almost buried, in trees; here and there only a spot of whitewashed walls or a quaint lead window, seen through the thick foliage. Beyond village and stream rose another ridge, with a gradual ascent up to the “Wilderness”; and still farther off—so far as to be just visible—stretched a wide expanse of low-lying champaign country, the valley of the Severn, once the sound of a sea. As the young girl gazed upon it, the sinking sun behind her back, with the Forest highlands beginning to fling the shadows of twilight across the Severn’s plain, and the white mist that overhung it, she might well have imagined the waters of ocean once more o’erflowing their ancient bed.
She neither imagined this nor thought of it; in fact saw not the fog, nor gave so much as a second glance to that valley she had professed herself so desirous of viewing. Instead, her eyes were fixedly bent upon the face of the acclivity opposite—more particularly on a riband of road that went winding up through woods from Drybrook to the “Wilderness.” And still with the same look of earnest interrogation. What could it mean?
Vaga coming up, after having finished her affair with the donkey, observed the look, and it called forth a fresh display of that persiflage she so delighted in. Hitherto Sabrina had the best of it. Her turn now, and she took advantage of it, saying,—
“Why, sister Sab, you seem to have forgotten all about what you came here for! You’re not looking at the Severn at all! Your glances are directed too low for it. And as to the glorious sunset you spoke of, that’s going on behind you! Something on the road over yonder seems to be the attraction; though I can see nothing but the road itself.”
“Nor I,” said Sabrina, a little confused, with just the slightest spot of red again showing on her cheeks. Enough, though, to catch the eye of her suspicious sister, who archly observed,—
“Rather strange, your gazing so earnestly at it, then?”
“Well, yes; I suppose it is.”
“But not if you’re expecting to see some one upon it.”
Sabrina started, the red on her cheeks becoming more pronounced; but she said nothing, since now her secret was discovered, or on the eve of discovery. Vaga’s next words left her no longer in doubt.
“Who is he, sister?” she asked with a sly look, and a laugh.
“Who is who?”
“He you expect to see come riding down yonder road. I take it he’ll be on horseback?”
“Vaga! you’re a very inquisitive creature.”
“Have I not some right, after being dragged all the way hither, when I wanted to go home? If you called me a hungry creature ’twould be nearer the truth. Jesting apart, I am that—quite famished; so weak I must seek support from a tree.”
And with a mock stagger, she brought up against the trunk of a hawthorn that grew near.
Sabrina could not resist laughing too, though still keeping her eyes on the uphill road. It seemed as though she could not take her eyes off it. But the other quickly recovering strength, and more naturally than she had affected feebleness, once more returned to the attack, saying,—
“Sister mine; it’s no use you’re trying to hoodwink me. You forget that by accident I saw a letter that lately came to Hollymead—at least its superscription. Equally oblivious you appear to be, that the handwriting of a certain gentleman is quite familiar to me, having seen many other letters from the same to father. So, putting that and that together, I’ve not the slightest doubt that the one of last week, addressed to your sweet self, informed you that on a certain day, hour, afternoon, Sir Richard Walwyn would enter the Forest of Dean by the Drybrook Road on his way to—”
“Vaga, you’re a very demon!”
“Which means I’ve read your secret aright. So you may as well make confession of it.”
“I won’t; and just to punish you for prying. Curiosity ungratified will be to you very torture, as I know.”
“Oh, well! keep it close; it don’t signify a bit. One has little care to be told what one knows without telling. If Sir Richard should come to Hollymead, why then six and six make a dozen, don’t they?”
Sabrina turned a half-reproachful look on her tormentor, but without making reply.
“You needn’t answer,” the other went on. “My arithmetic’s right, and the problem’s solved, or will be, by the gentleman spoken of making his appearance any time this day, or—Why, bless me! Yonder he is now, I do believe.”
The exclamatory phrase had reference to a horseman seen riding down the road so narrowly watched; though the speaker was not the first to see him. He had been already sighted by Sabrina, and it was the flash of excitement in her eyes that guided those of her sister.
The horseman had not all the road to himself; another coming on behind, but at such short distance as to tell of companionship—that of master and servant. He ahead was undoubtedly a gentleman, as evinced by the bright colour of his dress, with its silken gloss under the sunlight, and the glitter of arms and accoutrements; while the more soberly-attired rider in the rear was evidently a groom or body servant.
As the girls stood regarding, the look in the eyes of the elder, at first satisfied and joyous, began gradually to change. The distance was too great for the identification of either face or figure. All that could be distinguished was that they were men on horseback, with the general hue of their habiliments, and the sparkle of arms and ornaments.
It was just these—their brightness and splendour—as affected the foremost of the two, which had brought the change over Sabrina’s countenance. Sir Richard Walwyn was not wont to dress gaudily, but rather the reverse. Still, time had elapsed since she last saw him. He had been abroad, in the Low Countries, and with Gustavus of Sweden, battling for the good cause. The foreign fashions may have changed his ideas about dress and its adornments. But little cared she for that so long as his heart was unchanged; and that it was so she knew by the letter which had betrayed her own heart’s secret to her sister.
Almost simultaneously upon Vaga’s features appeared a change too—almost expressing doubt. It became certainty on the instant after, still another replacing it, as she again exclaimed, contradicting herself—
“Bless me, no! That’s Reginald Trevor.”
Chapter Six.
A Cavalier in Love.
Reginald Trevor it was, for Vaga was not guessing. Something she saw about the horseman, or his horse, had enabled her to identify him; as she did so, that third and latest change coming over her countenance, giving it also a serious cast.
But nothing compared with that which now showed on the face of her sister. The varied expressions of hopeful anticipation, surprise, delight, then doubt, rapidly succeeding one another, were all past, and in their place a dark shadow sat cloud-like on her brow. In her eyes, too, still scanning the distant horseman, was a look that betokened pain, or at least uneasiness, with something of fear and anger. In truth, the expression on their face, though differing from each other, would have been unreadable to any one who was a stranger
