"And so have I. But what signifies that? Though you're my senior,

Marion, I think I have as much wisdom as you in matters of this kind.

Besides I'm only a spectator, and can judge between you. I believe that

the `belle of the county,' and the `belle of the ball-room,' are never

the most beautiful of those, with whom they are compared. Very often

such reputation is obtained, not from beauty, but behaviour; and from

behaviour not always the best."

"Go on in that way, Lora; and we shall esteem you as the Solon of our

sex."

"Nay, nay; I speak only sentiments such as anyone may conceive. You and

Dorothy Dayrell are just the two to illustrate them. While everybody

_calls her_ the belle of the county, everybody _thinks you_ to be so.

Indeed cousin! you are truly beautiful--so beautiful, that even the

peasant children of the parish gaze upon you with wonder and delight!"

"Fulsome flatterer!"

"In troth! 'tis true; and that's why Dorothy Dayrell dislikes you. She

wants to be everything; and knows that you take her laurels from her.

On the day of the _fete_, she did everything in her power to captivate

the man, whom she pretended to disparage!"

"Holtspur?"

"Yes: I saw her. She used all her arts to attract his attention. Ah,

Marion! he had only eyes for you. And now that he is gone, she's set

herself to attract Captain Scarthe. My word! won't she try to-day?

Sweet coz! I don't want you to act the hypocrite; but can't you--yes

you can--flirt a little with Scarthe--just to give her a chagrin? Oh!

I should so like to see that girl suffer what she deserves,--a chapter

of humiliation!"

"Foolish child! you know I cannot do that? It is not according to my

inclination--and just now less than ever in my life."

"Only for an hour--to punish her!"

"How should you like to be so punished yourself? Suppose some one,

to-day, were to flirt with Walter; or he with some one?"

"Then I'd flirt with Stubbs!"

"Incorrigible coquette! I think you _like_ Walter; but only that: Ah,

Lora! you know not what it is to _love_!"

"Don't I though--"

"Mistress Marion?" cried a groom, showing his face at the door of the

chamber, "Sir Marm'duke be mounted. They're only waitin' for you, and

Miss Lora!"

The man, after delivering his message, retired.

"Lora!" whispered Marion, as they issued forth from the room; "not a

word of what you know--not to anyone! Promise me that; and I may give

you the satisfaction you have asked for."

During the conversation between the cousins, the two men, who were the

chief subjects of it, were engaged in a dialogue of a somewhat kindred

character. Scarthe's sitting apartment was the scene; though neither of

the speakers was seated. Both were on their feet; and in costume for

the saddle--not military--but merely booted and spurred, with certain

equipments covering their dresses, that betokened an intention of going

forth upon the sport of falconry.

A splendid jer-falcon--perched upon the back of a chair, and wearing his

hood--gave further evidence of this intention; while their gloves drawn

on, and their beavers held in hand, told that, like the two ladies, they

were only awaiting a summons to sally forth.

Scarthe, following a favourite habit, was pacing the floor; while the

cornet stood watching him with attention: as if he had asked counsel

from his superior, and was waiting to receive it.

"And so, my gay cornet;" said Scarthe, addressing the subaltern in his

usual bantering way, "you're determined to try her again?"

"Yes, by Ged!--that is if you approve of it."

"Oh! as to my approval, it don't need that. It's not a military matter.

You may propose to every woman in the county for aught I care; twenty

times to each, if you think fit."

"But I want your advice, captain. Suppose she should refuse me a second

time?"

"Why that would be awkward--especially as you're sleeping under the same

roof, and eating at the same table with her. The more awkward, since

you say you've had a refusal already."

"It wasn't a regular offer. Besides I was too quick with it. There's

been a good deal since, that gives me hope. She'll think better of it

now--if I don't mistake her."

"You are not quite sure of her, then?"

"Well--not exactly."

"Don't you think you had better postpone your proposal, till you're more

certain of its being favourably received?"

"But there's a way to make certain. It's about that, I want you to

advise me."

"Let me hear your `way'?"

"Well; you see, captain, though the girl's only the niece of Sir

Marmaduke, she loves him quite as much as his own daughter does. I

don't think she cares about that stripling--farther than as a cousin.

What's between them is just like sister and brother: since she's got no

brother of her own. They've been brought up together--that's all."

"I can't help admiring your perspicuity, Cornet Stubbs."

Perspicuity was just that quality with which the cornet was not gifted;

else he could hardly have failed to notice the tone of irony, in which

the compliment was uttered.

"Oh! I ain't afraid of _him_ at all events!"

"What then are you afraid of? Is there any other rival, you think,

she's likely to prefer to you? May be young Dayrell; or that rather

good-looking son of Sir Roger Hammersley? Either of them, eh?"

"No--nor any one else."

"In that case, why are you in doubt? You think the girl likes you?"

"Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't. She appears to change every

day. But I've reason to believe, she likes me now; or did yesterday."

"How do you know that? Has she told you so?"

"No--not in words; but I think so from her way. I hinted to her, that I

intended to have a private talk with her upon an important matter, when

we should be out on this hawking party. She appeared delighted at the

idea--did, by Ged! Besides; she was in tip-top spirits all the evening

after; and several times spoke of the pleasure she expected from

to-morrow's sport--that is to-day. Now, what could that mean, unless--"

"Unless the pleasure she anticipated from your proposing to her. But if

her liking be only on alternate days--as you say--and she was so fond of

you yesterday, she might be in the contrary mood to-day? For that

reason I'd advise you to suspend proceedings till to-morrow."

"But, captain; you forget that I've got a way that will insure her

consent--whether it be to-day or to-morrow."

"Disclose it, my sagacious cornet."

"If I should only give her a hint--"

"Of what?"

"You know how Sir Marmaduke is in your power."

"I do."

"Well; if I only were to slip in a word about her uncle being in danger;

not only of his liberty but his life--"

"Stubbs!" cried the cuirassier captain, springing forward fiercely, and

shaking his clenched fist before the face of his subaltern; "if you slip

in a word about that--or dare to whisper the slightest hint of such a

thing--your own life will be in greater danger, than that of Sir

Marmaduke Wade. I've commanded you already to keep your tongue to

yourself on that theme; and now, more emphatically do I repeat the

command."

"Oh! captain," stammered out the terrified Stubbs, in an apologetic

whine; "if you don't approve, of course I won't say a word about it. I

won't, by Ged!"

"No; you had better not. Win the consent of your sweetheart, after your

own way; but don't try to take advantage of a power, that does not

appertain to you. A contingency may arise, for disclosing that secret;

but it is for _me_, not _you_, to judge of the crisis."

The further protestations of the scared cornet were cut short by the

entrance of a messenger; who came to announce that the party, about to

proceed on the hawking excursion, was ready to start, and only waited

the company of Captain Scarthe and Cornet Stubbs.

Five minutes later, a cavalcade of splendid appearance might have been

seen passing through Bulstrode Park, towards one of the side gates that

opened out to the eastward.

It consisted of Sir Marmaduke Wade, his son, daughter and niece--the two

officers, his guests--with a large following of grooms, falconers, and

other attendants; a number of them on horseback, with hawks perched upon

their shoulders; a still larger number afoot--conducting the retrievers,

others _chiens de chasse_, employed in the _venerie_ of the time.

On clearing the enclosure of the park, the gay procession turned in a

southerly direction--towards the beautiful lake of Fulmere; which, fed

by the Alder "burn," lay embosomed between two parallel spurs of the

beech-embowered Chilterns.

Volume Three, Chapter XII.

The Lake "Fulmere" is no longer in existence; though a village--so

picturesque, as to appear the creation of a painter's fancy--still

retains the name. The "mere" itself--yielding to the all-absorbing

spirit of utilitarianism--has disappeared from the landscape--drained

off by the brook "Alderburne," and the rivers Colne, and Thames, to

mingle its waters with the ocean. Its bed has become a meadow--the

residue of its waters being retained in sundry stagnant pools, which

serve to supply the neighbouring markets with cress, and the

pharmacopoeia of the village apothecaries with "calamus root."

Once a broad sheet of crystal water covered the cress-beds of Fulmere--a

sheet with sedgy shores, in which sheltered the bittern, and blue heron,

the bald coot, the water-hen, and the gold-crested widgeon.

It was so on that day, when Dorothy Dayrell--the daughter of Sir

Frederick, Lord of the Manor of Fulmere--invited her friends to be

present at a grand entertainment--including falconry--the spectacle to

be exhibited upon the shores of the lake.

Dorothy Dayrell was something more than pretty. She was what might be

termed a "dashing creature,"--a little devilish, it is true--but this,

in the eyes of her male acquaintances, only rendered her prettiness more

piquant. Following the fashion of her father, she was of the true Tory

type--devotedly attached to King and State--and blindly believing in

that theory--worthy the conception of a community of apes--the "right

divine."

Silly as is the belief, it was then entertained, as, now. At that time,

human bipeds of both sexes were just as parasitical, as they are at the

present hour; and as loudly proclaimed their ignoble longings for King

Stork, or King Log. Not, however, quite so unanimously. The word

"republic" was beginning to be heard, issuing from the lips of great

statesmen, and true patriots. It was beginning to find an echo in

remote villages, and cottage homes, throughout all England.

Not that such sentiments had ever been spoken in the village of Fulmere.

To have pronounced them there, would have been deemed rank treason; and

the rustic giving utterance to them, would have found himself in the

pillory, almost before the speech could have passed from his lips.

Dorothy hated the idea of a republic; as small-souled people do now, and

have done in all ages. We regret having to place the fair Dayrell in

this category; but we must succumb to the requirements of truth; and

this compels us to say that Mistress Dorothy, physically, _petite_, was

morally little-minded. Her pretty face, however, concealed the defects

of her selfish soul; and, aided by many wiles and winning ways, rendered

her sufficiently popular in that large social circle, of which she was,

or wished to be, both the star and the centre.

Some proof of her popularity was the crowd that responded to her call,

and was present at her hawking party. Scores of people of "first

quality"--dames of high degree, and cavaliers appropriate to such

companionship--collected upon the shores of Fulmere Lake; cast

resplendent shadows upon its smooth surface; and caused its enclosing

hills to resound with the echoes of their merry voices.

It is not our purpose to detail the various incidents of the day's

sport: how the party, having met at an appointed place, proceeded around

the shores of the lake; how the herons rose screaming from the sedge,

and the hawks shot like winged arrows after them; how the owners of the

predatory birds bantered one another, and wagers were laid and lost by

betters of both sexes; and how--when the circuit of the lake had been

accomplished, and the adjacent reedy marshes quartered by the spaniels,

until cleared of their feathered game--the gay company wended their way

to the summit of the adjoining hill; and there, under the shadows of the

greenwood trees, partook of an _al fresco_ banquet, which their knightly

entertainer had provided for them.

