She had listened for its repetition with an earnestness that brooked not
ambiguity. She no longer suspected the thunder of having proclaimed her
name. The voice was recognised. It was that of one not worshipped in
Heaven, but upon Earth.
The lightning aided in his identification. A favouring flash discovered
a well-known form and face, Henry Holtspur was standing by her side!
Volume Three, Chapter III.
Holtspur's presence at this point requires explanation. Why did he
linger upon a spot to him fraught with extreme peril--when almost
certain death would be the consequence of his recapture?
'Tis said, that the fox and hare delight to roam around the precincts of
the kennel--as if fascinated with the danger!
The conduct of Scarthe's prisoner, in thus keeping to the proximity of
his prison, though seeming to resemble the folly of the fox, and the
phrenzy of the hare, admits of an easy explanation.
On getting outside the wicket-gate--which he had taken the precaution to
shut behind him--Holtspur had gone off in a line at right angles to the
western _facade_ of the mansion. He had some remembrance of the moated
ditch that surrounded the shrubbery. He had observed that it was
waterless; and could be easily reached from the glacis. Once in its
bottom, he would be safe from observation; and, standing erect, he could
see over the parapet, and ascertain whether he was pursued. If not, he
could go at his leisure along its dry hollow; and get round to the rear
of the dwelling, without setting foot upon the open pasture ground. If
pursued at once, the ditch would still be his best place of concealment.
On reaching its edge, he had leaped into it.
It was no fancy of the sentinel, that a cloaked figure had disappeared
in that direction--in a somewhat mysterious manner.
After making his descent into the ditch, Holtspur came to a halt--to
disembarrass himself of the unbecoming garments that impeded the action
of his arms and limbs. Both the skirt and cloak were cast off.
His next action was to elevate his eyes above the parapet; and, if
possible, ascertain whether his escape had become known to the guards.
This action took place, just as the sentry had stepped outside the
wicket, and was calling upon his Betsey to come back. It was so dark,
Holtspur could not see the man; but he had noted the lifting of the
latch, and could hear his mutterings.
Next moment the lightning flashed--revealing to the astonished eyes of
the sentry a lady robed in rich velvet.
Holtspur saw the lady by the same light--deriving from the sight a very
different impression.
His first feeling was one of surprise--quickly succeeded by a vague
sense of pain.
The first arose from seeing Marion Wade abroad at that hour of the
night; for, despite the cloak and close-drawn hood, he had recognised
the daughter of Sir Marmaduke. Her bounding step and tall symmetrical
form were not to be mistaken by any one who had ever observed them; and
upon the mind of Henry Holtspur they were indelibly impressed.
His second emotion was the result of a series of interrogative
conjectures. For what purpose was she abroad? Was it to meet some one?
An appointment? Scarthe?
For some seconds the lover's heart was on fire--or felt as if it was.
Fortunately, the dread sensation was short-lived.
It was replaced by a feeling of supreme pleasure. The soul of Henry
Holtspur trembled with triumphant joy, as he saw the lady moving forward
to the courtyard gate, and seeking admission from the sentry. He could
hear part of the conversation passing between them. The lightning's
flash showed him her hand extended, with the yellow gold glittering
between her fingers. There was no difficulty in divining her intention.
She was bribing the guard. For what? For the privilege of passing
inside?
"I've been wronging her!" exclaimed Holtspur, conjecturally, shaping her
purpose to his wishes. "If so, I shall make full atonement. The glove
worn by Scarthe may have been stolen--must have been. If 'tis for me
her visit is intended, then I shall know to a certainty. Such a
sacrifice as this could not come from a coquette? Ah! she is risking
every thing. I shall risk my liberty--my life--to make sure that it is
for me. 'Tis bliss to fancy that it is so."
As he said this, he stepped eagerly up to the moated wall--with the
intention of scaling it, and returning to the gateway.
He did not succeed in the attempt. The parapet was high above his head.
He had been able to see over it, only by standing back upon the sloping
acclivity of the counterscarp. He could not reach it with his hands--
though springing several feet upward from the bottom of the fosse.
After several times repeating the attempt, he desisted.
"The footbridge!" muttered he, remembering the latter. "I can go round
by it."
He turned along the outside edge of the moat--in his anxious haste no
longer taking precaution to keep concealed. The darkness favoured him.
The night was now further obscured by the thick rain, that had suddenly
commenced descending. This, however, hindered him from making rapid
progress: for the sloping sward of the counterscarp had at once become
slippery, and it was with difficulty he could keep his footing upon it.
On reaching the bridge, another obstacle presented itself. The gate
that crossed it at midway was shut and locked--as was customary at
night--and it was a somewhat perilous feat to climb over it.
It was performed, however; and Holtspur stood once more within the
enclosed grounds of the shrubbery.
The delay of gaining access to them had been fatal to his original
design. As he faced towards the gate entrance, he heard the wicket once
more turning upon its hinges; and saw a woman's figure outlined in the
opening. In another instant it had moved around the angle of the
building, and was advancing in the direction of the verandah.
Holtspur paused; and for a moment hesitated to present himself. Could
he have been mistaken as to the purpose of that nocturnal visit to the
courtyard? What would he not have given for the secret, that had been
confided to that _trusty_ sentinel?
If in error, how awkward would be an interview! Not that he feared
betrayal. Such a thought did not enter his mind. But the oddness of
such an encounter--its _gaucherie_--would be all upon his side?
His indecision was but for a moment. It might be the last time he
should have an opportunity of speaking with Marion Wade?
This thought--along with a fond belief that he had rightly-construed the
errand on which she had come forth--once more emboldened him; and,
gliding on through the shrubbery, he placed himself by her side--at the
same time pronouncing her name.
It was his voice--heard above the rushing of the storm--that had fallen
so unexpectedly upon her ear.
"'Tis you, Henry!" she said, yielding to her first instinct of pleasure
at seeing him free and unfettered.
Then, as if remembering how he had come by that freedom--with the wild
words of his deliverer still ringing in her ears--her demeanour suddenly
changed to that haughty reserve, which the proud daughter of Sir
Marmaduke Wade had the right to assume.
"Sir!" continued she, with an effort at indifference; "I am surprised to
see you here. I presumed that by this time you would have been far from
this place."
"I should have been; but--"
"You need not hesitate to tell the reason. I know it. It is easy to
guess that."
"Marion!"
"No doubt your deliverer will soon find the opportunity of rejoining
you?"
"You know how I escaped, then?" cried Holtspur, who in the delight of
discovering that Marion had been to his prison, paid no heed to her
scornful insinuation. "You have been inside? You saw--"
"Your substitute, sir. It is not singular you should be anxious on
account of one, who has done you such signal service. I can report,
that she is in the best of spirits--proud of her achievement--only a
little anxious, perhaps, to participate in your sight. Do not be uneasy
on her account. She will not keep you long waiting. One gifted with so
much ingenuity will find little obstacle in a score of sentries."
"Marion!"
"A pity it is not `Betsey' to whom you are addressing yourself! A pity
she should keep you waiting--especially in such weather. For myself, I
must get out of it. Good-night, sir; or, good-morning--which you will
it."
"Marion--Marion Wade! do not go! Do not leave me thus! One word--hear
me!"
Holtspur could well afford to place himself in the attitude of a
petitioner. That visit to his prison, with its conjectured design, had
reassured him of Marion's love lately doubted.
She paused at the appeal. It was too earnest to be resisted.
"It was not _her_, for whom I was waiting," continued Holtspur, now more
clearly comprehending the conduct that had surprised him. "It was for
you, Marion--for _you_."
"This shallow pretence is unworthy of you, sir; unworthy of a gentleman.
How could you have expected to see _me_? Oh! weak that I have been to
trust my reputation, to one who--"
"One who will lay down his life to guard it against being sullied by the
slightest stain. Believe me, Marion Wade, it was to speak with you, I
have stayed. I saw you as I was hastening away. Little had I been
hoping for such a heaven-sent chance! I saw you approach the gate and
go in. Need I declare to you the hope that thrilled through my heart,
when I fancied your mission might be to myself? I cannot--words will
not express what I felt--what I feel!"
Yieldingly did the proud maiden turn towards him--as the flower turns to
its natural deity, the sun, from whom it derives all its delight.
Just as its petals are unclosed by his kissing rays after the long night
of damp and darkness, so was the bosom of Marion Wade revivified with
fresh life, and hope, and joy, while she stood listening to those
earnest asseverations.
As yet she had not put her threat into execution. The shelter was near,
but she had not availed herself of it; and, at the close of her lover's
speech, she seemed no longer to care for it.
Her hood was still hanging over her shoulders--her head uncovered to the
storm. The raindrops sparkled upon her golden hair, losing themselves
amid its profuse masses. They chased one another over her warm, flushed
cheeks, as if in very delight. They streamed down the furrows of her
rich robe, freely entering at its foldings--and still she regarded them
not.
If misery, but the moment before, had rendered her insensible to the
storm, happiness was now producing the like effect.
Holtspur's appeal was no more rejected--his approach no longer repelled.
He was left free to manifest the lover's care; and, gently engaging the
hand of his beloved, he conducted her within the verandah.
The storm raged on, but neither regarded it. They had escaped from a
storm--far more to be dreaded than the conflict of the elements--that of
the two most powerful passions of the human heart--jealousy and love.
The struggle was over. The former had fled from the field--leaving the
latter triumphant in the bosoms of both.
Volume Three, Chapter IV.
The calm after the tempest--the day after the night--sunshine succeeding
shadow--any of these physical transformations may symbolise the change
from the passion of jealousy to that of love. At best they are but
faint emblems; and we must seek in the soul itself for truer
representatives of those its extremest contrasting emotions; or find it
in our promised future of eternal torture and eternal bliss.
It is in the crisis of transformation--or, rather, in the moment
succeeding it--that the true agony is endured; whether it be an agony of
pain, or one of pleasure.
The latter was the lot of Henry Holtspur and Marion Wade, as they rested
under the sheltering toile of the verandah. To both, it was a moment of
unalloyed happiness; such as they had experienced only on one other
occasion;--when, entwined in each other's arms, under the verdant canopy
of the chestnut trees, they had, with lips that lied not, made
reciprocal surrender of their hearts.
One listening to those mutual vows--poured forth with the tender and
emphatic eloquence which love alone can impart--could scarce have
believed that mistrust should ever again spring up between them!
It had done so--perhaps not to be regretted. It had vanished; and the
reaction had introduced them to an agony of pleasure--if possible more
piquant than even that which had accompanied the first surrender of
their souls. Both now experienced the pleasure of surrendering them
again. No more might jealousy intrude itself upon their enjoyment; and,
for a while, they even forgot those trifling signs that had led to it--
she the faded flowers--he that _sinister_ gauntlet.
