Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.The Lake “Fulmere” is no longer in existence; though a village—so picturesque, as to appear the creation of a painter’s fancy—still retains the name. The “mere” itself—yielding to the all-absorbing spirit of utilitarianism—has disappeared from the landscape—drained off by the brook “Alderburne,” and the rivers Colne, and Thames, to mingle its waters with the ocean. Its bed has become a meadow—the residue of its waters being retained in sundry stagnant pools, which serve to supply the neighbouring markets with cress, and the pharmacopoeia of the village apothecaries with “calamus root.”Once a broad sheet of crystal water covered the cress-beds of Fulmere—a sheet with sedgy shores, in which sheltered the bittern, and blue heron, the bald coot, the water-hen, and the gold-crested widgeon.It was so on that day, when Dorothy Dayrell—the daughter of Sir Frederick, Lord of the Manor of Fulmere—invited her friends to be present at a grand entertainment—including falconry—the spectacle to be exhibited upon the shores of the lake.Dorothy Dayrell was something more than pretty. She was what might be termed a “dashing creature,”—a little devilish, it is true—but this, in the eyes of her male acquaintances, only rendered her prettiness more piquant. Following the fashion of her father, she was of the true Tory type—devotedly attached to King and State—and blindly believing in that theory—worthy the conception of a community of apes—the “right divine.”Silly as is the belief, it was then entertained, as, now. At that time, human bipeds of both sexes were just as parasitical, as they are at the present hour; and as loudly proclaimed their ignoble longings for King Stork, or King Log. Not, however, quite so unanimously. The word “republic” was beginning to be heard, issuing from the lips of great statesmen, and true patriots. It was beginning to find an echo in remote villages, and cottage homes, throughout all England.Not that such sentiments had ever been spoken in the village of Fulmere. To have pronounced them there, would have been deemed rank treason; and the rustic giving utterance to them, would have found himself in the pillory, almost before the speech could have passed from his lips.Dorothy hated the idea of a republic; as small-souled people do now, and have done in all ages. We regret having to place the fair Dayrell in this category; but we must succumb to the requirements of truth; and this compels us to say that Mistress Dorothy, physically,petite, was morally little-minded. Her pretty face, however, concealed the defects of her selfish soul; and, aided by many wiles and winning ways, rendered her sufficiently popular in that large social circle, of which she was, or wished to be, both the star and the centre.Some proof of her popularity was the crowd that responded to her call, and was present at her hawking party. Scores of people of “first quality”—dames of high degree, and cavaliers appropriate to such companionship—collected upon the shores of Fulmere Lake; cast resplendent shadows upon its smooth surface; and caused its enclosing hills to resound with the echoes of their merry voices.It is not our purpose to detail the various incidents of the day’s sport: how the party, having met at an appointed place, proceeded around the shores of the lake; how the herons rose screaming from the sedge, and the hawks shot like winged arrows after them; how the owners of the predatory birds bantered one another, and wagers were laid and lost by betters of both sexes; and how—when the circuit of the lake had been accomplished, and the adjacent reedy marshes quartered by the spaniels, until cleared of their feathered game—the gay company wended their way to the summit of the adjoining hill; and there, under the shadows of the greenwood trees, partook of anal frescobanquet, which their knightly entertainer had provided for them.Nor need we describe the conversation—varied of course—always lively under such circumstances; often witty—after the wine has flowed freely.One topic alone claims our attention—as it did that of the company. It was introduced by Mistress Dorothy herself—to whom of course every one obsequiously listened.“I regret,” said this charming creature, addressing herself to her splendid surrounding, “that I’ve not been able to provide you with a more spirited entertainment. After that, we witnessed the other day in Bulstrode Park, our fête will appear tame, I know. Ah! if we only had theblack horsemanhere. How cruel of you, Captain Scarthe, to have deprived us of that pleasure?”“Mistress Dayrell,” replied the officer, on whom the speech had made anything but a pleasant impression, “I regret exceedingly that in the performance of my duty—in dealing with a rebel—I should—”“No apologies, Captain Scarthe!” interposed Sir Frederick, coming to the rescue of the embarrassed cuirassier. “We all know that you acted, as becomes a loyal servant of his Majesty. It would be well if others, in these doubtful times, would display a like energy.” Here Sir Frederick glanced sarcastically towards his neighbour knight—between whom and himself there was not the most cordial friendship. “The only regret is, that the fellow—whoever he may be—was permitted to escape; but, I dare say, he will soon be retaken, and meet with his deserts.”“And what would you deem his deserts, Dayrell?” quietly asked Sir Marmaduke Wade.“The block!” replied the fiery Sir Frederick, who had been partaking rather freely of his own wine. “What else for an adventurer like him, who conspires against his king? I’d chop off his head like a cabbage.”“By so doing,” rejoined Sir Marmaduke, in a tone of satirical significancy, “you would only cause a score of like heads tosproutup in its place.”“Let them sprout up! We’ll serve them the same way. We shall still have the power to do so—in spite of this parliament of traitors, which the king has been so foolish as to think of recalling around him.”“Oh, dear father!” interrupted the pretty Dorothy, in a tone of pseudo-sentimentality.“Don’t talk of chopping off heads. What a pity it would be if Captain Scarthe’s late prisoner were to lose his! I’m so glad he escaped from you, captain.”“Why is this, girl?” asked Sir Frederick, turning rather sharply upon his daughter. “Why would it be a pity? I’ve heard you this very morning express the opposite opinion!”“But I did not know then—that—that—”“Know what?” interrogated several of the party, who encompassed the fair speaker.“That there wereothersinterested in the fate of the unfortunate man. Ah! deeply so!” A malicious glance towards Marion Wade did not escape the attention of the latter; and it was also noticed by Scarthe.“Others interested in his fate. Who, pray?” demanded Sir Frederick, looking inquiringly towards his daughter.“His wife, for one,” replied Dorothy, laying a peculiar emphasis on the words.“His wife!” simultaneously echoed a score of voices. “The black horseman a Benedict! Holtspur married! We never knew that.”“Nor I,” continued the pretty imparter of the startling intelligence—“not till an hour ago. I’ve just heard it from cousin Wayland here; who came this morning from court—where, it seems, Master Holtspur is well-known; though not by the name he has chosen to make celebrated among us simple rustics of Buckinghamshire.”“’Tis quite true,” said a youth in courtier costume, who stood close to her who had thus appealed to him. “The gentleman my cousin speaks ofismarried. I thought it was known to everybody.”“How could it, dear Wayland?” asked Dorothy, with an air of charming simplicity. “Master Holtspur was not known to any one here—except, I believe, to Sir Marmaduke Wade and his family; and, if I mistake not, only very slightly to them?”A significant curling of the speaker’s pretty nostril accompanied this final remark—which was intended as an interrogative.“That is true,” answered Sir Marmaduke. “My acquaintance, with the gentleman you speak of, is but slight. I was not aware of his being a married man; but what has that to do—”“O, ladies and gentlemen!” interrupted the freshly arrived courtier, “perhaps you are not aware of the real name of this cavalier who has been calling himself Holtspur. He has been of some notoriety at court; though that was before my time; and I’ve only heard of it from others. There was a scandal, I believe—”“Come, come, Wayland!” cried his fair cousin, interrupting him. “No scandals here. Keep it, whatever it be, to yourself.”“His name! his name!” shouted a score of voices; while twice that number of ears—piqued by the word “scandal”—were eagerly bent to listen to the threatened disclosure.The courtier gave utterance to a name, known to most of the company; and which ten years before had been oftener pronounced in connexion with that of England’s queen. Only in whispers, it is true, and less discreditable to Henry than Henrietta.The announcement produced an effect upon the auditory of a very peculiar character. It was certainly not so damaging to him, who was the subject of their criticisms: for in the minds of many there present, the man ofbonnes fortuneswas a character to be envied rather than despised; and the favourite page—whose mysterious disappearance from court, some ten years before, had given rise to a “royal scandal”—could not be otherwise than interesting.The knowledge that Henry Holtspur, the black horseman—the mysterious—the unknown—was identical with Henry —, once a queen’s page—the recipient of royal smiles—perhaps, in that assemblage gained him more friends than enemies. Such as were still disposed to be hostile to him, could no longer avail themselves of that mode of reviling—still so customary among the “elite”—by calling him an “adventurer.” This had he been in the true sense of the term—an adventurer, but one to be envied by his enemies.Even the heart of the dashing Dorothy, became suddenly softened towards him, on hearing the new revelation made by her cousin Wayland. That expression of sympathy for him—supposed by her auditory to have been ironical—was a more sincere sentiment, than usually fell from her lips.The scandal was not discussed among Sir Frederick’s guests—at least not in open assembly. The whisperings of side groups may have referred to it; but it was too old to be interesting—even to the most industrious dealers incrim. con.gossip.The general conversation became changed to a theme more appropriate to the occasion; though a small congenial group, who had gathered around the young Wayland, were treated to some further