END OF VOLUME ONE.

Volume Two, Chapter I.

The warm golden light of an autumn sun was struggling through the

half-closed curtains of a window, in the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade.

It was still early in the afternoon; and the window in question, opening

from an upper storey, and facing westward, commanded one of the finest

views of the park of Bulstrode. The sunbeams slanting through the

parted tapestry lit up an apartment, which by its light luxurious style

of furniture, and costly decoration, proclaimed itself to be a boudoir,

or room exclusively appropriated to the use of a lady.

At that hour there was other and better evidence of such appropriation:

since the lady herself was seen standing in the embayment of its window,

under the arcade formed by the drooping folds of the curtains.

The sunbeams glittered upon tresses of a kindred colour--among which

they seemed delighted to linger. They flashed into eyes as blue as the

canopy whence they came; and the rose-coloured clouds, they had

themselves created in the western sky, were not of fairer effulgence

than the cheeks they appeared so fondly to kiss.

These were not in their brightest bloom. Though slightly blanched,

neither were they pale. The strongest emotion could not produce

absolute pallor on the cheeks of Marion Wade--where the rose never

altogether gave place to the lily.

The young lady stood in the window, looking outward upon the park. With

inquiring glance she swept its undulating outlines; traced the

softly-rounded tops of the chestnut trees; scrutinised the curving lines

of the copses; saw the spotted kine roaming slowly o'er the lea, and the

deer darting swiftly across the sward; but none of these sights were the

theme of her thoughts, or fixed her attention for more than a passing

moment.

There was but one object within that field of vision, upon which her

eyes rested for any length of time; not constantly, but with glances

straying from it only to return. This was a gate between two massive

piers of mason-work, grey and ivy-grown. It was not the principal

entrance to the park; but one of occasional use, which opened near the

western extremity of the enclosure into the main road. It was the

nearest way for any one going in the direction of Stone Dean, or coming

thither.

There was nothing in the architecture of those ivy-covered piers to

account for the almost continuous scrutiny given to it by Mistress

Marion Wade; nor yet in the old gate itself--a mass of red-coloured

rusty iron. Neither was new to her. She had looked upon that

entrance--which opened directly in front of her chamber window every

day--almost every hour of her life. Why, then, was she now so

assiduously gazing upon it?

Her soliloquy will furnish the explanation.

"He promised he would come to-day. He told Walter so before leaving the

camp--the scene of his conquest over one who appears to hate him--far

more over one who _loves him_ No. The last triumph came not then. Long

before was it obtained. Ah me! it must be love, or why should I so long

to see him?"

"Dear cousin, how is this? Not dressed for dinner? 'Tis within five

minutes of the hour!"

It was the pretty Lora Lovelace who, tripping into the room, asked these

questions--Lora fresh from her toilette, and radiant with smiles.

There was no heaviness on _her_ heart--no shadow on her countenance.

Walter and she had spent the morning together; and, whatever may have

passed between them, it had left behind no trace of a cloud.

"I do not intend dressing," rejoined Marion. "I shall dine as you see

me."

"What, Marion! and these strange gentlemen to be at the table!"

"A fig for the strange gentlemen! It's just for that I won't dress.

Nay, had my father not made a special request of it, I should not go to

the table at all. I'm rather surprised, cousin, at your taking such

pains to be agreeable to guests thus forced upon us. For which of the

two are you setting your snare, little Lora--the conceited captain, or

his stupid subaltern?"

"Oh!" said Lora, with a reproachful pouting of her pretty lips; "you do

me wrong, Marion. I have not taken pains on their account. There are

to be others at the table besides the strangers."

"Who?" demanded Marion.

"Who--why,"--stammered Lora, slightly blushing as she made answer, "why,

of course there is uncle Sir Marmaduke."

"That all?"

"And--and--Cousin Walter as well."

"Ha! ha! Lora; it's an original idea of yours, to be dressing with such

studied care for father and Walter. Well, here goes to get ready. I

don't intend to make any farther sacrifice to the rigour of fashion than

just pull off these sleeves, dip my fingers into a basin of water, and

tuck up my tresses a little."

"O Marion!"

"Not a pin, nor ribbon, except what's necessary to hold up my

troublesome horse-load of hair. I've a good mind to cut it short.

Sooth! I feel like pulling some of it out through sheer vexation!"

"Vexation--with what?"

"What--what--why being bored with these blustering fellows--especially

when one wants to be alone."

"But, cousin; these gentlemen cannot help their being here. They have

to obey the commands of the king. They are behaving very civilly?

Walter has told me so. Besides, uncle has enjoined upon us to treat

them with courtesy."

"Aha! they'll have scant courtesy from me. All they'll get will be a

_yes_ and a _no_; and that not very civilly, unless they deserve it."

"But if they deserve it?"

"If they do--"

"Walter says they have offered profuse apologies, and regrets."

"For what?"

"For the necessity they are under of becoming uncle's guests."

"I don't believe so--no, not a bit. Look at their rude behaviour at the

very beginning--kissing that bold girl Bet Dancey, in the presence of a

thousand spectators! Ha! well punished was captain Scarthe for his

presumption. He feel regret! I don't believe it, Lora. That man's a

hypocrite. There's falsehood written in his face, along with a large

quantity of conceit; and as for the cornet--the only thing discernible

in his countenance is--stupidity."

As Marion pronounced the last word, she had completed her toilette--all

that she had promised or intended to make. She was one who needed not

to take much trouble before the mirror. Dressed or in _deshabille_ she

was the same--ever beautiful. Nature had made her in its fairest mould,

and Art could not alter the design.

Her preparations for the dinner table consisted simply in replacing her

morning boddice by one without sleeves--which displayed her snow-white

arms nearly to the shoulders. Having adjusted this, she inserted one

hand under her wavy golden hair; and, adroitly turning its profuse

tresses round her wrist, she rolled them into a spiral coil, which by

means of a pair of large hair pins she confined at the back of her head.

Then, dipping her hands into a basin of water, she shook off the

crystal drops from the tips of her roseate fingers; wiped them on a

white napkin; flung the towel upon the table; and cried "Come on!"

Followed by the light-hearted Lora, she descended to the dining hall,

where the two officers were already awaiting their presence.

A dinner-party under such circumstances as that which assembled around

the table of Sir Marmaduke Wade--small in numbers though it was--could

not be otherwise than coldly formal.

The host himself was polite to his uninvited guests--studiously so; but

not all his habitual practice of courtly manners could conceal a certain

embarrassment, that now and then exhibited itself in incidents of a

trivial character.

On his part the cuirassier captain used every effort to thaw the ice

that surrounded him. He lost no opportunity of expressing his regret:

at being the recipient of such a peculiar hospitality; nor was he at all

backward in censuring his royal master for making him so.

But for an occasional distrustful glance visible under the shaggy

eyebrows of the knight--visible only at intervals, and to one closely

watching him--it might have been supposed that Sir Marmaduke was warming

to the words of his wily guest. That glance, however, told of a

distrust, not to be removed by the softest and most courteous of

speeches.

Marion adhered to her promise, and spoke only in monosyllables; though

her fine open countenance expressed neither distrust nor dislike. The

daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was too proud to appear otherwise than

indifferent. If she felt contempt, there was no evidence of it--neither

in the curling of her lip, nor the cast of her eye.

Equally in vain did Scarthe scrutinise her countenance for a sign of

admiration. His most gallant speeches were received with an air of

frigid indifference--his wittiest sallies elicited only such smiles as

courtesy could not refuse.

If Marion at any time showed sign of emotion, it was when her glance was

turned towards the window: apparently in quest of some object that

_should_ be visible outside. Then her bosom might be seen swelling with

a suppressed sigh--as if her thoughts were dwelling on one who was

absent.

Slight as were these manifestations, they did not escape the observation

of the experienced Scarthe. He saw, and half interpreted, their

meaning--his brow blackening under bitter fancies thus conjured up.

Though seated with his back to the window, more than once he turned half

round: to see if there was any one in sight.

When the wine had been passed several times, making him less cautious,

his glances of admiration became bolder, his speeches less courteous,

and reserved.

The cornet talked little. It was enough for him to endorse the

sentiments of his superior officer by an occasional monosyllable.

Though silent, Stubbs was not altogether satisfied with what was

passing. The by-play between Walter and Lora, who were seated together,

was far from pleasing to him. He had not been many minutes at the

table, before discovering that the cousins had an amiable inclination

towards each other; which carried him to the conclusion, that, in the

son of Sir Marmaduke he would find a formidable rival.

Even on the blank page of his stolid countenance soon became discernible

the lines that indicate jealousy; while in his white skewbald eyes could

be detected a glance not a whit more amiable, than that which flashed

more determinedly from the dark orbs of the cuirassier captain.

The dinner passed without any unpleasant _contretemps_. The party

separated after a reasonable time--Sir Marmaduke excusing himself upon

some matter of business--the ladies having already made their curtsey to

their stranger guests.

Walter, rather from politeness than any inclination, remained a while

longer in the company of the two officers; but, as the companionship was

kept up under a certain feeling of restraint, he was only too well

pleased to join them in toasting _The king_!--which, like our modern lay

of royalty, was regarded as the _finale_ to every species of

entertainment.

Walter strayed off in search of his sister and cousin--most likely only

the latter; while the officers, not yet invited into the sanctuary of

the family circle, retired to their room--to talk over the incidents of

the dinner, or plot some scheme for securing the indulgence of those

amorous inclinations, with which both were now thoroughly imbued.

Volume Two, Chapter II.

Marion Wade was alone--as before, standing in her window under the

arcade of parted tapestry--as before, with eyes bent on the iron gate

and ivy-wreathed portals that supported it.

Everything was as before: the spotted kine lounging slowly over the lea;

the fallow deer browsing upon the sward; and the birds singing their

sweet songs, or winging their way from copse to copse.

The sun only had changed position. Lower down in the sky, he was

sinking still lower--softly and slowly, upon a couch of purple coloured

clouds. The crests of the Chilterns were tinted with a roseate hue; and

the summit of the Beacon-hill appeared in a blaze, as when by night its

red fires had been wont to give warning of the approach of a hostile

fleet by the channels of the Severn.

Brilliant and lovely as was the sunset, Marion Wade saw it not; or, if

seeing, it was with an eye that stayed not to admire.

That little space of rust-coloured iron and grey stonework--just visible

under the hanging branches of the trees--had an attraction for her far

outstripping the gaudy changes of the sunset.

Thus ran her reflections:--"Walter said he would come--perhaps not

before evening. 'Tis a visit to papa--only him! What can be its

purpose? Maybe something relating to the trouble that has fallen upon

us? Us said he is against the king, and for the people. 'Twas on that

account Dorothy Dayrell spoke slightingly of him. For that shall not I.

No--never--never! She said he must be peasant born. 'Tis a false

slander. He is gentle, or I know not a gentleman.

"What am I to think of yesterday--that girl and her flowers? I wish

there had not been a fete. I shall never go to another!

"I was so happy when I saw my glove upon his beaver. If 'tis gone, and

those flowers have replaced it, I shall not care to live longer--not a

day--not an hour!"

A sudden change came over both the attitude and reflections of Marion

Wade.

Some one had opened the gate! It was a man--a rider--bestriding a black

horse!

An instinct stronger than ordinary aided in the identification of this

approaching horseman. The eyes of love need not the aid of a glass; and

Marion saw him with such.