It was only natural, however, that the causes of their late mistrust
should become the subject of conversation; which they did.
Mutual surprise was the result of a mutual interrogation; though neither
could give to the other the explanation asked for.
The flowers in Holtspur's hat, and the glove in Scarthe's helmet, were
enigmas equally inexplicable.
As to the latter, Marion only knew that she had lost it--that she had
looked for it--she did not say why--and without success.
Holtspur still wore his beaver. Indeed, he had not till that hour found
the chance of taking it off. Only within the last ten minutes had his
hands been free to remove it.
He had not the slightest suspicion of the manner in which it was
bedecked--not until he learnt it from the lips of her, upon whom the
faded flowers had produced such a painful impression.
Marion could not misinterpret his surprise--mingled with indignation--as
he lifted the hat from his head; wrenched the flowers from their
fastening; and flung them scornfully upon the sward.
Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, as she witnessed the act. It was the
kind of homage a woman's heart could comprehend and appreciate; and hers
trembled with a triumphant joy.
Only for a short moment could this sweet contentment continue. Nature
is niggardly of such supreme pleasure. It was succeeded by a sombre
thought--some dark presentiment pointing to the distant future. It
found expression in speech.
"O Henry!" she said, laying hold of his arm--at the same time fixing her
earnest blue eyes upon his, "sometime--I fear to think it, much more to
speak it--sometime might you not do the same with--"
"With what, Marion?"
"Sweet love! you know what I mean! Or shall I tell it you? 'Tis a
shame for you not to understand me--you, who are so clever, as I've
heard say, ah! as I, myself, have reason to know."
"Dearest! I fear I am not very clever at comprehending the ways of your
sex. Perhaps if I had--"
Holtspur interrupted himself, as if he had arrived on the verge of some
disclosure he did not desire to make.
"If you had," inquired Marion, in a tone that told of an altered
interest. "What if you had, Henry?"
"If I had," replied her lover, escaping from his embarrassment by a
happy subterfuge, "I should not have been so dilatory in declaring my
love to you."
The speech was pretty; but alas! ambiguous. It gave Marion pleasure, to
think he had long loved her; and yet it stirred within her a painful
emotion--by recalling the bold challenge by which she had lured him to
the avowal of it.
He, too, as soon as he had spoken, appeared to perceive the danger of
such an interpretation; and in order to avert it, hurriedly had recourse
to his former interrogatory.
"Do the same, you said, as I have done with the flowers. And with
what?"
"The token I gave you, Henry--the _white gauntlet_."
"When I fling it to the earth, as I have done these withered blossoms,
it will be to defy him who may question my right to wear it. When that
time comes, Marion Wade--"
"Oh! never!" cried she--in the enthusiasm of her admiration fervently
pressing his arm, and looking fondly in his face. "None but you, Henry,
shall ever have that right. To no other could I concede it. Believe
me--believe me!"
Why was it that Holtspur received this earnest declaration with a sigh?
Why did he respond to it with a look of sadness?
Upon his arm was hanging the fairest form in the county of
Buckinghamshire--perhaps in all England; upon his shoulder rested the
loveliest cheek; against his bosom throbbed a heart responsive to his
own--a heart that princes would have been proud to possess. Why that
sigh, on listening to the earnest speeches that assured him of its
possession?
But for the darkness that obscured the expression of his face--but for
the beatings of her own heart, that hindered her from hearing the sigh
that escaped his--Marion Wade might have asked this question with
fearful interest in the answer.
She saw not the look--she heard not the sigh; and yet she was troubled
with some vague suspicion. The reply had something in it that did not
satisfy her--something _reticent_.
"O Henry!" she said, "you are going from me now. I know we must part.
When shall I see you again? It may be long--long?"
"No longer than I can help, love!"
"You will give me a promise, Henry?"
"Yes, Marion; any promise you may dictate to me."
"Thanks! thanks! I know you will keep it. Come nearer, Henry! look
into my eyes! 'Tis a poor light; but I need not much to see that yours
are true. I know they are beautiful, Henry."
Holtspur's frame quivered under the searching scrutiny.
"What am I to promise?" he asked, in the hope of hiding his
embarrassment.
"Do not be afraid, Henry! 'Tis not much I am going to ask of you. Not
much to you; but all the world to me. Listen, and I will tell you.
Since we met--I mean since I knew that you loved me--I have learnt one
thing. It is: that I _could not live, and be jealous_. The torture I
have endured for the last twelve hours has told me that. You will laugh
at me, Henry; but I cannot help it. No. Let me be happy, or let me
die!"
"Sweet life! why should you think of such a thing as jealousy? You need
not fear that. If it should ever spring up between us, it will be my
misfortune, not yours--all mine."
"You jest, Henry! You know not the heart you have conquered. Its
firstlings were yours. Though often solicited--pardon me for being so
plain--_it was never before surrendered to living man_. O, Henry! you
know not how I love you! Do not think it is the fleeting fancy of a
romantic girl--that may change under the influence of a more matured
age. I am a woman, with my girlhood gone by. Holtspur!--you have won
me--you have _won a woman's love_!"
Ecstasy to the soul of him thus addressed.
"Tell me sweet Marion!" cried he. "Forgive me the selfish question; but
I cannot help asking it. Tell me why I am thus beloved? I do not
deserve it. I am twice your age. I have lost those looks that once,
perhaps, may have attracted the romantic fancy. O, Marion Wade! I am
unworthy of a love like yours. 'Tis my consciousness of this that
constrains me to make the enquiry: _why do you love me_?"
Marion remained silent--as if she hesitated to give the answer. No
wonder. The question is one often asked, but to which it is most
difficult to obtain a truthful reply.
There are reasons for this reticence--psychological reasons, which men
cannot easily understand. A woman's citadel is her heart; and its
strength lies in keeping secret its conceptions. Of all its secrets the
most sacred--the last to be divulged--is that constituting an answer to
the question--"Why do you love me?"
No wonder that Henry Holtspur received not an immediate answer.
Ardour--more than sincerity led him to press for it:--
"I am a stranger to your circle--if not to your class. The world will
tell you, that I am an _adventurer_. I accept the appellation--
qualified by the clause: that I adventure not for myself, but for my
fellow-men--for the poor taxed slaves who surround me. Marion Wade, I
weary you. Give answer to my question: Why do you love me?"
"Henry! I know not. A thousand thoughts crowd upon me. I could give
you a thousand reasons, all comprised in one--_I love you, because_ I
_love you_!"
"Enough, dear Marion! I believe it. Do you need me to declare again?
Can I plight my troth more truly?"
"No--no--Henry! I know that you love me _now_."
"Now! now and for ever!"
"You promise it, Henry?"
"I promise it, Marion."
"O, Henry! you will promise me something more. You have said you
would."
"What more, Marion?"
"I have told you that I would prefer death to jealousy. I only spoke
the truth, Henry. I've heard say, that the heart sometimes changes, in
spite of itself. I don't believe it. I am sure mine can never change.
Could yours, Henry?"
"Never! what do you wish me to promise? What is it you would bind me
to?"
"I've now but one thing worth living for," responded the daughter of Sir
Marmaduke Wade, "and that is your love, Holtspur. Promise me that when
you love me no more, you will tell me you do not, truly and without
fear. Promise that, Henry: for then I shall be happier to die."
"Nonsense, Marion! Why should I enter into such an idle condition? You
know I shall love you, as long as I live."
"Henry! Henry! Do not deny me what I have asked? What is there
unreasonable in my request?"
"Nothing, dearest Marion. If you insist upon it, you shall have my
promise--more than that, my oath. I swear I shall be candid and declare
the truth. If ever my heart cease to love you, I shall tell you of its
treason. How easily can I promise, what can never come to pass!"
"But you may be far away, Henry? Enemies may be between us? You may
not be able to see me? Then--"
"Then, what would you have me do, dear Marion?"
"Return the token I have given you. Send me back my glove--the _White
Gauntlet_. When I see that, 'twill tell me that he to whom I had given
it--and along with it my heart--that he who once prized the gift,
esteems it no more. That would be a gentler way than words--for your
words telling me that bitter truth, might be the last to which I should
ever listen."
"If it please you, dearest, I promise to comply with you conditions--
however idle I may deem them. Ah Marion! you shall never get that glove
again--never from me. I prize the _white gauntlet_ too much, ever to
part with it; more than aught else in the world--excepting the white
hand which it once shielded, and which, God willing, shall yet be mine!"
As Holtspur uttered this impassioned speech, he raised the "white hand"
to his lips; and imprinted upon it a fond, fervent kiss.
It was the parting salute--though not intended as such. The lightning
flashed at that moment, displaying two forms in an attitude that
proclaimed them lovers who had made mutual surrender of their souls.
A third form might have been seen by the same light, standing outside
the verandah, scarce ten paces distant. It was a female figure, with
the face of a young girl--uncoifed, uncloaked, despite the pelting of
the pitiless storm.
The lovers, absorbed in their own sweet thoughts, might not have noticed
this intruder, but for a slight scream that escaping from her lips,
attracted their attention to her. When the lightning blazed forth
again, she was gone!
"Oh!" cried Marion, "it was like the shadow of some evil thing. Away,
Henry! there is danger! Away! away!"
Without resistance Holtspur yielded to the solicitation. Rapidly
recrossing through the shrubbery, he sprang down into the moated ditch,
and glided on towards the rear of the dwelling.
Volume Three, Chapter V.
Bet Dancey it was, whose presence revealed by that ghastly gleam, moving
like an ill-omened shadow among the shrubbery, had caused the lovers to
bring their interview to such a sudden ending.
On his second supplicant gliding silently past him, the facile sentry
had followed with equal alertness--this time not with any intention to
plead for a promised kiss; but simply to show his respect to the lady by
gallantly conducting her beyond the bounds of his jurisdiction.
He had already satisfied himself how profuse had been her gratitude--
prepaid as it was.
On reaching the wicket, he was once more doomed to disappointment. Like
the first, his second visitor had also disappeared. He remained some
moments, gazing after; but, soon feeling disconsolate in the darkness,
he determined on returning to the store-room for his lamp.
Amidst the many surprises of the night he was now to experience the
greatest of all.
On entering within the apartment, and raising the lanthorn to the level
of his eyes--in order to assure himself of his prisoner's safety--his
astonishment scarce equalled his consternation; when, instead of the
cavalier lying bound along the bench, Bet Dancey stood boldly before
him! He no longer thought of claiming that promised kiss. A sudden
perception of his own stupidity had driven all amorous inclinations out
of his mind.