details—relating to the matrimonial affairs of the patriot conspirator.Of these not much knew the courtier; nor indeed any one else upon the ground. He could only inform his auditory—what some of them already knew: that Henry — had been secretly married to one of the noble ladies of Queen Henrietta’s court—that the marriage ceremony, had been followed by an affair, in which the Queen herself had taken an unusual interest—in short, by a separation between man and wife—by the loss of the greater part of the young husband’s fortune—and finally by his disappearance, both from the court and the country. Among other adventurous spirits of the time, he had emigrated to the colonies of Virginia.To do Master Wayland justice, he evinced no particular hostility towards the man, whose history he was narrating; though, on the other hand, he said nothing in his defence. It was not his province to make known the nature of that conjugal quarrel; or say who was in fault. In truth, the stripling but ill understood it. He did not know that royal jealousy had been the cause of that sudden separation between Henry — and his bride-wife; and that it was an act of royal revenge, that had transformed the courtier into a colonist.The subject, after a time, losing interest, was permitted to drop—the conversation changing to other themes.There was one whose thoughts could not be distracted from it. Need I say it was Marion Wade?Amidst the gay company, her gaiety was gone. The roses upon which the mid-day son was but the moment before brightly beaming, had forsaken her cheeks—on that instant when the word “wife” fell from the lips of Dorothy Dayrell.To her the hawking party was no longer a party of pleasure. The sociality that surrounded her was only irksome and to withdraw from it had been her first thought. To escape observation as well: for she knew that the dire cloud, that had settled over her heart, could not fail to be reflected in her face.On recovering from the shock caused by the unexpected announcement, she had turned her back upon the company, and stolen silently away.The trees standing closely around the spot—with the underwood still in foliage—favoured her withdrawal—as also the peculiar topic of conversation which at the moment was absorbing the attention of all.She had not stayed to listen to the further revelations made by the courtier Wayland—the one word spoken by his cousin had been the cue for her silent exit from the circle of conversation.She needed no confirmation of what she had heard. A vague suspicion already conceived, springing out of the ambiguity of some stray speeches let fall by Holtspur himself—not only at their first interview, but while arranging the terms of that parting promise—had the foundation for an easy faith in the statement of Dorothy Dayrell.Painful as was the conviction, Marion could not resist it. She thought not of calling it in question.Once among the trees she glided rapidly on—knowing not whether; nor caring: so long as her steps carried her far from the companionship of her own kind.After wandering awhile, she came to a stop; and now, for the first time, did her countenance betray, in all its palpable reality, the bitterness that was burning within her.Her heart felt, as if parting in twain. A sigh—a half-suppressed scream—escaped from her bosom; and, but that she had seized upon a sapling to support herself, she would have fallen to the earth.No pen could paint her emotions at that moment. They were too painful to permit of speech. Only one word fell from her lips—low-murmured and in accents of extremest sadness—the black word “Betrayed!”Though silent in speech, her thoughts flowed fast and freely.This, then, is the barrier that might come between us.Mightcome! Oh! the falsehood! And such a promise as I have given! Despite every obstacle, to love him! I thought not of this—how could I? No promise can bridge over such a chasm. I may not—I dare not keep it. ’Tis no sin to break it now. Mother of God! give me the strength!“Ah! ’tis easy to talk of breaking it. Merciful Heaven! the power has passed from me!“’Tis sinful on either side. Perjury the one, a worse crime the other. I feel powerless to choose between them. Alas!—alas! Despite his betrayal,I love him, I love him!“Am I not wronging him? Was not I the wooer—I, Marion Wade? Was it not I who gave the first sign—the challenge—everything?“What meant he to have said at that moment, when our last interview was interrupted? What was it, he was about to declare—and yet hesitated? Perhaps he intended to have made this very disclosure—to tell me all? Oh I could have forgiven him; but now I may not—I dare not—”She paused, as if conscious how idle it was, to give thought to a resolve she had not the power to keep.“Married! Holtspur married! Alas! my love dream is ended! No—not ended! ’tis only changed from sweet to sad; and this will never change till my unhappy heart be stilled in the sleep of death!”The despairing maiden stood with her white fingers still clasped around the stem of the sapling—her eyes bent upon the ground in vacant gaze, as if all thought had forsaken her.For some minutes she remained in this attitude—motionless as the tree that supported her.The sound of an approaching footstep failed to startle her. She heard, without heeding it. Her sorrow had rendered her insensible even to shame. She cared little now, who might behold her emotion.The footstep was too light to be mistaken for that of a man. Marion had no time for conjecture: for almost on the instant, she heard the voice of her cousin Lora calling her by name.“Marion! where are you?—I want you, cousin.”“Here, Lora!” replied the latter, in a feeble voice, at the same time making an effort to appear calm.“Oh!” exclaimed the pretty blonde, hurriedly making her way through the underwood, and stopping before her cousin with blushing cheeks and palpitating bosom. “Lord a mercy, coz!—I’ve got such a story to tell you. What do you think it is? Guess!”“You know, I’m not good at guessing, Lora. I hope you havn’t lost your favourite merlin?”“No—not so bad as that; though I’ve lost something.”“What, pray?”“A lover!”“Ah!” exclaimed Marion with a sad emphasis. Then, making an effort to conceal her emotion, she added in another strain, “I hope Walter hasn’t been flirting with Dorothy Dayrell?”“Bother Dorothy Dayrell!”“Well—perhaps with one you might have more reason to be afraid of—Miss Winifred Wayland?”“Not so bad as that neither. It’s another lover I’ve lost!”“Oh! you confess to having had another. Have you told Walter so?”“Bother about Walter! Who do you think I’m speaking of?”“Captain Scarthe perhaps—whom you admire so much. Is he the lover you have lost?”“Not so bad as that neither. Guess again?”“A third there is, or has been! You wicked coquette?”“Not I. I never gave him the slightest encouragement. I am sure, never. Did you ever see me, coz?”“When you tell me who this lost lover is, I shall be the better able to answer you.”“Who he is! Cornet Stubbs, of course.”“Oh! he. And how have you come to lose him? Has he made away with himself? He hasn’t drowned himself in the mere, I hope?”“I don’t know. I shouldn’t like to swear he hasn’t. When I last looked upon his ugly face, I fancied there was drowning in it. Ha! ha! ha!”“Well, my light-hearted coz; your loss seems to sit easily upon you. Pray explain yourself.”“Marion!” said Lora, catching hold of her cousin’s arm; and speaking in a tone of greater solemnity. “Would you believe it—that impertinent has again proposed to me?”“What! a second declaration! That looks more like finding a lover, than losing one?”“Ay, a second declaration; and this time far more determined than before. Why, he would take no denial!”“And what answer did you make him?”“Well, the first time, as I told you, I gave him a flat refusal. This time it wasn’t so very flat. It was both pointed and indignant. I talked to him sharp enough: no mincing of words I assure you. And yet, for all that, thepigpersisted in his proposal, as if he had the power to force me to say, yes! I couldn’t get rid of him, until I threatened him with a box on the ear. Ay, and I’d have given it him, if some of the company hadn’t come up at the time, and relieved me of his importunities. I shouldn’t have cared if I had ever given him cause—the impudent pleb! I wonder that keeping the company of his more accomplished captain don’t have the effect of refining him a little—the impertinent upstart!”“Have you told Walter?”“No—that I haven’t; and don’t you, dear Marion. You know Walter has been jealous of Stubbs—without the slightest cause—and might want to challenge him. I shouldn’t that, for the world; though I’d like some one—not Walter—to teach him a lesson, such as your brave Henry Holtspur taught—“Ah!” exclaimed the speaker, suddenly interrupting herself, as she saw the painful impression which the mention of that name had produced. “Pardon me, cousin! I had quite forgotten. This scene with Stubbs has driven everything out of my mind. O, dear Marion! may be it is not true? There may be some mistake? Dorothy Dayrell is wicked enough to invent anything; and as for that foppish brother of Miss Winifred Wayland, he is as full of conceit as his own sister; and as full of falsehood as his cousin. Dear Marion! don’t take it for truth! It may be all a misconception. Holtspur may not be married after all; and if he be, then the base villain—”“Lora!” interrupted Marion, in a firm tone of voice, “I command—I intreat you—to say nothing of what you know—not even to Walter—and above all, speak not ofhim, as you have done just now. Even if he be, what you have said, it would not be pleasant for me to hear it repeated.”“But, surely, if it be true, you would not continue to love him!”“I could not help it. I am lost. I must love him!”“Dear, dear Marion!” cried Lora, as she felt the arms of her cousin entwined around her neck, and saw the tears streaming down her cheek, “I pity you—poor Marion, from my heart I pity you! Do not weep, dearest. It will pass. In time you will cease to think of him!”There was but one word of reply to these affectionate efforts at consolation.It came amid tears and choking sobs—but with an emphasis, and an accent, that admitted of no rejoinder.“Never!” was that word pronounced in a firm unfaltering tone.Then, tossing her head backward, and, by a vigorous effort of her proud spirit, assuming an air of indifference, the speaker clasped the hand of her cousin; and walked resolutely back towards the assemblage, from which she had so furtively separated.
