"Your hand."
"That then is the price of my father's life?"
"It is."
"Captain Scarthe! what can my hand be worth to you, without--"
"Your heart, you would say? I must live in hopes to win that. Fair
Marion, reflect! A woman's heart may be won more than once."
"_Only once can it be lost_."
"Be it so. I must bear the chagrin. I shall bear it all the better, by
having your hand. Marion Wade! I scorn further circumlocution. Give
me what I have asked, and _your father lives_. Refuse it, and he _must
forfeit his head_."
"Oh, sir, have pity! Have you a father? Ah! could you but feel the
anguish of one about to be made fatherless. Mercy, Captain Scarthe! On
my knees I ask it. O sir! you can save him--you will?"
While speaking, the proud beautiful woman had dropped down upon her
knees. Her rich golden hair, escaping from its silken coif, swept the
floor at her feet. Her tear-drops sparkled, like pearls, among its
profusion of tresses.
For a second Scarthe remained silent, gazing upon the lovely suppliant--
a Venus dissolved in tears. He gazed not coldly; though his cruel
thoughts glowed only with exultation. Marion Wade was at his feet!
"_I can_ save him--_I will_!" he answered emphatically, echoing her last
words.
Marion looked up--hope beaming in her tear-bedewed eyes. The sweet
thought was stifled on the instant. The cynical glance, meeting hers,
told her that Scarthe had not finished his speech.
"Yes," he triumphantly continued, "I have said that I can, and will. It
needs but one word from you. Promise that you will be mine?"
"O God! has this man no mercy?" muttered the maiden, as she rose
despairingly to her feet.
The speech was not intended to be heard; but it was. Involuntarily had
it been uttered aloud. It elicited an instant reply.
"There is no mercy in love--when scorned, as you have scorned mine."
"I have not scorned it. You ask what is impossible."
"No," suddenly rejoined Scarthe, conceiving a hope from the gentle
character of the reply. "'Tis not impossible. I expect not the
firstlings of your heart. Alas! for me, they are gone. I can scarce
hope for even a second love; though I should do everything within the
power of man to deserve it. All I ask for is the opportunity to win
you, by making you my wife. O, Marion Wade!" he continued, adopting a
more fervent form of speech, "you have met with a man--never before
gainsayed--one who has never wooed woman in vain--even when wearing a
crown upon her brow. One, too, who will not be thwarted. Heaven and
earth shall not turn me from my intent. Say you will be mine, and all
will be well. Reflect upon the fearful issue that must follow your
refusal. I await your answer. Is it yes, or no?"
Having thus delivered himself, the impetuous lover commenced pacing to
and fro--as if to allow time for the reply.
Marion, on rising from her supplicating attitude, had withdrawn to the
window. She stood within its embayment--her back turned towards that
dark type of humanity--her eyes upon the blue heaven: as if there
seeking inspiration.
Was she hesitating as to her answer? Was she wavering between her
father's life, and her own happiness--or rather, might it be said, her
life-long misery? Did the thought cross her mind, that her unhappiness,
springing from the defection--the deception--of her lost lover--could
scarce be increased either in amount or intensity; and that the
sacrifice she was now called upon to make could add but little to a
misery already at its maximum?
Whether or no, may never be revealed. Marion Wade can alone disclose
the thoughts that struggled within her soul at that critical moment.
Scarthe continued to pace the floor, impatiently awaiting her decision.
Not that he wished it to be given on the instant: for he believed that
delay would favour him. A sudden answer might be a negative, springing
from passion; while fear for her father's fate--strengthened by
reflection--might influence her to agree to his proposal.
At length came the answer, or what Scarthe was compelled to accept as
one. It came not in words; but in a cry--at once joyous and triumphant!
Simultaneous with its utterance, Marion Wade extended her arms; and,
flinging open the casement, rushed out into the verandah!
Volume Three, Chapter XVIII.