"It is he!" she repeated in full confidence, as the cavalier, emerging

from the shadow of the trees commenced ascending the slope of the hill.

Marion kept her eyes bent upon the advancing horseman, in straining

gaze; and thus continued until he had arrived within a hundred yards of

the moat that surrounded the mansion. One might have supposed that she

was still uncertain as to his identity.

But her glance was directed neither upon his face nor form, but towards

a point higher than either--towards the brow of his beaver--where

something white appeared to have fixed her regard. This soon assumed

the form and dimensions of a lady's gauntlet--its slender fingers

tapering towards the crown of the hat, and outlined conspicuously

against the darker background.

"It is the glove--_my_ glove!" said she, gasping out the words, as if

the recognition had relieved her from some terrible suspense. "Yes, it

is still there. O joy!"

All at once the thrill of triumph became checked, by a contrary emotion.

Something red was seen protruding from under the rim of the beaver, and

close to the glove. Was it a _flower_?

The flowers given by Maid Marian were of that colour! Was it one of

them?

Quick as the suspicion had arisen did it pass away. The red object

sparkled in the sun. It was not a flower; but the garnet clasp that

held the gauntlet in its place. Marion remembered the clasp. She had

noticed it the day before.

She breathed freely again. Her heart was happier than ever. She was

too happy to gaze longer on that which was giving her content. She

dreaded to exhibit her blushing cheek to the eyes of the man, whose

presence caused it to blush; and she retired behind the curtain, to

enjoy unobserved a moment of delicious emotion.

Her happiness did not hinder her from once more returning to the window;

but too late to see the cavalier as he passed across the parterre. She

knew, however, that he had entered the house, and was at that moment

below in the library--holding with her father the promised interview.

She knew not the purpose of his visit. It could not have reference to

herself. She could only conjecture its connection with the political

incidents of the time; which were talked of in every house--even to

dividing the sentiments of the family circle, and disturbing the

tranquillity of more than one erst happy home.

She was aware that the visit of Henry Holtspur was _only to her father_.

He had come, and might go as he had come, without the chance of her

exchanging speech with him; and as this thought came into her mind, she

half regretted having retired from the window. By so doing, she had

lost the very opportunity long desired--often wished for in vain.

Only a word or two had been spoken between them on the day before,--the

stiff ceremonial phrases of introduction--after which the incident of

the duel had abruptly parted them.

Now that Holtspur had been presented by a brother--and with the sanction

of a father--what reason was there for reserve? Even prudery could not

show excuse for keeping aloof. She should have spoken to him from the

balcony. She should have welcomed him to the house. He must have seen

her at the window? What reflection might he have, about her retiring--

as if to hide herself from his gaze? He would scarce consider it

courtesy? He might fancy he had given her some offence--perhaps in that

very act which had produced such an opposite impression--the triumphant

exposure of her glove?

Perhaps he might take offence at her coy conduct, and pluck the token

from its place? How could she convey to him the knowledge, of her

happiness at beholding it there? How tell him that he was but too

welcome to wear it?

"If I could find the other," she soliloquised in low murmuring, "I

should carry it in some conspicuous place, where he might see it--on my

hand--my breast--in the frontlet of my coif, as he wears its fellow in

his beaver. If only for a moment, it would tell him what I wish,

without words. Alas! I've lost the other. Too surely have I lost it.

Everywhere have I searched in vain. What can I have done with it? Bad

omen, I fear, to miss it at such a time!"

"If he go forth as he has come," continued she, resuming her mental

soliloquy, "I shall not have the opportunity to speak to him at all--

perhaps not even to exchange salutation. He will scarce ask to see

_me_. He may not look back. I cannot call after him. What is to be

done?"

There was a pause, as if her thoughts were silently occupied in forming

some plan.

"Ha!" she exclaimed at length, pretending to look inquiringly out of the

window. "Lora and Walter are wandering somewhere through the park? I

shall go in search of them."

The motive thus disclosed was but a mere pretence--put forth to satisfy

the natural instincts of a maiden's modesty. It ended the struggle

between this, and the powerful passion that was warring against it.

Marion flung the coifed hood over her head; drew the coverchief forward

to shade the sun from her face--perchance also to hide the virgin blush

which her thoughts had called forth; and, gliding down stairs, passed

out on her pretended errand.

If she had either desire, or design, to find those she went forth to

seek, she was destined to disappointment. Indeed her search was not

likely to have been successful: for, on issuing from the house, she went

only in one particular direction--the most unlikely one for Walter and

Lora Lovelace to have taken at that hour: since it was a path that led

directly to the western entrance of the park.

Had she sought the old Saxon camp, it is probable she would have found

the missing pair, though more than probable, that neither would have

thanked her for her pains.

As it was, she took the opposite way; and, after traversing a long

stretch of avenue with slow lingering steps, she found herself near that

old ivy-grown gateway that opened upon the Oxford high-road.

Apparently terrified at having strayed so far, at such a late hour--for

the sun was now hidden behind the trees--she faced round, and commenced

retracing her steps towards the mansion.

True, there was an expression upon her face resembling fear; but it was

not that of alarm at the late hour, nor the distance that lay between

her and the dwelling. Rather was it the fear one feels in doing some

act that may expose to censure or shame.

Marion Wade was upon the eve of committing such an act. She had long

since abandoned the idea of that self-deception--with which upon

starting forth she had tried to still the scruples of her conscience.

She was no longer looking for Lora Lovelace or Walter Wade; but for one

who was now dearer to her than either cousin or brother. She was

waiting for Henry Holtspur--that noble cavalier, whose graceful image

had taken complete possession of her heart--waiting and watching for

him, with all the eagerness that a powerful passion can inspire.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was still only twilight; and any one, coming down the avenue, might

have noticed a white object, appearing at intervals round the stems of

the trees that skirted the path. This object would remain stationary

for a moment, and be then withdrawn--to appear again at another point, a

little nearer to the house. A good eye might have told it to be the

head of a woman, wearing a white hood--the graceful coif or coverchief

of the time.

Henry Holtspur observed it as he rode down the slope of the hill--after

having taken leave of Sir Marmaduke Wade. He simply supposed it to be

some peasant girl coming up the path--for in such a light, and at such

distance, who could tell the difference between a cottager and a queen?

Had he known who it was--had he suspected the bright object moving like

a meteor from tree to tree was the beautiful Marion Wade, it would have

sent the blood tingling from the stirrups under his feet to the crown of

his head.

No such suspicion was in his mind. He was too busy chafing at the

disappointment of having left the house, without seeing her, to imagine

for a moment that such a splendid fortune was still in store for him.

And the blood _did_ tingle from the stirrups beneath his feet to the

crown of his head--thrilled through every vein of his body--as, arriving

opposite to the advancing form, he perceived it to be no peasant, but

the peerless Marion Wade--she so exclusively occupying his thoughts.

To check his steed to a stand, as if threatened by some sudden danger--

to raise the beaver from his head, and bow to the peak of his saddle--

were acts that proceeded rather from instinct than any reasoned design.

At the same instant escaped from his lips, partially in salute, and

partially as if elicited by surprise, the words--

"Mistress Marion Wade!" There was an interval of embarrassment; how

could it be otherwise?

It was brief. Henry Holtspur was over thirty years of age, and Marion

Wade had escaped from her teens. The passion that had sprung up between

them was not the fond fancy of boyhood or girlhood. On his side it was

the love of manhood; on hers an affection with a man for its object--a

man mature, with a past to be proud of--one in whose face and features

could be traced the souvenirs of gallant deeds--whose romantic mien

betrayed a type of heroism not to be mistaken.

With Marion it was her first affection--the first that could be called

real. With Holtspur perhaps, it was to be the last love of his life--

ever the strongest: since the heart then can hope for no other.

It was not the place of the maiden to speak first; and, though scarce

knowing what to say, Holtspur made an effort to break the spell of that

hesitating silence.

"Pardon me, for interrupting your walk!" said he, seeing that she had

stopped, and stood facing him; "It is but fair to confess that I have

been wishing for an opportunity of speaking with you. The unlucky

incident of yesterday--of which I believe you were a spectator--hindered

me from meeting you again; and I was just reflecting upon having

experienced a similar misfortune to-day, when you appeared. I hope,

Mistress Wade you will not be offended at being thus waylaid?"

"Oh! certainly not," answered she, slightly surprised, if not piqued, by

the somewhat business-like candour of his speeches. "You have been on a

visit to my father, I believe?"

"I have," replied the cavalier, equally chilled by the indifferent

character of the question.

"I hope, sir," said Marion, throwing a little more warmth into her

manner, "you received no hurt from your encounter of yesterday?"

"Thanks, Mistress Marion! not the slightest; except, indeed--"

"Except what, sir?" inquired the lady, with a look of alarm.

"Only that I looked for fair eyes to smile upon my poor victory."

"If mine deceived me not, you were not disappointed. There was one who

not only smiled upon it, but seemed desirous to crown it with flowers!

It was but natural: since it was in her defence you drew your sword,

brave sir."

"Ah!" responded the cavalier, appearing for the first time to remember

the incident of the flower presentation. "You speak of the peasant girl

who represented Maid Marian? I believe she did force some flowers into

my hand; though she owed me less gratitude than she thinks for. It was

not to champion her that I took up the quarrel; but rather to punish a

swaggerer. In truth I had quite forgotten the episode of the flowers."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Marion, a flush of joy suffusing her face, which she

seemed endeavouring to conceal. "Is it thus you reward gratitude?

Methinks, Sir, you should value it at a higher price!"

"It depends," said the cavalier, rather puzzled for a reply, "on whether

gratitude has been deserved. For my part I consider myself as

altogether without any claim to the gratitude of the girl. The conduct

of the cuirassier captain was a slight to all on the ground. But now,

since I have come to confession, I should say that it was in the

interest of others I _took up the gauntlet_ against him."

Marion glanced at the little glove set coquettishly in the crown of the

cavalier's hat. She fancied that he laid a significant emphasis on the

figurative phrase, "took up the gauntlet." Her glance, however, was

quick and furtive--as if fearful of betraying the sweet thoughts his

words had suggested.

There was a pause in the conversation--another interval of hesitating

silence, when neither knew what to say--each fearing to risk the

compromise of a trivial remark.

Marion had recalled the introductory speech of the cavalier. She had it

upon her tongue to demand from him its meaning; when the latter relieved

her by resuming the discourse.

"Yes," he said, "there are occasions when one does not deserve

gratitude, even for what may appear an honest act; as, for instance, one

who has found something that has been lost, and returns it to the owner,

only after long delay, and with great reluctance."

As Holtspur spoke, he pointed to the glove in his hat. Marion's face

betrayed a strange mixture of emotion--half distressed, half triumphant.

She was too much embarrassed to make answer.

The cavalier continued his figurative discourse.

"The finder having no right to the thing found, it should be given up.

That is but simple honesty, and scarce deserving of thanks. For

example, I have picked up this pretty gauntlet; and, however much I

might wish to keep it--as a souvenir of one of the happiest moments of

_my_ existence--I feel constrained, by all the rules of honour and

honesty, to restore it to its rightful owner--unless that owner, knowing

how much I prize it, will consent to my keeping it."

Holtspur bent low in his saddle, and listened attentively for the

rejoinder.

"Keep it!" said Marion, abandoning all affectation of ignorance as to

his meaning, and accompanying the assent with a gracious smile. "Keep

it, sir, if it so please you."