The Lake “Fulmere” is no longer in existence; though a village—so picturesque, as to appear the creation of a painter’s fancy—still retains the name. The “mere” itself—yielding to the all-absorbing spirit of utilitarianism—has disappeared from the landscape—drained off by the brook “Alderburne,” and the rivers Colne, and Thames, to mingle its waters with the ocean. Its bed has become a meadow—the residue of its waters being retained in sundry stagnant pools, which serve to supply the neighbouring markets with cress, and the pharmacopoeia of the village apothecaries with “calamus root.”
Once a broad sheet of crystal water covered the cress-beds of Fulmere—a sheet with sedgy shores, in which sheltered the bittern, and blue heron, the bald coot, the water-hen, and the gold-crested widgeon.
It was so on that day, when Dorothy Dayrell—the daughter of Sir Frederick, Lord of the Manor of Fulmere—invited her friends to be present at a grand entertainment—including falconry—the spectacle to be exhibited upon the shores of the lake.
Dorothy Dayrell was something more than pretty. She was what might be termed a “dashing creature,”—a little devilish, it is true—but this, in the eyes of her male acquaintances, only rendered her prettiness more piquant. Following the fashion of her father, she was of the true Tory type—devotedly attached to King and State—and blindly believing in that theory—worthy the conception of a community of apes—the “right divine.”
Silly as is the belief, it was then entertained, as, now. At that time, human bipeds of both sexes were just as parasitical, as they are at the present hour; and as loudly proclaimed their ignoble longings for King Stork, or King Log. Not, however, quite so unanimously. The word “republic” was beginning to be heard, issuing from the lips of great statesmen, and true patriots. It was beginning to find an echo in remote villages, and cottage homes, throughout all England.
Not that such sentiments had ever been spoken in the village of Fulmere. To have pronounced them there, would have been deemed rank treason; and the rustic giving utterance to them, would have found himself in the pillory, almost before the speech could have passed from his lips.
Dorothy hated the idea of a republic; as small-souled people do now, and have done in all ages. We regret having to place the fair Dayrell in this category; but we must succumb to the requirements of truth; and this compels us to say that Mistress Dorothy, physically,petite, was morally little-minded. Her pretty face, however, concealed the defects of her selfish soul; and, aided by many wiles and winning ways, rendered her sufficiently popular in that large social circle, of which she was, or wished to be, both the star and the centre.
Some proof of her popularity was the crowd that responded to her call, and was present at her hawking party. Scores of people of “first quality”—dames of high degree, and cavaliers appropriate to such companionship—collected upon the shores of Fulmere Lake; cast resplendent shadows upon its smooth surface; and caused its enclosing hills to resound with the echoes of their merry voices.
It is not our purpose to detail the various incidents of the day’s sport: how the party, having met at an appointed place, proceeded around the shores of the lake; how the herons rose screaming from the sedge, and the hawks shot like winged arrows after them; how the owners of the predatory birds bantered one another, and wagers were laid and lost by betters of both sexes; and how—when the circuit of the lake had been accomplished, and the adjacent reedy marshes quartered by the spaniels, until cleared of their feathered game—the gay company wended their way to the summit of the adjoining hill; and there, under the shadows of the greenwood trees, partook of anal frescobanquet, which their knightly entertainer had provided for them.
Nor need we describe the conversation—varied of course—always lively under such circumstances; often witty—after the wine has flowed freely.
One topic alone claims our attention—as it did that of the company. It was introduced by Mistress Dorothy herself—to whom of course every one obsequiously listened.
“I regret,” said this charming creature, addressing herself to her splendid surrounding, “that I’ve not been able to provide you with a more spirited entertainment. After that, we witnessed the other day in Bulstrode Park, our fête will appear tame, I know. Ah! if we only had theblack horsemanhere. How cruel of you, Captain Scarthe, to have deprived us of that pleasure?”
“Mistress Dayrell,” replied the officer, on whom the speech had made anything but a pleasant impression, “I regret exceedingly that in the performance of my duty—in dealing with a rebel—I should—”
“No apologies, Captain Scarthe!” interposed Sir Frederick, coming to the rescue of the embarrassed cuirassier. “We all know that you acted, as becomes a loyal servant of his Majesty. It would be well if others, in these doubtful times, would display a like energy.” Here Sir Frederick glanced sarcastically towards his neighbour knight—between whom and himself there was not the most cordial friendship. “The only regret is, that the fellow—whoever he may be—was permitted to escape; but, I dare say, he will soon be retaken, and meet with his deserts.”
“And what would you deem his deserts, Dayrell?” quietly asked Sir Marmaduke Wade.
“The block!” replied the fiery Sir Frederick, who had been partaking rather freely of his own wine. “What else for an adventurer like him, who conspires against his king? I’d chop off his head like a cabbage.”
“By so doing,” rejoined Sir Marmaduke, in a tone of satirical significancy, “you would only cause a score of like heads tosproutup in its place.”
“Let them sprout up! We’ll serve them the same way. We shall still have the power to do so—in spite of this parliament of traitors, which the king has been so foolish as to think of recalling around him.”
“Oh, dear father!” interrupted the pretty Dorothy, in a tone of pseudo-sentimentality.
“Don’t talk of chopping off heads. What a pity it would be if Captain Scarthe’s late prisoner were to lose his! I’m so glad he escaped from you, captain.”
“Why is this, girl?” asked Sir Frederick, turning rather sharply upon his daughter. “Why would it be a pity? I’ve heard you this very morning express the opposite opinion!”
“But I did not know then—that—that—”
“Know what?” interrogated several of the party, who encompassed the fair speaker.
“That there wereothersinterested in the fate of the unfortunate man. Ah! deeply so!” A malicious glance towards Marion Wade did not escape the attention of the latter; and it was also noticed by Scarthe.
“Others interested in his fate. Who, pray?” demanded Sir Frederick, looking inquiringly towards his daughter.
“His wife, for one,” replied Dorothy, laying a peculiar emphasis on the words.
“His wife!” simultaneously echoed a score of voices. “The black horseman a Benedict! Holtspur married! We never knew that.”
“Nor I,” continued the pretty imparter of the startling intelligence—“not till an hour ago. I’ve just heard it from cousin Wayland here; who came this morning from court—where, it seems, Master Holtspur is well-known; though not by the name he has chosen to make celebrated among us simple rustics of Buckinghamshire.”
“’Tis quite true,” said a youth in courtier costume, who stood close to her who had thus appealed to him. “The gentleman my cousin speaks ofismarried. I thought it was known to everybody.”
“How could it, dear Wayland?” asked Dorothy, with an air of charming simplicity. “Master Holtspur was not known to any one here—except, I believe, to Sir Marmaduke Wade and his family; and, if I mistake not, only very slightly to them?”
A significant curling of the speaker’s pretty nostril accompanied this final remark—which was intended as an interrogative.
“That is true,” answered Sir Marmaduke. “My acquaintance, with the gentleman you speak of, is but slight. I was not aware of his being a married man; but what has that to do—”
“O, ladies and gentlemen!” interrupted the freshly arrived courtier, “perhaps you are not aware of the real name of this cavalier who has been calling himself Holtspur. He has been of some notoriety at court; though that was before my time; and I’ve only heard of it from others. There was a scandal, I believe—”
“Come, come, Wayland!” cried his fair cousin, interrupting him. “No scandals here. Keep it, whatever it be, to yourself.”
“His name! his name!” shouted a score of voices; while twice that number of ears—piqued by the word “scandal”—were eagerly bent to listen to the threatened disclosure.
The courtier gave utterance to a name, known to most of the company; and which ten years before had been oftener pronounced in connexion with that of England’s queen. Only in whispers, it is true, and less discreditable to Henry than Henrietta.