His first impulse was to rush out, and give the alarm to his comrades of
the guard. In obedience to this impulse he hurried off into the yard;
but, in the confusion of ideas caused by his surprise, he neglected to
close the store-room door; and, while he was absent upon his errand, the
substitute for the patriot prisoner quietly slipped out; and gliding
along the dark archway, emerged through the wicket without let or
interruption.
She had faced towards the rear of the house, with the intention of
taking her departure; when an unlucky idea prompted her to turn in the
opposite direction. She remembered Marion's visit to the prison. Had
her lady rival yet gone to rest? Might they by some chance--perhaps by
design--might they have come together?
Under the influence of this suspicion the girl glided along the wall
towards the western front of the mansion.
A low murmur of voices guided her to the verandah--a few stealthy steps
brought her within sight of two figures in juxtaposition--a flash of
lightning revealed who they were--at the same time disclosing a sight
that scorched her heart to its very core.
Her first thought was to spring forward and interrupt the interview--to
revile--upbraid--anything for the satisfaction of her jealous vengeance.
She was on the eve of thus acting, when a noise heard from behind caused
her to stay her intent. It was the murmur of men's voices, mingled with
the clanking of steel scabbards. It was the cuirassier guard issuing
forth in pursuit.
This suggested to Bet Dancey a better mode of redressing her fancied
wrong. She could restore Holtspur to the same prison from which she had
set him free! She cared not for the pain it might cause to herself, so
that it should wring the heart of her rival.
It was but to return to the gateway; communicate with the guard; and
conduct them to the verandah.
All this was done in the shortest space of time; but, short as it was,
during the interval, the lovers had spoken their parting word, and
hastily separated.
Just as Holtspur leaped down into the ditch, half-a-dozen cuirassiers,
headed by a woman, were seen hurrying around the angle of the building
towards its western facade.
As they spoke only in low mutterings, and advanced with stealthy steps,
it was evident they expected to surprise the lovers, on the spot they
had so recently quitted. The woman, keeping in the lead, appeared to
direct their movements.
The rain, which had now ceased to fall, had been succeeded by a clearing
of the sky, and the interior of the verandah could be viewed from end to
end. There was no one inside it!
The cuirassiers scanned the gallery with looks of disappointment.
"He's not here! not a sign of him," said one whose voice, from its
altered and lugubrious tones, could with difficulty be recognised as
that of the outwitted sentinel. "Oh Lord! what'll become of me, if he's
got off."
Turning to the woman, he appeared to make some appeal to her in an
undertone.
"If he's gone from here," answered she, speaking in a voice that
betrayed deep emotion, "it isn't a minute ago. Oh! I wish you had
found him, and her too--how glad I'd be to have her exposed--the proud--
saucy dame?"
"Who are you speakin' about? Is it the lady in velvet?"
"No matter who. Go after him. You can't fail to overtake him yet. Oh!
bring him back, and then we'll see whether she--"
"We may go twenty ways, and not the right one," said the corporal of the
guard, coming up and taking part in this hurried dialogue.
"No, no!" cried the woman, "you can't go the wrong one. Pass out by the
back of the park. Take the road for Hedgerley; only don't turn that
way. Keep the back path straight on by Wapsey's Wood. That's the way
they're to take: it was all arranged. Come! I'll go along with you--
Come! come!"
In the voice thus earnestly directing the pursuit of the escaped
prisoner, could be recognised that, which, scarce twenty minutes before,
had been so earnestly urging him to escape--the voice of Bet Dancey!
Was it a _ruse_ to mislead the guard, or send them on a wrong track?
No: it was her design to cause his recapture.
In the short period of ten minutes a change had passed over Betsey's
proud spirit--transforming her from a self-sacrificing friend, to an
enemy equally devoting herself to Holtspur's destruction.
In her outraged bosom a revulsion had arisen that stirred her soul to
its profoundest depths, and filled her heart with eager longings of
revenge. She had seen the man she madly loved--for whom she had risked,
if not life, at least liberty and reputation--in the arms of another; a
bright and beautiful rival; his own arms fondly entwining that other's
form; his lips fervently pressing hers. No wonder the heart of the
passionate peasant, distraught by such a spectacle, had yielded to the
promptings of revenge!
"Come on!" she cried, gesticulating to the cuirassiers to follow her,
"on to the Hedgerley road!"
"Our horses?" suggested the guard corporal.
"No, no!" responded the girl. "By the time you could get them, he will
have gone where I don't know to find him. Come as you are; and I'll
answer for overtaking them now. _They_ won't have any horses till they
get beyond Wapsey's Wood. Come then, if you want to retake your
prisoner."
The others were disposed to set forth at once, and afoot. Withers,
although for special reasons the most eager of any, appeared to
hesitate.
"Your sure you don't want to mislead us, Betsey? You've fooled me once
this night; and hang me if I let _you_ go, till I've laid hands on him!"
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the girl, "havn't I told you why I helped to let
him out? The lady that sent _me_, would have given her eyes to see him;
but since he's taken to the other, I know she'll be only too glad to
hear that he's brought back to his prison. Much as she'd a thanked me
for getting him out, when I tell her, what I've seen, she'll give double
to have him retook. Don't be silly then. You'll suffer if he escapes.
Come on with me, and I'll promise he shan't."
The prospect of his prisoner getting clear off and its consequences to
himself, thus forcibly brought before the mind of the negligent
sentinel, at once put a period to his indecision; and without further
opposition he threw himself along with the others; who, yielding to the
guidance of the girl, hurried off upon the pursuit.
Instead of going to the point of rendezvous, which she had given to
Holtspur himself, Bet conducted the cuirassiers out of the park by a
path altogether different. She knew that the fugitive must by that time
have found those to whom she had directed him. He would be no longer
within the limits of the park; but on his way up the back road to
Beaconsfield. To intercept him was her design; and this might still be
done, by hastening along a bye-path well-known to her, which by a
shorter route debouched upon the road he should have to take. By this
path, therefore, did she conduct his pursuers.
On reaching the road the party moved more slowly. The rain had ceased
falling, and the moon had suddenly made its appearance in a cloudless
sky. The corporal of the guard, who chanced to be an experienced scout,
here commanded a halt.
"We needn't go any further this way," said he, glancing towards the
ground. "No one has passed up this road before us. You see, my pretty
guide, there's not a track?"
"Then we must be ahead o' them," replied the individual thus addressed.
"I know they were to come this way--I am sure of it."
"In that case we had best wait here," muttered the corporal to his men.
"It's a capital spot for an ambuscade. These bushes will conceal us
from the eyes of any one coming along the road. Hush! surely I heard a
voice?"
The guard, hitherto addressing each other only in whispers, obeyed the
command of the corporal; and stood silently listening.
Sure enough there was a voice--a human voice. It sounded like the
moaning of some one who lay upon a bed of sickness! It was low, and
apparently distant.
"It's like as if some poor devil was giving his last kick?" muttered one
of the cuirassiers.
"It's only the owls hooting among the trees," suggested another.
"Hush!" again exclaimed the corporal. "There are other voices--nearer.
Hush!"
"Good!" he ejaculated, after listening a while. "There are men coming
along the road behind us! It must be _them_! Here! three of you on
this side; the others across the road. Lie quiet till they come close
up. When I give the word, spring out upon them. Quick, comrades! Not
a movement till you hear my signal!"
Promptly obedient to these instructions, the soldiers drew themselves
into the thicket--some dropping upon their knees among the bushes--
others standing erect, but screening their bodies behind the trunks of
the beeches.
The corporal disposed of himself in a similar fashion; while the guide,
having glided off to a greater distance, stood trembling among the
trees--like some guilty denouncer--dreading to look upon the spectacle
of that capture she had conducted to the probability of a too certain
success.
Volume Three, Chapter VI.
On arriving at the rear of the garden, Holtspur had emerged out of the
moat, and struck across the open pasture in a direct line for the
timber. The darkness was still sufficiently obscure to hinder his being
seen--at least, from any great distance; though there were those
standing within the shadow of the trees who had marked his approach.
A low whistle--peculiarly intoned--told him that he was observed, and by
friends: for in that whistle he recognised an old hunting signal of his
ancient henchman--Gregory Garth.
There was no need to make reply. In an instant after, Garth was by his
side--accompanied by the deer-stealer.
The plan of further proceedings took not much time to concert.
The programme had been already traced out, subject to such contingencies
as might unexpectedly arise.
Dancey was to hurry back to his cottage, where Oriole had been left in
charge of Garth's horse--that steed of the royal stables--which, along
with Dancey's nag, was the only mount that could be provided for the
occasion. But as Dancey himself was to stay behind--there being no call
for his expatriation just at that crisis--and as the Indian could track
it afoot almost as fast as on horseback, the two horses had been deemed
sufficient for the necessity.
The woodman's dwelling lay near the Oxford highway; and as it would
waste some time to bring the horses across to the back road, running
past Hedgerley, it had been decided that they should be taken along a
private path through Wapsey's Wood, by Dancey and the Indian--there to
be met by Holtspur and Garth going afoot along the parallel, but less
frequented, road.
This arrangement, cunningly schemed by Garth, had in view the
possibility of a pursuit, with the probability, in such case, that the
pursuers would naturally keep along the high road.
The rendezvous having been arranged, the deer-stalker took his way back
towards his own domicile; while Garth, conducting Holtspur, through the
tract of timber, with which he had already made himself acquainted,
climbed out over the palings of the park; and turned along the bridle
road running towards Hedgerley.
Half a mile brought them to a point where Wapsey's Wood skirted the
road--separated from it by a rude fence.
Garth was going in the advance, and for a time keeping silence--as if
busied with some abstruse calculation.
"There be a tidyish bit o' night left yet," he at length remarked,
glancing up to the sky, "I shed think I've time enough for that
business."
The remark was made to himself, rather than to his companion, and as if
to satisfy his mind, about some doubt he had been indulging in.
"Time enough for what?" asked Holtspur, who had overheard the muttered
observation.
"Oh! nothin' muchish, Master Henry--only a little bit o' business I've
got to attend to over in the wood there. 'Twon't take ten minutes; and,
as time's preecious, I can tell ye about it when I gets back. Ah!
theear's the gap I war lookin' for. If ye'll just keep on at yer
leisure, I'll overtake you afore you can get to t'other side o' the
wood. If I doan't, pleeze wait a bit. I'll be up in three kicks o' an
old cow."
Saying this, the ex-footpad glided through the gap; and, striking off
among the trees, soon disappeared behind their close standing trunks.
Holtspur, slackening his pace, moved on along the road--not without
wondering what could be the motive that had carried his eccentric
conductor so suddenly away from him.