Scarthe stood for a time astounded--stupefied. Had Marion Wade gone
mad? Her singular behaviour seemed to say so.
But no. There appeared to be method in the movement she had made. As
she glided through the open casement, he had observed, that her eye was
fixed upon something outside--something that must have influenced her to
the making of that unexpected exit.
On recovering from his surprise, the cuirassier captain hastened towards
the window; but, before reaching it, he heard sounds without, conducting
him to alarming conjectures. They might have been unintelligible, but
for the sight that came under his eyes as he looked forth.
A crowd was coming up the main avenue of the park--a crowd of men. They
were not marching in order, and might have been called a "mob;" although
it consisted of right merry fellows--neither disorderly nor dangerous.
The individuals who composed it appeared to be of every condition in
life, and equally varied as to their costumes. But the greater number
of them could be identified as men of the farmer and mechanic class--the
"bone and sinew" of the country.
The miller under his hoary hat; the butcher in his blood-stained boots;
the blacksmith in grimy sheepskin; the small shopkeeper, and pale-faced
artisan; the grazier and agriculturist of ruddy hue--alongside the
tavern-keeper and tapster of equally florid complexion--could be
distinguished in that crowd coming on towards the walls of Bulstrode
mansion.
The cuirassier captain had seen such an assemblage before. It might
have been the same, that saluted him with jeers--as he crossed the Colne
bridge, returning from his unsuccessful pursuit of the black horseman.
With slight exceptions, it _was_ the same.
One of these exceptions was an individual, who, mounted on horseback,
was riding conspicuously in front; and who appeared to occupy a large
share of the attention of those who followed him. He was a man of
mature age, dressed in dark velvet tunic, and with trunk-hose of a
corresponding colour. A man with an aspect to inspire regard--even from
a crowd to which he might have been a stranger.
But he was evidently no stranger to the men who surrounded him: for at
every step of their progress, they could be heard vociferating in hearty
hurrah, "Long live Sir Marmaduke Wade!"
It was the Knight of Bulstrode who headed that cheerful procession.
Though much-loved, Sir Marmaduke did not monopolise the enthusiasm of
the assemblage. Mounted upon a magnificent horse--black as a coal fresh
hoisted upon the windlass--rode by his side a cavalier of more youthful,
but equally noble, aspect.
It did not need the cry, "Hurrah for the black horseman!" at intervals
reaching his ears, to apprise Captain Scarthe, who was the second
cavalier at the head of the approaching cortege. The images of both
horse and rider were engraven upon his memory--in lines too deep ever to
be effaced.
What the devil _did_ it mean?
This was the thought in Scarthe's mind--the identical expression that
rose to his lips--as he looked forth from the opened casement.
Sir Marmaduke Wade, on horseback--unguarded--followed by a host of
sympathising friends! The _rebel_ Henry Holtspur riding by his side!
Marion with her yellow tresses afloat behind her--like a snow-white
avalanche under the full flood of a golden sunlight--gliding forward to
meet them!
"What the devil _can_ it mean?" was the interrogatory of Captain Scarthe
repeatedly put to himself, as the procession drew near.
He was not allowed much time to speculate on a reply to his self-asked
question. Before he had quite recovered from the surprise caused by the
unexpected sight, the crowd had closed in to the walls; where they once
more raised their voices in shouts of congratulation.
"Three cheers for John Hampden!" "Three more for Pym!" were proposed,
and unanimously responded to. With equal unanimity were accepted two
cries, of far more significance in the ear of the royalist officer:
"_Long live the Parliament!" "Death to the traitor Strafford_!"
Though still unable to account for what appeared to him some strange
travestie, Scarthe could endure it no longer. Strafford was his
peculiar patron; and, on bearing him thus denounced, he sprang forth
from the casement; and ran with all speed in the direction of the crowd.
The cuirassier captain was followed by a score of his troopers, who
chanced to be standing near--like himself at a loss to make out the
meaning of that unlooked-for invasion.
