It was only natural, however, that the causes of their late mistrust should become the subject of conversation; which they did.

Mutual surprise was the result of a mutual interrogation; though neither could give to the other the explanation asked for.

The flowers in Holtspur's hat, and the glove in Scarthe's helmet, were enigmas equally inexplicable.

As to the latter, Marion only knew that she had lost it--that she had looked for it--she did not say why--and without success.

Holtspur still wore his beaver. Indeed, he had not till that hour found the chance of taking it off. Only within the last ten minutes had his hands been free to remove it.

He had not the slightest suspicion of the manner in which it was bedecked--not until he learnt it from the lips of her, upon whom the faded flowers had produced such a painful impression.

Marion could not misinterpret his surprise--mingled with indignation--as he lifted the hat from his head; wrenched the flowers from their fastening; and flung them scornfully upon the sward.

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, as she witnessed the act. It was the kind of homage a woman's heart could comprehend and appreciate; and hers trembled with a triumphant joy.

Only for a short moment could this sweet contentment continue. Nature is n.i.g.g.ardly of such supreme pleasure. It was succeeded by a sombre thought--some dark presentiment pointing to the distant future. It found expression in speech.

"O Henry!" she said, laying hold of his arm--at the same time fixing her earnest blue eyes upon his, "sometime--I fear to think it, much more to speak it--sometime might you not do the same with--"

"With what, Marion?"

"Sweet love! you know what I mean! Or shall I tell it you? 'Tis a shame for you not to understand me--you, who are so clever, as I've heard say, ah! as I, myself, have reason to know."

"Dearest! I fear I am not very clever at comprehending the ways of your s.e.x. Perhaps if I had--"

Holtspur interrupted himself, as if he had arrived on the verge of some disclosure he did not desire to make.

"If you had," inquired Marion, in a tone that told of an altered interest. "What if you had, Henry?"

"If I had," replied her lover, escaping from his embarra.s.sment by a happy subterfuge, "I should not have been so dilatory in declaring my love to you."

The speech was pretty; but alas! ambiguous. It gave Marion pleasure, to think he had long loved her; and yet it stirred within her a painful emotion--by recalling the bold challenge by which she had lured him to the avowal of it.

He, too, as soon as he had spoken, appeared to perceive the danger of such an interpretation; and in order to avert it, hurriedly had recourse to his former interrogatory.

"Do the same, you said, as I have done with the flowers. And with what?"

"The token I gave you, Henry--the _white gauntlet_."

"When I fling it to the earth, as I have done these withered blossoms, it will be to defy him who may question my right to wear it. When that time comes, Marion Wade--"

"Oh! never!" cried she--in the enthusiasm of her admiration fervently pressing his arm, and looking fondly in his face. "None but you, Henry, shall ever have that right. To no other could I concede it. Believe me--believe me!"

Why was it that Holtspur received this earnest declaration with a sigh?

Why did he respond to it with a look of sadness?

Upon his arm was hanging the fairest form in the county of Buckinghamshire--perhaps in all England; upon his shoulder rested the loveliest cheek; against his bosom throbbed a heart responsive to his own--a heart that princes would have been proud to possess. Why that sigh, on listening to the earnest speeches that a.s.sured him of its possession?

But for the darkness that obscured the expression of his face--but for the beatings of her own heart, that hindered her from hearing the sigh that escaped his--Marion Wade might have asked this question with fearful interest in the answer.

She saw not the look--she heard not the sigh; and yet she was troubled with some vague suspicion. The reply had something in it that did not satisfy her--something _reticent_.

"O Henry!" she said, "you are going from me now. I know we must part.

When shall I see you again? It may be long--long?"

"No longer than I can help, love!"

"You will give me a promise, Henry?"

"Yes, Marion; any promise you may dictate to me."

"Thanks! thanks! I know you will keep it. Come nearer, Henry! look into my eyes! 'Tis a poor light; but I need not much to see that yours are true. I know they are beautiful, Henry."

Holtspur's frame quivered under the searching scrutiny.

"What am I to promise?" he asked, in the hope of hiding his embarra.s.sment.

"Do not be afraid, Henry! 'Tis not much I am going to ask of you. Not much to you; but all the world to me. Listen, and I will tell you.

Since we met--I mean since I knew that you loved me--I have learnt one thing. It is: that I _could not live, and be jealous_. The torture I have endured for the last twelve hours has told me that. You will laugh at me, Henry; but I cannot help it. No. Let me be happy, or let me die!"

"Sweet life! why should you think of such a thing as jealousy? You need not fear that. If it should ever spring up between us, it will be my misfortune, not yours--all mine."

"You jest, Henry! You know not the heart you have conquered. Its firstlings were yours. Though often solicited--pardon me for being so plain--_it was never before surrendered to living man_. O, Henry! you know not how I love you! Do not think it is the fleeting fancy of a romantic girl--that may change under the influence of a more matured age. I am a woman, with my girlhood gone by. Holtspur!--you have won me--you have _won a woman's love_!"

Ecstasy to the soul of him thus addressed.

"Tell me sweet Marion!" cried he. "Forgive me the selfish question; but I cannot help asking it. Tell me why I am thus beloved? I do not deserve it. I am twice your age. I have lost those looks that once, perhaps, may have attracted the romantic fancy. O, Marion Wade! I am unworthy of a love like yours. 'Tis my consciousness of this that constrains me to make the enquiry: _why do you love me_?"

Marion remained silent--as if she hesitated to give the answer. No wonder. The question is one often asked, but to which it is most difficult to obtain a truthful reply.

There are reasons for this reticence--psychological reasons, which men cannot easily understand. A woman's citadel is her heart; and its strength lies in keeping secret its conceptions. Of all its secrets the most sacred--the last to be divulged--is that const.i.tuting an answer to the question--"Why do you love me?"

No wonder that Henry Holtspur received not an immediate answer.

Ardour--more than sincerity led him to press for it:--

"I am a stranger to your circle--if not to your cla.s.s. The world will tell you, that I am an _adventurer_. I accept the appellation-- qualified by the clause: that I adventure not for myself, but for my fellow-men--for the poor taxed slaves who surround me. Marion Wade, I weary you. Give answer to my question: Why do you love me?"

"Henry! I know not. A thousand thoughts crowd upon me. I could give you a thousand reasons, all comprised in one--_I love you, because_ I _love you_!"

"Enough, dear Marion! I believe it. Do you need me to declare again?

Can I plight my troth more truly?"

"No--no--Henry! I know that you love me _now_."

"Now! now and for ever!"

"You promise it, Henry?"