Soon, however, his thoughts reverted to her from whom he had so late
separated; and, as he walked under the silent shadows of the trees, his
spirit gave way to indulgence in a retrospect of that sweet scene, with
which his memory was still warmly glowing.
From the rain that had fallen, the flowers, copiously bedewed, were
giving out their incense on the soft air of the autumn night. The moon
had suddenly made her appearance, amid banks of fleecy clouds, that were
fantastically flitting across the face of the azure heaven.
Under her cheering light Holtspur sauntered leisurely along, reviewing
over and over again the immediate and pleasant past; which,
notwithstanding the clouds that lowered over his future, had the effect
of tingeing it with a roseate effulgence.
There were perils before, as well as behind him. His liberty, as his
life, was still in danger. He knew all this; but in the revel of that
fond retrospect--with the soft voice of Marion Wade yet ringing in his
ears--her kisses still clinging to his lips--how could he be otherwise
than oblivious of danger?
Alas! for his safely he was so--recklessly oblivious of it--forgetful of
all but the interview just ended, and which seemed rather a delicious
dream than an experience of sober real life.
Thus sweetly absorbed, he had advanced along the road to the distance of
some two or three hundred yards, from the place where Garth had left
him. He was still continuing to advance, when a sound, heard far off in
the wood, interrupted his reflections--at the same time causing him to
stop and listen.
It was a human voice; and resembled the moaning of a man in pain; but at
intervals it was raised to a higher pitch, as though uttered in angry
ejaculation!
At that hour of the night, and in such a lonely neighbourhood--for
Holtspur knew it was a thinly-peopled district--these sounds seemed all
the stranger; and, as they appeared to proceed from the exact direction
in which Garth had gone, Holtspur could not do otherwise than connect
them with his companion.
Gregory must be making the noises, in some way or other? But how? What
should _he_ be groaning about? Or for what were those exclamations of
anger?
Holtspur had barely time to shape these interrogatories, before the
sound became changed--not so much in tone as in intensity. It was still
uttered in moanings and angry ejaculations; but the former, instead of
appearing distant and long-drawn as before, were now heard more
distinctly; while the latter, becoming sharper and of more angry
intonation, were not pronounced as before in monologue, but in two
distinct voices--as if at least two individuals were taking part in the
indignant duetto!
What it was that was thus waking up the nocturnal echoes of Wapsey's
Wood was a puzzle to Henry Holtspur; nor did it assist him in the
elucidation, to hear one of the voices--that which gave out the
melancholy moanings--at intervals interrupted by the other in peals of
loud laughter! On the contrary it only rendered the fearful _fracas_
more difficult of explanation.
Holtspur now recognised the laughing voice to be that of Gregory Garth;
though why the ex-footpad was giving utterance to such jovial
cachinnations, he could not even conjecture.
Lonely as was the road, on which he had been so unceremoniously
forsaken, he was not the only one traversing it at that hour. His
pursuers were also upon it--not _behind_ but _before_ him--like himself
listening with mystified understandings to those strange sounds.
Absorbed in seeking a solution of them, Holtspur failed to perceive the
half-dozen figures that, disengaging themselves from the tree-trunks,
behind which they had been concealed, were closing stealthily and
silently around him.
It was too late when he did perceive them--too late, either for flight
or defence.
He sprang to one side; but only to be caught in the grasp of the
stalwart corporal of the guard.
The latter might have been shaken off; but the sentry Withers--
compromised by the prisoner's escape, and therefore deeply interested in
his detention--had closed upon him from the opposite side; and in quick
succession, the others of the cuirassier guard had flung themselves
around him.
Holtspur was altogether unarmed. Resistance could only end in his being
thrust through by their swords, or impaled upon their halberts; and once
more the gallant cavalier, who could not have been vanquished by a
single antagonist, was forced to yield to that fate which may befall the
bravest. He had to succumb to the strength of superior numbers.
Marched afoot between a double file of his captors, he was conducted
back along the road, towards the prison from which he had so recently
escaped.
The mingled groans and laughter, still continued to wake up the echoes
of Wapsey's Wood.
To Holtspur they were only intelligible, so far as that the laughing
part in the duet was being performed by the ex-footpad--Gregory Garth.
The soldiers, intent upon retaining their prisoner, gave no further heed
to them, than to remark upon their strangeness. But for the merry peals
at intervals interrupting the more lugubrious utterance, they might have
supposed that a foul murder was being committed. But the laughter
forbade this supposition; and Holtspur's guard passed out of hearing of
the strange noises, under the impression that they came from a camp of
gipsies, who, in their nocturnal orgies, were celebrating some ceremony
of their vagrant ritual.
She who had been the instrument of Holtspur's delivery, had also played
the chief part in his recapture. Following his captors under the shadow
of the trees, unseen by him and them, she had continued a spectator to
all that passed; for a time giving way to the joy of her jealous
vengeance.
Soon, however, on seeing the rude treatment to which her victim was
subjected--when she witnessed the jostling, and heard the jeers of his
triumphant captors, her spirit recoiled from the act she had committed;
and, when, at length, the courtyard gate was closed upon the betrayed
patriot, the daughter of Dick Dancey fell prostrate upon the sward, and
bedewed the grass with tears of bitter repentance!
Volume Three, Chapter VII.
About an hour after the recapture of Henry Holtspur, two men might have
been seen descending the long slope of Red Hill, in the direction of
Uxbridge.
They were both men of large stature--one of them almost gigantic. They
were on horseback: the younger of the two bestriding a good steed, while
his older and more colossal companion was mounted upon as sorry a jade
as ever set hoof upon a road.
The first, booted and spurred, with a plumed hat upon his head, and
gauntlets upon his wrists, in the obscure light might have been mistaken
for a cavalier. When the moon made its appearance from behind the
clouds--which happened at intervals--a certain _bizarrerie_ about his
costume forbade the supposition; and the stalwart form and swarth visage
of Gregory Garth were then too conspicuous to escape recognition, by any
acquaintance he might have encountered upon the road.
The more rustic garb of his travelling companion--as well as the figure
it enveloped--could with equal facility be identified as belonging to
Dick Dancey, the deer-stealer.
The presence of these two worthies on horseback, and riding towards
Uxbridge, was not without a purpose, presently to be explained.
The cuirassiers had been astray in conjecturing that the noises heard in
Wapsey's Wood proceeded from a gang of gipsies. It was nothing of the
kind. What they heard was simply Gregory Garth engaged in the
performance of that promise he had made in the morning. Although he did
not carry out his threat to the exact letter, he executed it in the
spirit; taking his departure from the bedside of Will Walford, only
after every bone in the woodman's body had been made to taste the
quality of the cudgel expressly cut for the occasion.
It is possible that Will Walford's punishment might have been still more
severe, but that his castigator was pressed for time--so much so, that
he left the wretch without releasing him, with a set of suffering bones,
and a skin that exhibited all the colours of the rainbow.
After thus settling accounts with the "_tree_-tur," as he called him,
Garth had thrown away his holly stick, and hastened back to the road.
Under the supposition that Holtspur was by that time advanced some
distance towards Beaconsfield, he hurried on to overtake him.
The moon was shining full upon the track; and in the dust, which the
rain had recently converted into mud, the ex-footpad did not fail to
perceive a number of footprints. In the exercise of his peculiar
calling, he had been accustomed to note such signs, and had acquired a
skill in their interpretation equal to that of a backwoods hunter.
Instantly he stopped, and commenced scrutinising the sign.
He was upon the spot where the capture had been accomplished. The
footmarks of six or seven men--who had been springing violently from
side to side--had left long slides and scratches in the damp dust. The
tracks of the troopers were easily distinguished; and in their midst the
more elegant imprint of a cavalier's boot.
Garth needed no further evidence of the misfortune that had befallen.
Beyond doubt his master had been once more made prisoner; and, cursing
himself for being the cause, he mechanically traced the backward
tracks--his despondent air proclaiming that he had but little hope of
being able to effect a rescue.
Returning upon the traces of the cuirassier guards, he re-entered the
park, and advanced towards the mansion--which the darkness enabled him
to do with safety. There he had discovered Bet Dancey--a sorrowing
penitent--prostrate upon the ground--where, in her distraction, she had
thrown herself.
From the girl he had obtained confirmation of the recapture--though not
the true cause either of that, or her own grief.
Her statement was simple. The guards had followed Master Holtspur; they
had overtaken, overpowered, and brought him back; he was once more
locked up within the store-room.
The hope, of again delivering him out of the hands of his enemies, might
have appeared too slender to be entertained by any one; and for a time
it did so--even to the unflinching spirit of his old retainer.
But the ex-footpad, when contemplating the chances of getting out of a
prison, was not the man to remain the slave of despair--at least for any
great length of time; and no sooner had he satisfied himself, that his
master was once more encaged, than he set his wits freshly to work, to
contrive some new scheme for his deliverance.
From the store-room, in which Holtspur was again confined, it would be
no longer possible to extricate him. The trick, already tried, could
not succeed a second time. Withers was the only one of the guards who
might have been tempted; but after his affright, it was not likely that
either the promise of kisses, or the proffer of gold pieces, would again
seduce the sentry from the strict line of his duty.
But Garth did not contemplate any such repetition. An idea that
promised a better chance of success had offered itself to his mind. To
set free his master by _strategy_ was henceforth plainly impracticable.
Perhaps it might be done by _strength_?
Not in Bulstrode mansion--where the prisoner was surrounded by fourscore
cuirassiers? No--clearly not. There could be no possibility of
accomplishing a rescue there; nor did Gregory Garth give it a moment's
thought. His ideas became directed to the road that lay between the two
prisons--the store-room and the Tower. He already knew that Holtspur
was to be transferred from one to the other, and on the following day.
During the transit, might there not be some chance of effecting a
rescue?
Garth knew the London Road--every inch of it--and, in one way or other,
was acquainted with most of the people who dwelt near it. Although upon
an odd individual, here and there, he had practised his peculiar
vocation, there were few with whom he was upon hostile terms. With many
he held relations of friendship; and with a goodly number certain other
relations, that should entitle him to an act of service at their hands.
With a plan--but still only half developed--he had once more hurried
back along the Hedgerley Road, towards the rendezvous, where Dancey and
the Indian had already arrived with the horses.
He found them waiting, and apprehensive;--almost expecting the sad
tidings he had to communicate--the failure of their enterprise.
As Garth, during the backward tramp, had more definitely arranged his
programme of action, there was no time wasted in consultation. Dancey
readily consented to the proposal, to become his confederate in the
scheme he had so promptly conceived.