"Disloyal knaves!" shouted he, confronting the crowd, with his sword
raised in a threatening manner, "Who is he that has dared to insult the
noble Strafford? Let me hear that traitorous phrase once more; and I
shall split the tongue that repeats it!"
"Not so fastish, Master!" cried a stalwart individual, stepping to the
front, and whose black bushy whiskers, and fantastic fashion of dress,
proclaimed him to be the ex-footpad, Gregory Garth--"doan't a be so
fastish wi' your threets--you mayen't be able to carry 'em out so
easyish as you suppose. Ye can have a try, though. I'm one o' them as
cried: `_Death to the treetur Strafford_!'"
As he pronounced the challenging speech, Garth drew from its scabbard a
huge broadsword--at the same time placing himself in an attitude of
defence.
"Goo it, Gregory!" cried another colossal individual, recognisable as
Dick Dancey, the deer-stealer. "Gooit like bleezes! I'll stan' to yer
back."
"And we!" simultaneously shouted a score of butchers, bakers, and
blacksmiths, ranging themselves by the side of Garth, and severally
confronting the cuirassiers--who had formed a phalanx in rear of their
chief.
Scarthe hesitated in the execution of his threat. He saw that his
adversaries, one and all of them, wielded ugly weapons; while his own
men had only their light side-arms--some even without arms of any kind.
The attitude of the opposing party--their looks, words, and gestures--
told that they were in earnest in their resolution to resist. Moreover,
it was stronger than his own; and constantly gaining accessions from the
crowd in the rear.
With the quick perception of a skilled strategist, Scarthe saw that in a
hand-to-hand fight with such redoubtable antagonists, his men would have
the worst of it. This influenced him to pause in his purpose.
The unexpected opposition caused him to change his design. He suddenly
resolved to retire from the contest; arm and mount his whole troop;
sally forth again; and rout the rabble who had so flagrantly defied him.
Such was the project that had presented itself to his brain; but before
he could make any movement, Sir Marmaduke had dismounted from his horse,
and placed himself between the opposing parties.
"Captain Scarthe!" said he, addressing himself to the officer, and
speaking in a calm tone--in which a touch of irony was perceptible; "In
this matter, it appears to me, you overstep the limits of your duty.
Men may differ in opinion about the merits of the `noble Strafford,' as
you have designated Thomas Wentworth. He is now in the hands of his
judges; who will no doubt deal with him according to his deserts."
"Judges!" exclaimed Scarthe, turning pale as he spoke; "Earl Strafford
in the hand of judges?"
"It is as I have said. Thomas Wentworth as this moment occupies the
same domicile which has been my dwelling for some days past; and from
which I am not sorry to have been ejected. I know, Captain Scarthe, you
could not have been aware of this change in the fortunes of your friend:
since it was only yesterday he made his entrance into the Tower!"
"Strafford in the Tower!" gasped out the cuirassier captain, utterly
astounded at the intelligence.
"Yes," continued the knight; "and soon to stand, not before the Star
Chamber--which was yesterday abolished--but a court that will deal more
honestly with his derelictions--the High Court of Parliament. Thomas
Wentworth appears in its presence--an attainted traitor to his country."
"Long live the Parliament! Death to the traitor Strafford!" were the
cries that responded to the speech of Sir Marmaduke--though from none to
whom the announcement was new. The men, who accompanied the knight to
his home, had already learnt the news of Strafford's attainder; which,
like a blaze of cheerful light, was fast spreading over the land.
For some seconds Scarthe seemed like a man bereft of reason. He was
about to retire from the spot, when Sir Marmaduke again addressed him--
speaking in the same calm voice, but with a more perceptible irony of
tone--
"Captain Scarthe," pursued he, "some time ago you were good enough to
bring me a despatch from the king. It is my fortune to be able to
reciprocate the compliment--and _in kind_. I am the bearer of one for
you--also from his Majesty, as you may see by the seal."