Then, as if fearing that she had surrendered too freely, she added in a

tone of _naivete_,--"It would be no longer of any use to me--since I

have lost the other--its fellow."

This last announcement counteracted the pleasant impression which her

consent had produced; and once more precipitated Henry Holtspur into the

sea of uncertainty.

"No longer of any use to her," thought he, repeating her words. "If

that be her only motive for bestowing it, then will it be no longer of

any value to me."

He felt something like chagrin. He was almost on the point of returning

the doubtful token.

"Perhaps," said he, hesitatingly, "I have offended, by keeping it so

long without your consent--and more by displaying it as I have done.

For the former I might claim excuse: on the plea that I had no

opportunity of restoring it. But for the latter I fear I can offer no

justification. I can only plead the promptings of a vain hope--of a

passion, that I now believe to be hopeless, as it will be deemed

presumptive."

The tone of despondency in which this speech was delivered, struck

sweetly on the ear of Marion Wade. It had the true ring of love's

utterance; and she intuitively recognised it. She could scarce conceal

her joy as she made rejoinder:--

"Why should I be offended, either at your detaining the glove, or

wearing it?" As she said this she regarded the cavalier with a

forgiving smile. "The first was unavoidable; the other I ought to

esteem an honour. Setting store by a lady's favour is not the way, sir,

to offend her."

"Favour! Then she has meant it as such!"

Along with the unspoken thought, a gleam of returning confidence shot

over the cavalier's countenance.

"I can no longer endure the doubt," muttered he: "I shall speak to her

more plainly. Marion Wade!"

Her name was uttered aloud, and in a tone of appeal that caused her to

glance up with some surprise. In her look there was no trace of

displeasure at the familiar mode of address.

"Speak, sir!" she said, encouragingly. "You have something to say?"

"A question to ask--only one; and oh! Marion Wade, answer it with

candour! You promise?"

"I promise."

"You say you have lost the other glove?"

Marion nodded an affirmative.

"Tell me then, and truly: did you _lose_ this one?"

"The cavalier, as he spoke, pointed to the white gauntlet."

"Your meaning, sir?"

"Ah! Marion Wade, you are evading the answer. Tell me if it fell from

your fair hand unknown--unnoticed--or was it dropped by _design_? Tell

me--oh, tell me truly!"

He could not read the answer in her eyes: for the long lashes had fallen

over them, hiding the blue orbs beneath. The red blood mantling upon

her cheeks, and mounting up to her forehead, should have aided him to

it, had he been closely observing. Her silence, too, might have served

to enlighten him, as to the reply she would have made, had her modesty

permitted speech.

"I have been candid with you," he continued, urging his appeal by

argument; "I have thrown myself upon your mercy. If you care not for

the happiness of one who would risk his life for yours, then do I adjure

you, as you care for truth, to speak the truth! Dropped you this glove

by accident, or design?"

With the silence of one who awaits to hear the pronouncing of his

sentence, Henry Holtspur sat listening for her answer.

It came like an echo to his speech; but an echo that only repeated the

final word.

"_Design_!" murmured Marion Wade, in a low soft voice, whose very

trembling betokened its truth.

The abyss of ceremony no longer lay between them. That one word had

bridged it.

Henry Holtspur sprang from his saddle, and glided in among the trees.

In another instant their arms were entwined; their lips in mutual

contact; and their hearts pressed close together, beating responses,

sweet as the pulsations of celestial life.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Adieu! sweet Marion, adieu!" cried the lover, as she glided from his

arms--reluctant to let her leave.

"She will be the last love of my life!" he muttered, as he leaped into

his saddle almost without touching stirrup.

The trained steed stood at rest, till his rider was fairly fixed in the

seat. He had remained silent and motionless throughout that sweet

interview of the lovers--its sole witness. Proudly champing his bit, he

seemed exulting in the fair conquest his master had made--as he had

shown himself after the triumph of yesterday. Perhaps Hubert had some

share in achieving the victory of love, as of war?

The steed stirred not till he felt the spur; and even then, as if

participating in the reluctance of his rider, he moved but slowly from

the spot.

Volume Two, Chapter III.

If do eye beheld the meeting between Marion Wade and Henry Holtspur,

there was one that witnessed their parting with a glance that betokened

pain. It was the eye of Richard Scarthe.

On leaving the dinner table, some details of military duty had occupied

the cuirassier captain for an hour or two; after which, having no

further occupation for the evening, he resolved to seek an interview

with the ladies of the house--more especially with her who, in the short

space of a single day, had kindled within him a passion that, honourable

or not, was at least ardent.

He was already as much in love with the lady, as it was possible for

such a nature to be. A month in her company could not have more

completely enamoured him. Her cold reception of his complimentary

phrases--as yet only offered to her with the insinuating delicacy of an

experienced seducer--instead of chilling his incipient desires, had only

served to add fuel to the flame. He was too well exercised in

conquering the scruples of maiden modesty, to feel despair at such

primary repulses.

"I shall win her!" in spite of this monosyllabic indifference! muttered

he to Stubbs, as they returned to their sitting-room. "Pshaw! 'tis only

pretence before strangers! By my troth, I like this sort of a

beginning. I'm fashed of facile conquests. This promises to be a

little difficult; and will enable me to kill the _ennui_, which

otherwise might have killed me in these rural quarters. I shall win

her, as I have won others--as I should Lucretia herself, had she lived

in our time."

To this triumphant boast, his satellite spoke assent, in his

characteristic fashion.

"Safe to do it, by Ged!" said he, as if convinced of the invincibility

of one, who more than once had spoiled his own chances in the game of

love-making.

Scarthe was determined to let but little time elapse before entering

upon his amour. His passion prompted him to immediate action; and the

first step was to seek an interview with the woman he had resolved upon

winning.

It was one thing, however, to desire an interview with the daughter of

Sir Marmaduke Wade--another to obtain it. The cuirassier captain was

not in the position to demand, or even seek it by request. Any attempt

on his part to force such an event might end in discomfiture: for

although he could compel Sir Marmaduke to find bed, board, and forage

for himself and his troopers, the tyranny of the King did not--or rather

dared not--extend so far as to violate the sanctity of a gentleman's

family. That of his household had been sufficiently outraged by the act

of _benevolence_ itself.

These circumstances considered, it was clear to Scarthe, that the

desired interview must be brought about by stratagem, and appear the

result of simple accident.

In pursuance of this idea, about half-an-hour before sunset, he sallied

forth from his room, and commenced strolling through the grounds; here

stopping to examine a flower; there standing to scrutinise a statue--as

if the science of botany, and the art of sculpture, were the only

subjects in which, at that particular moment, he felt any interest.

One near enough to note the expression upon his features, might easily

have told that neither a love of art, nor an admiration of nature, was

there indicated. On the contrary, while apparently occupied with the

flower or the statue, his eyes were turned towards the house, wandering

in furtive glance from window to window.

In order not to compromise his character for good breeding, he kept at

some distance from the walls, along the outer edge of the shrubbery. In

this way he proceeded past the front of the mansion, until he had

reached that side, facing to the west.

Here his stealthy reconnoissance was carried on with increased

earnestness; for, although not certain what part of the house was

occupied by the female members of the family, he had surmised that it

was the western wing. The pleasant exposure on this side--with the more

careful cultivation of the flower beds and turf sward--plainly

proclaimed it to be the _sacred precinct_.

One by one he examined the windows--endeavouring to pierce the interior

of the apartments into which they opened; but after spending a full

quarter of an hour in this fantastic scrutiny, he discovered nothing to

repay him for his pains--not the face of a living creature.

Once only he caught sight of a figure inside one of the rooms upon the

ground-floor; but the dress was dark, and the glimpse he had of it told

it to be that of a man. Sir Marmaduke it was, moving about in his

library.

"The women don't appear to be inside at all," muttered he, with an air

of discontent. "By Phoebus! what if they should have gone for a stroll

through the park? Fine evening--charming sunset. I'faith, I shouldn't

wonder but that they're out enjoying it. If I could only find _her_

outside that would be just the thing. I'll try a stroll myself.

Perhaps I may meet her? 'Tis possible?"

So saying, he turned away from the statue--which he had been so long

criticising--and faced to the footbridge that spanned the fosse.

As he laid his hand upon the wicket gate--with the intention of opening

it--an object came under his eyes--that caused the blood to leap into

his cheeks, and mantle upward upon his pale forehead.

The elevated causeway of the bridge had placed him in a position, from

which he could view the long avenue leading down to the road. Far down

it, near the gateway, a steed, saddled and bridled--as if ready for a

rider to mount--was standing on the path.

There was no one holding the animal--no one looking after him--no one

near!

It was not the circumstance of seeing a horse thus caparisoned, and

uncared for--though this was odd enough--that flushed the face of the

cuirassier captain, and caused his fingers to tremble on the uplifted

latch. It was the sight of _that_ particular horse which produced such

effect: for the curving neck and sable coat of the animal--visible even

through the grey gloaming of the twilight--enabled Scarthe to recognise

the steed, that had played so conspicuous a part in his own humiliation!

"Holtspur's horse, by Heaven!" were the words that fell mechanically

from his lips. "The man must be there himself--behind the trees?

There, and what doing there?"

"I shall go down, and see," he muttered, after a moment of indecision.

Opening the wicket he passed through; quickly traversed the remaining

portion of the causeway; and continued on towards the spot where the

steed was standing.

He did not go in a direct path towards the object that had thus

interested him--which would have been the avenue itself--but proceeded

in a circuitous direction, through some copsewood that skirted the slope

of the hill.

He had his reasons for thus deviating.

"Holtspur in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade!" muttered he, as he crept

through the thicket with the cautious tread of a deer-stalker. "Where

is Sir Marmaduke's daughter?"

As the suspicion swept across his brain, it brought the blood scorching

like fire through his veins. His limbs felt weak under him. He almost

tottered, as he trod the sward!

His jealous agony was scarce more acute, when, on reaching the row of

chestnuts that bordered the avenue, and craning his neck outward to get

a view, he saw a man come out from among the trees, and step up to the

side of the steed; while at the same instant a white object, like a

lady's coverchief or scarf, fluttered amid the foliage that overhung the

path.

The man he recognised: Henry Holtspur! The woman, though seen less

distinctly, could be only the one occupying his thoughts--only Marion

Wade!

Though not a coward--and accustomed to encounters abrupt and dangerous--

Scarthe was at that crisis the victim of both fear and indecision. In

his chagrin, he could have rushed down the slope, and stabbed Holtspur

to the heart, without mercy or remorse. But he had no intention of

acting in this off-hand way. The encounter of the day before--of which

the torture of his wounded arm emphatically reminded him--had robbed him

of all zest for a renewal of the black horseman's acquaintance. He only

hesitated as to whether he should screen himself behind the trees, and

permit the lady to pass on to the house, or remain in ambush till she

came up, and then join company with her.

He was no longer uncertain as to who it was. The white-robed figure,

that now stood out in the open avenue, was Marion Wade. No other could

have shown that imposing outline under the doubtful shadow of the

twilight.

It was not till the horseman had sprung into the saddle, turned his back

upon the mansion, and was riding away, that Scarthe recovered from his

irresolution.

He felt sensible of being in a state of mind to make himself ridiculous;

and that the more prudent plan would be to remain out of sight. But the

bitter sting was rankling in his breast--all the more bitter that he

suspected an _intrigue_. This fell fancy torturing him to the heart's

core, stifled all thoughts of either policy or prudence; and impelled

him to present himself.