Nor need we describe the conversation--varied of course--always lively

under such circumstances; often witty--after the wine has flowed freely.

One topic alone claims our attention--as it did that of the company. It

was introduced by Mistress Dorothy herself--to whom of course every one

obsequiously listened.

"I regret," said this charming creature, addressing herself to her

splendid surrounding, "that I've not been able to provide you with a

more spirited entertainment. After that, we witnessed the other day in

Bulstrode Park, our fete will appear tame, I know. Ah! if we only had

the _black horseman_ here. How cruel of you, Captain Scarthe, to have

deprived us of that pleasure?"

"Mistress Dayrell," replied the officer, on whom the speech had made

anything but a pleasant impression, "I regret exceedingly that in the

performance of my duty--in dealing with a rebel--I should--"

"No apologies, Captain Scarthe!" interposed Sir Frederick, coming to the

rescue of the embarrassed cuirassier. "We all know that you acted, as

becomes a loyal servant of his Majesty. It would be well if others, in

these doubtful times, would display a like energy." Here Sir Frederick

glanced sarcastically towards his neighbour knight--between whom and

himself there was not the most cordial friendship. "The only regret is,

that the fellow--whoever he may be--was permitted to escape; but, I dare

say, he will soon be retaken, and meet with his deserts."

"And what would you deem his deserts, Dayrell?" quietly asked Sir

Marmaduke Wade.

"The block!" replied the fiery Sir Frederick, who had been partaking

rather freely of his own wine. "What else for an adventurer like him,

who conspires against his king? I'd chop off his head like a cabbage."

"By so doing," rejoined Sir Marmaduke, in a tone of satirical

significancy, "you would only cause a score of like heads to _sprout_ up

in its place."

"Let them sprout up! We'll serve them the same way. We shall still

have the power to do so--in spite of this parliament of traitors, which

the king has been so foolish as to think of recalling around him."

"Oh, dear father!" interrupted the pretty Dorothy, in a tone of

pseudo-sentimentality.

"Don't talk of chopping off heads. What a pity it would be if Captain

Scarthe's late prisoner were to lose his! I'm so glad he escaped from

you, captain."

"Why is this, girl?" asked Sir Frederick, turning rather sharply upon

his daughter. "Why would it be a pity? I've heard you this very

morning express the opposite opinion!"

"But I did not know then--that--that--"

"Know what?" interrogated several of the party, who encompassed the fair

speaker.

"That there were _others_ interested in the fate of the unfortunate man.

Ah! deeply so!" A malicious glance towards Marion Wade did not escape

the attention of the latter; and it was also noticed by Scarthe.

"Others interested in his fate. Who, pray?" demanded Sir Frederick,

looking inquiringly towards his daughter.

"_His wife, for one_," replied Dorothy, laying a peculiar emphasis on

the words.

"His wife!" simultaneously echoed a score of voices. "The black

horseman a Benedict! Holtspur married! We never knew that."

"Nor I," continued the pretty imparter of the startling

intelligence--"not till an hour ago. I've just heard it from cousin

Wayland here; who came this morning from court--where, it seems, Master

Holtspur is well-known; though not by the name he has chosen to make

celebrated among us simple rustics of Buckinghamshire."

"'Tis quite true," said a youth in courtier costume, who stood close to

her who had thus appealed to him. "The gentleman my cousin speaks of

_is_ married. I thought it was known to everybody."

"How could it, dear Wayland?" asked Dorothy, with an air of charming

simplicity. "Master Holtspur was not known to any one here--except, I

believe, to Sir Marmaduke Wade and his family; and, if I mistake not,

only very slightly to them?"

A significant curling of the speaker's pretty nostril accompanied this

final remark--which was intended as an interrogative.

"That is true," answered Sir Marmaduke. "My acquaintance, with the

gentleman you speak of, is but slight. I was not aware of his being a

married man; but what has that to do--"

"O, ladies and gentlemen!" interrupted the freshly arrived courtier,

"perhaps you are not aware of the real name of this cavalier who has

been calling himself Holtspur. He has been of some notoriety at court;

though that was before my time; and I've only heard of it from others.

There was a scandal, I believe--"

"Come, come, Wayland!" cried his fair cousin, interrupting him. "No

scandals here. Keep it, whatever it be, to yourself."

"His name! his name!" shouted a score of voices; while twice that number

of ears--piqued by the word "scandal"--were eagerly bent to listen to

the threatened disclosure.

The courtier gave utterance to a name, known to most of the company; and

which ten years before had been oftener pronounced in connexion with

that of England's queen. Only in whispers, it is true, and less

discreditable to Henry than Henrietta.

The announcement produced an effect upon the auditory of a very peculiar

character. It was certainly not so damaging to him, who was the subject

of their criticisms: for in the minds of many there present, the man of

_bonnes fortunes_ was a character to be envied rather than despised; and

the favourite page--whose mysterious disappearance from court, some ten

years before, had given rise to a "royal scandal"--could not be

otherwise than interesting.

The knowledge that Henry Holtspur, the black horseman--the mysterious--

the unknown--was identical with Henry --, once a queen's page--the

recipient of royal smiles--perhaps, in that assemblage gained him more

friends than enemies. Such as were still disposed to be hostile to him,

could no longer avail themselves of that mode of reviling--still so

customary among the "_elite_"--by calling him an "adventurer." This had

he been in the true sense of the term--an adventurer, but one to be

envied by his enemies.

Even the heart of the dashing Dorothy, became suddenly softened towards

him, on hearing the new revelation made by her cousin Wayland. That

expression of sympathy for him--supposed by her auditory to have been

ironical--was a more sincere sentiment, than usually fell from her lips.

The scandal was not discussed among Sir Frederick's guests--at least not

in open assembly. The whisperings of side groups may have referred to

it; but it was too old to be interesting--even to the most industrious

dealers in _crim. con._ gossip.

The general conversation became changed to a theme more appropriate to

the occasion; though a small congenial group, who had gathered around

the young Wayland, were treated to some further details--relating to the

matrimonial affairs of the patriot conspirator.

Of these not much knew the courtier; nor indeed any one else upon the

ground. He could only inform his auditory--what some of them already

knew: that Henry--had been secretly married to one of the noble ladies

of Queen Henrietta's court--that the marriage ceremony, had been

followed by an affair, in which the Queen herself had taken an unusual

interest--in short, by a separation between man and wife--by the loss of

the greater part of the young husband's fortune--and finally by his

disappearance, both from the court and the country. Among other

adventurous spirits of the time, he had emigrated to the colonies of

Virginia.

To do Master Wayland justice, he evinced no particular hostility towards

the man, whose history he was narrating; though, on the other hand, he

said nothing in his defence. It was not his province to make known the

nature of that conjugal quarrel; or say who was in fault. In truth, the

stripling but ill understood it. He did not know that royal jealousy

had been the cause of that sudden separation between Henry--and his

bride-wife; and that it was an act of royal revenge, that had

transformed the courtier into a colonist.

The subject, after a time, losing interest, was permitted to drop--the

conversation changing to other themes.

There was one whose thoughts could not be distracted from it. Need I

say it was Marion Wade?

Amidst the gay company, her gaiety was gone. The roses upon which the

mid-day son was but the moment before brightly beaming, had forsaken her

cheeks--on that instant when the word "wife" fell from the lips of

Dorothy Dayrell.

To her the hawking party was no longer a party of pleasure. The

sociality that surrounded her was only irksome and to withdraw from it

had been her first thought. To escape observation as well: for she knew

that the dire cloud, that had settled over her heart, could not fail to

be reflected in her face.

On recovering from the shock caused by the unexpected announcement, she

had turned her back upon the company, and stolen silently away.

The trees standing closely around the spot--with the underwood still in

foliage--favoured her withdrawal--as also the peculiar topic of

conversation which at the moment was absorbing the attention of all.

She had not stayed to listen to the further revelations made by the

courtier Wayland--the one word spoken by his cousin had been the cue for

her silent exit from the circle of conversation.

She needed no confirmation of what she had heard. A vague suspicion

already conceived, springing out of the ambiguity of some stray speeches

let fall by Holtspur himself--not only at their first interview, but

while arranging the terms of that parting promise--had the foundation

for an easy faith in the statement of Dorothy Dayrell.

Painful as was the conviction, Marion could not resist it. She thought

not of calling it in question.

Once among the trees she glided rapidly on--knowing not whether; nor

caring: so long as her steps carried her far from the companionship of

her own kind.

After wandering awhile, she came to a stop; and now, for the first time,

did her countenance betray, in all its palpable reality, the bitterness

that was burning within her.

Her heart felt, as if parting in twain. A sigh--a half-suppressed

scream--escaped from her bosom; and, but that she had seized upon a

sapling to support herself, she would have fallen to the earth.

No pen could paint her emotions at that moment. They were too painful

to permit of speech. Only one word fell from her lips--low-murmured and

in accents of extremest sadness--the black word "Betrayed!"

Though silent in speech, her thoughts flowed fast and freely.

This, then, is the barrier that might come between us. _Might_ come!

Oh! the falsehood! And such a promise as I have given! Despite every

obstacle, to love him! I thought not of this--how could I? No promise

can bridge over such a chasm. I may not--I dare not keep it. 'Tis no

sin to break it now. Mother of God! give me the strength!

"Ah! 'tis easy to talk of breaking it. Merciful Heaven! the power has

passed from me!

"'Tis sinful on either side. Perjury the one, a worse crime the other.

I feel powerless to choose between them. Alas!--alas! Despite his

betrayal, _I love him, I love him_!

"Am I not wronging him? Was not I the wooer--I, Marion Wade? Was it

not I who gave the first sign--the challenge--everything?

"What meant he to have said at that moment, when our last interview was

interrupted? What was it, he was about to declare--and yet hesitated?

Perhaps he intended to have made this very disclosure--to tell me all?

Oh I could have forgiven him; but now I may not--I dare not--"

She paused, as if conscious how idle it was, to give thought to a

resolve she had not the power to keep.

"Married! Holtspur married! Alas! my love dream is ended! No--not

ended! 'tis only changed from sweet to sad; and this will never change

till my unhappy heart be stilled in the sleep of death!"

The despairing maiden stood with her white fingers still clasped around

the stem of the sapling--her eyes bent upon the ground in vacant gaze,

as if all thought had forsaken her.

For some minutes she remained in this attitude--motionless as the tree

that supported her.

The sound of an approaching footstep failed to startle her. She heard,

without heeding it. Her sorrow had rendered her insensible even to

shame. She cared little now, who might behold her emotion.

The footstep was too light to be mistaken for that of a man. Marion had

no time for conjecture: for almost on the instant, she heard the voice

of her cousin Lora calling her by name.