Sir Marmaduke, as he spoke, exhibited a parchment bearing the stamp of
the royal signet.
"On that occasion," continued he, "you were good enough to have it read
aloud--so that the bystanders should have the benefit of its contents.
In this, also shall I follow your example."
On saying this the knightly bearer of the despatch broke open the seal,
and read:--
"_To ye Captain Scarthe, commanding ye King's cuirassiers at Bulstrode
Park_.
"_His Majestie doth hereby command ye Captain Scarthe to withdraw his
troops from ye mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, and transfer ye same to
quarters in our Royal Palace at Windsor; and His Majestie doth further
enjoin on his faithful officer, ye said Captain Scarthe, to obey this
order on ye instant of receipt thereof_.
"_Carolus Rex_.
"_Whitehall_."
The despatch of his "Majestie" was received with a vociferous cheer;
though there was not a voice in the crowd to cry "Long live the King!"
They knew that the _amende_, thus made to Sir Marmaduke Wade, was not a
voluntary act on the part of the Royal cuckold, but had been wrung from
his fears. It was the Parliament who had obtained that measure of
justice; and once more rang out the cry:--
"Long live the Parliament!"
Scarthe's chagrin had culminated to its climax. He was black in the
face, as he strode off to make preparations for his departure; and the
words "coward" and "poltroon," muttered hissingly through his closed
teeth, were not intended for the citizens who were jeering, but the
sovereign who had exposed him to such overwhelming humiliation.
In less than ten minutes after, he was seen at the head of his troop
galloping outward through the gates of Bulstrode Park, having left a few
stragglers to look after the _impedimenta_.
He was not likely ever to forget the loud huzza, that rose ironically
from the crowd, as his discomfited cuirassiers swept past on their
departure.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
At the moment of his dismounting, Marion had rushed into the arms of Sir
Marmaduke.
"Father!" exclaimed she, joyfully, trembling in his embrace. "Saved!
you are safe!"
"Safe, my child! Sure with such a brave following, I may feel safe
enough!"
"And I am spared. Oh! to come at such a crisis! Just as I was on the
eve of consenting to a sacrifice--painful as death itself."
"What sacrifice, my daughter?"
"Myself--to him yonder. He promised to obtain your pardon; but only on
the condition, I should become--"
Marion hesitated to pronounce the terms that Scarthe had proposed to
her.
"I know them," interposed Sir Marmaduke. "And you would have accepted
them, noble girl! I know that too. Thank heaven! my pardon has been
obtained, not through the favour of an enemy, but by friends--foremost
among whom is this gallant gentleman by my side. But for him, the
King's _grace_ might have come too late."
Marion looked up. Holtspur, still seated in his saddle, was tenderly
gazing upon her.
It was at this moment, that Sir Marmaduke was called upon to interfere
between the cuirassiers of Scarthe, and his own enthusiastic escort.
For an instant Marion and Holtspur were left alone.
"I thank you, sir," said she, her voice trembling from a conflict of
emotions--"I thank you for my _father's_ life. The happiness arising
from that is some recompense--for--for the misery you have caused _me_."
"Misery, Marion? I--I--"
"Oh, sir, let it pass. 'Tis better without explanation. You know what
is meant--too well you know it. O Henry! Henry! I could not have
believed you capable of such a deception--such cruelty."
"Cruelty?"
"No more--go--go! Leave me to my sorrow--leave me to a life-long
repentance!"
"I obey your commands," said Holtspur, taking up his bridle-reins, as if
with the intention of riding away. "Alas!" he added, in an accent of
bitterness, "whither am I to go? For me there is no life--no
happiness--where thou art not O God! whither am I to go?"
"_To your wife_," muttered Marion, in a low reproachful tone, and with
faltering accent.
"Ha! 'tis that! You have heard then?"
"All--all."
"No--not all--I _have no wife_."
"O sir! Henry! Why try to deceive me any longer? You have a wife! I
have been told it, by those who know. It is true!"