With an effort such as his cunning, and the control which experience had

given him over his passions, enabled him to make--he succeeded in

calming himself--sufficiently for a pretence at courteous conversation.

At this moment, Marion came up.

She started on seeing Scarthe glide out from among the trees. The wild

passion gleaming in his eyes was enough to cause her alarm though she

made but slight exhibition of it. She was too highly bred to show

emotion, even under such suspicious circumstances. Her heart, at that

moment thrilling with supreme happiness, was too strong to feel fear.

"Good even, sir," she simply said, in return to the salute, which

Scarthe had made as he approached.

"Pardon my question, Mistress Wade," said he, joining her, and walking

by her side, "Are you not afraid to be out alone at this late hour--

especially as the neighbourhood is infested with such ferocious footpads

as your brother has been telling me of? Ha! ha! ha!"

"Oh!" said Marion--answering the interrogatory in the same spirit in

which it appeared to have been put--"that was before Captain Scarthe and

his redoubtable cuirassiers came to reside with us. Under their

protection I presume there will no longer be anything to fear from

footpads, or even highwaymen!"

"Thanks for your compliment, lady! If I could only flatter myself that

our presence here would be considered a protection by Mistress Marion

Wade, it would be some compensation for the unpleasantness of being

forced as a guest upon her father."

"You are gracious, sir," said she, bowing slightly in return to the

implied apology.

Then, casting a quick but scrutinising glance at the countenance of the

speaker, she continued in thought--"If this man be honest, the devil's a

witch. If he be, I never saw look that so belies the heart."

"Believe me, Mistress Wade," proceeded the hypocrite, "I keenly feel my

position here. I know that I cannot be regarded in any other light than

that of an intruder. Notwithstanding the pleasure it may be, to partake

of the hospitality of your noble house, I would gladly forego that

happiness, were it in consonance with my duty to the King--which of

course is paramount to everything else."

"Indeed!"

"To an officer of his Majesty's cuirassiers it should be."

"In France, perhaps--or in Flanders, where I understand you've been

campaigning. In England, sir, and in the eyes of an Englishwoman, there

are higher duties than those owing to a king. Did it never occur to you

that you owe a duty to _the people_; or, if you prefer the expression,

_to the State_."

"_L'etat est roi. L'etat est moi_! That is the creed of Richard

Scarthe!"

"Even if your king be a tyrant?"

"I am but a soldier. It is not mine to question the prerogatives of

royalty--only to obey its edicts."

"A noble creed! Noble sentiments for a soldier! Hear mine, sir!"

"With pleasure, Mistress Wade!" replied Scarthe, cowering under her

scornful glance.

"Were I a man," she continued, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm,

"rather would I shave my crown, and cover it with the cowl of a friar,

than wear a sword to be drawn in no better cause than that of an

unscrupulous king! Ha! There are men rising in this land, whose fame

shall outlive the petty notoriety of its princes. When these have

become obscured behind the oblivion of ages, the names of Vane and Pym,

and Cromwell, and Hampden and Holt"--she but half pronounced the one she

held highest--"shall be household words!"

"These are wild words, Mistress Wade!" rejoined Scarthe, his loyalty--

along with a slight inclination towards anger--struggling against the

admiration which he could not help feeling for the beautiful enthusiast;

"I fear you are a rebel; and were I as true to the interests of my king

as I should be, it would be my duty to make you a captive. Ah!" he

continued, bending towards the proud maiden, and speaking in a tone of

ambiguous appeal, "to make _you_ a captive--_my_ captive--that would

indeed be a pleasant duty for a soldier--the recompense of a whole

life."

"Ho!" exclaimed Marion, pretending not to understand the _innuendo_,

"since you talk of making me a captive, I must endeavour to escape from

you. Good evening, sir."

Flinging a triumphant smile towards the disappointed wooer, she glided

rapidly beyond his reach; and, nimbly tripping over the footbridge,

disappeared from his sight amid the shrubbery surrounding the mansion.

Volume Two, Chapter IV.

On parting from Marion Wade, Henry Holtspur should have been the

happiest of men. The loveliest woman in the _shire_--to his eyes, in

the _world_--had declared to him her love, and vowed eternal devotion.

Its full fruition could not have given him firmer assurance of the fact.

And yet he was not happy. On the contrary, it was with a heavy heart

that he rode away from the scene of that interview with his splendid

sweetheart. He knew that the interview _should not have occurred--that

Marion Wade ought not to be his sweetheart_!

After riding half a dozen lengths of his horse, he turned in his saddle,

to look back, in hopes that the sight of the loved form might

tranquillise his conscience.

Happier for him had he ridden on.

If unhappy before, he now saw that which made him miserable. Marion had

commenced ascending the slope. Her light-coloured garments rendered her

easily recognisable through the dimness of the twilight. Holtspur

watched her movements, admiring the queenly grace of her step--

distinguishable despite the darkness and distance.

He was fast recovering composure of mind--so late disturbed by some

unpleasant thought--and no doubt would have left the spot with

contentment, but for an incident which at that moment transpired under

his view.

Marion Wade had got half-way up the hill, and was advancing with rapid

step. Just then some one, going at a quicker pace, appeared in the

avenue behind her!

This second pedestrian must have passed out from among the trees: since

but the moment before the receding form of the lady was alone in the

avenue.

In a few seconds she was overtaken; and the two figures were now seen

side by side. In this way they moved on--their heads slightly inclined

towards each other, as if engaged in familiar conversation!

The dress of the individual who had thus sprung suddenly into sight was

also of a light colour, and might have been a woman's. But a red scarf

diagonally crossing the shoulders--a high peaked hat with plume of

ostrich feathers--and, more than all, the tallness of the figure, told

Henry Holtspur that it was a man who was walking with Marion Wade.

The same tokens declared he was not her brother: Walter was not near so

tall. It could not be her father: Sir Marmaduke was accustomed to dress

in black.

The rows of chestnuts that bordered the walk came to a termination near

the top of the hill. The figures had arrived there. Next moment they

moved out from under the shadow of the trees, and could be seen more

distinctly.

"'Tis neither her father, nor brother--'tis Scarthe!"

It was Holtspur who pronounced these words, and with an intonation that

betokened both surprise and chagrin.

"He has forced himself upon her! He came skulkingly out from the trees,

as if he had been lying in wait for her! I shouldn't wonder if 'twas

so. What can I do? Shall I follow and interrupt the interview?"

"There is danger here," he continued, after a pause. "Ah! villain!" he

exclaimed, standing erect in his stirrups, and stretching out his

clenched hand in the direction of the departing figures, "if you but

dare--one word of insult--one ribald look, and I am told of it--the

chastisement you've already had will be nothing to that in store for

you!"

"O God!" he exclaimed, as though some still more disagreeable thought

had succeeded to this paroxysm of spite, "a dread spectacle it is! The

wolf walking by the side of the lamb!

"He is bowing and bending to her! See! She turns towards him! She

appears complacent. O God! is it possible?"

Involuntarily his hand glided to the hilt of his sword--while the spurs

were pressed against the ribs of his horse.

The spirited animal sprang forward along the path--his head turned

towards the mansion; but, before he had made a second spring, he was

checked up again.

"I'm a fool!" muttered his rider, "and you, too, Hubert. At all events

I should have been thought so, had I ridden up yonder. What could I

have said to excuse myself? 'Tis not possible. If it were so, I should

feel no remorse. If it were so, there could be no ruin!

"Ha! they have reached the bridge. She is leaving him. She has hurried

inside the house. He remains without, apparently forsaken!

"O Marion, if I've wronged thee, 'tis because I love thee madly--madly!

Pardon!--pardon! I will watch thee no more!"

So saying, he wheeled his steed once more; and, without again looking

back, galloped on toward the gateway.

Even while opening the gate and closing it behind him, he turned not his

eyes towards the avenue; but, spurring into the public road, continued

the gallop which the gate had interrupted.

The head of his horse was homeward--so far only as the embouchure of the

forest path that opened towards Stone Dean. On reaching this point he

halted; and instead of entering upon the by-way, remained out in the

middle of the high-road--as if undecided as to his course.

He glanced towards the sky--a small patch of which was visible between

the trees, on both sides overarching the road.

The purple twilight was still lingering amid the spray of the forest;

and through the break opening eastward, he could perceive the horned

moon cutting sharply against the horizon.

"Scarce worth while to go home now," he muttered, drawing forth his

watch, and holding the dial up to his eyes, "How swiftly the last hour

has sped--ah! how sweetly! In another hour the men will be there. By

riding slowly I shall just be in time; and you, Hubert, can have your

supper in a stall at the Saracen's Head. Aha! a woman in the window!

'Tis Marion!"

The exclamatory phrases were called forth, as turning towards the park,

he caught sight of the mansion, visible through an opening between the

chestnuts.

Several windows were alight; but the eye of the cavalier dwelt only on

one--where under the arcade of the curtains, and against the luminous

background of a burning lamp, a female form was discernible. Only the

figure could be traced at that far distance; but this--tall, graceful

and majestic--proclaimed it to be the _silhouette_ of Marion Wade.

After a prolonged gaze--commencing with a smile, and terminating in a

sigh--Holtspur once more gave Hubert the rein, and moved silently

onward.

The ruined hut on Jarret's Heath was soon reached, conspicuous under the

silvery moonlight, as he had last viewed it: but no longer the

rendezvous of Gregory Garth and his fierce footpads. The dummies had

disappeared--even to the sticks that had served to support them--and

nought remained to indicate, that in that solitary place the traveller

had ever listened to the unpleasant summons:--"Stand and deliver!"

Holtspur could not pass the spot without smiling; and more: for, as the

ludicrous incident came more clearly before his mind, he drew up his

horse, and, leaning back in the saddle, gave utterance to a loud laugh.

Hubert, on hearing his master in such a merry mood, uttered a responsive

neigh. Perhaps Hubert was laughing too; but man and horse became silent

instantly, and from precaution.

More than one neigh had responded to that of Holtspur's steed; which the

cavalier knew were not echoes, but proceeded from horses approaching the

spot.

Suddenly checking his laughter, and giving his own steed a signal to be

still, he remained listening.

The neighing of the strange horses had been heard at a distance: as if

from some cavalcade coming up the road by Red Hill. In time, there were

other sounds to confirm the surmise: the clanking of sabres against iron

stirrups, and the hoof-strokes of the horses themselves.

"A troop!" muttered Holtspur. "Some of Scarthe's following, I suppose--

from an errand to Uxbridge? Come, Hubert! They must not meet us."

A touch of the spur, with a slight pull upon the bridle rein, guided the

well-trained steed behind the hovel; where, under the shadow of some

leafy boughs, he was once more brought to a stand.

Soon the hoof-strokes sounded more distinctly, as also the clank of the

scabbards, the tinkling of the spur-rowels, and curb-chains.

The voices of men were also mingled with these sounds; and both they and

their horses, soon after, emerged from the shadows of the thicket, and

entered the opening by the hut.

There were seven of them; the odd one in advance of the others--who were

riding two and two behind him.

A glance at their habiliments proclaimed them to be men of military

calling--an officer accompanied by an escort.

As they arrived in front of the hovel, the leader halted--commanding the

others to follow his example.

The movement was sudden--apparently improvised on the part of the

officer--and unexpected by his following. It was evidently the

appearance of the ruin that had caused it to be made.