Oriole having been directed to return to Stone Dean, the ex-footpad
sprang upon his stolen steed; and, followed by the deer-stealer on his
scraggy cob, at once started off along upon a bridle path, which winding
around the southern boundary of Bulstrode Park, would bring them to the
king's highway, where the latter crossed over the elevated plain of
Jarret's Heath.
It is in pursuance of the scheme conceived by Garth, that he and his
companion were descending Red Hill at that early hour of the morning.
Whithersoever bent, they were evidently in haste to reach their
destination--more especially Garth, who was constantly urging his
companion to keep up with him. The quadruped bestridden by the
deer-stealer was the chief obstruction to their speed; and despite the
frequent application of a stout stick, which his rider carried in hand,
and the pricking of a rusty spur fastened upon his heel, the sorry hack
could not be urged beyond a slow shuffling trot--discontinued the
instant the stimulus of stick and spur were suspended.
"The devil burn your beest, Dancey!" cried the ex-footpad, losing all
patience at the slow pace of the animal. "We'll not ha' nigh time
enough to see them all. From what your daughter learnt yesterday, the
sogers 'll bring their prisoner down the road, the first thing in the
mornin'. They'll do that, so's to make the journey to Lonnon afore
night. No doubt about their gettin' to Uxbridge by ten o' the clock;
an' just see what we've got to do afore then. Stick the spur into him--
up to the shank, Dancey! The lazy brute! I'd make 'im go, if I war
astride o' him."
"The poor creetur!" compassionately rejoined Dancey, by way of an
apology for his nag, "he han't had a bite o' any thin' to eat for a
week--'ceptin' what he ha' grubbed off o' the roadside. No wonder he
bean't much for a fast journey."
"Lucky it isn't a longish one. If we had Lonnon afore us we'd niver get
there! As it is--ha! now I think on't, I've got a idea as'll save time.
There be no use for us to keep thegither. You go round Denham way, an'
warn your friends there. You can cross the Colne higher up, an' scud on
to the Harefield fellows. I'll take Uxbridge an' Hillindon, and along
in the Drayton direction. That'll be our best plan. We can meet at the
Rose and Crown, as soon as we've got through. I'll go there first, so
as to gi'e old Brownie a hint 'bout gettin' his tap ready. Lucky I ha'
been able to borrow some money upon a watch I chanced upon--a tydish
bit--else we mightn't find these patriots so free to lend us a hand. I
shall spend it all--every stiver o't--for the rescue o' Master Henry."
"I han't got nothin' to spend, or I'd do the same for him," returned the
deer-stealer. "He be the best an' liberallest gentleman ever coom about
these parts--that be he."
"You're not far wrong about that, Master Dancey. Too good a gentleman
to have his head chopped off for speakin' no more than's the truth; an'
we must do our best to help 'im keep it on his shoulders. There's your
road to Denham. Stick the spur into your blessed beast, an' make him do
his damnest. Be sure you meet me at the bridge--afore ten."
And with these injunctions the ex-footpad separated from the
deer-stealer--the latter turning off upon the lane which led to the
village of Denham; while the former continued along the direct road
towards the town of Uxbridge.
Volume Three, Chapter VIII.
At that early hour all the world appeared to be asleep--silence and
slumber having been seemingly restored to the lately disturbed inmates
of Bulstrode mansion; though not all of these had been disturbed, by the
occurrences we have described.
Happy in the thought of having humiliated his rival, and the hope of
eventually crushing him altogether, Captain Scarthe had slept soundly
throughout the whole night--little suspecting the series of incidents
that were transpiring, some scarce a score of yards from his couch, and
all within a mile's circuit of the mansion.
Even after awaking, he was not informed of the various love interviews,
hairbreadth escapes, and captures, that, during the after-hours of that
eventful night had been following each other in such quick succession.
The whole affair had been managed so silently that, beyond the six men
comprising the guard, with the corporal himself, not another cuirassier
knew of what had happened. Withers had taken care that the tongues of
his comrades should be tied--a purpose he might not have succeeded in
effecting, but for those golden pieces which the lady had so profusely
poured into his palm, and of which he was now compelled to make a
generous, though somewhat reluctant disbursement.
The result was, that at the changing of the guard, the prisoner was
handed over to the _relief_, bound as before; and no one in the troop
was made acquainted with the facts, either of his escape or recapture.
The new guard entered upon its _tour_, undo the full belief, that their
charge had spent the whole of the night within the precincts of his
prison.
Of the several individuals who had been privy to his escape, there was
only one who by daybreak still remained ignorant that he had been
retaken. Marion slumbered till the morning, unconscious of the
re-arrest of her lover, as Scarthe of his temporary deliverance. On
parting with him, she had gone to her couch, though not directly. The
noises heard without had made her uneasy; and, standing by a window on
the stairway she had listened. She had heard voices of men--a woman's
as well--uttered in low tones; but soon after they had ceased. She knew
it must be some of the guard, and the woman's voice she could guess at;
but, as so little disturbance had been made, she did not suspect that it
was an alarm, or that they had yet discovered the absence of the
prisoner from his place of confinement.
She listened for a long time. She even returned to the verandah door,
opened it, looked out, and listened again. But all was quiet, outside
as within; and supposing that the soldiers had returned into the
courtyard, she at length re-entered her chamber, and sought repose upon
her couch.
Her prolonged vigil, and its happy termination, favoured sleep; and at
that moment, when Henry Holtspur was struggling in the grasp of the
cuirassier guards, Marion Wade was dreaming a delightful dream of his
delivery--in which she fancied herself enjoying over and over again that
ecstatic interview that had succeeded it!
Her slumber, with its concomitant dream, was protracted far into the
hours of daylight. Long as they had continued, both were destined to a
rude interruption.
She was awakened by sounds without, betokening the presence of men under
the window of her chamber. Horses, too--as could be told by the
stamping of hooves upon the gravelled esplanade. Several distinct
voices reached her ear--one louder than the rest--which was occasionally
raised in abrupt accents of command; and once or twice in a tone
altogether different--in laughter! Whichever way uttered, it sounded
harsh in the hearing of Marion Wade: she knew it was Scarthe's.
For what was the cuirassier captain abroad at so early an hour? Was it
so early?
Her arm was extended from under the coverlet, white as the counterpane
itself. Her jewelled watch was taken up from the tripod table on which
it lay. Its dial was consulted: ten of the clock!
At the same instant, the hour was proclaimed in sonorous cadence from
the tower o'ertopping the mansion.
It was not to assist her in conjecturing the purpose of that matutinal
commotion that Marion had so eagerly glanced to the dial of her watch.
After the events of the night, she could have had but one surmise: that
Holtspur's escape had been discovered; and the noises outside were made
by those preparing to go off in pursuit of him. She had looked at her
watch, to ascertain the time that had elapsed since Holtspur's
departure. She was gratified at perceiving the lateness of the hour.
But why did Scarthe appear to be so happy? Those peals of laughter were
inappropriate to the occasion--proceeding from one who should have been
suffering chagrin?
At the thought, Marion sprang from her couch, and glided towards the
window. From that window, but the morning before, she had witnessed the
most painful spectacle of her life. Very similar, and scarce less
painful, was that which now greeted her glance: Henry Holtspur, bound
upon the back of a horse, and encompassed by a troop of cuirassiers,
who, in full armour, were keeping close guard upon him!
They were all mounted, with accoutrements and valises strapped to their
saddles--as if ready for a journey. Scarthe himself a journey, pacing
back and forth upon the gravelled walk; but in a costume that showed he
had no intention to accompany the party, on whatever expedition it was
bent. Cornet Stubbs was to be its leader. Mounted upon Holtspur's
steed, he was at that moment placing himself at the head of the troop,
preliminary to commencing the march.
Marion had scarce time to take in the details of this tableau--equally
unexpected and sad--when a bugle brayed out the signal, "Forward." Its
notes drowned the scream that escaped from her quivering lips, as the
form of her beloved was ruthlessly borne away out of sight.
Nearly half an hour had elapsed before the confusion of ideas--
consequent on such a painful scene--permitted on the part of Marion
Wade, a return to anything like calm reflection. Even then her mind was
still wandering amidst a maze of unavailing thoughts, when voices, again
heard below, recalled her to the window.
She looked out as before. The tableau was changed from that she had
already contemplated.
Only two individuals composed it--Scarthe and a stranger.
The latter was a man in civilian costume; but of a certain guise that
betokened him to be in the service of the king. He was on horseback--
his horse frothing, smoking, and panting, as if after a long gallop at
top speed.
Scarthe was standing by the stirrup, listening to some communication
which the rider appeared to impart--in a haste that proclaimed its
importance.
Despite his earnestness, the stranger spoke in a low tone; but his voice
ascending to the window of Marion's chamber, was sufficiently loud for
her to catch the significant words--
"Prisoner--rescue--Uxbridge!"
On hearing them, Scarthe was seen to spring back from the side of the
horseman, with as much alertness as if the latter had aimed a blow at
him!
Next moment, and, without even staying to make reply to the
communication which the messenger had made, he rushed on towards the
gate of the courtyard, loudly vociferating, "To horse--every man to
horse!"
With that promptitude to which he had trained his troop, the cuirassiers
were almost instantly in their saddles; and before Marion Wade could
recover from the shock of this new surprise--more gratifying than that
which had preceded it--she beheld Scarthe himself--enveloped in his
steel armour--ride forth at the head of his troop; and go off at a
gallop along the avenue leading out towards Uxbridge.
"A rescue--Uxbridge!" were the words that continued to echo in her ears,
long after the trampling of the troopers' horses had died away upon the
distant road.
"God grant it may be true!" was her murmured response to that echo.
The excited suppliant did not content herself with this simple formulary
of speech. Nudely kneeling upon the floor, her white arms crossed over
her bosom, she breathed forth a prayer--a fervent, passionate prayer--
invoking the protection of the God she loved, for the man she adored!
Volume Three, Chapter IX.
It was approaching the hour of ten, and Uxbridge was in the full tide of
active life. More than the usual number of people appeared to be
parading its streets; though no one seemed to know exactly why. It was
not market-day; and the extra passengers sauntering along the footways,
and standing by the corners, were not farmers. They appeared to be
mostly common people--of the class of labourers, and artisans. They
were not in holiday dresses; but in their ordinary every-day garb: as if
they had been at work, and had abruptly "knocked off" to be present at
some improvised spectacle--of which they had just received notice. The
shoemaker was in his leathern apron, his hands sticky with wax; the
blacksmith begrimed and sweating, as if fresh from the furnace; the
miller's man under a thick coating of flour-dust; and the butcher with
breeches still reeking, as if recently come out from the
slaughter-house.
A crowd had collected in front of the Rose and Crown, with groups
stretching across the adjacent causeway; and to this point all the odd
stragglers from the upper part of the town appeared tending.