"I _have_ deceived you. That is true, that only. I _had_ a wife. _She
is dead_!"
"Dead!"
"Ay, dead."
"I acknowledge my crime," continued he, after a solemn pause. "I should
have told you all. For my justification I can plead only my own wrongs,
and your beauty. _I loved you, while she was still living_."
"O, mercy! what is this? She is dead; and you love me no more?"
"No more? What mean you, Marion? Heart and hand, soul and body, I am
yours. I swore it at our last interview. It cost no sacrifice to keep
the oath: I could not break it if I would."
"O Henry! This is cruel. 'Tis insulting! Have you not kept _that
promise_? How, then, can you be true to your troth?"
"What promise?"
"Cruel--cruel! You are trifling with my misery; but you cannot make it
more. Ah! the _white gauntlet_! When it was brought back--with your
message that accompanied it--my dream of happiness came to an end. My
heart was broken!"
"Brought back--the white gauntlet--message!"
"Marion!" cried Sir Marmaduke, who had by this time disposed of the
pretty quarrel between Scarthe and his own following; "Indoors, my
daughter! and see that your father's house does not forfeit its
character for hospitality. There's dust upon the king's highway; which
somehow or other has got into the throats of our worthy friends from
Uxbridge, Denham, and Iver. Surely there's an antidote in the cellars
of Bulstrode? Go find it, my girl!"
Promptly did Marion obey the commands of her father; the more promptly,
from having been admonished, by the surprise exhibited in Holtspur's
countenance, that the return of her token would admit of a different
interpretation, from that she had hitherto put upon it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Time permitting, it would be a pleasant task to depict the many joyous
scenes that took place in the precincts of Bulstrode Park, subsequent to
the departure of Scarthe and his cuirassiers.
Lora, no longer subject to the tiresome importunities of Stubbs, found
little else to do than listen to Walter's pretty love prattlings--
excepting to respond to them.
Near at hand were two hearts equally _en rapport_ with one another--
equally brimful of beatitude--trembling under a passion still more
intense--the one paramount passion of a life, destined to endure to its
ending.
It was no young love's dream,--no fickle fondness--that filled the
bosoms of Henry Holtspur and Marion Wade; but a love that burned with a
bold, blazing flame--like a torch that no time could extinguish--such a
love as may exist between the eagle and his majestic mate.
With all its boldness, it sought not notoriety. The scenes in which it
was displayed lay not inside the walls of the proud mansion; nor yet
within the enclosure of its park. A spot to Marion Wade reminiscent of
the keenest pang she had ever experienced--was now the oft-repeated
scene of earth's purest pleasure--at least its supremest. Oft might the
lovers have been seen in that solitary spot, under the spreading beech
tree, not recumbent as Tityrus, but seated in the saddles, their horses
in close approximation--the noble black steed curving his neck, not in
proud disdain, but bent caressingly downward, till his velvet muzzle met
in friendly contact with that of the white palfrey.
And yet there was scarce necessity for these clandestine meetings. The
presence of Scarthe and his cuirassiers no longer interdicted the
entrance of Henry Holtspur into the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade--who
was ever but too happy to make his preserver welcome.
Why then did the lovers prefer the forest shade, for interviews, that no
one had the right to interrupt? Perhaps it was caprice? Perhaps the
mystic influence of past emotions--in which, to Marion at least, there
was a co-mingling of pain with pleasure? Perhaps, and more probably,
their choice was determined by that desire--or instinct--felt by all
true lovers, to keep their secret unrevealed--to indulge in the
sweetness of the stolen?
Whatever may have been their motive, they were successful in their
measures. Oft,--almost daily,--did they meet under the spreading tree
whose sombre shadow could not dim the bright colour of Marion's golden
hair, nor make pallid the roseate hue of her cheeks--always more radiant
at parting!
Volume Three, Chapter XIX.
To bring our drama to a _denouement_, only two more scenes require to be
described.