"Marion! where are you?--I want you, cousin."

"Here, Lora!" replied the latter, in a feeble voice, at the same time

making an effort to appear calm.

"Oh!" exclaimed the pretty blonde, hurriedly making her way through the

underwood, and stopping before her cousin with blushing cheeks and

palpitating bosom. "Lord a mercy, coz!--I've got such a story to tell

you. What do you think it is? Guess!"

"You know, I'm not good at guessing, Lora. I hope you havn't lost your

favourite merlin?"

"No--not so bad as that; though I've lost something."

"What, pray?"

"A lover!"

"Ah!" exclaimed Marion with a sad emphasis. Then, making an effort to

conceal her emotion, she added in another strain, "I hope Walter hasn't

been flirting with Dorothy Dayrell?"

"Bother Dorothy Dayrell!"

"Well--perhaps with one you might have more reason to be afraid of--Miss

Winifred Wayland?"

"Not so bad as that neither. It's another lover I've lost!"

"Oh! you confess to having had another. Have you told Walter so?"

"Bother about Walter! Who do you think I'm speaking of?"

"Captain Scarthe perhaps--whom you admire so much. Is he the lover you

have lost?"

"Not so bad as that neither. Guess again?"

"A third there is, or has been! You wicked coquette?"

"Not I. I never gave him the slightest encouragement. I am sure,

never. Did you ever see me, coz?"

"When you tell me who this lost lover is, I shall be the better able to

answer you."

"Who he is! Cornet Stubbs, of course."

"Oh! he. And how have you come to lose him? Has he made away with

himself? He hasn't drowned himself in the mere, I hope?"

"I don't know. I shouldn't like to swear he hasn't. When I last looked

upon his ugly face, I fancied there was drowning in it. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Well, my light-hearted coz; your loss seems to sit easily upon you.

Pray explain yourself."

"Marion!" said Lora, catching hold of her cousin's arm; and speaking in

a tone of greater solemnity. "Would you believe it--that impertinent

has again proposed to me?"

"What! a second declaration! That looks more like finding a lover, than

losing one?"

"Ay, a second declaration; and this time far more determined than

before. Why, he would take no denial!"

"And what answer did you make him?"

"Well, the first time, as I told you, I gave him a flat refusal. This

time it wasn't so very flat. It was both pointed and indignant. I

talked to him sharp enough: no mincing of words I assure you. And yet,

for all that, the _pig_ persisted in his proposal, as if he had the

power to force me to say, yes! I couldn't get rid of him, until I

threatened him with a box on the ear. Ay, and I'd have given it him, if

some of the company hadn't come up at the time, and relieved me of his

importunities. I shouldn't have cared if I had ever given him cause--

the impudent pleb! I wonder that keeping the company of his more

accomplished captain don't have the effect of refining him a little--the

impertinent upstart!"

"Have you told Walter?"

"No--that I haven't; and don't you, dear Marion. You know Walter has

been jealous of Stubbs--without the slightest cause--and might want to

challenge him. I shouldn't that, for the world; though I'd like some

one--not Walter--to teach him a lesson, such as your brave Henry

Holtspur taught--

"Ah!" exclaimed the speaker, suddenly interrupting herself, as she saw

the painful impression which the mention of that name had produced.

"Pardon me, cousin! I had quite forgotten. This scene with Stubbs has

driven everything out of my mind. O, dear Marion! may be it is not

true? There may be some mistake? Dorothy Dayrell is wicked enough to

invent anything; and as for that foppish brother of Miss Winifred

Wayland, he is as full of conceit as his own sister; and as full of

falsehood as his cousin. Dear Marion! don't take it for truth! It may

be all a misconception. Holtspur may not be married after all; and if

he be, then the base villain--"

"Lora!" interrupted Marion, in a firm tone of voice, "I command--I

intreat you--to say nothing of what you know--not even to Walter--and

above all, speak not of _him_, as you have done just now. Even if he

be, what you have said, it would not be pleasant for me to hear it

repeated."

"But, surely, if it be true, you would not continue to love him!"

"_I could not help it. I am lost. I must love him_!"

"Dear, dear Marion!" cried Lora, as she felt the arms of her cousin

entwined around her neck, and saw the tears streaming down her cheek, "I

pity you--poor Marion, from my heart I pity you! Do not weep, dearest.

It will pass. In time you will cease to think of him!"

There was but one word of reply to these affectionate efforts at

consolation.

It came amid tears and choking sobs--but with an emphasis, and an

accent, that admitted of no rejoinder.

"_Never_!" was that word pronounced in a firm unfaltering tone.

Then, tossing her head backward, and, by a vigorous effort of her proud

spirit, assuming an air of indifference, the speaker clasped the hand of

her cousin; and walked resolutely back towards the assemblage, from

which she had so furtively separated.

Volume Three, Chapter XIII.

Of all who enjoyed the sports of the hawking party, no one left it with

a heavier heart than Marion Wade. The shadows of night descending over

the lake--as the company took their departure from its shores--might

well symbolise the shadow that had fallen upon her heart. Throughout

the afternoon, it had been a hard struggle with her to conceal her

chagrin from curious eyes; to appear joyous, amid so many happy faces;

to wear pretended smiles, while those around were laughing gaily.

All this, however, her strength of character had enabled her to

accomplish; though it was like removing a load from off her breast, when

the falling shades of twilight summoned the party to a separation.

That night no sleep for Marion Wade--not enough to give her a moment's

relief from the thoughts that tortured her. Her pillow was pressed, but

with a pale and sleepless cheek; and often, during the night, had she

risen from her couch, and paced the floor of her apartment, like one

under the influence of a delirious dream.

The bosom that has been betrayed can alone understand the nature of her

sufferings. Perhaps only a woman's heart can fully appreciate the pain

she was enduring? Hers had received into its inmost recesses--into the

very citadel itself--the image of the heroic Holtspur. It was still

there; but all around it was rankling as with poison.

The arrow had entered. Its distilled venom permeated the bosom it had

pierced. There was no balsam to subdue the pain--no hope to afford the

slightest solace--only regret for the past, and despair for the future.

Until that day Marion Wade had never known what it was to be truly

unhappy. Her pangs of jealousy hitherto experienced, had been slight,

compared with those which were now wringing her breast. Even her

apprehensions for the fate of her lover had been endurable: since hope

for his safety had never wholly forsaken her. During the interval that

had lapsed since his escape, she had not been altogether unhappy. Her

heart had been fortified by hope; and still farther supported by the

remembrance of that last sweet interview. So long as Holtspur lived,

and loved her, she felt that she could be happy--even under those

circumstances hypothetically foreshadowed in his parting speeches.

There were times when she pondered on their mysterious import; when she

wondered what they could have meant--and not without a sense of

dissatisfaction.

But she had not allowed this to intrude itself either often or long.

Her love was too loyal, too trusting, to be shaken by suspicions. She

remembered how unjust had been those formerly indulged in; and,

influenced by this memory, she had resolved never again to give way to

doubt, without some certain sign--such as the return of the love-token,

as arranged between them. She might have had cause to wonder, why she

had not heard from him--if only a word to ensure her of his safety. But

she was not chagrined by his silence. The risk of communicating with

her might account for it. Under an hypocritical pretence of duty--of

obedience to orders he dared not depart from--the cuirassier captain

permitted nothing--not even an epistle--to enter the mansion of Sir

Marmaduke Wade, without being first submitted to his own scrutiny.

Since the hour of his escape, the only intimation she had had of her

lost lover--almost the first time she had heard his name pronounced--was

when coupled with those two words, that were now filling her with

woe--"_His wife_!"

Marion had heard no more. She had stayed for no farther torture from

those scandal-loving lips. She had heard that her lover--the man to

whom she had surrendered the reins of her heart--was the _husband_ of

another! That was knowledge enough for one hour of wretchedness--ay,

for a whole lifetime of sadness and chagrin.

Though in the midst of that gay assemblage, she had not essayed to seek

an explanation; she was now desirous of having it. So long as the

slightest remnant of either hope or doubt remains within the mind of one

who suspected an unrequited passion, that mind cannot feel satisfaction.

It will seek the truth--although the search may conduct to eternal

ruin.

So determined the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade, during the mid hours

of that sleepless night; and, long before the great bell of Bulstrode

summoned its retainers to their daily toil, the young mistress of this

lordly mansion might have been seen--closely wrapped in cloak and hood--

issuing forth from one of its portals; and, under the grey light of

dawn, with quick but stealthy step, making her way over the

dew-bespangled pastures of its park.

The gate through which she had often passed outward into the high road--

often, of late, with a heart trembling in sweet anticipation--was the

one towards which she directed her steps.

How different was now her prospect--how dissimilar her purpose! She

went not forth to meet one, who, though still undeclared, she

instinctively believed to be her lover--loyal and true. Her errand was

no more of this joyous nature, but the sad reverse. It was to make

inquiries as to that lover's loyalty, or seek confirmation of his

falsehood!

Who could give the wished-for information? From whom were the inquiries

to be made?

She could think of no one save Holtspur himself; and the white paper--

clutched in a hand almost as white--concealed under her cloak, gave a

clue to her design. It was an epistle that had been penned by the light

of the midnight lamp, and sealed under a flood of scorching tears.

There was no direction upon it--only the name _Henry Holtspur_. She

knew not his address. She was taking it to a place where she had hopes

of seeing some one, who might be able to forward it to its destination.

The path she was following pointed to this place. It was the road

leading to Stone Dean. It was not the first time she had thought of

thus communicating with her absent lover. She had forborne, partly

through fear of being betrayed by those to whom her letter might be

entrusted--partly by the feminine reflection, that _he_, not _she_,

should be the first to write--and partly by the hope, deferred from day

to day, that he _would_ write. These hindrances she regarded no longer.

An epistle was now addressed to him--far different from that hitherto

intended. It was no longer a letter of love, but one filled with

reproaches and regrets.

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

Marion Wade was not the only one under her father's roof, who at that

same hour had been employing the pen. Another had been similarly

occupied.

As a soldier, Scarthe was accustomed to keep early hours. It was a rare

circumstance for him to be a-bed after six o'clock in the morning. In

those times of political agitation, the military man often took part in

state intrigues; and in this craft the cuirassier captain, under the

guidance of his royal patroness, had inextricably engaged himself.

This double duty entailed upon him an extensive correspondence; to which

his morning hours were chiefly devoted. Although essentially a man of

pleasure, he did not surrender himself to idleness. He was too

ambitious, to be inactive; and both his military and political duties

were attended to with system and energy.

On the day of the hawking party, his correspondence had fallen behind;

and, to clear off the arrears, he was astir at a very early hour next

morning, and busy before his writing table.