"Sergeant!" said the leader of the little troop, addressing himself to

one of the men who rode nearest to him, "this must be the place where

the king's courier was stopped? There's the ruined hovel he spoke

about: and this I take to be Jarret's Heath. What say you?"

"It must be that place, major," replied the sergeant, "It can't be no

other. We've come full four mile from Uxbridge, and should now be close

to the park of Bulstrode. This be Jarret's Heath for sure."

"What a pity those rascals don't show themselves to-night! I'd give

something to carry them back with me bound hand and foot. It would be

some satisfaction to poor Cunliffe, whom they stripped so clean: leaving

him nothing but his stockings. Ha! ha! ha! I should like to have seen

that noted court dandy, as he must have appeared just here--under the

moonlight. Ha! ha! ha!"

"I fancy I heard the neighing of a horse in this direction?" continued

the leader of the little troop. "If the fellows who plundered the

courier hadn't been footpads, we might have hoped to encounter them--"

"You forget, major," rejoined the sergeant, "that Master Cunliffe's

horse was taken from him. May be the captain of the robbers is no

longer a footpad, but mounted?"

"No--no," rejoined the officer, "the neighing we heard, was only from

some farmer's hack running loose in the pastures. Forward! we've

already lost too much time. If this be Jarret's Heath, we must be near

the end of our errand. Forward!"

Saying this, the leader of the band, close followed by the treble file

of troopers, dashed forward along the road--their accoutrements, and the

hooves of their horses, making a noise that hindered them from hearing

the scornful, half involuntary laugh sent after them from the cavalier

concealed under the shadow of the hut.

"Another king's courier for Scarthe!" muttered Holtspur, as he headed

his horse once more to the road. "No doubt, the duplicate of that

precious despatch! Ha! ha! His Majesty seems determined, that this

time it shall reach its destination. An escort of six troopers!

Notwithstanding all that, and the bravado of their leader, if I had only

coughed loud enough for them to hear me, I believe they'd have,

scampered off a little faster than they are now going. These conceited

satellites of royalty--`_cavaliers_,' as they affectedly call

themselves--are the veriest poltroons: brave only in words. Oh! that

the hour were come, when Englishmen may be prevailed upon to demand

their lights at the point of the sword--_the only mode by which they

will ever obtain them_! Then may I hope to see such swaggerers

scattered like chaff, and fleeing before the soldiers of Liberty! God

grant the time may be near! Hubert, let us on, and hasten it!"

Hubert, ever willing, obeyed the slight signal vouchsafed to him; and,

spreading his limbs to the road, rapidly bore his master to the summit

of Red Hill; then down its sloping declivity; and on through the

fertile, far-stretching meadows of the Colne.

Volume Two, Chapter V.

The Saracen's Head stood an exact half-mile from the Colne river and the

end of Uxbridge town. To reach it from the latter it was necessary to

cross over the quaint old bridge--whence the place derives its name.

It was a road-side inn, old as the bridge itself--perhaps ancient as the

Crusades, from which its cognomen had come. It was the inn at which

Scarthe and his cuirassiers had made their night halt, when proceeding

to Bulstrode Park; the same afterwards known--as it is to the present

day--by the appellation of _Queen's Head_. The altered lettering on its

sign-board was not the act of the honest Saxon Boniface, who held it in

the time of the first Charles; but of a plush-clad proprietor, who

succeeded him during the servile days of the Restoration.

While in Master Jarvis's occupancy it might have borne a title equally

as appropriate, and perhaps more significant than either--the _King's

Head_: since under its roof, this phrase was frequently whispered--

sometimes loudly pronounced--with a peculiar significance--one very

different from the idea usually attached to it. It may be, that words

spoken, and thoughts exchanged, within the walls of the old hostelry led

to a king's losing his head; or, at all events, precipitated that just

and proper event.

On the same night that Henry Holtspur was riding down Red Hill--with the

Saracen's Head as the declared goal of his journey--and about the same

hour--a number of pedestrians, not all going together, but in scattered

groups of two, three, and four, might have been seen crossing the Colne

river at Uxbridge; who, after clearing the causeway of the bridge,

continued on up the road, in the direction of the inn.

On reaching it--one group after the other--they were seen to enter;

after giving a preliminary challenge or greeting to its host, who

received them by the door as they came up.

This reception continued; until at least fifty men had glided inside the

ivy-grown portico of the Saracen's Head.

They were all men--nothing in woman's shape, or apparel, appearing

amongst them.

They were men in the humbler walks of life, though not the very

humblest. Their dresses betokened them to be artisans; and of different

callings,--as proclaimed by the various costumes: for in those days the

costume told the trade.

Nor did they appear to be habited for any particular occasion. The

butcher was in his tall leathern boots, redolent of suet; the miller, in

white cap, hoary with the "stoor" of the mill; the blacksmith, with wide

hose hidden under an apron of singed sheepskin; and the tailor's _jour_,

with his bowed legs encased in a covering of cotton velveteen.

In some of the groups there were individuals of a more pretentious

appearance: men who wore beaver hats and doublets of superior quality,

with sound russet boots, white linen cuffs, and collars. Still was

there about their garments a certain commonness of cut, that proclaimed

the wearers to be of the class of small shopkeepers--in modern days

miscalled _tradesmen_.

On any evening--especially if the weather chanced to be fine--a few such

individuals might have been seen seeking the hospitality of the

Saracen's Head: for its tap was one of the most popular, and attracted

customers even from Uxbridge. On the night in question, however, the

great number of guests--as well as the lateness of the hour at which

they were seeking the noted rendezvous--told of some purpose more

important than merely to imbibe Master Jarvis's celebrated brewage.

There was an air of business about the men, as they marched along the

road; and in their muttered conversations could be distinguished a tone

of earnestness, that betokened some serious subject. They did not

loiter, like men strolling out for an evening's pastime; but walked

briskly forward, as bent upon an errand, or keeping some preconcerted

appointment.

As already stated, the landlord of the inn received the different

groups. There was something mysterious in this wordless welcome--so

unusual at the Saracen's Head; the more so, as on the broad open

countenance of its owner there was no trace of churlishness. Equally

mysterious might have appeared a circumstance observed as the guests

came up to the door:--each raising his right hand within a few inches of

Master Jarvis's nose, with the thumb bent inward; holding the hand a

second or two, in that position, and then withdrawing it!

The mystery could only be explained, by presuming that this was a

signal; and the slight assenting nod, with which it was answered, was

simply a permission to enter.

It might have been observed, moreover: that the guests so signalling,

instead of going towards the common or tap-room of the inn, proceeded

through a long corridor--leading to the interior of the establishment--

where a large and much better appointed apartment had been arranged to

receive them.

Others who entered the house, without giving the _thumb signal_, greeted

the landlord in a different way, and were shown towards the tap-room, or

walked on, as was their wont, without invitation.

For more than an hour these groups of men continued to arrive up the

road from Uxbridge. At the same time other men--though not in such

numbers--might have been seen coming down the same road from the

direction of Red Hill, and Denham; and also along bye-paths--from the

villages of Harefield, and Iver.

Some difference might have been noticed between these and the men who

came from Uxbridge--the former by their style of dress and general

appearance being evidently denizens of the country--graziers or

farmers--and not a few of them having the substantial look of

independence that bespoke the _freeholder_.

All, however, were evidently moving towards the inn with a like motive--

as each of them upon entering was seen to offer to its owner that silent

masonic salute, which admitted them into the secret interior of the

establishment.

Of those who came in from the country, not a few were on horseback, as

if they had ridden from a distance; and the ample stables were soon

almost as well filled--and perhaps more profitably--than when Scarthe

and his cuirassiers had honoured the inn with their patronage.

Among the last who rode up was a horseman of distinguished mien; whose

dress and equipments--but still more the steed he bestrode, and the

style of his equitation--proclaimed him to be different from all the

others. Even under the deceptive light of the moon there was no

mistaking him for a common man. His free, graceful bearing, declared

the cavalier.

To the landlord, and a few others just entering the inn, he was

individually known. These, as he rode forward to the door, could be

heard whispering to one another that phrase that had lately become of

almost cabalistic import--_the black horseman_!

He dismounted; and without hesitancy entered along with the rest--simply

nodding to them as he passed.

It was not necessary for _him_ to hold up his thumb before the eyes of

the stalwart door-keeper. This precaution, against the admission of

traitorous spies, was not required in the case of Henry Holtspur. The

owner of the hostelry knew the master of the ceremonies about to be

performed under its roof; and the latter, passing him with a significant

smile, kept on unattended along the dimly-lit corridor--as one who had

oft trodden it before.

With like familiarity, he opened the door of the inner apartment, now

filled with men--whose manifold voices mingling in earnest conversation

could be heard even to the entrance outside.

Suddenly the sounds became hushed; but only for an instant. Then arose

something more than a murmur of applause--amidst which could be heard,

in many an enthusiastic repetition, the name of him who had entered, and

the sobriquet by which to most of them he was better known.

Though the massive door of oak closing again hindered the voices from

being any longer heard outside, the conversation was not discontinued.

Only was it conducted into its true channel--the master mind of that

enthusiastic assemblage guiding it in its course.

It might have been termed treasonable--if such phrase can be applied to

speech condemning the conduct of the uxorious tyrant. Freely were the

acts of the king commented upon, and his late edicts discussed; until

some of the speakers, becoming inspired--partly by the intoxicating tap

of the Saracen's Head, which, at the cost of the cavalier, circulated

without stint; and partly from the smart of some recent wrong--shook

their clenched fists in the air, to render more emphatic their vows of

vengeance.

On that night, in the conclave held in the hostelry of the Saracen's

Head, was foreshadowed a spectacle--not long after to be realised and

even witnessed by some there present--_a king standing upon a scaffold_!

"Thank the Lord!" muttered Holtspur to himself, as he sprang into his

saddle, and headed Hubert for the hills. "Thank the Lord for all his

mercies!" added he, in the phraseology of some of his Puritan

co-conspirators late ringing in his ears. "There can be no mistaking

the temper of these fellows. After ten years of tyrannical usurpation

they're aroused at last. The time is come, not only for the

dethronement of a tyrant, but for establishing in dear old England the

only form of government that--is not a mockery of common sense--the only

one upon which Liberty may rely--the Republic!"

After he had given utterance to this speech, a smile--half of regretful

bitterness, half of contempt--not only for his fellow countrymen, but

his fellow-men--cynically shadowed his countenance: for the sentiment so

expressed, naturally led him to reflect: how few there were in his own

country who shared it with him!

Holtspur lived in a time when the word _republic_ was scarcely ever

heard; or, when heard, only ill-understood, and scoffed at as a dream of

the enthusiast. Not that he had himself any doubt as to its true

signification. Perfectly did he comprehend its import--awful--grand--

including the whole theory of human happiness, and man's misery. Even

in those times of tyrannical persecution--when Laud lorded it over the

souls, and Strafford over the bodies of men--or even, still later, when,

with impunity, the Waldense Protestant could be impaled upon the spear

of the Inquisition--there were men and minds who could not be coerced to

deny the divine origin of democracy, and believe in the pseudo "divine

right" of kings.

Not in those times alone, but in all ages: for _time_ cannot alter

_truth_. A circle was a circle, before God made man to trace its

curvature; and when God made men He intended them to govern themselves

uncontrolled by tyrants.

That they have not done so does not prove an error in the intention.