Two scenes were they, antagonistic in character,--though oft coupled
together, like their emblematical deities in the pagan Pantheon.
Over the first, presided Mars. The god called cruel--and not always
just--on this occasion, gave the victory to the side that deserved it.
For three years had the trumpet of war been braying loudly over the
land: and England's best blood, marshalled into the field, was arrayed
on both sides of the fraternal strife. The combatants had become known
as _royalist_ and _republican_: for the latter phrase--first breathed by
Holtspur in the secret conference at Stone Dean--was no longer a title
to be concealed. On the contrary, it had become openly avowed--
proclaimed as a thing to be proud of--_as it ever will and must among
enlightened and noble men_.
There were heard also the words "Cavalier" and "Roundhead;" but these
were only terms of boasting and reproach--proceeding principally from
the lips of ribald royalists, humiliated by defeat, and giving way to
the ferocious instincts that have distinguished "Toryism" in all times;
alas! still rife at the present day, both in the tax-paying shires of
England, and the slave-holding territories _outre_ the Atlantic.
The "Cavalier" of Charles's time--so specifically styled--was a true
_sham_; in every respect shabby as his modern representative, the
_swell_--distinguished only by his vanity and his vices; with scarce a
virtue: for, even in the ordinary endowment of courage, he was not equal
to his "Roundhead" antagonist. His title of "cavalier," and his
"chivalry," like that of the Southern slave-driver, were simply
pseudonyms--a ludicrous misapplication of terms, self-appropriated by a
prurient conceit.
It had come to the meeting on Marston Moor--that field ever to be
remembered with pride by the lovers of liberty. The rash swaggerer
Rupert, disregarding the counsels of a wiser head, had sallied forth
from York, at the head of one of the largest armies ever mustered on the
side of the king. He had already raised the siege, so gallantly
protracted by the Marquis of Newcastle; and, flushed with success, he
was in haste to crush the _ci-devant_ besiegers; who, it must be
confessed, with some dispirit were retiring--though slowly, and with the
sulky reluctance of wounded lions.
Rupert overtook them upon Marston Moor; where, to his misfortune, they
had determined on making stand.
It is not our purpose to describe that famous fight--which for a time
settled the question between Throne and Tribune. Of the many thrilling
episodes witnessed on Marston Moor, one only can be of interest in this
narrative; and it alone is given.
Among the followers of the impetuous prince was one Richard Scarthe--
late promoted to be a colonel, and commanding a "colour" of cuirassier
horse. On the opposite side, among the following of Fairfax, was an
officer of like rank--a colonel of cavalry--by name Henry Holtspur.
Was it destiny, or mutual design, that brought these two men together,
face to face, in the middle of the fight? It may have been chance--a
simple coincidence--but whether or no, of a certain they so met upon
Marston Moor.
Scarthe rode at the head of his glittering troop. Holtspur astride his
sable charger, gallantly conducted into the field the brave yeomen of
Bucks clad in cloth doublets of forest green,--each bestriding a horse
he had led from his own stable, to figure in this glorious fight for
freedom.
While still a hundred yards separated the opposing parties, their
leaders recognised one another. There was also a mutual recognition
among their men: for many of those commanded by Scarthe were the
cuirassiers who had been billeted at Bulstrode mansion; while many of
the "green coats" in the following of the _black horseman_ had figured
conspicuously in that crowd who had jeered the soldiers on their
departure from its park.
On identifying each other as old antagonists there was a general desire
on both sides to be led forward. This impulse, however, was stronger in
the breasts of the two leaders; who, without waiting to give the word to
their men, put spurs to their horses, and galloped across the
intervening space. In a second's time, both had separated from the
general line of battle, and were fast closing upon each other.
Their followers taken by surprise at this unexpected action, for a
moment remained without imitating their rapid advance. Two young
officers only--one from each side--had ridden after their respective
chiefs; not as if stirred by their example, but to all appearance
actuated by an analogous hostility.