His military and political despatches were not the only matters that

called for the use of his pen on this particular morning. Upon the

table before him lay a sealed packet, that might have contained a

letter, but evidently something more--something of a different

character, as indicated by its shape and size.

But there was no letter inside; and the object within the envelope might

be guessed at, by the soliloquy that fell from the lips of Captain

Scarthe, as he sate regarding it. It was a glove--the _white gauntlet_,

once worn upon the hand of Marion Wade--once worn upon the hat of Henry

Holtspur, and thence surreptitiously abstracted. _It was once more to

be restored to its original owner_, in a secret and mysterious manner;

and to that end had it been enclosed in a wrapping of spotless paper,

and sealed with a blank seal stamp.

As yet there was no superscription upon the parcel; and he who had made

it up, sate contemplating it--pen in hand--as if uncertain as to how he

should address it. It was not this, however, about which he was

pausing. He knew the address well enough. It was the mode of writing

it--the chirography--that was occupying his thoughts.

"Ha!" he exclaimed at length, "an excellent idea! It must be like _his_

handwriting; which in all probability, she is acquainted with. I can

easily imitate it. Thank fortune I've got copies enough--in this

traitorous correspondence."

As he said this, he drew towards him a number of papers, consisting of

letters and other documents. They were those he had taken from Stone

Dean, on the morning of Holtspur's arrest.

After regarding them for some seconds--with the attention of an expert,

in the act of deciphering some difficult manuscript--he took his pen,

and wrote upon the parcel the words, "_Mistress Marion Wade_."

"That will be enough," reflected he. "The address is superfluous. It

would never do for it to be delivered at the house. It must be put into

her hands secretly, and as if sent by a trusty messenger. There's no

reason why she should mistrust the woodman Walford. She may know him to

have been in Holtspur's service, and can scarce have heard of his

defection. He'll do. He must watch for an opportunity, when she goes

out. I wonder what delays the knave. He should have been here by this

time. I told him to come before daylight. Ha! speak of the fiend!

That must be his shadow passing the window?"

As Scarthe said this, he hastily rose to his feet; scattered some drying

sand over the wet superscription; and, taking the packet from the table,

walked towards the door to meet his messenger.

It was the traitor Walford, whose shadow had been seen passing the

window. His patron found him standing on the step.

He was not admitted inside the house. The business, for the execution

of which he was required, had been already arranged; and a few words of

instruction, spoken in a low tone, sufficed to impart to him a full

comprehension of its native.

He was told that the packet then placed in his hands, was for Mistress

Marion Wade; that he was to watch for an opportunity when she should be

out of doors; and deliver it to her--if possible, unseen by any third

party. He was instructed to assume an air of secrecy; to announce

himself as a messenger from Henry Holtspur; and, after delivering a

verbal message--supposed to proceed from the cavalier, but carefully

concocted by Scarthe--he was to hasten out of the lady's presence, and

avoid the danger of a cross-questioning.

"Now, begone!" commanded his employer, when he had completed his chapter

of instructions. "Get away from the house--if you can, without being

observed. It won't do for you to be seen here at this early hour--least

of all on a visit to me. Let me know when you have succeeded; and if

you do the business adroitly, I shall double this _douceur_."

As Scarthe said this, he slipped a gold coin into the hand of the

pseudo-messenger; and, turning upon his heel, walked back towards his

apartment.

The woodman, after grinning gleefully at the gold that lay glistening in

his palm, thrust the piece into his pocket; and, gliding down from the

steps, commenced making a stealthy departure through the shrubbery.

He little thought how near he was to the opportunity he desired--of

earning the duplicate of that _douceur_.

But fate, or the fiend, was propitious to him. On clearing the moated

enclosure, he saw before him the form of a woman, closely wrapped in

cloak and hood.

She, too, seemed hastening onward with stealthy step; but the tall,

symmetrical figure, and the rich robes that enveloped it, left no doubt

upon the mind of Walford as to the person who was preceding him down the

sloping avenue of Bulstrode Park. It was the young mistress of the

mansion--she for whom his message was intended--she who would be made

wretched by its delivery.

The emissary of Scarthe neither knew, nor would have cared, for this.

His only thought was to earn the promised perquisite; and, with this

object in view, he followed the female figure fast flitting toward the

gate of the park.

Quickly and silently did Marion glide upon her errand. Absorbed by its

painful nature, she fancied herself unobserved. She saw not that dark

form skulking but a short distance behind her, like an evil shadow, ill

defined, under the dim light of the dawn--and keeping pace with her as

she advanced.

Unconscious of the proximity of her suspicious follower, she passed out

through the park gates, and on along the forest road--a path well known

to her. Never before had she trodden it with a heavier heart. Never

before had she stood under the shadow of the trysting tree--to her now

sadly sacred--influenced by such painful emotion.

She paused beneath its spreading branches. She could not resist the

mystic spell, which the place seemed to cast around her. There was

something, even in the sadness of its souvenirs, that had a soothing

effect upon her spirits, that could scarce have been more embittered.

Whether soothing, or saddening, she was permitted to indulge only a

short time in silent reflection. A heavy footfall--evidently that of a

man--was heard approaching along the path, and shuffling among the crisp

leaves with which it was bestrewed.

The sounds grew louder and drew nearer; until he who was causing them

came in sight--a rustic making his way through the wood.

Marion knew the man--the woodman Walford.

She knew him only by sight, and but slightly. She had no words for such

as he--especially in an hour like that.

She moved not. Her eyes were averted. The intruder might have passed

on, without receiving from her even a nod of recognition, had such been

his wish.

It was only on hearing her own name pronounced, and seeing the man

advance towards her, that the young lady took note of his presence.

"Mistress Wade!" muttered he, awkwardly uncovering his head, and making

a bow of doubtful politeness.

"What want you with me, sir?" asked Marion, in a tone that betrayed both

annoyance and astonishment.

"I've been follerin' thee, mistress, all the way frae the big house. I

wanted to see thee alone."

"Alone! And for what purpose, sirrah?"

The interrogatory was uttered in a voice that betokened indignation not

unmingled with alarm. No wonder. He to whom it was addressed was not

the man, with whom a timid woman would elect to hold an interview,

alone, and in the heart of a wood.

Was the rustic intruding himself with an evil intention?

The apprehensions, thus quickly conceived were as speedily dissipated by

the woodman declaring himself to have come in the capacity of a

messenger.

"I ha' brought thee a package, Mistress Wade," said he, drawing

something from under the skirt of his doublet. "It be a small 'un, I

trow; but for all that I darn't gie it ye afore company--for I had

orders not to, by him as sent me."

"Who sent you?" hastily inquired the lady, at the same time taking the

packet from the hand of the cautious carrier.

"Master Holtspur," bluntly replied the man.

"I darn't stay here aside ye," continued he. "Some of them may come

this way, an' see us thegither. I've only to tell you that Master

Holtspur be safe; an' that it be all right _atween him an his wife_.

They be reconciled agin. But I needn't be tellin' ye that: I s'pose

it's all wrote inside the package. Now, mistress, I must away, an' get

back to him as sent me. Good mornin'."

With another grotesque attempt at polite salutation, the deliverer of

the message walked hurriedly away; and was soon lost to the sight of its

trembling recipient.

Marion had listened to his words without knowing their wicked design--

without even suspecting that they were false. But, false or true, she

did not imagine there could be a new pang conveyed in their meaning.

She had already felt the sting, as she supposed,--in all its black

bitterness! She did not believe that in the same quiver, there was

another arrow, bearing upon its point a still more potent poison.

She felt it, as with trembling fingers she broke the seal, and tore open

the envelope of that tiny parcel. To her heart's core she felt it, as

her eyes rested upon the contents. Her token returned to her--that

fatal gift--_the White Gauntlet_! The glove dropped to the ground; and,

with a suppressed scream--that sounded like the knell of a shattered

heart--sank Marion Wade beside it! For some moments she lay along the

grass, like some beautiful statue struck down from its pedestal.

She was not unconscious--only unnerved, and rendered powerless by a

strong, quick spasm of despair.

Beyond the stifled scream, that escaped her as she fell, no sound passed

from her lips. Hers was a despair that speech was incapable of

relieving. There was nothing on which hope could hinge itself. The

restored token told the tale in all its sad reality. A letter--a volume

could not have conveyed the information more fully. _Holtspur no longer

loved her_!

There was even a more fell reflection. _He had never loved her_: else

how could he have changed so soon?

The paroxysm at length passed; and the prostrate form once more stood

erect. Erect, but not triumphant. Sad and subdued was the spirit that

animated it--almost shivered by that fearful shock.

In silent agony she turned to go homeward. She no more remembered the

errand that had summoned her forth. It was no longer of any importance.

The information she would have sought had met her on the way--had been

communicated, with a fullness and surety that left nothing to be added.

_Holtspur loved her no more_. With that thought in her mind, what

mattered it whether he were married or no? But the words of the

messenger had equally ended all doubt of this. If there might be any

lingering uncertainty, as to what she had heard, there could be none as

to what she saw. There lay the White Gauntlet under her eyes--down

among the weeds. It lay neglected as if without an owner--no more to be

regarded by Marion Wade; or only as the cause of a life-long anguish.

Slowly and sadly she retraced the forest path; slowly and sadly she

re-entered the gateway of the park; slowly and sadly walked back along

that avenue, once trodden by her with a bosom filled with supremest joy.

Volume Three, Chapter XIV.

The course which Scarthe was pursuing may seem strange. He now knew

that for the hand of Marion Wade, Holtspur could not be his rival. What

then could be his motive for sending back the _glove_: for motive there

must have been?

There was one; though to say the truth it was not very definite.

He was still uncertain as to the state of Marion's heart--still in doubt

whether the white gauntlet had or had not been a _guage d'amour_. If

the former, then the restoring of it as designed by him might produce a

revulsion of feeling in his own favour; if not, no evil could result to

him from the act.

On his side the sending back, of the glove was a mere conjectural

experiment--made under a vague fancy that it might, to some little

extent, further his interests. If in the mind of Marion Wade there

existed a partiality for the patriot conspirator, a slight such as that

should crush out every vestige of the feeling, and create a reaction in

favour of the first fresh lover who might present himself--Richard

Scarthe more likely than any other. Little did he anticipate the

terrible effect which that returned token, with the message that

accompanied it, would have upon her who was to receive it. He knew

nothing of the strange conditions which the lovers had arranged at their

last parting.

He had too much experience in the heart of woman to have reasoned thus--

had he not been purblind with his own passion. In this condition,

however, he gave way to a fancy, that, under other circumstances, he

would have instantly rejected.