The announcement produced an effect upon the auditory of a very peculiar character. It was certainly not so damaging to him, who was the subject of their criticisms: for in the minds of many there present, the man ofbonnes fortuneswas a character to be envied rather than despised; and the favourite page—whose mysterious disappearance from court, some ten years before, had given rise to a “royal scandal”—could not be otherwise than interesting.
The knowledge that Henry Holtspur, the black horseman—the mysterious—the unknown—was identical with Henry —, once a queen’s page—the recipient of royal smiles—perhaps, in that assemblage gained him more friends than enemies. Such as were still disposed to be hostile to him, could no longer avail themselves of that mode of reviling—still so customary among the “elite”—by calling him an “adventurer.” This had he been in the true sense of the term—an adventurer, but one to be envied by his enemies.
Even the heart of the dashing Dorothy, became suddenly softened towards him, on hearing the new revelation made by her cousin Wayland. That expression of sympathy for him—supposed by her auditory to have been ironical—was a more sincere sentiment, than usually fell from her lips.
The scandal was not discussed among Sir Frederick’s guests—at least not in open assembly. The whisperings of side groups may have referred to it; but it was too old to be interesting—even to the most industrious dealers incrim. con.gossip.
The general conversation became changed to a theme more appropriate to the occasion; though a small congenial group, who had gathered around the young Wayland, were treated to some further details—relating to the matrimonial affairs of the patriot conspirator.
Of these not much knew the courtier; nor indeed any one else upon the ground. He could only inform his auditory—what some of them already knew: that Henry — had been secretly married to one of the noble ladies of Queen Henrietta’s court—that the marriage ceremony, had been followed by an affair, in which the Queen herself had taken an unusual interest—in short, by a separation between man and wife—by the loss of the greater part of the young husband’s fortune—and finally by his disappearance, both from the court and the country. Among other adventurous spirits of the time, he had emigrated to the colonies of Virginia.
To do Master Wayland justice, he evinced no particular hostility towards the man, whose history he was narrating; though, on the other hand, he said nothing in his defence. It was not his province to make known the nature of that conjugal quarrel; or say who was in fault. In truth, the stripling but ill understood it. He did not know that royal jealousy had been the cause of that sudden separation between Henry — and his bride-wife; and that it was an act of royal revenge, that had transformed the courtier into a colonist.
The subject, after a time, losing interest, was permitted to drop—the conversation changing to other themes.
There was one whose thoughts could not be distracted from it. Need I say it was Marion Wade?
Amidst the gay company, her gaiety was gone. The roses upon which the mid-day son was but the moment before brightly beaming, had forsaken her cheeks—on that instant when the word “wife” fell from the lips of Dorothy Dayrell.
To her the hawking party was no longer a party of pleasure. The sociality that surrounded her was only irksome and to withdraw from it had been her first thought. To escape observation as well: for she knew that the dire cloud, that had settled over her heart, could not fail to be reflected in her face.
On recovering from the shock caused by the unexpected announcement, she had turned her back upon the company, and stolen silently away.
The trees standing closely around the spot—with the underwood still in foliage—favoured her withdrawal—as also the peculiar topic of conversation which at the moment was absorbing the attention of all.
She had not stayed to listen to the further revelations made by the courtier Wayland—the one word spoken by his cousin had been the cue for her silent exit from the circle of conversation.
She needed no confirmation of what she had heard. A vague suspicion already conceived, springing out of the ambiguity of some stray speeches let fall by Holtspur himself—not only at their first interview, but while arranging the terms of that parting promise—had the foundation for an easy faith in the statement of Dorothy Dayrell.
Painful as was the conviction, Marion could not resist it. She thought not of calling it in question.
Once among the trees she glided rapidly on—knowing not whether; nor caring: so long as her steps carried her far from the companionship of her own kind.
After wandering awhile, she came to a stop; and now, for the first time, did her countenance betray, in all its palpable reality, the bitterness that was burning within her.
Her heart felt, as if parting in twain. A sigh—a half-suppressed scream—escaped from her bosom; and, but that she had seized upon a sapling to support herself, she would have fallen to the earth.
No pen could paint her emotions at that moment. They were too painful to permit of speech. Only one word fell from her lips—low-murmured and in accents of extremest sadness—the black word “Betrayed!”
Though silent in speech, her thoughts flowed fast and freely.
This, then, is the barrier that might come between us.Mightcome! Oh! the falsehood! And such a promise as I have given! Despite every obstacle, to love him! I thought not of this—how could I? No promise can bridge over such a chasm. I may not—I dare not keep it. ’Tis no sin to break it now. Mother of God! give me the strength!
“Ah! ’tis easy to talk of breaking it. Merciful Heaven! the power has passed from me!
“’Tis sinful on either side. Perjury the one, a worse crime the other. I feel powerless to choose between them. Alas!—alas! Despite his betrayal,I love him, I love him!
“Am I not wronging him? Was not I the wooer—I, Marion Wade? Was it not I who gave the first sign—the challenge—everything?
“What meant he to have said at that moment, when our last interview was interrupted? What was it, he was about to declare—and yet hesitated? Perhaps he intended to have made this very disclosure—to tell me all? Oh I could have forgiven him; but now I may not—I dare not—”
She paused, as if conscious how idle it was, to give thought to a resolve she had not the power to keep.
“Married! Holtspur married! Alas! my love dream is ended! No—not ended! ’tis only changed from sweet to sad; and this will never change till my unhappy heart be stilled in the sleep of death!”
The despairing maiden stood with her white fingers still clasped around the stem of the sapling—her eyes bent upon the ground in vacant gaze, as if all thought had forsaken her.
For some minutes she remained in this attitude—motionless as the tree that supported her.
The sound of an approaching footstep failed to startle her. She heard, without heeding it. Her sorrow had rendered her insensible even to shame. She cared little now, who might behold her emotion.
The footstep was too light to be mistaken for that of a man. Marion had no time for conjecture: for almost on the instant, she heard the voice of her cousin Lora calling her by name.
“Marion! where are you?—I want you, cousin.”
“Here, Lora!” replied the latter, in a feeble voice, at the same time making an effort to appear calm.
“Oh!” exclaimed the pretty blonde, hurriedly making her way through the underwood, and stopping before her cousin with blushing cheeks and palpitating bosom. “Lord a mercy, coz!—I’ve got such a story to tell you. What do you think it is? Guess!”
“You know, I’m not good at guessing, Lora. I hope you havn’t lost your favourite merlin?”
“No—not so bad as that; though I’ve lost something.”
“What, pray?”
“A lover!”
“Ah!” exclaimed Marion with a sad emphasis. Then, making an effort to conceal her emotion, she added in another strain, “I hope Walter hasn’t been flirting with Dorothy Dayrell?”
“Bother Dorothy Dayrell!”
“Well—perhaps with one you might have more reason to be afraid of—Miss Winifred Wayland?”
“Not so bad as that neither. It’s another lover I’ve lost!”
“Oh! you confess to having had another. Have you told Walter so?”
“Bother about Walter! Who do you think I’m speaking of?”
“Captain Scarthe perhaps—whom you admire so much. Is he the lover you have lost?”
“Not so bad as that neither. Guess again?”
“A third there is, or has been! You wicked coquette?”
“Not I. I never gave him the slightest encouragement. I am sure, never. Did you ever see me, coz?”
“When you tell me who this lost lover is, I shall be the better able to answer you.”
“Who he is! Cornet Stubbs, of course.”
“Oh! he. And how have you come to lose him? Has he made away with himself? He hasn’t drowned himself in the mere, I hope?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t like to swear he hasn’t. When I last looked upon his ugly face, I fancied there was drowning in it. Ha! ha! ha!”
“Well, my light-hearted coz; your loss seems to sit easily upon you. Pray explain yourself.”
“Marion!” said Lora, catching hold of her cousin’s arm; and speaking in a tone of greater solemnity. “Would you believe it—that impertinent has again proposed to me?”
“What! a second declaration! That looks more like finding a lover, than losing one?”
“Ay, a second declaration; and this time far more determined than before. Why, he would take no denial!”
“And what answer did you make him?”
“Well, the first time, as I told you, I gave him a flat refusal. This time it wasn’t so very flat. It was both pointed and indignant. I talked to him sharp enough: no mincing of words I assure you. And yet, for all that, thepigpersisted in his proposal, as if he had the power to force me to say, yes! I couldn’t get rid of him, until I threatened him with a box on the ear. Ay, and I’d have given it him, if some of the company hadn’t come up at the time, and relieved me of his importunities. I shouldn’t have cared if I had ever given him cause—the impudent pleb! I wonder that keeping the company of his more accomplished captain don’t have the effect of refining him a little—the impertinent upstart!”
“Have you told Walter?”