The action of these youths,--known to their comrades as the cornets
Stubbs and Wade--did not attract any particular attention. The eyes of
all were upon the two chiefs--Scarthe and Holtspur--each exhibiting that
mien that proclaimed him determined upon the death of his adversary.
In the breast of Scarthe raged the fires of a long enduring rancour--fed
by the remembrance of former defeats--stimulated to a fiendish
fierceness by never-dying jealousy.
In the bosom of Holtspur burned a nobler flame--an impulse altogether
unselfish--though not less impelling him towards the destruction of his
antagonist.
The proud republican saw before him a true type of the Janizary--one of
those minions who form the protecting _entourage_ of tyrants--ready to
ride over and oppress the peoples of the Earth--ready even to die in
their infamous harness--on the battle-field breathing with their last
breath that senseless, as contradictory declaration; that they die for
_king and country_!
Holtspur had no personal antipathy to Scarthe--at least none like that
by which he was himself regarded.
Notwithstanding the wrongs which the latter had attempted to inflict
upon him, his antagonism to the royalist officer was chiefly of a
political character--chiefly the sublime contempt which a republican
must needs feel for a partisan of monarchy--whether simpleton or
villain: since one of the two he _must_ be. It was sufficient, however,
to stimulate him to a keen desire to kill Scarthe--such as the shepherd
may feel for destroying the wolf that has been preying upon his innocent
fold, or the game-keeper the "vermin" that has been spoiling his
master's preserves.
Nerved by noble thoughts--confident in a holy cause--sure of the thanks
of millions yet to be--did the soldier of liberty charge forward upon
his adversary.
The action was instantaneous; the event quick as the killing of a stoat,
crushed beneath the heel of the irate keeper. In less than a score of
seconds--after the commencement of the encounter--Scarthe lay motionless
upon the turf of Marston Moor--doubled up in his steel equipments, like
a pile of mediaeval armour!
By this time the two comets were crossing swords; but before either
could give the other a death wound, the royalist bugles brayed the
"Retreat;" and the gallant "green coats," sweeping over the field, put
the discomfited cuirassiers to flight; who from that moment, with the
rest of Rupert's army, made more use of their spurs, than their sabres.
One more act, and the curtain must close upon our drama.
The _mise en scene_ of this act has been already presented; and, as
often on the stage, it is again repeated; with but little change in the
_dramatis personae_.
Bulstrode Park is once more enlivened by a _fete champetre_--as before,
the old Saxon camp being its arena.
An occasion, even more joyful than then, has called together the friends
of Sir Marmaduke Wade; in which category might be comprised every honest
man in the shire of Bucks.
The camp enclosure is capable of containing many thousands. It is full:
so full, that there is hardly room for the sports of wrestling and
single stick, bowls, and baloon--which are, nevertheless, carried on
with zealous earnestness by their respective devotees.
What is the occasion? Another son come of age? It cannot be that:
since there is but one heir to Sir Marmaduke's estate; and _his_
majority has been already commemorated?
It is _not_ that. An event of still greater interest has called
together the concourse in question. A _double_ event it might be
designated: since upon this day the knight of Bulstrode has given away
two brides; one to his own son--the other to an "adventurer," formerly
known as Henry Holtspur, the "black horseman," but of late recognised as
Sir Henry --, a colonel in the Parliamentary army, and a member of the
Parliament itself.
I have told who are the bridegrooms. I need not name the brides: you
have already guessed them!
Behold the two couples, as they stand upon the green-tufted bank--
overlooking the sports--pleased spectators of the people's enjoyment.
For a short while your eyes will rest upon the more youthful pair--the
pretty Lora Lovelace, and her cousin-husband Walter.
