The second was a sense of having transgressed the laws of social life-- the unwritten, but well understood statutes of that high-cla.s.s 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 pa.s.sion 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 _arriere pensee_, 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, pa.s.sions 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.

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 _fete_ 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?"

"Ah, Lora! your lover is sure--safe--certain to become yours for life.

_Mine is doubtful, and in danger_."

"Doubtful? What mean you by that, Marion?"

"Suppose my father refuse to acknowledge him--then--"

"Then I know what his daughter would do."

"What _would_ she do?"

"Run away with him;--I don't mean with the venerable parent--the knight--but with the lover, the _black horseman_. By the way, what a romantic thing it would be to be abducted on that splendid steed!

Troth, Marion! I quite envy you the chance."

"For shame, you silly child! Don't talk in such foolish fashion!"

Marion coloured slightly as she uttered the admonition. The thought of an elopement was not new to her. She had entertained it already; and it was just for this reason she did not desire her cousin to dwell upon it, even in jest. With her it had been considered in serious earnest; and might be again--if Sir Marmaduke should prove intractable.

"But you spoke of danger?" said Lora, changing the subject. "What danger?"

"Hush!" exclaimed Marion, suddenly starting back from the mirror, with her long yellow hair sweeping like sunbeams over her snow-white shoulders; "Did you hear something?"

"The wind?"

"No! it was not the wind. There is no wind; though, indeed, it's dark enough for a storm. I fancied I heard horses going along the gravel-walk. Extinguish the light, Lora--so that we may steal up to the window, and see."

Lora protruded her pretty lips close up to the candle, and blew it out.

The chamber was in utter darkness.

All unrobed as she was, Marion glided up to the cas.e.m.e.nt; and, cautiously drawing aside the curtain, looked out into the lawn.

She could see nothing: the night was dark as pitch.

She listened all the more attentively--her hearing sharpened by the idea of some danger to her lover--of which, during all that day, she had been suffering from a vague presentiment.

Sure enough, she _had_ heard the hoof-strokes of horses on the gravelled walk: for she now heard them again--not so loud as before--and each instant becoming more indistinct.

This time Lora heard them too.

It might be colts straying from the pastures of the park? But the measured fell of their feet, with an occasional clinking of shod hoofs, proclaimed them--even to the inexperienced ears that were listening--to be horses guided, and ridden.

"Some one going out! Who can it be at this hour of the night? 'Tis nearly twelve!"

"Quite twelve, I should think," answered Lora. "That game of lansquenet kept us so long. It was half-past eleven, before we were through with it. Who should be going abroad so late, I wonder?"

Both maidens stood in the embayment of the window--endeavouring, with their glances, to penetrate the darkness outside.

The attempt would have been vain, had the obscurity continued; but, just then, a vivid flash of lightning, shooting athwart the sky, illuminated the lawn; and the park became visible to the utmost limit of its palings.

The window of Marion's bedchamber opened upon the avenue leading out to the west. Near a spot--to her suggestive of pleasant memories--she now beheld, by the blaze of the electric brand, a sight that added to her uneasiness.

Two hors.e.m.e.n, both heavily cloaked, were riding down the avenue--their backs turned towards the house, as if they had just taken their departure from it. They looked not round. Had they done so at that instant, they might have beheld a tableau capable of attracting them back.

In a wide-bayed window, whose low sill and slight mullions scarce offered concealment to their forms, were two beautiful maidens--lovely virgins--robed in the negligent costume of night--their heads close together, and their nude arms mutually encircling one another's shoulders, white as the chemisettes draped carelessly over them.

Only for an instant was this provoking tableau exhibited. Sudden as the recession of a dissolving view, or like a picture falling back out of its frame, did it disappear from the sight--leaving in its place only the blank vitreous sheen of the cas.e.m.e.nt.

Abashed by that unexpected exposure--though it was only to the eye of heaven--the chaste maidens had simultaneously receded from the window, before the rude glare that startled them ceased to flicker against the gla.s.s.