“No—that I haven’t; and don’t you, dear Marion. You know Walter has been jealous of Stubbs—without the slightest cause—and might want to challenge him. I shouldn’t that, for the world; though I’d like some one—not Walter—to teach him a lesson, such as your brave Henry Holtspur taught—
“Ah!” exclaimed the speaker, suddenly interrupting herself, as she saw the painful impression which the mention of that name had produced. “Pardon me, cousin! I had quite forgotten. This scene with Stubbs has driven everything out of my mind. O, dear Marion! may be it is not true? There may be some mistake? Dorothy Dayrell is wicked enough to invent anything; and as for that foppish brother of Miss Winifred Wayland, he is as full of conceit as his own sister; and as full of falsehood as his cousin. Dear Marion! don’t take it for truth! It may be all a misconception. Holtspur may not be married after all; and if he be, then the base villain—”
“Lora!” interrupted Marion, in a firm tone of voice, “I command—I intreat you—to say nothing of what you know—not even to Walter—and above all, speak not ofhim, as you have done just now. Even if he be, what you have said, it would not be pleasant for me to hear it repeated.”
“But, surely, if it be true, you would not continue to love him!”
“I could not help it. I am lost. I must love him!”
“Dear, dear Marion!” cried Lora, as she felt the arms of her cousin entwined around her neck, and saw the tears streaming down her cheek, “I pity you—poor Marion, from my heart I pity you! Do not weep, dearest. It will pass. In time you will cease to think of him!”
There was but one word of reply to these affectionate efforts at consolation.
It came amid tears and choking sobs—but with an emphasis, and an accent, that admitted of no rejoinder.
“Never!” was that word pronounced in a firm unfaltering tone.
Then, tossing her head backward, and, by a vigorous effort of her proud spirit, assuming an air of indifference, the speaker clasped the hand of her cousin; and walked resolutely back towards the assemblage, from which she had so furtively separated.
Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.Of all who enjoyed the sports of the hawking party, no one left it with a heavier heart than Marion Wade. The shadows of night descending over the lake—as the company took their departure from its shores—might well symbolise the shadow that had fallen upon her heart. Throughout the afternoon, it had been a hard struggle with her to conceal her chagrin from curious eyes; to appear joyous, amid so many happy faces; to wear pretended smiles, while those around were laughing gaily.All this, however, her strength of character had enabled her to accomplish; though it was like removing a load from off her breast, when the falling shades of twilight summoned the party to a separation.That night no sleep for Marion Wade—not enough to give her a moment’s relief from the thoughts that tortured her. Her pillow was pressed, but with a pale and sleepless cheek; and often, during the night, had she risen from her couch, and paced the floor of her apartment, like one under the influence of a delirious dream.The bosom that has been betrayed can alone understand the nature of her sufferings. Perhaps only a woman’s heart can fully appreciate the pain she was enduring? Hers had received into its inmost recesses—into the very citadel itself—the image of the heroic Holtspur. It was still there; but all around it was rankling as with poison.The arrow had entered. Its distilled venom permeated the bosom it had pierced. There was no balsam to subdue the pain—no hope to afford the slightest solace—only regret for the past, and despair for the future.Until that day Marion Wade had never known what it was to be truly unhappy. Her pangs of jealousy hitherto experienced, had been slight, compared with those which were now wringing her breast. Even her apprehensions for the fate of her lover had been endurable: since hope for his safety had never wholly forsaken her. During the interval that had lapsed since his escape, she had not been altogether unhappy. Her heart had been fortified by hope; and still farther supported by the remembrance of that last sweet interview. So long as Holtspur lived, and loved her, she felt that she could be happy—even under those circumstances hypothetically foreshadowed in his parting speeches.There were times when she pondered on their mysterious import; when she wondered what they could have meant—and not without a sense of dissatisfaction.But she had not allowed this to intrude itself either often or long. Her love was too loyal, too trusting, to be shaken by suspicions. She remembered how unjust had been those formerly indulged in; and, influenced by this memory, she had resolved never again to give way to doubt, without some certain sign—such as the return of the love-token, as arranged between them. She might have had cause to wonder, why she had not heard from him—if only a word to ensure her of his safety. But she was not chagrined by his silence. The risk of communicating with her might account for it. Under an hypocritical pretence of duty—of obedience to orders he dared not depart from—the cuirassier captain permitted nothing—not even an epistle—to enter the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, without being first submitted to his own scrutiny.Since the hour of his escape, the only intimation she had had of her lost lover—almost the first time she had heard his name pronounced—was when coupled with those two words, that were now filling her with woe—“His wife!”Marion had heard no more. She had stayed for no farther torture from those scandal-loving lips. She had heard that her lover—the man to whom she had surrendered the reins of her heart—was thehusbandof another! That was knowledge enough for one hour of wretchedness—ay, for a whole lifetime of sadness and chagrin.Though in the midst of that gay assemblage, she had not essayed to seek an explanation; she was now desirous of having it. So long as the slightest remnant of either hope or doubt remains within the mind of one who suspected an unrequited passion, that mind cannot feel satisfaction. It will seek the truth—although the search may conduct to eternal ruin.So determined the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade, during the mid hours of that sleepless night; and, long before the great bell of Bulstrode summoned its retainers to their daily toil, the young mistress of this lordly mansion might have been seen—closely wrapped in cloak and hood—issuing forth from one of its portals; and, under the grey light of dawn, with quick but stealthy step, making her way over the dew-bespangled pastures of its park.The gate through which she had often passed outward into the high road—often, of late, with a heart trembling in sweet anticipation—was the one towards which she directed her steps.How different was now her prospect—how dissimilar her purpose! She went not forth to meet one, who, though still undeclared, she instinctively believed to be her lover—loyal and true. Her errand was no more of this joyous nature, but the sad reverse. It was to make inquiries as to that lover’s loyalty, or seek confirmation of his falsehood!Who could give the wished-for information? From whom were the inquiries to be made?She could think of no one save Holtspur himself; and the white paper—clutched in a hand almost as white—concealed under her cloak, gave a clue to her design. It was an epistle that had been penned by the light of the midnight lamp, and sealed under a flood of scorching tears. There was no direction upon it—only the nameHenry Holtspur. She knew not his address. She was taking it to a place where she had hopes of seeing some one, who might be able to forward it to its destination.The path she was following pointed to this place. It was the road leading to Stone Dean. It was not the first time she had thought of thus communicating with her absent lover. She had forborne, partly through fear of being betrayed by those to whom her letter might be entrusted—partly by the feminine reflection, thathe, notshe, should be the first to write—and partly by the hope, deferred from day to day, that hewouldwrite. These hindrances she regarded no longer. An epistle was now addressed to him—far different from that hitherto intended. It was no longer a letter of love, but one filled with reproaches and regrets.Marion Wade was not the only one under her father’s roof, who at that same hour had been employing the pen. Another had been similarly occupied.As a soldier, Scarthe was accustomed to keep early hours. It was a rare circumstance for him to be a-bed after six o’clock in the morning. In those times of political agitation, the military man often took part in state intrigues; and in this craft the cuirassier captain, under the guidance of his royal patroness, had inextricably engaged himself.This double duty entailed upon him an extensive correspondence; to which his morning hours were chiefly devoted. Although essentially a man of pleasure, he did not surrender himself to idleness. He was too ambitious, to be inactive; and both his military and political duties were attended to with system and energy.On the day of the hawking party, his correspondence had fallen behind; and, to clear off the arrears, he was astir at a very early hour next morning, and busy before his writing table.His military and political despatches were not the only matters that called for the use of his pen on this particular morning. Upon the table before him lay a sealed packet, that might have contained a letter, but evidently something more—something of a different character, as indicated by its shape and size.But there was no letter inside; and the object within the envelope might be guessed at, by the soliloquy that fell from the lips of Captain Scarthe, as he sate regarding it. It was a glove—thewhite gauntlet, once worn upon the hand of Marion Wade—once worn upon the hat of Henry Holtspur, and thence surreptitiously abstracted.It was once more to be restored to its original owner, in a secret and mysterious manner; and to that end had it been enclosed in a wrapping of spotless paper, and sealed with a blank seal stamp.As yet there was no superscription upon the parcel; and he who had made it up, sate contemplating it—pen in hand—as if uncertain as to how he should address it. It was not this, however, about which he was pausing. He knew the address well enough. It was the mode of writing it—the chirography—that was occupying his thoughts.