispered; but the world would not believe it. It would have been a proud feat for the man who could achieve it--too proud to remain unproclaimed.

And yet it had been achieved, though the world knew it not. She alone suspected it, whose opportunities had been far beyond those of the world. Her cousin, Lora Lovelace, had not failed to feel surprise at those lonely rides--lonely from choice--since her own companionship had been repeatedly declined. Neither had she failed to observe, how Marion had chafed and fretted, at the command of Sir Marmaduke, requiring their discontinuance. There were other circ.u.mstances besides: the lost glove, and the bleeding wrist--the fevered sleep at night, and the dreamy reveries by day. How could Lora shut her eyes to signs so significant?

Lora was herself in love, and could interpret them. No wonder that she should suspect that her cousin was in a like dilemma; no wonder she should feel sure that Marion's heart had been given away; though when, and to whom, she was still ignorant, as any stranger within the limits of the camp.

"Marion!" said she, drawing near to her cousin, and whispering so as not to be overheard, "you are not happy to-day?"

"You silly child! what makes you think so?"

"How can I help it? In your looks--"

"What of my looks, Lora?"

"Dear Marion, don't mind me. It's because I dread that others may notice them. There's Winifred Wayland has been watching you; and, more still, that wicked Dorothy Dayrell. She has been keeping her eyes on you like a cat upon a mouse. Cousin! do try to look different, and don't give them something to talk about: for you know that's just what Dorothy Dayrell would desire."

"Look different! How do I look, pray?"

"Ah! I needn't tell you how? _You know how you feel_; and from that you may tell how you look."

"Ho! sage counsellor, you must explain. What is it in my appearance that has struck you? Tell me, chit!"

"You want me to be candid, Marion?"

"I do--I do!"

The answer was given with an eagerness, that left Lora no wish to withhold her explanation.

"Marion," said she, placing her lips close to the ear of her who was alone intended to hear it, "_you are in love_?"

"Nonsense, Lora. What puts such a thought into your silly little head?"

"No nonsense, Marion; I know it by your looks. I don't know who has won you, dear cousin. I only know he's not here to-day. You've been expecting him. He hasn't come. Now!"

"You're either a great big deceiver, or a great little conjuror, Lora.

In which of these categories am I to cla.s.s you?"

"Not in the former, Marion; you know it. Oh! it needs no conjuring for _me_ to tell that. But pray don't let it be so easy for others to read your secret, cousin! I entreat you--."

"You are welcome to your suspicions," said Marion, interrupting her.

"And now I shall relieve you from them, by making them a certainty. It is of no use trying any longer to keep that a secret, which in time you would be sure to discover for yourself--I suppose. _I am in love_. As you've said, I'm in love with one who is _not_ here. Why should I feel ashamed to tell it you? Nay, if I only thought he loved me as I do him, I'd care little that the whole company knew it--and much less either Winifred Wayland, or Dorothy Dayrell. Let them--"

Just then the voice of this last-mentioned personage was heard in animated conversation--interspersed with peals of laughter, in which a large party was joining.

It was nothing new for Dorothy to be the centre of a circle of laughing listeners: for she was one of the wits of the time. Her talk might not have terminated the dialogue between the cousins, but for the mention of a name--to Marion Wade of all-absorbing interest.

Walter had just finished relating his adventure of the preceding night.

"And this wonderful cavalier," asked Dorothy, "who braved the bullying captain, and frightened the fierce footpads--did he favour you with his name, Master Wade?"

"Oh yes!" answered Walter, "he gave me that--Henry Holtspur."

"Henry Holtspur! Henry Holtspur!" cried several in a breath, as if the name was not new to them, but had some peculiar signification.

"It's the cavalier who rides the black horse," explained one. "The '_black horseman_,' the people called him. One lately come into this neighbourhood. Lives in the old house of Stone Dean. n.o.body knows him."

"And yet everybody appears to be talking of him! Mysterious individual!

Some troubadour returned from the East?" suggested Winifred Wayland.

"Some trader from the West, more like," remarked Dorothy Dayrell, with a sneer, "whence, I presume, he has imported his levelling sentiments, and a savage for his servant, too, 'tis said. Did you see aught of his Indian, Master Wade?"

"_No_," said the youth, "and very little of himself: as our ride together was after night. But I have hopes of seeing more of him to-day. He promised to be here."

"And is not?"

"I think not. I haven't yet encountered him. 'Tis just possible he may be among the crowd over yonder; or somewhere through the camp. With your permission, ladies, I shall go in search of him."

"Oh! do! do!" exclaimed half a score of sweet voices. "By all means, Master Wade, find the gentleman. You have our permission to introduce him. Tell him we're all dying to make his acquaintance."

Walter went off among the crowd; traversed the camp in all directions; and came back without the object of his search.

"How cruel of him not to come!" remarked the gay Dayrell, as Walter was seen returning alone. "If he only knew the disappointment he is causing! We might have thought less of it, Master Walter, if you hadn't told us he intended to be here. Now I for one shall fancy your fete very stupid without him."

"He may still come," suggested Walter. "I think there are some other guests who have not arrived."

"You are right, Master Wade," interposed one of the bystanders; "yonder's somebody--a man on horseback--on the Heath, outside the palings of the park. He appears to be going towards the gate?"

All eyes were turned in the direction indicated. A horseman was seen upon the Heath outside, about a hundred yards distant from the enclosure; but he was _not going towards the gate_.

"Not a bit of it," cried Dorothy Dayrell. "He's changed his mind about that. See! He heads his horse at the palings! Going to take them? He is in troth! High--over! There's a leap worth looking at!"

And the fair speaker clapped her pretty hands in admiration of the feat.

There was one other who beheld it with an admiration, which, though silent, was not less enthusiastic. The joy that had shone sparkling in the eyes of Marion Wade, as soon as the strange horseman appeared in sight, was now heightened to an expression of proud triumph.

"Who is he?" asked half a score of voices, as the bold horseman cleared the enclosure.

"It is he--the cavalier we have just been speaking of," answered Walter, hurrying away to receive his guest, who was now coming on at an easy gallop towards the camp.