Those who had already arrived there were exhibiting themselves in a
jolly humour. The tavern tap was flowing freely; and scores of people
were drinking at somebody's expense; though at whose, nobody seemed
either to know or care.
A tall, dark-complexioned man, oddly attired--assisted by the potmen of
the establishment--was helping the crowd to huge tankards of strong ale,
though he seemed more especially attentive to a score of stout fellows
of various crafts and callings--several of whom appeared to be
acquainted with him; and were familiarly accosting him by his name of
"Greg'ry."
Another individual, still taller and more robust--as also older--was
assisting "Greg'ry" in distributing the good cheer; while the host of
the inn--equally interested in the quick circulation of the can--was
bustling about with a smile of encouragement to all customers who came
near him.
It might have been noticed that the eyes of the revellers were, from
time to time, turned towards the bridge--by which the road leading
westward was carried across the Colne. There was nothing particular
about this structure--a great elevated arch, supporting a narrow
causeway, flanked by stone walls, which extended from the water's edge
some twenty or thirty yards along both sides of the road. The walls
were still farther continued towards the town by a wooden paling, which
separated the road from the adjoining meadows.
These, bordering both sides of the river, extended away towards the
south-west, as far as the eye could reach.
Between the houses, and the nearer end of the bridge, intervened about a
hundred yards of the highway, which lay directly under the eyes of the
roistering crowd; but on the other side of the river, the road was not
visible from the inn--being screened by the mason-work of the parapet,
and the arched elevation of the causeway.
Neither on the road, nor the bridge, nor in the meadows below, did there
appear aught that should have attracted the attention of the idlest
loiterer; though it was evident from the glances occasionally cast
westward over the water, that some object worth seeing was expected to
show itself in that direction.
The expression upon the countenances of most was that of mere curiosity;
but there were eyes among the crowd that betrayed a deeper interest--
amounting almost to anxiety.
The tall man in odd apparel, with the bushy black whiskers, though
bandying rough jests with those around him, and affecting to look gay,
could be seen at intervals casting an eager look towards the bridge, and
then communicating in whispers with the individual in the faded
velveteens--who was well-known to most of the bystanders as "Old Dick
Dancey the deer-stealer."
"What be ye all gathered here about?" inquired a man freshly arrived in
front of the inn. "Anything to be seen, masters?"
"That there be," answered one of those thus interrogated. "Wait a bit
and maybe you'll see something worth seeing."
"What might it be?"
"Dragoniers--royal soldiers of his Majesty the King."
"Bah! what's there in that to get up such a row for? One sees them now
every day."
"Ay, and once a day too often," added a third speaker, who did not
appear to be amongst the most loyal of His Majesty's lieges.
"Ah! but you don't see them every day as you will this morning--taking a
prisoner to the Tower--a grand gentleman at that!"
"A prisoner! Who?"
A name was pronounced, or rather _soubriquet_: for it was by a phrase
that the question was answered.
"_The Black Horseman_," replied the man who had been questioned.
"That's the prisoner you shall see, master."
The announcement might have caused a greater commotion among the
spectators, but that most of those present had already learnt the object
of the assemblage. The excitement that at that instant succeeded,
sprang from a different cause. A man who had climbed up on the parapet
of the bridge--and who had been standing with his face turned westward--
was seen making a signal, which appeared to be understood by most of
those around the inn. At the same instant, a crowd of boys, who had
been sharing his view from the top of the wall, commenced waving their
caps, and crying out "The horse sogers--the King's Kewresseers!--they're
comin' they're comin'!"
The shouting was succeeded by a profound silence--the silence of
expectation.
Soon after, plumes waving over steel helmets, then the helmets
themselves, then glancing gorgets and breastplates, proclaimed the
approach of a troop of cuirassiers.
They came filing between the walls of grey mason-work--their helmets, as
they rose up one after another over the arched parapet, blazing under
the bright sun, and dazzling the eyes of the spectators.
In the troop there were exactly a dozen horsemen, riding in files of two
each; but the cavalcade counted fourteen--its leader making the
thirteenth, while a man, not clad in armour, though in line among the
rest, completed the number.
This last individual, although robed in rich velvet, and with all the
cast of a cavalier, was attached to the troop in a _peculiar_ manner.
The attitude he held upon his horse--with hands bound behind his back,
and ankles strapped to the girth of his saddle--told that he was of less
authority than the humblest private in the rank. He was a prisoner.
He was not unknown to the people composing that crowd, into the midst of
which his escort was advancing. The _black horseman_ had ridden too
often through the streets of Uxbridge, and held converse with its
inhabitants, to pass them in such fashion, without eliciting glances of
recognition and gestures of sympathy.
He was no longer astride his own noble steed, as well-known as himself;
though the horse was there, with a rider upon his back who but ill
became him.
This was the chief of the escort, Cornet Stubbs, who, an admirer of
horse flesh, had that day committed an act of quiet confiscation.
Holtspur was between two of the troopers, about three or four files from
the rear; while the cornet--somewhat conceited in the exercise of his
conspicuous command--rode swaggeringly at the head. In this fashion,
the glittering cavalcade crossed the causeway of the bridge, and
advanced among the crowd--until its foremost files had penetrated to a
point directly in front of the inn.
Stubbs had been scanning the countenance of the people as he rode in
among them. He fancied he saw faces that frowned upon him; but these
were few; and, on the whole, the assemblage seemed simply hilarious and
cheerful.
It never occurred to him, that there could be any intention of
interrupting his march. How could it? He presumed, that, as soon as
his charger penetrated into the thick of the crowd, the individuals
comprising it would spring quickly aside, and make way for him and his
followers.
It was with some surprise, therefore, that on getting fairly in front of
the inn, he found the passage blocked by human bodies--standing so
densely across the street, that in order to avoid riding over them, he
was compelled to bring his horse to a halt.
Just at that instant, a shout rose up around him--apparently intended as
a cheer of congratulation to the soldiers; while a voice, louder than
the rest, vociferated: "The King! the King! Down with disloyal knaves!
Death to all traitors!"
There was a touch of irony in the tones; but it was too delicately drawn
for the dull perception of Cornet Stubbs; and he interpreted the
speeches, in their loyal and literal sense.
"My good friends!" he graciously replied, while a gratified expression
stole over his stolid features, "Glad to find you in such good spirits.
Am, by Ged!"
"Oh! we're in the right spirit," rejoined one. "You'll see bye-and-bye.
Come, master officer! have a drink. Let's toast the king! You won't
object to that, I'm sure?"
"By no means," replied Stubbs. "By no means. I should be most happy to
drink with you; but you see, my friends, we're on duty; and must not be
detained--mustn't, by Ged!"
"We won't detain ye a minnit," urged the first speaker--a stalwart
blacksmith, as hard of face as his own hammer. "We won't, by Ged!"
added he in a tone which, coupled with the peculiar form of expression,
led Stubbs to conceive some doubts about the sincerity of his proffered
friendship.
"Look alive there, lads!" continued the village Vulcan. "Bring out the
stingo, landlord! Some of your best wine for the officer; and your
strongest home-brew for his brave men. Ding it--the day's hot and
dusty. You have a long ride atween this and Lunnun. You'll feel
fresher, after sluicin' your throats with a can o' our Uxbridge ale.
Won't ye, masters?"
The last appeal was made to the troopers; who, without making any verbal
reply, signified by nods and other gestures, that they were nothing
loath to accept the offer, without calling in question the _brusquerie_
of him who made it.
Almost as if by enchantment a number of men, with drinking-vessels in
their hands, appeared on both flanks of the mounted escort--each holding
a cup, or can, temptingly before the eyes of a trooper.
These ready waiters were not the regular tapsters of the establishment,
but men of other and different crafts: the shoemakers already spoken of,
in their wax-smeared aprons--the millers in their snow-white jackets--
the blacksmiths in the grimy garments--and the butchers redolent of
suet.
Notwithstanding the _sans facon_ of the invitation, and the odd apparel
of the attendants, the liquor frothing up before their eyes, and within
scenting distance of their nostrils, was too much for the troopers to
withstand. A five miles' ride along a hot and dusty road had brought
them to that condition called "drouthy;" and, under such circumstances,
it would not have been human nature to have denied themselves the
indulgence of a drink, thus held, as it were, to their very lips.
It would not have been Scarthe's cuirassiers to have done so; and,
without waiting the word--either of permission or command--each trooper
took hold of the can nearest to his hand; and, raising it to his lips,
cried out: "The King!"
The crowd echoed the loyal sentiment; while the improvised cup-bearers--
as if still further to testify their respect--took hold of the bridles
of the horses, and kept them quiet, in order that their riders might
quaff in comfort, and without spilling the precious liquor.
There were two of these attendants, however, who deviated slightly from
the fashion of the rest. They were those who waited upon the two
troopers that on each side flanked the prisoner. Instead of contenting
themselves with holding the horses at rest, each of these attendants led
the one whose bridle he had grasped a little out of the alignment of the
rank. It was done silently, and as if without design; though the moment
after, there was an apparent object--when a tall man, with black
whiskers and swarth complexion, passed around the head of one of the
horses, and holding up a flagon invited the prisoner to drink.
"You've no objection to _him_ having a wet, I suppose?" said this man,
addressing himself in a side speech to the soldiers who guarded him.
"Poor gentleman! He looks a bit thirstyish--doan't he?"
"You may give him a drink, or two of them, for aught I care," said the
soldier more immediately interested in making answer. "But you'd better
not let the officer see you."
The speaker nodded significantly towards Stubbs.
"I'll take care o' that," said Gregory Garth: for it was he who held up
the flagon.
"Here, master," he continued, gliding close up to the prisoner. "Take a
drop o' this beer. 'Tan't a quality liquor, I know--such as I suppose
ye've been used to; but it be tidyish stuff for all that, an' 'll do ye
good. Bend downish a bit, an' I'll bold it to yer lips. Don't be
afeard o' fallin' out o' yer saddle. I'll put my hand ahind to steady
ye. So--now--that's the way!"
Gregory's fingers, as he continued to talk, had found their way around
the croup of the saddle, and rested upon the wrists of the prisoner--
where they were tied together.
The troopers behind, too much occupied by their potations, and the
_facetiae_ of the attendants who administered them, saw not that little
bit of shining steel, that, in the habile hands of the ex-footpad, was
fast severing the cords that confined Henry Holtspur to his place.
"A goodish sort o' stuff--ain't it, master?" asked Gregory aloud, as he
held the drinking-vessel to the prisoner's lips. Then adding, in a
quick muttered tone, "Now, Master Henry! yer hands are free. Lay hold
o' the reins; an' wheel round to the right. Stick this knife into the
brute; and gallop back over the bridge, as if the devil war after ye."