The circumference of the circle, imperfect by some interruption, does

not argue the non-existence of the curve. No more in early ages--no

more in mediaeval times--no more _now_--does the non-existence of the

pure republic prove that it is not the proper form. It _is_ the proper

form,--the only one recognised by the laws of right and truth. He who

does not acknowledge this, must be the owner either of a _bad head_ or a

_bad heart_. On either horn of the dilemma does he hang, who denies the

_republic_!

Is there such a man, or thing in human shape? I cannot think there is.

Thinking so, I could not avoid imitating my hero, in that scornful

contempt, that expressed itself on his countenance, while reflecting how

few there were who participated in his sentiments.

Ah! had he lived in the present time he would have witnessed strange

proofs of their truth. He would have recognised--as I do--in what

others call the failure of republican institutions, their proudest

triumph. He would have seen thirty millions of men, comparatively with

the rest of their race, transformed into giants, by the influence of

less than a century of republican training! He would have seen them

divided into two parties--warring against each other like Titans of the

olden time; and seeing this, he could have come to no other conclusion,

than that, united, these thirty millions of republican people would have

been a match for the whole monarchical world!

Henry Holtspur did not need to dive into futurity for facts, to

substantiate his belief in a republican form of government. His

conviction came from the past--from the sources of eternal truth. The

sarcasm expressed upon his features was caused by the contempt which a

noble soul must naturally feel, for those things in human shape who

believe, or pretend it, in the "divine right" of kings.

The cloud lingered, until he had turned into the forest road, and came

in sight of the old beech--that tree whose umbrageous branches

overshadowed--to him, the sweetest and most sacred spot upon Earth.

Once again he drew up under its canopy--once again gazed upon the white

gauntlet, till love absorbed his every thought--even to the exclusion of

that political passion--_the republic_.

Volume Two, Chapter VI.

The domicile of Dick Dancey could scarce with correctness be called a

house. Even cottage would be too dignified a name for the wooden hovel,

in which the woodman and his family habitually found shelter from rain

and wind.

To the latter the house itself was but little exposed: for, when a

tempest raged, before striking on the frail structure, its fury was

expended upon the giant beeches of Wapsey's Wood, that stretched their

protecting arms over and around it.

It was a cabin of rough logs, clayed between the chinks, and roofed with

a thatch of rushes--such, excepting the roof, as might be seen at the

present day in the backwoods of America.

A narrow doorway, barely wide enough to admit the big body of the

woodman himself; two or three small windows, with diminutive panes of

glass set in lead; an enclosure of limited dimensions, girt with a

flimsy paling--designed for a garden, but grown into a weed bed; a stack

of fire faggots; a shed that gave occasional shelter to a scraggy cob; a

clay-bedaubed kennel containing a large fierce-looking mongrel--the

cross between sheep-dog and deer-hound; these were the principal

features in the external aspect of Dick Dancey's domicile.

The interior view was equally rude, and equally simple. A kitchen with

a clay floor, and clay-plastered walls--against which stood upon

shelves, or hung upon pegs, a sparse collection of utensils; some dingy

old prints on common paper, and in cheap frames; a string of onions;

another of rabbit skins; and close by the freshly-flayed hide of a

fallow deer. Traps, gins, nets, and other implements for taking forest

game and fish, were visible in a corner by themselves; and in another

corner lay a large wooden axe, the implement of the owner's proper

calling. On the floor stood a beechwood table, with half-a-dozen

rush-bottomed chairs, and some culinary utensils of red earthenware;

while in the cavity, representing a fire-place, two large stones did

duty for _andirons_.

The kitchen was everything--the two rooms, the only others in the

house--were both bedchambers; and both of very limited divisions. Each

contained only a single bed; but one of the rooms was furnished a little

better than its fellow:--that is, the bed had sheets and a coverlet;

while the other was only a shakedown of straw rushes, with some rags of

coarse grogram, and a couple of deer-skins for bed-clothes.

In the first chamber there was a chair or two, and a small table placed

against the wait. Over this glistened a piece of broken mirror,

attached to the plastered surface, by a couple of rusty nails bent

against the edges of the glass. A cotton pincushion; two or three

common side-combs for holding up the hair; a small brush of bristles; a

pair of white linen cuffs, that showed signs of having been more than

once worn since washing; with some minor articles of female apparel, all

lying upon the table, told the occupant of the chamber to be a woman.

It was the sleeping-room of Bet Dancey--the daughter of the

deer-stalker, and the only member of his family. The other apartment

was the dormitory of Dick himself.

The bed-rooms, however, were of inferior importance: since both Dick and

his daughter lived habitually in the kitchen. They were both to be

found there on the fourth day after the _fete_, at which the beautiful

Betsey had cut such a conspicuous figure.

Dick was seated at the table, engaged in the agreeable occupation of

eating. A mug of beer, the fragments of a loaf of bread, and some ribs

of roast venison, were the viands before him.

It was his breakfast; though the sun shining down through the tops of

the beeches betokened it nearer dinner-time; and Bet had breakfasted

some hours earlier. But Dick had returned home late the night before--

fatigued after a long journey--and in consequence had snored upon his

shakedown of straw, until the bells of Bulstrode were tolling twelve.

From the conversation carried on between him and his daughter, it was

evident that, up to that hour, not many words had passed between them

since his coming home.

"Ha' theer be'd any un here, gurl?"

"Yes. One of the soldiers from the Park has been here--twice."

"One o' the sogers!" muttered Dick in a tone that betrayed

unpleasantness. "Dang it, that's queery! Did he tell thee his errand?"

"Only that he wanted to see _you_."

"Wanted to see me! Art sure o' that, gurl?"

"He said so, father."

"Thour't sure he didn't come to see _thee_?"

The woodman, as he asked the question, gazed scrutinisingly upon the

countenance of his daughter.

"Oh, no, father!" replied Betsey without flinching from his gaze. "What

could he want with me? He said he had a message for yourself; and that

his captain wished to speak with you on some business."

"Business wi' his captain! Hech! Did he say nothin' o' what it be'ed

about?"

"No."

"Nor made no inquiries o' any kind?"

"He only asked me, if I knew Mister Henry Holtspur, and where he lived."

"What didst thee tell him?"

"I said that _you_ knew him; and that he lived at the old house at Stone

Dean."

The beautiful Betsey did not think it necessary to inform her father,

that the cuirassier had said a good deal more: since it was in the shape

of gallant speeches, and related only to herself.

"Makin' inquiries 'bout _him_!" muttered Dancey to himself. "I shudn't

wonder if theer be somethin' afoot. Muster Holtspur must be told o't,

an' at once. I'll go over theer soon's I've ate my breakfast. Wull's

been here too," he continued, once more addressing himself to his

daughter, though not interrogatively. "I see'd him last night, when I

got to Muster Holtspur's. He told me he'd been."

"Yes--_he_ has been twice. The last time he came was when the other was

here. They had some angry words."

"Angry words, eh! What beed they about, gurl?"

"I am sure I can't tell, father. You know Will always gets out of

temper, when any one speaks to me. Indeed, I can't bear it; and won't

any longer. He taunted me that day; and said a many things he'd no

right to."

"I tell thee, gurl, Wull Walford have a right to talk to thee as he

pleases. He is thy friend, gurl; an' means it only for thy good. Thou

be-est too short wi' the lad; and say'st things--for I've heard thee

myself--that would aggravate the best friend thee hast i' the world.

Thou wilt do well to change thy tone; or Wull Walford may get tired o'

thy tricks, an' go a speerin' som'ere else for a wife."

"I wish he would!" was the reply that stood ready on the tip of Bet's

tongue; but which from a wholesome dread of the paternal temper--more

than once terribly exhibited on this subject--was left unspoken.

"I tell thee, gurl, I've seed Wull Walford last night. I've talked wi'

him a bit; an' I reckon as how he'll ha' somethin' seerus to say to thee

'fore long."

The dark cloud, that passed over the countenance of the girl, told that

she comprehended the nature of the "something" thus conjecturally

foreshadowed.

"Now, Bet," added the woodman, having laid bare the roasted rib, and

emptied the beer-mug, "bring me my old hat, an' the long hazel staff. I

be a gooin' over to the Dean; an' as that poor beest be well-nigh done

up, I maun walk. Maybe Muster Holtspur moat coom here, while I be gone

theer. I know he wants to see me early, an' I ha' overslept myself. He

sayed he might coom. If he do, tell 'im I'll be back in a giff--if I

doant find 'im over theer, or meet 'im on the way."

And with this injunction, the gigantic deer-stealer squeezed himself

through the narrow doorway of his hovel; and, turning in the direction

of Stone Dean, strode off under the shadowy boughs of the Wapsey's Wood

beeches.

He was scarce out of sight when Bet, stepping back from the door, glided

into her little chamber; and, seizing the brush of bristles, began

drawing it through the long tresses of her hair.

In that piece of broken glass--with a disc not bigger than a

dinner-plate--was reflected a face with which the most critical

connoisseur of female beauty could scarce have found fault.

The features were of the true gipsy type--the aquiline nose--the wild,

hawk-like eye--the skin of golden brown--and thick crow-black hair

overshadowing all. There was a form, too, beneath, which, though

muscular almost as a man's, and with limbs large and vigorous, was,

nevertheless, of tempting _tournure_. It was no wonder that Marion Wade

had deemed it worthy the admiration of Henry Holtspur--no wonder that

Henry Holtspur had deemed Will Walford unworthy of possessing it.

"_He_ coming here! And to find me in this drabby dress, with my hair

hanging like the tail of father's old horse! I should sink through the

floor for very shame!

"I trust I shall be in time to titivate myself. Bother my hair!--it's a

yard too long, and a mile too thick. It takes as much trouble to plait

as would weave a hank of homespun.

"It'll do now. Stick where I stick you, ye ugly comb! Will's gift.

Little do I prize it, troth!

"Now for my Sunday gown--my cuffs and ruffs. They're not quite so grand

as those of Mistress Marion Wade; but I flatter myself they're not

amiss. If I were only allowed to wear gloves--pretty gauntlets, like

those I've seen on her hands, small and white as the drifted snow! Ah!

there, I'm far behind her: my poor hands are red and big; they've had to

work and weave; while hers, I dare say, never touched a distaff. Oh!

that I could wear gloves to cover these ugly fingers of mine. But no--I

daren't. The village girls would laugh at me, and call me a --. I

won't say the word. Never mind for the gloves. Should he come, I'll

keep my hands under my apron, so that he shan't see a finger."

Thus soliloquised Bet Dancey in front of her bit of broken

looking-glass.

It was not Will Walford who had summoned up her ludicrous soliloquy; nor

yet the cuirassier--he who had called twice. For neither of these was

the dark-haired damsel arraying herself in her flaunting finery. The

lure was being set for higher game--for Henry Holtspur.

"I hope father mayn't meet him on the way. He'll be sure to turn him

back if he do: for father likes better to go to Stone Dean than for him

to come here. Luckily there's two paths; and father always takes the

short cut--by which _he_ never comes.

"Ha! the dog barks! 'Tis some one! Mercy on me! If't be him I'm not

half ready to receive him. Stay in, you nasty comb! It's too short in

the teeth. Will's no judge of combs, or he'd a bought me a better.

After all," concluded she, bending down before the bit of glass, and

taking a final survey of her truly beautiful face, "I think I'll do.

Perhaps I'm not so pretty as Mistress Marion Wade; but I'm sure I'm as

good-looking as Mistress Dorothy Dayrell. The dog again! It must be

somebody, I hope 'tis--"

Leaving the name unpronounced, the girl glided back into the kitchen;

and, crossing it with quick step, stood once more within the doorway.