“Ha!” he exclaimed at length, “an excellent idea! It must be likehishandwriting; which in all probability, she is acquainted with. I can easily imitate it. Thank fortune I’ve got copies enough—in this traitorous correspondence.”As he said this, he drew towards him a number of papers, consisting of letters and other documents. They were those he had taken from Stone Dean, on the morning of Holtspur’s arrest.After regarding them for some seconds—with the attention of an expert, in the act of deciphering some difficult manuscript—he took his pen, and wrote upon the parcel the words, “Mistress Marion Wade.”“That will be enough,” reflected he. “The address is superfluous. It would never do for it to be delivered at the house. It must be put into her hands secretly, and as if sent by a trusty messenger. There’s no reason why she should mistrust the woodman Walford. She may know him to have been in Holtspur’s service, and can scarce have heard of his defection. He’ll do. He must watch for an opportunity, when she goes out. I wonder what delays the knave. He should have been here by this time. I told him to come before daylight. Ha! speak of the fiend! That must be his shadow passing the window?”As Scarthe said this, he hastily rose to his feet; scattered some drying sand over the wet superscription; and, taking the packet from the table, walked towards the door to meet his messenger.It was the traitor Walford, whose shadow had been seen passing the window. His patron found him standing on the step.He was not admitted inside the house. The business, for the execution of which he was required, had been already arranged; and a few words of instruction, spoken in a low tone, sufficed to impart to him a full comprehension of its native.He was told that the packet then placed in his hands, was for Mistress Marion Wade; that he was to watch for an opportunity when she should be out of doors; and deliver it to her—if possible, unseen by any third party. He was instructed to assume an air of secrecy; to announce himself as a messenger from Henry Holtspur; and, after delivering a verbal message—supposed to proceed from the cavalier, but carefully concocted by Scarthe—he was to hasten out of the lady’s presence, and avoid the danger of a cross-questioning.“Now, begone!” commanded his employer, when he had completed his chapter of instructions. “Get away from the house—if you can, without being observed. It won’t do for you to be seen here at this early hour—least of all on a visit to me. Let me know when you have succeeded; and if you do the business adroitly, I shall double thisdouceur.”As Scarthe said this, he slipped a gold coin into the hand of the pseudo-messenger; and, turning upon his heel, walked back towards his apartment.The woodman, after grinning gleefully at the gold that lay glistening in his palm, thrust the piece into his pocket; and, gliding down from the steps, commenced making a stealthy departure through the shrubbery.He little thought how near he was to the opportunity he desired—of earning the duplicate of thatdouceur.But fate, or the fiend, was propitious to him. On clearing the moated enclosure, he saw before him the form of a woman, closely wrapped in cloak and hood.She, too, seemed hastening onward with stealthy step; but the tall, symmetrical figure, and the rich robes that enveloped it, left no doubt upon the mind of Walford as to the person who was preceding him down the sloping avenue of Bulstrode Park. It was the young mistress of the mansion—she for whom his message was intended—she who would be made wretched by its delivery.The emissary of Scarthe neither knew, nor would have cared, for this. His only thought was to earn the promised perquisite; and, with this object in view, he followed the female figure fast flitting toward the gate of the park.Quickly and silently did Marion glide upon her errand. Absorbed by its painful nature, she fancied herself unobserved. She saw not that dark form skulking but a short distance behind her, like an evil shadow, ill defined, under the dim light of the dawn—and keeping pace with her as she advanced.Unconscious of the proximity of her suspicious follower, she passed out through the park gates, and on along the forest road—a path well known to her. Never before had she trodden it with a heavier heart. Never before had she stood under the shadow of the trysting tree—to her now sadly sacred—influenced by such painful emotion.She paused beneath its spreading branches. She could not resist the mystic spell, which the place seemed to cast around her. There was something, even in the sadness of its souvenirs, that had a soothing effect upon her spirits, that could scarce have been more embittered.Whether soothing, or saddening, she was permitted to indulge only a short time in silent reflection. A heavy footfall—evidently that of a man—was heard approaching along the path, and shuffling among the crisp leaves with which it was bestrewed.The sounds grew louder and drew nearer; until he who was causing them came in sight—a rustic making his way through the wood.Marion knew the man—the woodman Walford.She knew him only by sight, and but slightly. She had no words for such as he—especially in an hour like that.She moved not. Her eyes were averted. The intruder might have passed on, without receiving from her even a nod of recognition, had such been his wish.It was only on hearing her own name pronounced, and seeing the man advance towards her, that the young lady took note of his presence.“Mistress Wade!” muttered he, awkwardly uncovering his head, and making a bow of doubtful politeness.“What want you with me, sir?” asked Marion, in a tone that betrayed both annoyance and astonishment.“I’ve been follerin’ thee, mistress, all the way frae the big house. I wanted to see thee alone.”“Alone! And for what purpose, sirrah?”The interrogatory was uttered in a voice that betokened indignation not unmingled with alarm. No wonder. He to whom it was addressed was not the man, with whom a timid woman would elect to hold an interview, alone, and in the heart of a wood.Was the rustic intruding himself with an evil intention?The apprehensions, thus quickly conceived were as speedily dissipated by the woodman declaring himself to have come in the capacity of a messenger.“I ha’ brought thee a package, Mistress Wade,” said he, drawing something from under the skirt of his doublet. “It be a small ’un, I trow; but for all that I darn’t gie it ye afore company—for I had orders not to, by him as sent me.”“Who sent you?” hastily inquired the lady, at the same time taking the packet from the hand of the cautious carrier.“Master Holtspur,” bluntly replied the man.“I darn’t stay here aside ye,” continued he. “Some of them may come this way, an’ see us thegither. I’ve only to tell you that Master Holtspur be safe; an’ that it be all rightatween him an his wife. They be reconciled agin. But I needn’t be tellin’ ye that: I s’pose it’s all wrote inside the package. Now, mistress, I must away, an’ get back to him as sent me. Good mornin’.”With another grotesque attempt at polite salutation, the deliverer of the message walked hurriedly away; and was soon lost to the sight of its trembling recipient.Marion had listened to his words without knowing their wicked design—without even suspecting that they were false. But, false or true, she did not imagine there could be a new pang conveyed in their meaning. She had already felt the sting, as she supposed,—in all its black bitterness! She did not believe that in the same quiver, there was another arrow, bearing upon its point a still more potent poison.She felt it, as with trembling fingers she broke the seal, and tore open the envelope of that tiny parcel. To her heart’s core she felt it, as her eyes rested upon the contents. Her token returned to her—that fatal gift—the White Gauntlet! The glove dropped to the ground; and, with a suppressed scream—that sounded like the knell of a shattered heart—sank Marion Wade beside it! For some moments she lay along the grass, like some beautiful statue struck down from its pedestal.She was not unconscious—only unnerved, and rendered powerless by a strong, quick spasm of despair.Beyond the stifled scream, that escaped her as she fell, no sound passed from her lips. Hers was a despair that speech was incapable of relieving. There was nothing on which hope could hinge itself. The restored token told the tale in all its sad reality. A letter—a volume could not have conveyed the information more fully.Holtspur no longer loved her!There was even a more fell reflection.He had never loved her: else how could he have changed so soon?The paroxysm at length passed; and the prostrate form once more stood erect. Erect, but not triumphant. Sad and subdued was the spirit that animated it—almost shivered by that fearful shock.In silent agony she turned to go homeward. She no more remembered the errand that had summoned her forth. It was no longer of any importance. The information she would have sought had met her on the way—had been communicated, with a fullness and surety that left nothing to be added.Holtspur loved her no more. With that thought in her mind, what mattered it whether he were married or no? But the words of the messenger had equally ended all doubt of this. If there might be any lingering uncertainty, as to what she had heard, there could be none as to what she saw. There lay the White Gauntlet under her eyes—down among the weeds. It lay neglected as if without an owner—no more to be regarded by Marion Wade; or only as the cause of a life-long anguish.Slowly and sadly she retraced the forest path; slowly and sadly she re-entered the gateway of the park; slowly and sadly walked back along that avenue, once trodden by her with a bosom filled with supremest joy.
Of all who enjoyed the sports of the hawking party, no one left it with a heavier heart than Marion Wade. The shadows of night descending over the lake—as the company took their departure from its shores—might well symbolise the shadow that had fallen upon her heart. Throughout the afternoon, it had been a hard struggle with her to conceal her chagrin from curious eyes; to appear joyous, amid so many happy faces; to wear pretended smiles, while those around were laughing gaily.
All this, however, her strength of character had enabled her to accomplish; though it was like removing a load from off her breast, when the falling shades of twilight summoned the party to a separation.
That night no sleep for Marion Wade—not enough to give her a moment’s relief from the thoughts that tortured her. Her pillow was pressed, but with a pale and sleepless cheek; and often, during the night, had she risen from her couch, and paced the floor of her apartment, like one under the influence of a delirious dream.