He was also influenced by considerations of a very different kind. The

hand of Marion Wade was almost as desirable as her heart--or rather the

fortune that should accompany it. The cuirassier captain possessed but

his pay--along with proud patronage it is true--but, neither was

anything to make him, what he should become as the son-in-law of Sir

Marmaduke Wade.

The crisis had arrived to attempt bringing about this desired

relationship. It must not be delayed. The power he possessed for its

accomplishment might at any moment pass out of his hands. The times

were uncertain; and procrastination might imperil his chances of

success.

The sending of the glove was the first move in the matrimonial scheme he

had concocted. It was to be followed by an offer of his hand. If the

offer should be accepted, well; if not, then stronger measures were to

be adopted.

Such was the programme that had passed through the mind of Richard

Scarthe, and was still before it, as he paced the floor of his

apartment, an hour after having dismissed the messenger Walford.

"I wonder," said he, as he reflected upon the importance of time, "when

the fellow Walford will succeed in delivering his false message? He's

but a dull-brained dolt; though knave enough for that, or anything else.

I hope he won't be so stupid as to bring it back to the house; or give

it her in the presence of any one. Surely he will have understood my

instructions about that? I told him to watch for her till she walked

abroad, and alone. But when may that be? Perhaps not to-day; nor

to-morrow; nor for many days? I'm burning with impatience to bring the

business to a conclusion. What, after all my well-conceived strategy,

if--Ho! who comes yonder? By Heaven! 'tis Walford! What brings the

brute back? From the grin upon that hideous countenance of his--

intended no doubt for a smile--one might fancy he had already

accomplished his errand. I must go forth and meet him--before he shows

himself in front of the windows. It's early yet, and I see no one

abroad; still some of them may be astir inside? He must not be seen

coming here."

With this reflection, Scarthe seized his beaver; and, flinging it upon

his head, sallied forth from the house.

In the thick of the shrubbery he encountered the returning envoy.

"Well, Walford," said he, "what has brought you back so soon? Has

anything miscarried?"

"Not as I knows on, Master capten. Only as bein' an early bird this

mornin' I ha' picked up the early wurum."

"Ah! what mean you by that?"

"I gin it to her."

"Gin it to her? What, and to whom?"

"The packidge--to the young lady."

"What, you don't say that you have seen--"

"Mistress Marion? Sartintly I do, Master capten. Seed her; gied her

the packidge; an' sayed, what you told me to say."

"When? Where?"

"For the first--it han't been gone a half-hour since the words passed

out o' my mouth; and as to the where, that war 'bout a mile from heear--

on the wood road as runs from the Park to Stone Dean."

"She there at this hour? You must be mistaken, my man?"

"No mistake about it, Master capten; I seed her, and spoke to her, as

you bid me. I've seed her a many a time along that road. It be a

favourite ride wi' her; but she bean't a horseback this mornin'. She be

afut."

"And alone, you say?"

"Sartinly, Master: else how could I ha' gied her the packidge? You told

me to let no one see me handin' it to her."

"This is strange," muttered Scarthe to himself. "You are sure there was

no one near her?"

"I seed ne'er a creetur."

"What was she doing?"

"Nothin', Capten; only standing under a tree--the big beech as grows in

the middle o' the road. I went up to her pretty quick, lest she might

gi' me the slip. After I put the packidge in her hand, and sayed what

you told me, I coomed directly away."

"You left her there?"

"Left her, just as I found her--under the big beech."

"And you met no one, as you returned along the road?"

"Neither met nor passed a sinner."

"You think she may be there still? You say you came direct?"

"Straight as the road 'ud let me, Capten. I won't say she be theear

still--that are, under the tree; but she ain't got home as yet: for I

coomed as fast as my legs 'ud carry me. I knew you didn't want me seen

about here, and thought I would be safest to coom up afore the sarvints

were stirrin'. She beean't got home yet, nor half o' the way--even

supposin' she set off right after me."

"The road to Stone Dean, you say?"

"That as gooes through Stampwell's wood, an' over the hills. It strikes

off from the King's highway, a leetle beyont the gates o' the park."

"I know--I know. There, my man! Something to get you your morning

dram. Away at once; and don't let yourself be seen in my company. Go

where you like now; but be in your own nest at night: I may want you."

The messenger took the money; and along with it his instant departure.

"What the deuce can she be doing out at this hour?" inquired Scarthe of

himself, as he strode nervously across the parterre.

"Ha! the place--the forest road leading to Stone Dean! Can it be

possible that he--The fiends! If it be so, I may yet be in time to take

him. Ho, there!" he cried to the guard corporal, who had just appeared

outside the courtyard gate. "A dozen men to horse. Quick, corporal!

Let them not lose a moment. I shall be out before they have time to

strap on their saddles."

And, having delivered these orders, he turned back into his room; and

commenced encasing his body in the steel armour, that lay in pieces

around the apartment.

In less than ten minutes' time he was armed _cap-a-pied_. Staying only

to quaff off a cup of wine--which he hurriedly filled from a decanter

that stood upon the side table--he passed out of his apartment; and

strode clanking along the stone-flagged corridor that communicated with

the rear of the dwelling.

Emerging into the courtyard, he mounted his horse--already caparisoned

to receive him; and, giving the word of command to the cuirassiers, who

had climbed to their saddles, he galloped out of the court--on toward

the entrance of the park that opened in the direction of Stone Dean.

It was a short gallop--ending almost as soon as it had begun. It came

to a termination, at the head of the hill--down which trended the long

avenue skirted with chestnut trees.

There Scarthe suddenly checked his steed--at the same time giving his

followers the order to bait.

Naturally enough, the troopers were a little surprised at this sudden

interruption of their ride; but they were altogether astonished at a

second order--following quick upon the first--which enjoined upon them

to wheel round, and return to their stables!

They obeyed, though not without, a show of reluctance. They would much

rather have continued their excursion--supposing it to have been

intended for some foraging expedition that promised pleasure and

plunder.

They were not entirely ignorant of what had caused the countermand. As

they were wheeling upon the path, they had caught sight of an object at

the other end of the avenue, whose motions betrayed it to be animate.

Though but dimly seen through the dawn, and under the shadow of the

chestnuts, they could tell what it was--the figure of a woman.

"A sail in sight!" muttered one, who had seen saltwater service. "The

captain's going to hail the craft; and don't want us Jack-tars on the

quarter deck."

"'Tis she!" muttered Scarthe to himself, as his followers retired.

"Even if _he_ has been with her, 'twould be of little use going after

him now. He would scarce be such a fool as to remain upon the ground.

'Tis impossible she can have seen any one, since Walford left her?

There has not been time for an interview such as that. She may have

been with him before? If so, the sham message will result in my own

discomfiture. Or she may have been expecting him, and he has not come?

If so, the parcel would be just in time. I can scarce look for such a

lucky combination of circumstances!"

"What shall I do?" he continued, after a pause. "If she has not met

him, it is a splendid opportunity for my proposal! The events are

ominous of success. Shall I make it now--this moment?"

"There is danger in delay," he muttered, as the old adage came into his

mind. "She may have some means of communicating with him; and the glove

trick may be discovered? I shall trust no longer to chance. This

uncertainty is insufferable. Within the hour I shall put an end to it,

and find out my fate, one way or the other. If accepted, then shall

Richard Scarthe play traitor to his king, and the good knight Sir

Marmaduke may conspire to his heart's content. If rejected, then--in

that contingency--ah--then--the old rebel will risk the losing of his

head."

"Now, Mistress Marion Wade," apostrophised he, as he watched the

advancing figure. "On thine answer there is much depending: your

father's head and my happiness. I hope you will be gracious, and give

security to both. If you refuse me, then must I make use of that power,

with which a lucky chance has provided me. Surely thy father's danger

will undo your objections? If you resist, let the ruin fall--let him

suffer his doom!"

"I must dismount and meet her," he continued, as he saw Marion coming on

with slow steps. "A declaration in the saddle would never do. It must

be made on foot--or still more humbly on bended knee; and so shall it,

if that be necessary to secure success. Ha! ha! what would they say at

Court? The invincible Scarthe, who has made conquest of a queen,

kneeling in humble suit at the feet of a country maiden--the daughter of

a rank rebel--begging for her heart, and worse still, bargaining for her

hand! Ha! ha! ha!"

While uttering this laugh, he flung himself from his horse; and, tossing

the rein of his bridle over the branch of a tree, he commenced

descending the hill.

Although advancing towards the interview, with all the _nonchalance_ he

was capable of assuming, he was at the same time trembling with

apprehension as to the result.

He met the maiden at the bottom of the hill--under the sombre shadow of

the chestnuts.

He encountered a look of cold surprise, accompanied by a simple nod of

recognition.

Such a reception might have turned him from his purpose; but it did not.

He had made up his mind to propose; and, without much circumlocution,

he proceeded to carry out the intention.

"Mistress Marion Wade!" said he, approaching her with an air of profound

respect, and bowing low as he drew near, "if you be not offended by my

intruding upon you at this early hour, I shall thank the fate that has

favoured me."

"Captain Scarthe, this interview is unexpected."

"By me it has been _sought_. I have been for some time desirous of an

opportunity to speak with you alone."

"To speak with me alone? I am at a loss to know, sir, what you can have

to say that requires such a condition."

"You _shall_ know, Mistress Wade; if, indeed, you have not divined my

purpose already. Need I tell you that I am in love?"

"And why, Sir, have you chosen me for this confidence? I should think

that was a secret to be communicated only to her whom it concerns?"

"And to her alone has it been communicated. Surely I need not name the

object of my love. You cannot have been blind to emotions--to

sufferings--I have been unable to conceal. I can be silent no longer.

O Marion Wade! I love you with all the fondness of a true affection--

all the fervour of an admiration that knows no limits. Do not be angry

at me for thus declaring myself. Do not frown upon my suit. O,

beautiful Marion! say that I may hope?"

Scarthe had dashed his helmet to the ground, and flung himself on his

knees in the attitude of an humble suppliant. With eyes upturned to her

face, he tremblingly awaited the reply.

She was silent. Her features betrayed no sign of gladness, as she

listened to that earnest declaration. Scarce, even, did they show

surprise. Whatever of this she may have felt was concealed under the

cloud of chagrin, that, springing from a very different cause, still

overspread her countenance.

The kneeling suitor waited some moments for a response; but none was

given. She to whom he was making suit remained proudly silent.

Becoming sensible of a certain ludicrousness in the situation, Scarthe

impatiently continued:--"Oh! do not deny me! At least, vouchsafe an

answer. If it be favourable, I promise--I swear--that my heart--my

hand--my soul--my sword--my life--all will be yours--yours for any

sacrifice you may summon me to make. O Marion!--beautiful Marion

Wade!--I know I am not worthy of you now. Think not of me as I am; but

rather what I shall be. I may one day be more deserving of your

esteem--perhaps your love. I have hopes of preferment--high hopes. I

may be excused for saying, they are founded on the patronage of a queen.