As yet there was no one in sight. The dog was barking at something that

had roused him either by scent or sound. But the girl knew that the

animal rarely erred in this wise; and that something--either man or

beast--must be approaching the hut.

She was not kept long in suspense, as to who was the coming visitor;

though the hope, to which she had given thought, had well-nigh departed

before that visitor came within view. The dog was making his

demonstration _towards the south_. The path to Stone Dean led

_northward_ from the cottage. Henry Holtspur, if coming from home,

should appear in the latter direction.

The girl knew of another visitor who might be expected by the southern

path, and at any hour. In that direction dwelt Will Walford. It might

be he?

A shadow of disappointment swept over her face, accompanying this

conjecture. It seemed to say, how little welcome just then would Will

Walford be.

Such must have been its signification: for at sight of this individual--

the moment after advancing along the path--the shadow on her countenance

sensibly deepened.

"How very provoking!" muttered she. "At such a time too--just as I had

hopes of seeing _him_. If _he_ should come too--even though his errand

be to father--I shouldn't wonder if Will was to make some trouble. He's

been jealous ever since he saw me give Master Holtspur the flowers--

worse about him than any one. Will's right there; though the other's

not to blame--no, no--only myself. I wish he were a little in fault.

Then I shouldn't mind Will's jealousy; nor he, I'm sure. Oh! if he

loved me, I shouldn't care for aught, or anybody, in the wide world!"

Having made this self-confession, she stepped back into the doorway;

and, standing upon the stoup, awaited the unwelcome visitor with an air

of defiant indifference.

"Mornin', Bet!" saluted her suitor in a curt, sulky fashion, to which

"Bet" made an appropriate response. "Thou be-est stannin' in the door

as if thou wast lookin' for some'un? I doan't suppose it are for me

anyhow."

"No, indeed," answered the girl, taking but slight pains to conceal her

chagrin. "I neither expected you, nor do I thank you for coming. I

told you so, when you were here last; and now I tell you again."

"Wal, you consated thing!" retorted the lout, with a pretence at being

indifferent; "how do thee know I be come to see thee? I may have

business wi' Mast' Dancey, mayent I?"

"If you have, he's not at home."

"Where be he gone?"

"Over to Stone Dean. He's only left here a minute ago. He went by the

short cut across the woods. If you keep on, you'll easily overtake

him."

"Bah!" ejaculated the woodman, "I beant in such a hurry. My bizness wi'

your father 'll keep till he coom back; but I'se also got somethin' to

say to thyself as woan't keep much longer. Thee be done up wonderful

fine this mornin'! Be theer another _fete_ to come off? 'Tan't day o'

a fair, be it?"

"My doing up, as you call it, has nothing to do with either _fete_, or

fair. I'm dressed no different from other days, I'm sure. I've only

put on my new skirt and boddice--because--because--."

Notwithstanding her readiness, Mistress Betsey appeared a little

perplexed to find an excuse for being habited in her holiday attire.

"Because," interrupted the woodman, noticing her confusion, "because

thee wast lookin' out for some 'un. That's the because. Bet Dancey!"

continued he, his increased jealousy stimulating him to bolder speech;

"doant try to deceive me. I arn't such a blind fool as you think I be.

You've put on your finery to receive some 'un as you ha' been expectin'.

That swaggerin' soger, I 'spose? May be the fine gentleman o' Stone

Dean hisself; or I wouldna' wonder if't mout be that ere Indyen dummy o'

his. You beeant partickler, Bet Dancey; not you. All's fish as cooms

to thy net--all's one."

"Will Walford!" cried the girl, turning red under his taunts, "I shall

not listen to such talk--either from you or any one. If you've nothing

else to say to me, you may pass on."

"But I hev' somethin' else to say to thee; and I mean to say't now,

Bet."

"Say it, then, and have done with it," rejoined the girl, as if desirous

of hurrying the interview to an end. "What be it?"

"It be this, then," replied the woodman, moving a little nearer to her,

and speaking in a more serious tone than he had yet assumed; "Bet

Dancey, I needn't be tellin' thee how I be in love wi' thee. Thou

know'st it well enoo."

"You've told it me a hundred times. I don't want to hear it again."

"But thou shalt. An' this time, I tell thee, will be the last."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"What I be goin' to say," continued the suitor, without heeding her

repeated interruptions, "be this, Bet Dancey, I see'd thy father last

night; an' he an' me talked it over atween us. He's gi'ed me his full

consent."

"To what, pray?"

"Why to ha'e thee for my wife."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the girl, with a scornful laugh. "Ha! ha! ha!

That's what you had to tell me, is it? Now, Will Walford, hear me in

return. You've told me a hundred times that you loved me, and you've

now promised that it will be the last time. I've said to you a hundred

times it was no use; and I promise you this will be _my_ last saying it.

Once for all then, I declare to you, that I _shall never be your wife--

never I never_!"

The last words were pronounced with a stern emphasis, calculated to

carry conviction; and the rustic suitor shrank under them, as if they

had annihilated the last remnant of his hopes.

Only for an instant did he preserve his cowering attitude. His was not

a nature to be stung without turning; and the recoil soon came.

"Then dang it!" cried he, raising his long axe, and winding it around

his head in a threatening manner, "If thee doant be my wife, Bet Dancey,

thou shall never be the wife o' any other. I swear to thee, I'll kill

the man thee marriest; an' thyself along wi' him, if I ever live to see

the day that makes two o' ye one!"

"Away, wretch!" cried the girl, half terrified, half indignant. "I

don't want to listen to your threats. Away, away!"

And, saying this, she retreated inside the hut--as she did so, slamming

the door in his face.

"Dang thee, thou deceitful slut!" apostrophised the discarded suitor;

"I'll keep my threet, if I ha' to swing for it!"

As he gave utterance to this fell menace, he threw the axe over his

shoulder; sprang across the broken palings; and strode off among the

trees--once more muttering as he went: "I'll keep my threet, if I ha' to

swing for it!"

For some minutes the door of the cottage remained closed. It was also

barred inside: for the girl had been a good deal frightened, and feared

the fellow's return. The wild look that had gleamed from under his

white eyebrows would have caused fear within the bosom of any woman; and

it had even terrified the heart of Bet Dancey.

On barring the door, she glided up to one of the windows and watched.

She saw him take his departure from the place.

"He is gone, and I am glad of it for _two_ reasons," soliloquised she.

"What a wicked wretch! I always thought so. And yet my father wants me

to marry that man! Never--never! I shall tell father what he has said.

Maybe that may change him.

"Heigho! I fear _he_ is not coming to-day! and when shall I see him

again? There's to be another fete at Michaelmas; but that's a long

time; and its such a chance meeting him on the road--where one mayn't

speak to him, perhaps. Oh! if I could think of some errand to Stone

Dean! I wish father would send me oftener. Ah me! what's the use?

Muster Holtspur's too grand to think of a poor peasant girl. _Marry_ me

he could not, perhaps he _would_ not.--I don't want that, if he'd only

_love_ me!"

The lurcher, that had kept silent during the stormy interview between

Bet and her rustic admirer, now broke out in a fresh _bravura_ of

baying.

"Is it Will again?" cried the girl, gliding back to the window and

looking out. "No, it can't be him: the dog looks the other way. It's

either father coming back, or--'Tis he! 'tis he!

"What am I to do? I must open the door. If he sees it shut he may not

think of coming in; I wish him to come in!"

As she said this, she glided up to the doorway, and pushing back the

bar, gently drew open the door.

She did not show herself in the entrance. A quick instinct hindered

her. Were she to do so, the visitor might simply make an inquiry; and,

being answered that her father was not at home, might turn back or pass

on. This would not suit her purpose: _since she wished him to come in_.

He was afoot. That augured well. She watched him through the window as

he drew near. She watched him with a throbbing bosom.

Volume Two, Chapter VII.

Richard Scarthe, Captain of the King's Cuirassiers, and confidant of the

Queen, was seated in his apartment in the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade.

A small table stood within reach of his hand, on which was a decanter

containing wine, and a silver goblet. He had thrice filled the latter

and thrice drained its contents, to the last drop. But the intoxicating

fluid, even thus liberally imbibed, had failed to give solace to the

chagrin with which his spirit was affected.

It was now the third day of his residence under the roof of Sir

Marmaduke Wade; and he had made scarce any progress in the programme he

had sketched out--of ingratiating himself with the knight and his

family.

On the part of these a rigorous etiquette continued to be kept up; and

it appeared probable that, beyond what necessity demanded of them, only

the slightest intercourse might ever occur between them and their

uninvited guests.

Of these circumstances, however, the soldier made not much account. He

might expect in time to smooth over the unpleasant occurrences that had

inaugurated his introduction. He knew himself to have a tongue that

could wheedle with the devil; and with this he hoped, at no distant day,

to remove the hostile impression, and establish an intimacy--if not

altogether friendly--that would at least give him the opportunities he

desired. Indeed, he even flattered himself that he had already made

some progress in this direction; and it was not that was causing the

extreme acerbity of spirit, he now strove to soothe with copious

libations from the wine cup.

His chagrin sprang from a different cause. What at first was only a

suspicion, had now become almost a certainty: that he was forestalled in

the affections of a beautiful woman, whom he already loved with an

indescribable ardour; forestalled, and by the very man who, in her eyes,

had so horribly humiliated him!

Notwithstanding this belief he had not abandoned hope. Richard Scarthe

was a courtier, of too much confidence in his own prowess, to yield

easily to despair. He had succeeded oft before in the estrangement of

hearts, already prepossessed; and why should he not again?

As the wine mounted to his brain, his mind began to contend against the

conviction with which his late act of espionage had so unhappily

supplied him. The evidence of the glove was, after all, inconclusive.

The one he had picked up was no doubt the glove of Marion Wade; but what

reason was there for believing that it was its fellow he had seen in the

hat of Henry Holtspur? A glove of white doeskin leather was a fashion

of the time--so, too, the gold and lace ornaments upon the gauntlet.

The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was not the only lady who wore white

gloves. Why should it be hers?

Every reason had he to arrive at the contrary conclusion. He had

ascertained that his antagonist was a stranger to the family; introduced

to Marion scarce an hour before the combat: and not speaking to her

afterwards.

Thus in his own mind would Scarthe have disposed of the circumstance of

the two gloves, deeming it an accidental coincidence.

But then there was the interview in the park--that interview of which he

had been a witness. Could _it_ have been accidental? Or for some other

purpose than that of a love meeting?

There was but little probability in these conjectures. For all that the

jealous Scarthe, under the influence of the wine, earnestly indulged in

them, until he began to feel a sort of hope of their being true. It was

but for a moment--short and evanescent--and again did his mind relapse

into a doubting condition.

Henry Holtspur had, by this time, become the _bete noire_ of his

existence--against whom his bitterest hostility was henceforth to be

directed. He had already taken some steps to inform himself of the

position and character of his rival; but in this he had met with only

slight success. A mystery surrounded the movements of the _black

horseman_; and all that Scarthe could learn in relation to him was: that

he was a gentleman of independent means, who had lately taken up his

residence in the neighbourhood--his domicile being an old mansion known

by the quaint appellation of "Stone Dean."

Scarthe ascertained, also, that Holtspur was a stranger to most, if not

all, the distinguished families of the neighbourhood; though it was

believed that he associated with others at a greater distance; and that

he had hitherto stood aloof from those near him, not from any want of

the opportunity of being introduced, but rather from the absence, on his

part, of the inclination.

