Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.

Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.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—theParliament.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 ofroyal 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 ofserfdom, or its modern substitute thetax: 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 henow?” 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 habitualsang 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. Oneison duty—and I grieve to say a painful duty to me. The other I might designate an errand ofaffection; 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.”“Ihaveimparted 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 assistyou.”“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 anddesigns 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.

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—theParliament.

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 ofroyal 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 ofserfdom, or its modern substitute thetax: 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 henow?” 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 habitualsang 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. Oneison duty—and I grieve to say a painful duty to me. The other I might designate an errand ofaffection; 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.”

“Ihaveimparted 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 assistyou.”

“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 anddesigns 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 Sixteen.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 ofdeath.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 himthe 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.

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 ofdeath.

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 himthe 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 Seventeen.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 thepower 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 divinedhers.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 yourheart.”“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 yourlove. 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 cannotgiveher 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 saystolen! Stranger still she should declare it to bebroken!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.”Marion looked—“What is it?”“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, andyour father lives. Refuse it, and hemust 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 cansave 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!

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 thepower 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 divinedhers.

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 yourheart.”

“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 yourlove. 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 cannotgiveher 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 saystolen! Stranger still she should declare it to bebroken!

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.”

Marion looked—“What is it?”

“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, andyour father lives. Refuse it, and hemust 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 cansave 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 Eighteen.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, itwasthe 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 devildidit 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! TherebelHenry 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 devilcanit 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—andin 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 theamende, 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 theimpedimenta.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’sgracemight 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 myfather’slife. The happiness arising from that is some recompense—for—for the misery you have causedme.”“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—Ihave 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!”“Ihavedeceived you. That is true, that only. Ihada 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 keptthat 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! thewhite 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 equallyen rapportwith 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!

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, itwasthe 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 devildidit 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! TherebelHenry 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 devilcanit 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—andin 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 theamende, 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 theimpedimenta.

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’sgracemight 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 myfather’slife. The happiness arising from that is some recompense—for—for the misery you have causedme.”

“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—Ihave 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!”

“Ihavedeceived you. That is true, that only. Ihada 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 keptthat 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! thewhite 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 equallyen rapportwith 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!

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