A woman in a wood – encountered accidentally, and alone. ’Tis an encounter to challenge curiosity – even though she be but a gipsy, or a peasant girl gathering sticks.
If a high-born dame, beautiful, – and, above all, bright-haired, – curiosity is no longer the word; but admiration, involuntary, unrestrained – bordering upon adoration. It is but the instinct of man’s heart to worship the fairest object, upon which man’s eye may rest; and this is a beautiful woman, with bright hair, met in the middle of a wood.
Marion Wade possessed all the conditions to merit such exalted admiration. She was high-born, beautiful, and bright-haired. She was alone in a wood.
It did not detract from the interest of the situation, that she was mounted on a white horse, carried a hawk on her hand, and was followed by a hound.
She was unaccompanied by human creature – hawk, hound, and horse being her only companions.
It must have been her choice to be thus unattended. Wishing it, the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade might have had for escort a score of retainers.
Autumn was in the sky: and along with it a noon-day sun. The golden light straggling through the leaves was reflected upon a field of blue, brilliant as the canopy whence it came. It was not the blue of the hyacinth gleaming in the forest glade, nor the modest violet that empurples the path. In October it could not be either. More attractive was that cerulean tint, seen in the iris of a woman’s eye – the eye of Marion Wade.
The sunbeams danced upon her yellow hair, with apparent delight, kissing its tresses of kindred colour – kissing her radiant cheek, that, even under the shadow of the trees, looked luminous.
What does she in the wild wood unguarded – unattended? Is she a-hawking?
The kestrel perched upon her gloved hand should say, yes. But more than once game has sprung up temptingly before her; and still the hood has been suffered to stay upon the hawk, and its jesses are retained in leash.
Has she lost her way – is she wandering?
Equally unlike. She is upon a path. A noble park is in sight, with a road that runs parallel to its palings. Through the trees she can obtain glimpses of a stately mansion standing within its enclosure. It is the famed park of Bulstrode – ancient as Alfred the Great. As she is the mistress of its mansion she cannot have lost her way? She cannot be wandering?
And yet, why does she fret her palfrey in its paces – now checking, now urging it onward? If not wandering in her way, surely is she astray in her thoughts?
She does not appear to be satisfied with the silent solitude of that forest path: she stops at short intervals, and leans forward in her saddle, as if listening for sounds.
Her behaviour would lead to the belief, that she is expecting some one?
A hoof-stroke is heard. There is a horseman coming through the wood. He is not yet in sight; but the sound of his horse’s hoofs striking the solid turf – tells that he is riding upon the track, and towards her.
There is an opening in the forest glade, of some six roods in extent. It is cut in twain by a path, which parts from the high road near one of the gates of Bulstrode Park; thence treading over the hills in a north-westerly direction.
On this path rides Marion Wade, straying, or dallying – certainly not travelling.
She has entered the aforementioned opening. Near its centre stands a tree – a beech of magnificent dimensions – whose wide-spreading boughs seem determined to canopy the whole area of the opening. The road runs beneath its branches.
Under its shadow, the fair equestrian checks her palfrey to a stand – as if to shelter, hawk, hound, and horse, from the fervent rays of the noon-day sun.
But no: her object is different. She has halted there to wait the approach of the horseman; and, at this moment, neither hawk, hound, nor horse claims the slightest share of her thoughts.
She sits scanning the road in the direction whence the hoof-strokes are heard. Her eyes sparkle with a pleasant anticipation.
The horseman soon appears, cantering around a corner – a rustic in rude garb, astride of a common roadster!
Surely he is not the expected one of Marion Wade?
The question is answered by the scornful exclamation that escapes from her pouted lips.
“’Sh! I might have known by the clattering it wasn’t the footfall of that noble steed. A peasant!”
The despised rustic rides on – as he passes making awkward obeisance, by a spasmodic pluck at his forelock.
His salutation is scarcely returned: or only with a nod, apparently supercilious. He wonders at this: for he knows that the lady is the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade – Mistress Marion – usually so condescending to, and a favourite with, all of his class. He cannot guess the chagrin he has given her.
He is soon out of her sight, and equally out of her thoughts: for it is not the sound of his departing hoof-strokes her ear is now re-quickened to catch; but others of bolder bound, and clearer resonance awaking the echoes of the wood.
These are soon heard more distinctly; and presently a second horseman appears, advancing around an angle of the road.