With one like you for my bride--my wife--highborn, gifted, lovelier

than all others, these hopes would soon be realised. To be worthy of

loving you--to have the pleasure of illustrating you--of making you

happy by the highest fame--I could accomplish anything. Fear not,

Marion Wade! He who sues to you, if now humble, may hope for higher

rank. Ere long shall I obtain the much-coveted title of Lord. It

matters little to me. Only for your sake should I prize it. But oh!

hapless lord should I be, if not the lord of your heart! A word, Marion

Wade!--one word! Tell me I may hope?"

Marion turned her eyes upon the eloquent suppliant. His attitude, the

expression of his countenance, and the fervent tone in which he had

declared himself, were evidence that he was in earnest. She could not

fail to perceive that he loved her. Whatever may have been the deceit

of his nature, in other respects, there could be no doubt that he was

honest in his admiration for herself.

Perhaps it was this thought that restrained her from making an indignant

reply. Why should she be offended at one thus humbly suing--one who was

willing to become her slave?

The expression in her eye, called up by the attitude of the suitor,

seemed to speak of pity, rather than indignation.

It soon passed away; and was succeeded by the same calm look of

indifference--with which she had hitherto regarded him.

Misinterpreting that momentary glance of kindness, Scarthe for an

instant fancied himself successful.

Only for an instant. His heart fell as he noted the change of

countenance that succeeded; and it needed not for Marion to signify her

refusal in speech. Words could not have more plainly told him, that his

suit was rejected.

In words, however, he was told it; and with a laconism that left him no

alternative, but to rise from his kneeling attitude, place his helmet

once more upon his head, and bid Marion Wade good-morning.

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

Alone the lady pursued her homeward way--Scarthe standing silent and

statue-like, till she had passed out of sight. Then his features

suddenly changed expression; his true temper, for the time restrained,

escaped from the control in which he had been keeping it; and both voice

and gesture testified to the terrible conflict of emotions that

convulsed his soul.

"I shall seek no more to sue her," muttered he, as he detached his

bridle from the branch. "'Tis not the mode to deal with this proud

damsel. Force, not favour, is the way to win her--at least her hand--

ah! and maybe her heart? I've known such as she before. Are there not

hundreds in history? Did the Sabine women continue to despise their

bold abductors? No; they became loving wives: loving them for the very

act, that, in the fancy of fools, should have excited their hatred! By

Heaven! I shall imitate those Roman ravishers--if driven to the

_dernier resort_. Thank fortune! there's another arrow in my quiver.

And now to place it to the string. By this time Sir Marmaduke should be

stirring; though it seems he keeps not so early hours as his charming

child! Curses! what can have carried her abroad? No doubt, I shall

discover in time; and if it be, that--"

He interrupted himself, as if some conception, painful beyond common,

had caused a sudden suspension of his breath.

"If it be that--_a mistress_, instead of a _wife_, shall I make of

Marion Wade!"

With this vile threat, he sprang nervously to the back of his horse;

and, deeply driving in the spurs, forced the animal into a rapid gallop,

homeward against the hill.

Volume Three, Chapter XV.

Sir Marmaduke was in his library--not busied with his books, but his

thoughts.

It is unnecessary to say that these were of a serious nature. They were

more than serious--they were melancholy. The cause has been already, or

may be easily, guessed.

In the circumstances that surrounded him, the noble knight had more than

one source of anxiety. But there was one now paramount--an apprehension

for his own personal safety--which of course, included the welfare of

those dear to him.

He had reason to be thus apprehensive. He knew that he had committed

himself--not only by his presence among the conspirators of Stone Dean,

but by various other acts that would not bear the scrutiny of the Star

Chamber.

Conjectures, referring to the midnight meeting at Holtspur's house, were

at that moment more particularly before his mind. The arrest of

Holtspur himself upon the following morning--so close on the breaking up

of the assemblage--had an ominous significance. It suggested--in fact,

almost proclaimed--the presence of a spy.

If such had been among them--and Sir Marmaduke could come to no other

conclusion--then would his life be worth no more, than that of a man

already attainted, tried, condemned, and standing by the side of the

block!

If there had been a spy, it must either have been Scarthe himself, or

one who had communicated with him: else why the arrest of Holtspur?

Sir Marmaduke believed the captain of the King's cuirassiers quite

capable of the infamous act. His apparent friendship and courtesy--his

professions of regret for the part he was compelled to play--had not

deceived his host. Sir Marmaduke had no difficulty in detecting the

spurious pretences of his guest.

As yet Scarthe had given him no hint of the knowledge he possessed. For

his own reasons, he had carefully abstained from this. Nevertheless,

Sir Marmaduke had his suspicions.

Unfortunately, he had no means of satisfying them, one way or the other.

Scarthe had carefully scrutinised his correspondence--under the

pretence that he did so by orders from the King--and such of the members

of that meeting, as Sir Marmaduke had been able to see personally, were,

like himself, only suspicious. No one in the neighbourhood knew of the

doings of that night, except Dancey, Walford, and Gregory Garth. Dancey

and his daughter had both been absent for weeks--it was not known where;

Walford had no dealings with Sir Marmaduke Wade; and Garth was utterly

unknown to him.

The knight knew that his liberty--his life--were in the scales. A

feather--a breath--and the beam might be kicked against him. No wonder

he was apprehensive--even to wretchedness.

There was but one clear spot in the sky--one beacon on which to fix his

hopes--the _Parliament_.

This Parliament--afterwards distinguished as the "Long"--perhaps the

most patriotic assembly that ever met amongst men--was about to commence

its sittings, as well as its struggles with the hoary hydra of _royal

prerogative_. To the oppressed it promised relief--to the condemned a

respite--to the imprisoned a restoration of their liberty.

But the royal reptile, though cowering, and partially crushed, had not

yet been deprived of his fangs. There were places throughout the realm

where his power was rampant as ever--where he could still seize,

confiscate, and behead. With reason, therefore, might Sir Marmaduke

feel dread of his vengeance. And no wonder: with Sir John Elliot pining

away his life in a prison; with the wrongs of Lenthall, and Lilburne,

and Prynne unavenged; with men walking the streets deprived of their

ears, and outraged by other mutilations; with Holtspur himself, whom Sir

Marmaduke now knew to be the noble patriot Henry --, an outlawed

fugitive, hiding himself from the sleuth-hounds of a spited queen!

The good knight resembled the mariner in the midst of a tempest. The

re-summoned Parliament was the life-boat struggling across the surge--

surrounded by angry breakers. Would it live to reach, and relieve him?

Or was he destined to see it strike upon a rock, and its gallant crew

washed away amidst the waste of waters?

In truth, a gallant crew, as ever carried ship of state through the

storm--as ever landed one in a haven of safety. Hark to their names--

every one of them a household word! Pym, Hampden, Hollis, and Hazlerig;

the Lords Kimbolton, Essex, and Fairfax; and last and greatest, the

immortal Oliver Cromwell! It was a glorious galaxy of names--enough to

inspire even the timid with confidence; and by such were the timid

sustained.

In the retrospect of two hundred years' alongside such names, how sounds

the paltry title of "Carolus Rex?" Even then it was, day by day, losing

its authoritative significance. A crisis was coming, as when men awake

from a drunken dream--when the word "loyalty" only reminds them of

liberties surreptitiously stolen, and rights too slackly surrendered;

when "king" sounds synonymous with "tyrant;" and "patriot" assumes its

proper meaning. Not, as the so-called "statesmen" of the present day--

statesmen forsooth!--palterers with the people's rights--smug trimmers

of parliamentary majorities--bottle-holders--the very chicanes of

statecraft--the "smush" of England's manhood, with reputations destined

to damnation, almost as soon as their puny breath becomes choked within

their inglorious coffins!

Oh, the contrast between that day and this--the difference of its deeds,

and its men!--distinct as glory from shame! That was the grandest throe

ever felt by England's heart in its aspirations after Liberty.

Let us hope it will not be the last. Let us hope that the boasted

spirit of Great Britain--at this hour lower than it has ever been--will

have a speedy resuscitation; and strike to the dust the demon of

thraldom, in whatever form he may make himself manifest--in the old

fashioned shape of _serfdom_, or its modern substitute the _tax_: for,

though differing in tide, _both are essentially the same_.

Sir Marmaduke sate in his library, as we have said, a prey to uneasy

thoughts. They were not tranquillised by the announcement, just then

made by one of the domestics: that Captain Scarthe desired an interview

with him.

"What business has he _now_?" was the mental interrogatory of the

knight, when the request was conveyed to him.

"Something of more than ordinary import," thought he, on glancing at the

countenance of Scarthe, as the latter presented himself within the

apartment.

Well might Sir Marmaduke give thought to the conjecture: for, in truth,

was there upon the mind of his visitor something that might well merit

the name of extraordinary; which, despite his habitual _sang froid_, did

not fail to show itself upon his features. Upon them a guilty intention

was as plainly expressed, as if the lines had been letters on the page

of a printed book.

The knight knew not this intention by any overture hitherto made to him.

He had his suspicions nevertheless, too truly pointing to the

pretensions which Scarthe was about to put forward to the hand of his

daughter. These had been sufficiently painful to him: now more so, when

coupled with that other suspicion already harassing him: as to the power

possessed by his soldier guest.

They might have been even more painful, had he known the extent of that

power--real and assumed--with which the latter was endowed. At that

moment Scarthe carried in his pocket signed "Carolus Rex," an order for

the knight's arrest, and commitment to the Tower of London!

It signified little, that both the order and its signature were

counterfeits. They would be equally efficacious for the purpose

intended. Sir Marmaduke had not the means, nor would he be allowed the

opportunity to test their genuineness.

They were forgeries both. It was in concocting them that Captain

Scarthe had spent the half-hour, between the time of his parting with

Marion Wade, and betaking himself into the presence of her father.

Before Sir Marmaduke he now stood, prepared for an emergency he had

already contemplated--ready for its extremest measures.

"Pardon me, Sir Marmaduke Wade!" began he, bowing with ceremonious

respect. "Pardon me for intruding upon you at this early hour; but my

business is of importance. When you have heard it, you will no doubt

excuse this deviation from the rules of etiquette."

"Captain Scarthe is, I presume, on the performance of some duty; and

that will be his excuse."

"In truth, Sir Marmaduke, I have a double errand. One _is_ on duty--and

I grieve to say a painful duty to me. The other I might designate an

errand of _affection_; and could I flatter myself that it would prove a

welcome one to you, I should deem it as pleasant as that of my duty is

painful."