It was rumoured that he had spent a portion of his life in the colonies

of America; and the fact that he was occasionally seen accompanied by a

young Indian, in the capacity of body-servant, gave confirmation to the

rumour.

Scarthe had learnt nothing more in relation to his conqueror--excepting

that two men of the neighbourhood were occasionally employed by him in

matters of service. These were a woodman of the name of Dancey, and

another of the like ilk--a younger man, called Walford.

The cuirassier captain had not taken the trouble to collect this

information without some glimmering of a design; though, as yet, he saw

not very clearly in what way he could benefit by the knowledge. In

fact, Captain Scarthe had never in his life felt more powerless, to rid

himself of a rival who had so rudely crossed his path.

To challenge his late antagonist, and fight him again, was not to be

thought of--after such a termination to the first combat. The life of

Scarthe had been conceded to him; and the laws of honour would have

precluded him from seeking a second affair--had he been so inclined.

But the touch of the cavalier's steel had taught him its sharp quality;

and he had not the slightest inclination to tempt it again. Though

yearning fiercely for vengeance, he had no thought of seeking it in that

way; and in what fashion he was to find it, he had as yet conceived no

distinct idea.

The _seance_ with his own thoughts had been protracted for more than an

hour; and the cloud that still sate upon his brooding brow betokened

that it had been unsuccessful. The wine, quaffed spasmodically, had

been quaffed in vain. His vengeance, even so stimulated, had failed to

suggest a scheme for its satisfaction.

At length an idea seemed to occur to him, that called for the presence

of some second personage. He rose to his feet; and, striding to the

door, passed rapidly out of the room.

In a few seconds he re-entered, followed by one of his troopers--a young

fellow, whose countenance might have appeared pleasing enough, but for

an expression of softness, almost silliness, that marked it.

"Well, Withers?" inquired the officer, as soon as the two had got fairly

within the room, "have you seen the two woodmen?"

"Only one, captain. The old one, Dancey, han't come home yet; but his

daughter said she was expectin' him the night."

"And the other?"

"Wull Walford. Yes, captain, I seen him; and delivered your message."

"Well; he's coming to see me, is he not?"

"I'm afeard not, captain."

"Why not?"

"He's a queery sort, is Wull Walford. I knew him 'fore I left the

county to list in the troops. He's a ill-tempered cur; that's what _he_

is."

"But why should he show temper with me? He don't know, but that I may

intend kindness to him?"

"After what's happened he's afeard to see you, captain. That's why I

think he won't come."

"After what's happened! And what _has_ happened? You mystify me, my

man!"

"I mean, captain, the little affair as occurred between you and him--in

the old camp over there."

"Between me, and him? Who are you talking of, Withers? Not the `black

horseman,' as the rustics call this--"

"No, captain; Wull Walford, I mean."

"And pray what has occurred between Master _Wull_ Walford and myself? I

remember no individual of the name."

"You remember Robin Hood, captain--he as had the audacity to strike at

your honour with his bow?"

"O-o-h! that's the difficulty, is it. So-so--" continued Scarthe, in a

half-soliloquy. "Wull Walford of Wapsey's Wood, and the bold outlaw of

Sherwood Forest, are identical individuals, are they? No wonder the

fellow has some scruples about seeing me again. Ha! ha! I dare say I

shall be able to overcome them. A crown or two will no doubt suffice to

satisfy Master Walford, for what he may have considered a slight to his

sweetheart; and, as to the blow over my own crown, I can the more easily

pardon that, since I believe he broke the stock of his weapon in dealing

it. So, Robin Hood it is. Well! if I'm not mistaken, he and I may be

fast friends yet. At all events, from what I observed on that occasion,

he is not likely to be on the friendliest terms with my enemy.

Withers!"

"Captain!" said the trooper, making a fresh salute to his officer, as if

in the expectation of receiving some order.

"I shall want you to guide me to the domicile of this Walford. I

suppose he has a house somewhere; or does he, like his prototype, roam

anywhere and everywhere, and sleep under the shadow of the greenwood

tree?"

"He lives in a poor sort o' cottage, captain--not very far from that of

Dick Dancey."

"Then we may visit both at once; and, as the older woodman is expected

to return home to-night, I shall not go until to-morrow. How far is it

to this Wapsey's Wood?"

"Scant two miles, captain. It's up the road in the direction of

Beaconsfield."

"Enough. I shall go on horseback. After morning parade, see that you

have the grey horse saddled, and your own as well. Now, be off to your

quarters, and say nothing to any of your comrades what duty you are

going on--nor to any of your country acquaintances neither--else you may

get yourself in trouble. Go!"

The trooper, making a salute, expressive of assent to the caution thus

delivered, betook himself from the presence of his commanding officer.

"He's but a silly fellow, this Withers," muttered the latter, as the

soldier had gone out of hearing. "Not the man for my purpose. His

knowledge of the neighbourhood--the only one of my vagabonds who has

ever been in it before--makes it a necessity to employ him in this

matter. Perhaps in Wull Walford I may find a more intelligent

_aide-de-camp. Nous verrons_!"

And with this conjectural reflection, Scarthe threw himself back in his

chair; and once more gave way to the gloomy surmises that had already

tormented his unhappy mind.

Again did they torment him as before; and it was a relief to him when

the door once more turned upon its hinges, and his subaltern stepped

into the room.

Not that Stubbs had any cheering news to communicate; nor was there just

then anything encouraging in his countenance. On the contrary, the

cornet looked but little less lugubrious than his captain; and he had

been in that mood ever since morning.

Lora Lovelace would scarce condescend to exchange a word with him; and

when by chance he had twice or thrice been thrown into her company, it

was only to find himself the subject of a slight or a satire, and the

next moment to receive the cold shoulder. All this, too, so delicately

done, that Stubbs could find no opportunity for retaliation; unless by

allowing licence to his vulgar spite, which Scarthe had cautioned him

against. In fact, the cornet felt that the young lady, on more than one

occasion, had made a butt of him--he did, by Ged!

He had, at an earlier hour, communicated to his captain the ill success

of his wooing; but the latter was too much absorbed in his own schemes,

to offer him either advice or assistance.

The entrance of his subaltern turned the thoughts of Scarthe into a new

channel--as testified by his speech.

"So, then, there's no one arrived from London yet?" he said,

interrogatively, as he saw the cornet proceeding to seat himself.

A simple negative was the reply.

"'Tis very odd that the message--whatever it was--has not been delivered

in duplicate before this time?"

"Very odd!--'tis, by Ged!"

"I shouldn't wonder if the fellow, frightened as he was by those

precious footpads, has taken leave of his senses altogether; and,

instead of carrying back my letter, has climbed into a tree, and hanged

himself thereon!"

"Like enough, by Ged!"

"Had I only slipped in a postscript, giving the king a hint about the

character of the rascals to whom his courier so tamely surrendered,

perhaps the best thing he could have done would have been to string

himself up. I haven't the slightest doubt about its being the band of

scarecrows that stopped the son of Sir Marmaduke. Of course, it must

have been: since it was on the same night, and in the same spot. Ha!

ha! ha! In all my campaigns I never heard of a more clever bit of

strategy! Ha! ha! ha!"

"Nor I," said Stubbs, joining in the laugh.

"I'd give a month's pay to get hold of the comical villain that planned

it. If he felt inclined to join our cuirassiers, I'd make a corporal of

him, without asking a question."

"He'd make a first-rater. He would, by Ged!"

"I should like, also, to get hold of him for another reason," continued

Scarthe, changing to a more serious tone. "We might recover the lost

despatches--which, no doubt, are still in the doublet he stripped from

the chicken-hearted courier. Ha! ha! ha! What a pickle we found him

in! A pigeon completely plucked and trussed! Oh! how the queen will

laugh when she reads my report to her. I hope she won't tell it to the

king. If she do blab, it'll be no laughing matter for the poor devil of

a messenger!"

"It won't, by Ged!"

"Particularly if the despatches contained anything of importance. I

wonder what they were about--sent so soon after us! Hope it wasn't a

countermand."

"By Ged! I hope not."

"I'm not tired of our country quarters just yet: and won't be, till I've

tried them a little longer. Rather icy these girls are, Stubbs? Don't

repine, lad. Perhaps they'll thaw, by and by."

"I hope so," said Stubbs, his stolid face brightening up at the idea.

"If it wasn't for that young sop of a cousin 'twould be all right. I

believe it would, by Ged!"

"Pooh! pooh! Don't make your mind uneasy about him. It appears to be

only kittenly affection that's between them. He's just come home, after

a three years' absence from her apron-string; and it's natural she

should like to play with him a bit. Only as a toy, Stubbs. She'll soon

tire of him, and want another. Then will be your turn, my killing

cornet."

"Do you think so, captain?"

"Think so! Sure of it. Ha! if it were my game, I shouldn't want an

easier to play. Mine's a different affair--very different. It will

require all the skill of--of Captain Scarthe to win in that quarter.

Ho! Who's there? Come in!"

The interrogatory had been called forth by a knock heard outside. At

the command to enter, the door was opened, showing a cuirassier standing

upon the stoop, with his hand raised to his helmet.

"Your business, sergeant?" demanded the captain.

"A messenger has arrived, escorted by three files of dragoniers."

"Whence?"

"From London."

"Show him in; and see that his escort are taken care of outside."

The sergeant disappeared to execute the order.

"This should be the bearer of the duplicate despatch?" said Scarthe

conjecturally; "and, if it contains a countermand, I hope it has been

also lost."

"I doubt it," rejoined the cornet; "the three files of dragoniers ought

to have been a match for the dozen dummies!" and, as Stubbs said this,

he smiled conceitedly at the pretty speech he had perpetrated.

The courier came in--a cavalier by his costume and bearing; but of a

type very different from the one rifled by the robber. He was a

grizzled old veteran, armed from the toes to the teeth; and his

steel-grey eye, shining sagely through the bars of his helmet, betokened

a character not likely to have been duped by Gregory Garth and his

scarecrows. Had this individual been bearer of the original despatch,

instead of the copy, in all likelihood the repentant footpad would have

committed no other crime on that memorable night; and would have been

saved the sin of breaking the promise he had made to his master.

"A courier from the king?" said Scarthe, bowing courteously as the

cavalier came forward.

"A despatch from his Majesty," returned the messenger, with an official

salute, at the same time holding out the document. "It is the copy of

one sent three days ago, and lost upon the road. Captain Scarthe, I

believe, is already acquainted with the circumstance."

A slight twinkling in the steel-grey eye of the speaker, while making

the concluding remark, told that he had heard of the adventure, and was

not insensible to its ludicrous nature.

"Oh, yes!" assented Scarthe. "I hope the bearer of the original has not

come to grief through his misadventure."

"Dismissed the service," was the formal rejoinder.

"Ah! I am sorry for that. The fright he had was I should think

punishment enough; to say nothing of the loss of his horse, purse,

watch, and love locket. Ha! ha! ha!"

The hearty laugh in which the captain indulged, chorused by Stubbs,

sanctioned only by a grim smile on the part of grey eye, told that the

sympathy of the latter for the disgraced courtier was not very profound.

"Cornet Stubbs," said Scarthe, turning to his subaltern, and waving his

hand towards the messenger, "see that this gentleman does not die of

hunger and thirst. Excuse me, sir, while I peruse the king's despatch.

Perhaps it requires an answer."