"It's no use, Gregory," hurriedly answered the cavalier. "The horse is
but a poor hack. They'd overtake me before I could make a mile. Ha!"
exclaimed he, as if a real hope had suddenly sprung up. "Hubert! I did
not think of him. There _is_ a chance. I'll try it."
During all their experience in the Flanders campaign, the cuirassiers of
Captain Scarthe had never been more taken by surprise, than when their
prisoner was seen suddenly clutching the reins of the steed he
bestrode--with a quick wrench drawing the animal out of the rank--and,
as if a spur had been applied to every square inch of his skin, they saw
the old troop horse spring past them, apparently transformed into a
fleet courser!
Their surprise was so great, that the drinking cups instantly dropped
from their grasp; though for a good while, not one of them was able to
recover his reins--which the lubberly attendants had in the most stupid
manner hauled over the heads of their horses!
It did not diminish their astonishment to see the escaping prisoner pull
up as he approached the bridge; raise his fingers to his lips; and give
utterance to a shrill whistle, that came pealing back upon the ears of
the crowd.
It did not diminish their astonishment, to hear a horse neighing--as if
in reply to that strange signal. On the contrary, it increased it.
Their surprise reached its climax when they saw that, of all their
number. Cornet Stubbs was the only one who had the presence of mind--
the courage and command of himself and his horse--to start immediately
in pursuit!
That he had done so there could be no mistake. The black charger went
sweeping past them like a bolt fired from a culverin--close following
upon the heels of the fugitive, with Cornet Stubbs seated in the saddle,
apparently urging the pursuit.
Alas! for Cornet Stubbs! He was not long allowed to enjoy an honour, as
unexpected as unsought; no longer than while his fiery steed was
galloping over the ground towards the spot where the troop horse had
been hauled up.
As the two steeds came into contiguity, Stubbs became sensible of a
strong hand clutching him by the gorget, and jerking him out of his
stirrups. The next moment he felt a shock, as if he had been hurled
heavily to the earth. He did, by Ged!
Although all this passed confusedly before his mind, the spectators saw
every movement with perfect distinctness. They saw the cornet lifted
out of his saddle, and pitched into the middle of the road. They saw
the cavalier, who had accomplished this feat, change horses with him
whom he had unhorsed--without setting foot to the ground; and, amidst
the wild huzzas that greeted the achievement, they saw the blade
horseman once more firmly seated astride his own steed, and galloping
triumphantly away.
The cheer was an utterance of the most enthusiastic joy--in which every
individual in the crowd appeared to have had a voice--the discomfited
cuirassiers excepted. It was the true English "hurrah," springing from
the heart of a people--ever ready to applaud an exploit of bold and
dangerous daring.
Why was it not protracted: for it was not? It subsided almost on the
instant that it had arisen--ere its echoes had ceased reverberating from
the walls of the adjacent houses!
It was succeeded by a silence solemn and profound; and then, by a
murmuring indicative of some surprise--sudden as that which had called
forth the shout, but of a less pleasant nature.
No one asked the cause of that silence; though all were inquiring _the
cause of what had caused it_.
The astonishment of the spectators had sprung from the behaviour of the
black horseman--which at the crisis appeared singular. Having reached
the central point of the bridge, instead of continuing his course, he
was seen suddenly to rein up--and with such violence, as to bring his
horse back upon his haunches, till his sweeping tail lay scattered over
the causeway! The movement was instantly followed by another. The
horse, having regained an erect attitude, was seen to head, first in one
direction, then into another--as if his rider was still undecided which
course he should take.
The spectators at first thought it was some fault of the animal; that he
had baulked at some obstacle, and become restive.
In a few seconds they were undeceived; and the true cause of this
interruption to the flight of the fugitive became apparent to all--in
the waving plumes and glittering helmets that appeared beyond, rising
above the cope-stones of the parapet.
Another troop of cuirassiers--larger than the first--was coming along
the road in the direction of the bridge. It was Scarthe, and his
squadron!
Already had the foremost files readied the termination of the parapet
walls; and were advancing at a trot towards the centre of the arch. In
that direction Holtspur's retreat was cut off--as completely as if he
had entered within a _cul de sac_.
He saw it, and had turned to ride back; but by this time the troopers
who accompanied Stubbs, stirred to energetic action by the trick played
upon them, had recovered their reins, and were making all haste to
pursue the prisoner. The corporal who commanded them--for the cornet
still lay senseless upon the road--had succeeded in getting them into
some sort of a forward movement; and they were now advancing in all
haste towards the bridge.
For a moment the black horseman appeared undecided how to act. To
gallop in either direction was to rush upon certain death, or certain
capture. On each side was a troop of cuirassiers with drawn sabres, and
carbines ready to be discharged; while the space between the two
squadrons was shut in--partly by the parapet walls of the bridge, and
partly by the palings that continued them.
For a man unarmed, however well mounted, to run _the gauntlet_, in
either direction, was plainly an impossibility; and would only have been
attempted by one reckless of life, and determined to throw it away.
I have said, that for a moment Holtspur appeared irresolute. The
spectators beheld his irresolution with hearts throbbing apprehensively.
It was but for a moment; and then, the black steed was seen suddenly to
turn head towards the town, and came trotting back over the bridge!
Some believed that his rider had repented of his rashness, and was about
to deliver himself up to the guard, from whom he had escaped. Others
were under the impression, that he intended to run the gauntlet, and was
choosing the weaker party through which to make the attempt.
Neither conjecture was the correct one: as was proved the instant
after--when Holtspur suddenly setting his horse transverse to the
direction of the causeway, and giving the noble animal a simultaneous
signal by voice, hand, and heel, sprang him over the palings into the
meadow below!
The taunting cry shouted back, as he galloped off over the green sward--
a cry that more than once had tortured the ears of pursuing Indians--was
heard above the vociferous huzza that greeted his escape from Scarthe
and his discomfited followers.
The shots fired after him had no effect. In those days a marksman was a
character almost unknown; and the bullet of a carbine was scarce more
dreaded, than the shaft of the clumsy cross-bow.
The pursuit continued by the cuirassiers along the verdant banks of the
Colne, was more for the purpose of saving appearances, than from any
hope of overtaking the fugitive. Before his pursuers could clear the
obstacle that separated them from the mead, and place themselves upon
his track, the "black horseman" appeared like a dark speck--rapidly
diminishing in size, as he glided onward towards the wild heaths of
Iver.
Volume Three, Chapter X.
In the days of Charles (the Martyr!) a state prisoner was not such a
_rara avis_ as at present. Laud had his list, and Strafford also--that
noble but truculent tool of a tyrant--who ended his life by becoming
himself a state prisoner--the most distinguished of all.
A gentleman denounced, and taken to the Tower, was anything but a rare
event; and created scarce more sensation than would at the present day
the capture of a swell-mobsman.
The arrest of Henry Holtspur passed over as a common occurrence. His
rescue and escape were of a less common character; though even these
served only for a nine days' wonder in the mind of the general public.
There were few who understood exactly how the rescue had been brought
about; or how that crowd of "disloyal knaves"--as they were termed by
the king's partisans--had come to be so opportunely assembled in front
of the "Rose and Crown."
No one seemed to know whither the fugitive had betaken himself--not even
rumour. It was only conjectured that he had sought concealment--and
found it--in that grand hiding place, safe as the desert itself: London.
For those attainted with "treasonable proclivities" towards the tyrant
king, the great city was, at that time, a safer asylum than any other
part of his kingdom.
The cuirassier captain had done all in his power, to hinder the event
from obtaining general publicity. He had not reported at head quarters,
either the arrest or what followed; and he had been equally remiss of
duty, in permitting the circumstances of Holtspur's rescue to pass
without investigation.
He still clung to the hope of being able to effect his recapture; and to
that end he employed--though in a clandestine manner--all the influence
he could bring to his aid. He despatched secret agents into different
parts of the country; and no communication--not even a letter--could
enter the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, without Captain Scarthe knowing
the nature of its contents.
During this period, his position in the quarters he occupied, may be
regarded as somewhat anomalous. A certain intimacy had become
established between him and the family of his host. How far it was
friendly, on either side, was a question.
A stranger, or superficial observer, might have fancied it so--on the
part of Scarthe even cordial.
Ever since the first day of his residence under the roof of Sir
Marmaduke, he had held his troopers in strict subordination: so strict
as to have given these worthies no slight offence. But Captain Scarthe
was a commander not to be trifled with; and his followers knew it.
For every little incident of trouble or annoyance, occurring to the
inmates of the mansion, ample apologies were rendered; and it might have
been imagined, that the king's cuirassiers had been sent to Bulstrode as
a guard of honour to attend upon its owner, rather than a "billet" to
live at his expense!
These delicate attentions to Sir Marmaduke, sprang not from any motive
of chivalry or kindness; they were simply designed for the securing of
his daughter. Scarthe wanted her heart, as well as her hand. The
former, because he loved her, with all the fierce passion of a soul
highly gifted, though ill-guided; the latter, because he coveted her
fortune: for Marion Wade, in addition to her transcendant charms, was
heiress to a noble domain. She was endowed second to none in the shire;
for a separate property was hers, independent of the estate of
Bulstrode. Scarthe knew it; and for this reason desired to have her
hand, along with her heart.
Failing to win the latter, he might still hope to obtain the former;
which, with the fortune that accompanied it, would go far towards
consoling his disappointed vanity.
Whether loving him or not, he was determined Marion Wade should be his
wife; and, if fair means should not serve for the execution of his
project, he would not scruple to make use of the contrary. He was ready
to avail himself of that terrible secret--of which he had become
surreptitiously possessed.
The life of Sir Marmaduke Wade lay upon his lips. The knight was, at
that moment, as much in his power, as if standing in the presence of the
Star Chamber, with a score of witnesses to swear to his treason.
It needed but a word from Scarthe to place him in that dread presence;
and the latter knew it. A sign to his followers, and his host might
have been transformed into his prisoner!
He had not much fear, that he would ever be called upon to carry matters
to such an ill-starred extreme. He had too grand a reliance upon his
own irresistibility with the sex. The man, whom he had originally
believed to be his rival, now out of Marion's sight, appeared to be also
out of her mind; and, during his absence, Scarthe had been every day
becoming more convinced--his wish being father to the thought--that the
relationship between Marion and Holtspur had not been of an amatory
character.
The bestowal of the glove might have been a mere complimentary favour,
for some service rendered? Such gifts were not uncommon; and tokens
worn in hats or helmets were not always emblematic of the tender
passion. The short acquaintanceship that had existed between them--for
Scarthe had taken pains to inform himself on this head--gave some colour
to his conjecture; at least, it was pleasant for him to think so.