"You speak in enigmas, sir? I cannot comprehend them. May I ask you to

tell me, in plain speech, what are your two errands? One, you say, is

painful to yourself--the other, on certain conditions, may prove

pleasant. Choose which you please to communicate first."

"Sir Marmaduke Wade," rejoined the cuirassier captain, "you accuse me of

circumlocution. It is an accusation I will not give you cause to

repeat. My first errand--and that to me of most importance--is to tell

you that I love your daughter; and that I wish to make her my wife."

"I admire your candour, Captain Scarthe; but permit me to say, in reply,

that the information you have thus volunteered concerns my daughter,

more than myself. You are free to impart it to her; as is she to answer

you according to her inclinations."

"I _have_ imparted it. I have already proposed to her."

"And her answer?"

"A refusal."

"And you come to me! For what purpose, Captain Scarthe?"

"Need I declare it, Sir Marmaduke? I love your daughter with all the

love of my heart. I would wed her--make her happy--in time, perhaps,

high and noble, as any in the land. I know that I offer myself under

unfavourable circumstances. But with your assistance, Sir Marmaduke--

your authority exerted over her--"

"You need not go on, sir;" said Sir Marmaduke, interrupting the

petitioner in a calm, firm tone. "Whatever answer my daughter has given

you shall be mine. You speak of my authority. I have none in such a

matter as this. The father has no right to restrain, or thwart, the

inclinations of his child. I have never assumed such a power; nor shall

I now--either in your favour, or against you. If you have won the heart

of Marion Wade, you are welcome to wear it--welcome both to her heart

and hand. If not, you need not look to me. So far as I am concerned,

my daughter is free to accept whomsoever she may please, or reject whom

she may dislike. Now, sir!" added the knight, in a tone that told of

stern determination, "that matter is ended between us--I hope to your

satisfaction."

"Enough!" ejaculated Scarthe, his voice betraying indignant chagrin.

"'Tis just as I expected," he muttered to himself. "It will be idle to

urge the matter any more--at least until I've got my lever on its

fulcrum; then, perhaps--"

"May I beg of you to make known your other errand, sir?" said Sir

Marmaduke, impatient to bring the unpleasant interview to a termination,

"that which you say is of a painful nature?"

"I say it with truth," rejoined Scarthe, still keeping up a show of

sympathy for his victim. "Perhaps you will not give me credit for the

declaration; though I pledge my honour--as a gentleman holding the

commission of the king--that a more unpleasant duty, than that which is

now before me, I have never been called upon to perform."

"When you condescend to make it known, sir, perhaps I shall be the

better able to judge. Can I assist you in any way?"

"O, Sir Marmaduke--noble Sir Marmaduke Wade! I wish it were in my power

to assist _you_."

"Ha!"

"Alas! But a short month ago I could with indifference have enacted the

part I am now called upon to play. Then I knew you not. I knew not

your daughter. Oh! that I had never known one, or the other--neither

the noble father, nor the--"

"Sir!" interrupted Sir Marmaduke sternly, "I beg you will come to the

point. What is this disagreeable communication you would make? You

surprise and puzzle me."

"I cannot declare it with my own lips. Noble knight! excuse me from

giving speech to it. Here are my orders--too plain--too peremptory.

Read them for yourself!"

Sir Marmaduke took hold of the paper--extended to him, apparently, with

a trembling hand. The hand trembled that received it. He read:--

"_To ye Captain Richard Scarthe, commanding ye cuirassiers at Bulstrode

Park_.

"_It hath come, to ye knowledge of his Majestie that Sir Marmaduke Wade,

Knight, hath been guilty of treasonable practices and designs against

his Majestie and ye government. Therefore Captain Scarthe is hereby

commanded to arrest ye said Sir Marmaduke, and convey him to ye Tower

prison, there to await trial by Star Chamber, or such other Court as may

be deemed sufficient for ye crime charged_.

"_And Captain Scarthe is moreover enjoined and commanded by his Majestie

to lose no time in carrying out ye said command of his Majestie, but

that he proceed to its execution on ye receipt of these presents_.

"_Given at my Palace, Whitehall_.

"_Carolus Rex_."

"I am your prisoner, then?" said Sir Marmaduke, folding up the paper,

and returning it to the cuirassier captain.

"Not mine, Sir Marmaduke. Alas! not mine, but the king's."

"And where am I to be taken? But I forget. I need not have asked."

"The place is mentioned in the despatch."

"The time too!"

"I regret it is so," rejoined Scarthe, with a pretence of being pained

in the performance of his duty. "By this document you will perceive,

that my orders are peremptory."

"I presume, I shall be permitted to take leave of my family?"

"It grieves me to the heart, Sir Marmaduke, to inform you that my

instructions are painfully stringent. Even that has been made a part of

them."

"Then I am not to bid farewell to my children, before parting with

them--perhaps, for ever?"

"Do not talk thus, sir," said Scarthe, with a show, of profound

sympathy. "There must be a misunderstanding. Some enemy has been

abusing you to the ear of the king. Let us hope it will be nothing

serious in the end. I wish it were otherwise; but I am instructed in a

confidential despatch--that, after making known the order for your

arrest, I am not to permit any communication between you and your

friends--even the members of your own family--_except in my presence_."

"In your presence be our parting then. Can I summon my children

hither?"

"Certainly, Sir Marmaduke. Alas! alas! that I am compelled to be the

witness of such a sad spectacle."

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

Scarthe truly characterised the scene that followed, by calling it a sad

spectacle. Such it was--too sad to be described: the cuirassier captain

appearing as much affected as any of those who assisted at it!

In an hour after, Sir Marmaduke Wade--in the custody of a cuirassier

guard--might have been seen passing out of Bulstrode Park, on his way to

that famous, or rather infamous, receptacle of political prisoners--the

Tower of London.

Volume Three, Chapter XVI.

In less than a week from this time, Sir Marmaduke Wade stood in the

presence of the Star Chamber--that Court which for long years had been

the dread--less of criminals, than of innocent men.

When accuser and judge are one and the same person, condemnation is sure

to follow. In Sir Marmaduke's case the accuser was the king himself.

The Star Chamber was a mere mask--a means of carrying out his arbitrary

acts, while screening him from their responsibility.

The trial was as much a farce, as if it had been held before a conclave

of the Holy Inquisition. Indeed, both Star Chamber and High Commission

Court bore a close resemblance to that terrible tribunal; and, like the

latter, however farcical might be the form of their trials, they had too

often a tragical ending.

Sir Marmaduke's trial, like many others of the time, was a mockery of

justice--a mere formality to satisfy the slight remnants of liberty that

still lingered in the Constitution. The Court had already doomed him.

It needed only for the Star Chamber to endorse the foregone decree;

which was done by its truculent judges without any delay, and with as

little noise or ceremony.

The knight was accused of treason towards the crown--of conspiring

against the king.

The charge was proven; and the criminal was condemned to death, by the

mode in use against political offenders of the time. His sentence

was:--_to be beheaded upon the block_.

He was not even confronted with his accusers; and knew not who they were

who bore witness against him. But the most specific charge brought up--

that of his presence and speech at the night meeting at Stone Dean--left

him no reason to doubt that Richard Scarthe was one of their number--if

not the prime instigator of the prosecution.

During the investigation, the accused was kept in complete ignorance,

both of the witnesses and the testimony preferred against him. None was

allowed in his favour--no advocate was permitted to plead for him; and

indeed, long before his trial came to a termination, he had made up his

mind as to the result.

It was scarce a shock to him, when the president of that iniquitous

conclave, pronounced in mock solemnity the sentence of _death_.

But it was a terrible shock to two tender hearts, when his son, Walter,

hurrying home after the trial, carried the melancholy tidings--to the

mansion of Bulstrode, soon to be deprived of its master.

Never was the hypocrisy of Richard Scarthe more successfully exerted

than in that sad hour.

The children of his victim were almost deceived into a belief in his

friendship. So sincere did his expressions of sympathy appear, and so

often were they repeated, that Walter and Lora became almost disarmed as

to his treason; and even Marion wavered in her suspicions of the honesty

of this accomplished impostor.

Could Sir Marmaduke have communicated with them, there would have been

no danger of such a deception. But this he was not allowed to do. From

the hour of his arrest, his enemy had adopted every precaution to

prevent it. The parting with his children had taken place in Scarthe's

presence--where no word could be spoken unheard. Afterwards, from his

prison in the Tower, he had not been allowed to hold the slightest

intercourse with the outside world--neither before his trial, nor after

it. Only a few minutes had his son Walter been permitted to stay in his

company; and then only with spies and jailers standing near, and

listening to every speech that passed between them.

Sir Marmaduke had not even found opportunity to communicate to his son

the suspicions he entertained: that the man who was making such loud

protestations of sympathy and friendship, was not only his enemy, but

the very individual who had denounced him.

To Walter, and Lora, and Marion, all this remained unknown. It had

never occurred to them to speculate on the cause of Scarthe's absence

from the mansion--during the two days of the trial. Little did they

suspect that the double-tongued villain--so profuse in expressions of

sympathy and condolence--during that interval, had been himself in the

presence of the Star Chamber--secretly testifying against the accused--

freely supplying the testimony that had sealed his condemnation.

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

On the morning after the sad intelligence had been conveyed to the

inmates of Bulstrode mansion, Marion was in her chamber, the victim of a

double sorrow.

The Spaniards have a proverb, "One nail drives out another," (_un clavo

saca otro clavo_), intending to convey, by this homely figure, that the

heart cannot contain two sorrows at the same time, but that one must

give place to the other.

To some extent is this proverb true; but, like most others, yielding to

certain conditions. For a while recent sorrow, overweighing that of

anterior date, may tend to its alleviation. If it be greater, it may

conduct to its cure; but, if less, the old grief will in time return,

and again resume dominion over the throne of the heart.

Either one of the sorrows from which Marion suffered, was enough to have

occupied her heart, to the exclusion of the other; and yet, her

experience confirmed the proverb only in part. Long after listening to

the sad tale told by her brother, she had brooded over the misfortunes

of her much-loved father, and the fearful fate that was awaiting him.

But love is stronger than filial affection; and there were intervals,

during which, her anguish for a parent she was about to lose, was

perhaps, less intense than that for a lover she had already lost! Judge

her not harshly, if in the midst of her convulsive grief, there were

moments when her mind dwelt upon the other and older sorrow. Judge her

not harshly; but as you would yourself be judged! She was not alone.

Her affectionate cousin was by her side; and near by, her fond brother.

They had passed the night together--in vain endeavours to impart mutual

consolation. Their cheeks and eyes told of a night spent in

sleeplessness and tears.

Spent in mutual counsel, too; which they seemed to have exhausted: as

was testified by the words now spoken by Walter.