'Tis well you have first looked upon them: for your eye will scarce care
to return to them. Once bent upon Marion Wade, it will not wish to
wander away. There you will behold all those hues most distinguished in
nature--the blue of the sky--the gold scattered by the sun--the radiance
of the rose. Shapes, too, of divine ideal corresponding to such fair
colours: the oval of the forehead; the arched outline of the nose; the
spiral curving of the nostrils; the hemisphere expressed in two
contiguous bosoms; and the limitless parabola passing downward from her
lithesome waist--are all conspicuous proofs that, in the construction of
Marion Wade, Nature has employed the most accomplished architects--in
her adornment, the most skilful of artists.
The crowd has eyes for no one else. She is alike the cynosure of gentle
and simple. It is only when these reflect on their late acquired
privileges, that they gaze with grateful pride upon the man who stands
by her side,--recognised by all present as one of the patriot heroes who
has helped them to their liberty.
On this day of the double marriage, as on that of Walter's majority,
there are morris-dancers; and, as before, are personated the "merry men"
of Sherwood Forest. But, with some unnoticeable exceptions, the
individuals who now figure as the representatives of the outlawed
fraternity are not the same. The huge bearded man, who in grotesque
attire personifies Little John, can be recognised as the ex-footpad
Gregory Garth. No wonder he plays the part to perfection! The
representative of Robin Hood is different; and so also she who performs
the _metier_ of Maid Marian.
The latter is a girl with golden hair; and the outlaw chief is the
ex-cuirassier Withers--long since transformed into a staunch supporter
of the Parliament.
Why is Bet Dancey not there as of yore? And where is the woodman
Walford?
There are few upon the ground who could not answer these questions: for
the sad tragedy, that will account for the absence of both, is still
fresh in the minds of the multitude.
A middle-aged man of herculean frame, leaning against a tree, looks
sadly upon the sports. All knew him to be _old Dick Dancey the
deer-stealer_. His colossal form is bowed more than when last seen; for
he has not been abroad for months. He has come forth to the marriage
_fete_ for the first time--from his lone forest hut; where for months he
has been mourning the loss of his only child--daughter. There is
sadness in his glance, and sorrow in his attitude. Even the ludicrous
sallies of his friend and confederate, Garth, cannot win from him a
smile; and, as he looks upon the timid fair-haired representative of
Maid Marian, and remembers his own brave, and brown, and beautiful
Betsey, a tear, telling of a strong heart's despair, can be seen
trickling down his rudely furrowed cheek.
Ah! the brave and beautiful Betsey--for she was both--well may her
father sorrow for her fate: for it was one of the saddest. Her love--
her wild passion--for Henry Holtspur, however unholy in its aim, was
hallowed by truth, and ennobled by generous unselfishness. It should be
regarded with the tear of pity--not the smile of contempt. It led to
her untimely end. She died by the hand of the lurching ruffian, who had
laid presumptuous claim to her love--by the weapon he had threatened to
wield--but dared not--against the man he foolishly believed his rival.
His own end was more just and appropriate. That with which, during all
his life, he had been warring, was called into requisition to expedite
his exit from the world. _He terminated his existence upon a tree_!
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The _fete_ celebrating the double marriage--unlike its predecessor, came
to a conclusion, without being interrupted by any unpleasant incident.
Everybody on the ground seemed happy; excepting, perhaps, the bereaved
father, Dick Dancey, and one other who was present--almost without a
purpose--Dorothy Dayrell.
If she had come with a purpose, it must have been to _criticise_.
But her piquant satire had now lost its point; and no one seemed to
sympathise with her, when in allusion to the love-token that appeared
conspicuously in the hat of Marion's husband, she made these somewhat
_fast_ observations:--
"A white glove! In truth, a true symbol of a woman just become wife!
Now spotless as snow--soon to be soiled--perchance cast away in
contempt! _Nous verrons_!"
The hypothetical prophecy found no supporters, among those to whom it
was addressed. Perhaps no one--save the spiteful prophetess--either
believed, or wished, that such should be the fate of *The White
Gauntlet*.
------------------------------------------------------------------------