Women, in those days, were the most potent politicians. It was a woman
who had brought on the war with Spain--another who had caused the
interference in Flanders--a woman who had led to our artificial alliance
with France--a woman who, then as now, ruled England!
Marion Wade was a woman--just such an one as might be supposed to wield
the destinies of a nation. Her political sentiments were no secret to
the royalist officer. His own creed, and its partisans, were often the
victims of her satirical sallies; and he could not doubt of her
republican inclinings.
It might be only that sort of sympathy thus existed between her and
Holtspur?
Had he been an eye-witness to her behaviour--throughout that eventful
day on which the conspirator had made his escape--he might have found it
more difficult to reconcile himself to this pleasant belief. Her sad
countenance, as, looking from the lattice, she once more beheld her
lover in the power of his enemies--once more in vile bonds--might have
proved, to the most uninterested observer, the existence of a care which
love alone could create. Could he have seen her during the interval
which transpired--between the time when the prisoner was borne off
towards his perilous prison, and the return of the mounted messenger who
told of his escape--he might have been convinced of an anxiety, which
love alone can feel.
With what unspeakable joy had Marion listened to this last announcement!
Perhaps it repaid her for the moments of misery, she had been silently
enduring.
Deep as had been the chagrin, consequent on that event, Scarthe had
found some consolation in the thought, that, henceforth, he should have
the field to himself. He would take care that his rival should not
again cross the threshold of Sir Marmaduke's mansion, nor in any way
obtain access to his daughter's presence till he had settled the
question of his own acceptance, or rejection.
During all this while, Sir Marmaduke and his people in their behaviour
towards their uninvited guests, appeared civil enough.
Though one closely acquainted with the relationship--or narrowly
scrutinising the intercourse between them--could not have failed to
perceive that this civility was less free, than forced.
That it was so--or rather that a friendship existed even in appearance--
needs but little explanation.
Sir Marmaduke's conduct was ruled by something more than a vague
apprehension of danger. The arrest of his fellow-conspirator was
significant; and it was not difficult to draw from that circumstance a
host of uncomfortable conclusions.
The course he was pursuing towards Scarthe, was not only opposed to his
inclinations, but exceedingly irksome to him. There were times when he
was almost tempted to throw off the mask; and brave the worst that might
come of it. But prudence suggested endurance--backed by the belief
that, ere long, things might take a more favourable turn.
The king had been compelled to issue a writ--not for the election of a
new parliament, but for the re-assembling of the old one. In that
centred the hopes and expectations of the party, of which Sir Marmaduke
was now a declared member.
Marion's politeness to Scarthe was equally dashed with distrust. It had
no other foundation than her affection for her father. She loved the
latter, with even more than filial fondness: for she was old enough, and
possessed of sufficient intelligence, to understand the intrinsic
nobility of his character. She was not without apprehension, that some
danger overshadowed him; though she knew not exactly what. Sir
Marmaduke had not made known to her the secret, that would have
explained it. He had forborne doing so, under the fear of causing her
unnecessary anxiety; and had simply requested her, to treat the
unwelcome intruders with a fair show of respect.
The hint had been enough; and Marion, subduing her haughty spirit,
yielded faithful obedience to it.
Scarthe had no reason to complain of any slights received from the
daughter of his host. On the contrary, her behaviour towards him
appeared so friendly, that there were times when he drew deductions from
it, sufficiently flattering to himself.
Thus tranquilly did affairs progress during the first few weeks of
Scarthe's sojourn at Bulstrode--when an event was announced, that was
destined to cause an exciting change in the situation. It was a _Fete
champetre_, to be given by Sir Frederick Dayrell, lord of the manor of
Fulmere--at which a grand flight of falcons was to form part of the
entertainment. The elite of the county was to be present, including Sir
Marmaduke Wade and his family, and along with them his military guests--
Captain Scarthe and Cornet Stubbs.
Volume Three, Chapter XI.
The beautiful park of Bulstrode was radiant with the earliest rays of
the sun. The dew still glittered upon the grass; and the massive
chestnuts threw elongated shadows far down the sloping declivities. The
stag, that had been slumbering undisturbed during the night, springing
from his soft couch of moss, strode forth to make his morning meal upon
the tempting sward. The birds had already chaunted their orison to the
opening day; and, forsaking their several perches, were fluttering
merrily from tree to tree. All nature was awake.
Though the hour was an early one, the inmates of the mansion seemed not
to be asleep. Half-a-dozen saddled horses, under the conduct of as many
grooms, had been led forth from the courtyard; and were standing in
front of the house, held in hand, as if awaiting their riders.
Two were caparisoned differently from the rest. By the peculiar
configuration of their saddles, it was evident, they were intended to be
mounted by ladies.
In addition to the grooms in charge of the horses there were other
attendants standing or moving about. There were falconers, with blinded
hawks borne upon their wrists and shoulders; and finders, with dogs held
in leash--each clad in the costume of his craft.
In the boudoir of Marion Wade were two beautiful women. Marion herself
was one; Lora Lovelace the other.
The high-crowned beaver hats; the close-fitting habits of green velvet;
the gauntlets upon their hands; and the whips in them, proclaimed the
two ladies to be those, for whom the sidesaddle horses had been
caparisoned.
Both had given the finishing touch to their toilettes, before forsaking
their separate chambers. They had met in Marion's sitting-room--there
to hold a moment's converse, and be ready when summoned to the saddle.
"Walter promises we'll have fine sport," said the little Lora, tripping
across the chamber, light as a fawn, and gay as a lark. "He says the
mere has not been disturbed for long--ever so long--and there have been
several broods of herons this season--besides sedge-hens, snipe, and
woodcock. We shall find game for goshawks, kestrels, jer-falcons,
merlins, and every sort. Won't it be delightful?"
"Pleasant enough, I dare say--for those who can enjoy it."
"What, Marion! and will not you--you so fond of falconry, as often to go
hawking alone?"
"Ah, Lora! this sport, like many others, may be pleasanter alone, than
in company--that is, company one don't care for."
"Dear me cousin! you'd make believe, that there isn't one, among the
grand people we are going to meet to-day, worth caring for?"
"Not one--of my knowing."
"What! our very gallant guest, who is to be our escort--not Captain
Scarthe?"
"I should have expected you to say Cornet Stubbs, instead."
"Ha, ha, ha! No, no! He's too stupid to be a pleasant companion for
me."
"And Captain Scarthe is too much the opposite to be a pleasant companion
for me. In truth, of the two I like Stubbs best--spite of his vulgar
patronymic."
"You are jesting, Marion? Stubbs, Stubbs,--Cornet Stubbs! How would it
sound as Colonel Stubbs? Not a whit better. No: not if he were General
Stubbs. Mistress Stubbs? I wouldn't be called so for the world! Lady
Stubbs? No, not for a coronet!"
"Between Stubbs, and Scarthe, I see not much to choose."
"Marion, you mistake. There's a warlike sound about Scarthe. I could
imagine a man of that name to be a hero."
"And I could imagine a man of that name to be a poltroon--I _do_."
"What! not our Captain Scarthe? Why everybody calls him a most
accomplished cavalier. Certes, he appears so. A little rude at first,
I acknowledge; but since then, who could have acted more cavalierly?
And to you, cousin, surely he has been sufficiently attentive, to have
won your profound esteem?"
"Say rather my profound detestation. Then you would come nearer
speaking the truth: he has won that."
"You don't show it, I'm sure. I've seen you and Captain Scarthe very
happy together--very happy indeed--if one may judge from appearances."
"Wheels within wheels, coz. A smiling cheek don't always prove a
contented heart; nor is a smooth tongue the truest indication of
courtesy. You have seen me polite to Captain Scarthe--nothing more; and
for that, I have my reasons."
"Reasons!"
"Yes; good reasons, dear Lora. But for them, I shouldn't go hawking
to-day--least of all, with _him_ as my companion. Captain Scarthe may
be a hero in your eyes, my gay cousin; but he is not the one that's
enthroned within my heart; and _you_ know that."
"I do--I do, dear Marion. I was only jesting. I know Captain Scarthe
is not your hero; and can tell who is. His name begins with Henry, and
ends with Holtspur."
"Ah, there you have named a true hero! But hark you, my little parrot!
Don't be prattling these confidences. If you do, I'll tell Walter how
much you admire Captain Scarthe, or Cornet Stubbs. Of which do you wish
him to be jealous?"
"Oh, Marion! not a word to Walter about Stubbs. Do you know I believe,
that he's a little jealous of him already. He don't like his attentions
to me--not a bit, Walter don't. I'm sure neither do I; but I can't help
them, you know--so long as we _must_ meet three or four times a day. I
think the refusal I gave might have been sufficient. It was flat
enough. But it hasn't; and would you believe it, he still continues his
attentions, as if nothing had happened between us? Pray don't make
Walter worse; else there might be a fight between them; and then--"
"The valiant cornet might crack Walter's crown?"
"No! that he couldn't; though he _is_ bigger than Walter. He's not
braver, I'm sure. That he isn't, the ugly impertinent."
"What! has he been impertinent to you?"
"Not exactly that; but he don't seem to know much about politeness. How
different with Captain Scarthe. He _is_ polite."
"I suppose--after a fashion."
"Dorothy Dayrell thinks him perfection. I'm sure that girl's in love
with him. Why is she always riding up to Bulstrode, if it isn't to have
an opportunity of seeing him? I'm sure, it's neither of us she comes to
visit."
"She's quite welcome to come--if it be for the purpose you suppose."
"Ay! and it's for nothing else than to get into his company, that she
gives the hawking party to-day. She's a dangerous designing creature--
that's what she is."
"If her design be to catch Captain Scarthe, I hope she may succeed in
it. I'm sure I shan't be the one to stand in her way."
"Well!" rejoined Lora, "I'm determined to keep my eyes on her this very
day; and see how she behaves. Oh! you don't know how I detest that
girl; and why, do you think?"
"Really, I cannot tell."
"Well! it is because I know that she is _your enemy_!"
"I never gave her cause!"
"I know that."
"Perhaps you know why it is so?"
"I do!"
"Tell me?"
"Because you are beautiful."
"If that be her reason, she should be your enemy as much as mine?"
"Oh, no! I have not the vanity to think so. My beauty is only
prettiness; while yours--ah! cousin Marion, you are beautiful in my
eyes--a woman! What must you be in the eyes of a man?"
"You're a simpleton, Little Lora. You are much prettier than I; and as
for Dorothy Dayrell--don't every one call her the _belle of the county_?
I've heard it a score of times."