Marion had suggested an appeal to the Queen--had proposed making a

journey to London for this purpose.

"I fear it will be of no use," rejoined the ex-courtier. "I fell upon

my knees before her--I protested our father's innocence--I entreated her

with tears in my eyes; but she gave me no hope. On the contrary, she

was angry with me. I never saw her so before. She even insulted me

with vile words: called me the cub of a conspirator; while Jermyn, and

Holland, and others of the young lords in her company, made merry at my

expense. The king I dared not see. Ah! sister; I fear even you would

meet no favour among that Court crew. There is but one who can help us;

and that because he is of their kind. You know who I mean, Marion?"

"You speak of Captain Scarthe?"

"I do."

"Indeed! it is true," interposed Lora. "You know he has more than once

thrown out hints, as to what he could do to obtain dear uncle's freedom.

I would go upon my knees to him, if it were of any use; but you know,

Marion, one word from you would be worth all the entreaties that Walter

and I could make. O, cousin! let us not speak in riddles at such a time

as this. You know the reason?"

"Marion!" said Walter, half divining Lora's implied meaning; "If this

man speak sincerely--if it be true that he has the influence he boasts

of--and I have heard as much at Court--then there may be a hope. I know

not to what Lora refers. She says that a word from you may accomplish

much. Dear sister; is it a sacrifice?"

"You have styled it truly, Walter, in calling it a sacrifice. Without

that, my entreaties would be vain as yours. I am sure of it."

"Say, sister! What sacrifice?"

"My hand--my hand!"

"Dear, dear Marion! If it be not with your heart, you cannot promise

it--you could not give it."

"Without such promise, I know he would deny me."

"The wretch! O, heavens! And yet it is our father's life--ay, his very

life!"

"Would it were mine!" exclaimed Marion, with a look of abandoned

anguish; "only mine. The thought of death would be easier to endure

than the sorrows I have already!"

Walter comprehended not the meaning of her wild words. Lora better

understood their import.

Neither had time to reflect upon them: for, on the instant of their

utterance, Marion rose to her feet, and walked with a determined air

towards the door of the apartment.

"Where are you going, dear cousin?" asked Lora, slightly frayed at

Marion's resolute mien.

"To Captain Scarthe," was the firm rejoinder. "To fling myself at his

feet--prostrate, if he please it; to ask him _the price of my father's

life_."

Before either cousin or brother could interfere, to oppose or strengthen

her resolution, the self-appointed suppliant had passed out of the room.

Volume Three, Chapter XVII.

The sentence passed upon Sir Marmaduke had given Scarthe a new string to

his bow; and the crisis had now arrived for testing its strength.

He had easily obtained the knight's condemnation. From the peculiar

interest which he possessed at Court, he knew--or believed--that with

equal facility he could procure his pardon.

In his own mind he had resolved upon doing this. On certain conditions

Marion Wade might expect a prompt answer to the inquiry she was about to

make. It was already determined upon: the price of Sir Marmaduke's life

would be the hand of his daughter.

Scarthe did not design addressing his reiterated proposal to the

condemned knight; but to Marion herself. His former appeal to the

father had been met with a refusal so firm, that from him he might

readily apprehend a similar response. True, at that time the knight was

only threatened with danger. Now, death stared him in the face--death

inglorious, even ignominious. The prospect could not fail to cause fear

and faltering; and an ordinary man should be only too fain, by any

means, to save himself from such a fate.

But Sir Marmaduke Wade was not one of this stamp. On the contrary, he

was just the type of those antique heroic parents, who prefer death to

the sacrifice of a daughter's happiness. Scarthe knew it; and believed

it quite possible that the conditions he meant to offer might still

provoke a noble and negative rejoinder. Although he had not determined

to forego the chances of a last appeal to the condemned prisoner, this

was only to be made in the event of Marion's rejection of his terms.

Filial affection was first to be put upon its trial. After that it

would be time to test the parental.

This design had been conceived, before the trial of Sir Marmaduke--even

previous to his imprisonment: for it was but a sequence of his scheme;

and he who concocted it had only been waiting for the knight's

condemnation, to bring matters to a climax.

Of the sentence he had been already advised--in fact, knew it before

leaving London. Twenty-four hours sooner he could have communicated the

intelligence to those whom it most concerned; but, for reasons of his

own, he had preferred leaving it to reach them through the natural

channel--by the return of Walter from that short sad interview, the last

he had been permitted to hold with his unfortunate father.

It was late in the evening when Walter arrived to tell the melancholy

tale. Perhaps, had the hour been earlier, Scarthe would have intruded

upon the scene of sorrow--to speak his sham sympathy, and mingle

hypocritical tears with those that were real. As it was, he only

expressed himself thus by deputy--sending one of the domestics with a

message of condolence, and reserving his interview with Marion for the

morrow.

It was his design to see her, just at that hour when it might be

supposed, the first fresh throes of her sorrow had subsided, and his

proffer of assistance might stand a better chance of being appreciated.

Ever since the departure of the prisoner he had been cunningly preparing

his plans. He had lost no opportunity of letting it be understood--or

at all events surmised--that he possessed the _power to save_. He had

hinted at great sacrifices that would accrue to himself in the exertion

of this power--at the same time, making certain innuendos, that left the

conditions to be guessed at.

His scheme had become matured. To-morrow would see it carried into

effect, either for failure or success, and that morrow had now arrived.

On the eve of action he was far from being either confident, or

tranquil. As he paced the large drawing-room of the mansion, previous

to asking an interview with its young mistress, his steps betrayed

agitation. His glances told of mingled emotions--hope, fear, and shame:

for, hardened as he was, he could not contemplate his sinister intent

without some slight sense of abasement. Several times had he laid his

hand upon the bell, to summon some one, as the bearer of his request;

but as often had his resolution failed him.

"By Phoebus! I'm a fool," he exclaimed at length, as if to fortify his

courage by the self-accusation: "and a coward, too! What have I to

fear? She cannot refuse me--with her father's life as the forfeit? She

would be false to filial duty--affection--nature--everything. Bah!

I'll dally with doubt no longer. I'll bring it to a crisis at once!

Now is the time or never!"

He strode back to the table on which stood the bell. He took it up,

with the intention of ringing it. The sound of an opening door,

accompanied by the rustling of silken robes, caused him to turn round.

She, from whom he was about to ask an interview, stood before him.

Scarthe was surprised--disconcerted--as one detected in a guilty action.

He fancied that his visitor had divined his intent. On glancing at her

countenance, his momentary abashment became suddenly changed to a

feeling of triumph. He fancied that he divined _hers_.

She must have known he was in the room: else why did she not pause, or

retire? On the contrary, she was approaching him--she had never done so

before--evidently with a purpose! There could be but one--_to ask his

intercession_.

This forestalling was in his favour. It gave him strength and

confidence. It gave him a cue, for the disclosure he meditated making.

"Mistress Marion!" said he, bowing low, "you have saved me the chagrin

of intruding upon your grief: for, in truth, I had intended soliciting

an interview, to offer my poor mite of consolation."

"By your own showing, sir," rejoined she, placing herself in a firm yet

humble attitude, "you can do more. If I mistake not, you have spoken of

your influence with the king?"

"Perhaps it is greater with the king's wife," replied the soldier with a

smile, evidently intended to make a peculiar impression on his

petitioner. "True, fair Marion; I own to some little influence in that

quarter. 'Tis not much; but such as it be, 'tis at your service."

"O sir! thank you for these words. Say you will exert it, to save the

life of my father! Say that; and you shall win the gratitude of--of--"

"Marion Wade?"

"More than mine--my father--my brother--our kindred--perhaps our

country--will all be grateful; will bless you for the act."

"And of all these gratitudes, the only one I should in the least esteem

is your own, beautiful Marion. That will be sufficient recompense for

me."

"Sir, you shall have it--to the very depth of my soul."

"Say rather to the depth of your _heart_."

"I have said it. You shall have my heart's gratitude, now and for

ever."

"Ah! gratitude is but a cold word. Exchange it for another."

"Another! What mean you, Sir?"

"Say your _love_. Give me but that, and I promise--I swear, by my hopes

of happiness here and hereafter--that I shall not rest, till your

father's pardon be obtained; or till I, by my unwelcome interference in

his behalf, be sentenced to partake of his prison and punishment! O

Marion Wade! have mercy upon me! I, not you, am the suppliant in this

cause. Give me what I have asked; and command me as your slave!"

For some seconds Marion stood without making reply.

From the fervour of his appeal, and the silence with which it had been

received, Scarthe was beginning to conceive a hope; and kept his eyes

keenly bent upon the countenance of his suitor.

He could read nothing there. Not a thought was betrayed by those

beautiful features--immovable as though chiselled out of stone.

When she at length spoke, her answer told him, that he had

misinterpreted her silence.

"Captain Scarthe," said she, "you are a man of the world--one, as I have

heard, skilled in the thoughts of our sex--"

"You flatter me," interrupted he, making an effort to recover his

customary coolness. "May I know why I am thus complimented?"

"I did not mean it in that sense. Only to say, that, knowing our nature

as you do, you must be aware that what you ask is impossible? O, Sir!

woman cannot _give_ her heart. _That must be taken from her_."

"And yours, Marion Wade?"

"Is not in my power to give. It has been surrendered already."

"Surrendered!" cried Scarthe, with an angry emphasis on the word: for

this was his first assurance of a fact that had long formed the theme of

his conjectures. "Surrendered, you say?"

"'Tis too true. Stolen, if you will, but still surrendered! 'Tis

broken now, and cannot be restored. O sir! you would not value it, if

offered to you. Do not make that a condition. Accept instead what is

still in my power to give--a gratitude that shall know no end!"

For some seconds the discomfited sooer neither spoke nor moved. What he

had heard appeared to have paralysed him. His lips were white, and

drawn tightly over his teeth, with an expression of half-indignation--

half-chagrin.

Skilled as he certainly was in woman's heart, he had heard enough to

convince him, that he could never win that of Marion Wade. Her

declaration had been made in a tone too serious--too sober in its

style--to leave him the vestige of a hope. Her heart had been surely

surrendered. Strange she should say _stolen_! Stranger still she

should declare it to be _broken_!

Both were points that might have suggested curious speculations; but at

that moment Scarthe was not in the vein for indulging in idle

hypotheses. He had formed the resolution to possess the hand, and the

fortune, of Marion Wade. If she could not give her heart, she could

give these--as compensation for the saving of her father's life.

"Your gratitude," said he, no longer speaking in a strain of fervour,

but with an air of piqued formality, "your gratitude, beautiful Marion,

would go far with me. I would make much sacrifice to obtain it; but

there is something you can bestow, which I should prize more."