The bosom that has been betrayed can alone understand the nature of her sufferings. Perhaps only a woman’s heart can fully appreciate the pain she was enduring? Hers had received into its inmost recesses—into the very citadel itself—the image of the heroic Holtspur. It was still there; but all around it was rankling as with poison.
The arrow had entered. Its distilled venom permeated the bosom it had pierced. There was no balsam to subdue the pain—no hope to afford the slightest solace—only regret for the past, and despair for the future.
Until that day Marion Wade had never known what it was to be truly unhappy. Her pangs of jealousy hitherto experienced, had been slight, compared with those which were now wringing her breast. Even her apprehensions for the fate of her lover had been endurable: since hope for his safety had never wholly forsaken her. During the interval that had lapsed since his escape, she had not been altogether unhappy. Her heart had been fortified by hope; and still farther supported by the remembrance of that last sweet interview. So long as Holtspur lived, and loved her, she felt that she could be happy—even under those circumstances hypothetically foreshadowed in his parting speeches.
There were times when she pondered on their mysterious import; when she wondered what they could have meant—and not without a sense of dissatisfaction.
But she had not allowed this to intrude itself either often or long. Her love was too loyal, too trusting, to be shaken by suspicions. She remembered how unjust had been those formerly indulged in; and, influenced by this memory, she had resolved never again to give way to doubt, without some certain sign—such as the return of the love-token, as arranged between them. She might have had cause to wonder, why she had not heard from him—if only a word to ensure her of his safety. But she was not chagrined by his silence. The risk of communicating with her might account for it. Under an hypocritical pretence of duty—of obedience to orders he dared not depart from—the cuirassier captain permitted nothing—not even an epistle—to enter the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, without being first submitted to his own scrutiny.
Since the hour of his escape, the only intimation she had had of her lost lover—almost the first time she had heard his name pronounced—was when coupled with those two words, that were now filling her with woe—“His wife!”
Marion had heard no more. She had stayed for no farther torture from those scandal-loving lips. She had heard that her lover—the man to whom she had surrendered the reins of her heart—was thehusbandof another! That was knowledge enough for one hour of wretchedness—ay, for a whole lifetime of sadness and chagrin.
Though in the midst of that gay assemblage, she had not essayed to seek an explanation; she was now desirous of having it. So long as the slightest remnant of either hope or doubt remains within the mind of one who suspected an unrequited passion, that mind cannot feel satisfaction. It will seek the truth—although the search may conduct to eternal ruin.
So determined the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade, during the mid hours of that sleepless night; and, long before the great bell of Bulstrode summoned its retainers to their daily toil, the young mistress of this lordly mansion might have been seen—closely wrapped in cloak and hood—issuing forth from one of its portals; and, under the grey light of dawn, with quick but stealthy step, making her way over the dew-bespangled pastures of its park.
The gate through which she had often passed outward into the high road—often, of late, with a heart trembling in sweet anticipation—was the one towards which she directed her steps.
How different was now her prospect—how dissimilar her purpose! She went not forth to meet one, who, though still undeclared, she instinctively believed to be her lover—loyal and true. Her errand was no more of this joyous nature, but the sad reverse. It was to make inquiries as to that lover’s loyalty, or seek confirmation of his falsehood!
Who could give the wished-for information? From whom were the inquiries to be made?
She could think of no one save Holtspur himself; and the white paper—clutched in a hand almost as white—concealed under her cloak, gave a clue to her design. It was an epistle that had been penned by the light of the midnight lamp, and sealed under a flood of scorching tears. There was no direction upon it—only the nameHenry Holtspur. She knew not his address. She was taking it to a place where she had hopes of seeing some one, who might be able to forward it to its destination.
The path she was following pointed to this place. It was the road leading to Stone Dean. It was not the first time she had thought of thus communicating with her absent lover. She had forborne, partly through fear of being betrayed by those to whom her letter might be entrusted—partly by the feminine reflection, thathe, notshe, should be the first to write—and partly by the hope, deferred from day to day, that hewouldwrite. These hindrances she regarded no longer. An epistle was now addressed to him—far different from that hitherto intended. It was no longer a letter of love, but one filled with reproaches and regrets.
Marion Wade was not the only one under her father’s roof, who at that same hour had been employing the pen. Another had been similarly occupied.
As a soldier, Scarthe was accustomed to keep early hours. It was a rare circumstance for him to be a-bed after six o’clock in the morning. In those times of political agitation, the military man often took part in state intrigues; and in this craft the cuirassier captain, under the guidance of his royal patroness, had inextricably engaged himself.
This double duty entailed upon him an extensive correspondence; to which his morning hours were chiefly devoted. Although essentially a man of pleasure, he did not surrender himself to idleness. He was too ambitious, to be inactive; and both his military and political duties were attended to with system and energy.
On the day of the hawking party, his correspondence had fallen behind; and, to clear off the arrears, he was astir at a very early hour next morning, and busy before his writing table.
His military and political despatches were not the only matters that called for the use of his pen on this particular morning. Upon the table before him lay a sealed packet, that might have contained a letter, but evidently something more—something of a different character, as indicated by its shape and size.
But there was no letter inside; and the object within the envelope might be guessed at, by the soliloquy that fell from the lips of Captain Scarthe, as he sate regarding it. It was a glove—thewhite gauntlet, once worn upon the hand of Marion Wade—once worn upon the hat of Henry Holtspur, and thence surreptitiously abstracted.It was once more to be restored to its original owner, in a secret and mysterious manner; and to that end had it been enclosed in a wrapping of spotless paper, and sealed with a blank seal stamp.
As yet there was no superscription upon the parcel; and he who had made it up, sate contemplating it—pen in hand—as if uncertain as to how he should address it. It was not this, however, about which he was pausing. He knew the address well enough. It was the mode of writing it—the chirography—that was occupying his thoughts.
“Ha!” he exclaimed at length, “an excellent idea! It must be likehishandwriting; which in all probability, she is acquainted with. I can easily imitate it. Thank fortune I’ve got copies enough—in this traitorous correspondence.”
As he said this, he drew towards him a number of papers, consisting of letters and other documents. They were those he had taken from Stone Dean, on the morning of Holtspur’s arrest.
After regarding them for some seconds—with the attention of an expert, in the act of deciphering some difficult manuscript—he took his pen, and wrote upon the parcel the words, “Mistress Marion Wade.”
“That will be enough,” reflected he. “The address is superfluous. It would never do for it to be delivered at the house. It must be put into her hands secretly, and as if sent by a trusty messenger. There’s no reason why she should mistrust the woodman Walford. She may know him to have been in Holtspur’s service, and can scarce have heard of his defection. He’ll do. He must watch for an opportunity, when she goes out. I wonder what delays the knave. He should have been here by this time. I told him to come before daylight. Ha! speak of the fiend! That must be his shadow passing the window?”
As Scarthe said this, he hastily rose to his feet; scattered some drying sand over the wet superscription; and, taking the packet from the table, walked towards the door to meet his messenger.
It was the traitor Walford, whose shadow had been seen passing the window. His patron found him standing on the step.
He was not admitted inside the house. The business, for the execution of which he was required, had been already arranged; and a few words of instruction, spoken in a low tone, sufficed to impart to him a full comprehension of its native.
He was told that the packet then placed in his hands, was for Mistress Marion Wade; that he was to watch for an opportunity when she should be out of doors; and deliver it to her—if possible, unseen by any third party. He was instructed to assume an air of secrecy; to announce himself as a messenger from Henry Holtspur; and, after delivering a verbal message—supposed to proceed from the cavalier, but carefully concocted by Scarthe—he was to hasten out of the lady’s presence, and avoid the danger of a cross-questioning.
“Now, begone!” commanded his employer, when he had completed his chapter of instructions. “Get away from the house—if you can, without being observed. It won’t do for you to be seen here at this early hour—least of all on a visit to me. Let me know when you have succeeded; and if you do the business adroitly, I shall double thisdouceur.”
As Scarthe said this, he slipped a gold coin into the hand of the pseudo-messenger; and, turning upon his heel, walked back towards his apartment.
The woodman, after grinning gleefully at the gold that lay glistening in his palm, thrust the piece into his pocket; and, gliding down from the steps, commenced making a stealthy departure through the shrubbery.
He little thought how near he was to the opportunity he desired—of earning the duplicate of thatdouceur.
But fate, or the fiend, was propitious to him. On clearing the moated enclosure, he saw before him the form of a woman, closely wrapped in cloak and hood.
She, too, seemed hastening onward with stealthy step; but the tall, symmetrical figure, and the rich robes that enveloped it, left no doubt upon the mind of Walford as to the person who was preceding him down the sloping avenue of Bulstrode Park. It was the young mistress of the mansion—she for whom his message was intended—she who would be made wretched by its delivery.
The emissary of Scarthe neither knew, nor would have cared, for this. His only thought was to earn the promised perquisite; and, with this object in view, he followed the female figure fast flitting toward the gate of the park.
Quickly and silently did Marion glide upon her errand. Absorbed by its painful nature, she fancied herself unobserved. She saw not that dark form skulking but a short distance behind her, like an evil shadow, ill defined, under the dim light of the dawn—and keeping pace with her as she advanced.
Unconscious of the proximity of her suspicious follower, she passed out through the park gates, and on along the forest road—a path well known to her. Never before had she trodden it with a heavier heart. Never before had she stood under the shadow of the trysting tree—to her now sadly sacred—influenced by such painful emotion.
She paused beneath its spreading branches. She could not resist the mystic spell, which the place seemed to cast around her. There was something, even in the sadness of its souvenirs, that had a soothing effect upon her spirits, that could scarce have been more embittered.
Whether soothing, or saddening, she was permitted to indulge only a short time in silent reflection. A heavy footfall—evidently that of a man—was heard approaching along the path, and shuffling among the crisp leaves with which it was bestrewed.
The sounds grew louder and drew nearer; until he who was causing them came in sight—a rustic making his way through the wood.
Marion knew the man—the woodman Walford.
She knew him only by sight, and but slightly. She had no words for such as he—especially in an hour like that.
She moved not. Her eyes were averted. The intruder might have passed on, without receiving from her even a nod of recognition, had such been his wish.
It was only on hearing her own name pronounced, and seeing the man advance towards her, that the young lady took note of his presence.
“Mistress Wade!” muttered he, awkwardly uncovering his head, and making a bow of doubtful politeness.
“What want you with me, sir?” asked Marion, in a tone that betrayed both annoyance and astonishment.
“I’ve been follerin’ thee, mistress, all the way frae the big house. I wanted to see thee alone.”
“Alone! And for what purpose, sirrah?”
The interrogatory was uttered in a voice that betokened indignation not unmingled with alarm. No wonder. He to whom it was addressed was not the man, with whom a timid woman would elect to hold an interview, alone, and in the heart of a wood.
Was the rustic intruding himself with an evil intention?
The apprehensions, thus quickly conceived were as speedily dissipated by the woodman declaring himself to have come in the capacity of a messenger.
“I ha’ brought thee a package, Mistress Wade,” said he, drawing something from under the skirt of his doublet. “It be a small ’un, I trow; but for all that I darn’t gie it ye afore company—for I had orders not to, by him as sent me.”
“Who sent you?” hastily inquired the lady, at the same time taking the packet from the hand of the cautious carrier.
“Master Holtspur,” bluntly replied the man.
“I darn’t stay here aside ye,” continued he. “Some of them may come this way, an’ see us thegither. I’ve only to tell you that Master Holtspur be safe; an’ that it be all rightatween him an his wife. They be reconciled agin. But I needn’t be tellin’ ye that: I s’pose it’s all wrote inside the package. Now, mistress, I must away, an’ get back to him as sent me. Good mornin’.”
With another grotesque attempt at polite salutation, the deliverer of the message walked hurriedly away; and was soon lost to the sight of its trembling recipient.
Marion had listened to his words without knowing their wicked design—without even suspecting that they were false. But, false or true, she did not imagine there could be a new pang conveyed in their meaning. She had already felt the sting, as she supposed,—in all its black bitterness! She did not believe that in the same quiver, there was another arrow, bearing upon its point a still more potent poison.
She felt it, as with trembling fingers she broke the seal, and tore open the envelope of that tiny parcel. To her heart’s core she felt it, as her eyes rested upon the contents. Her token returned to her—that fatal gift—the White Gauntlet! The glove dropped to the ground; and, with a suppressed scream—that sounded like the knell of a shattered heart—sank Marion Wade beside it! For some moments she lay along the grass, like some beautiful statue struck down from its pedestal.
She was not unconscious—only unnerved, and rendered powerless by a strong, quick spasm of despair.
Beyond the stifled scream, that escaped her as she fell, no sound passed from her lips. Hers was a despair that speech was incapable of relieving. There was nothing on which hope could hinge itself. The restored token told the tale in all its sad reality. A letter—a volume could not have conveyed the information more fully.Holtspur no longer loved her!
There was even a more fell reflection.He had never loved her: else how could he have changed so soon?
The paroxysm at length passed; and the prostrate form once more stood erect. Erect, but not triumphant. Sad and subdued was the spirit that animated it—almost shivered by that fearful shock.
In silent agony she turned to go homeward. She no more remembered the errand that had summoned her forth. It was no longer of any importance. The information she would have sought had met her on the way—had been communicated, with a fullness and surety that left nothing to be added.Holtspur loved her no more. With that thought in her mind, what mattered it whether he were married or no? But the words of the messenger had equally ended all doubt of this. If there might be any lingering uncertainty, as to what she had heard, there could be none as to what she saw. There lay the White Gauntlet under her eyes—down among the weeds. It lay neglected as if without an owner—no more to be regarded by Marion Wade; or only as the cause of a life-long anguish.
Slowly and sadly she retraced the forest path; slowly and sadly she re-entered the gateway of the park; slowly and sadly walked back along that avenue, once trodden by her with a bosom filled with supremest joy.
Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.The course which Scarthe was pursuing may seem strange. He now knew that for the hand of Marion Wade, Holtspur could not be his rival. What then could be his motive for sending back theglove: for motive there must have been?There was one; though to say the truth it was not very definite.He was still uncertain as to the state of Marion’s heart—still in doubt whether the white gauntlet had or had not been aguage d’amour. If the former, then the restoring of it as designed by him might produce a revulsion of feeling in his own favour; if not, no evil could result to him from the act.On his side the sending back, of the glove was a mere conjectural experiment—made under a vague fancy that it might, to some little extent, further his interests. If in the mind of Marion Wade there existed a partiality for the patriot conspirator, a slight such as that should crush out every vestige of the feeling, and create a reaction in favour of the first fresh lover who might present himself—Richard Scarthe more likely than any other. Little did he anticipate the terrible effect which that returned token, with the message that accompanied it, would have upon her who was to receive it. He knew nothing of the strange conditions which the lovers had arranged at their last parting.He had too much experience in the heart of woman to have reasoned thus—had he not been purblind with his own passion. In this condition, however, he gave way to a fancy, that, under other circumstances, he would have instantly rejected.He was also influenced by considerations of a very different kind. The hand of Marion Wade was almost as desirable as her heart—or rather the fortune that should accompany it. The cuirassier captain possessed but his pay—along with proud patronage it is true—but, neither was anything to make him, what he should become as the son-in-law of Sir Marmaduke Wade.The crisis had arrived to attempt bringing about this desired relationship. It must not be delayed. The power he possessed for its accomplishment might at any moment pass out of his hands. The times were uncertain; and procrastination might imperil his chances of success.The sending of the glove was the first move in the matrimonial scheme he had concocted. It was to be followed by an offer of his hand. If the offer should be accepted, well; if not, then stronger measures were to be adopted.Such was the programme that had passed through the mind of Richard Scarthe, and was still before it, as he paced the floor of his apartment, an hour after having dismissed the messenger Walford.“I wonder,” said he, as he reflected upon the importance of time, “when the fellow Walford will succeed in delivering his false message? He’s but a dull-brained dolt; though knave enough for that, or anything else. I hope he won’t be so stupid as to bring it back to the house; or give it her in the presence of any one. Surely he will have understood my instructions about that? I told him to watch for her till she walked abroad, and alone. But when may that be? Perhaps not to-day; nor to-morrow; nor for many days? I’m burning with impatience to bring the business to a conclusion. What, after all my well-conceived strategy, if—Ho! who comes yonder? By Heaven! ’tis Walford! What brings the brute back? From the grin upon that hideous countenance of his—intended no doubt for a smile—one might fancy he had already accomplished his errand. I must go forth and meet him—before he shows himself in front of the windows. It’s early yet, and I see no one abroad; still some of them may be astir inside? He must not be seen coming here.”With this reflection, Scarthe seized his beaver; and, flinging it upon his head, sallied forth from the house.In the thick of the shrubbery he encountered the returning envoy.“Well, Walford,” said he, “what has brought you back so soon? Has anything miscarried?”“Not as I knows on, Master capten. Only as bein’ an early bird this mornin’ I ha’ picked up the early wurum.”“Ah! what mean you by that?”“I gin it to her.”“Gin it to her? What, and to whom?”“The packidge—to the young lady.”“What, you don’t say that you have seen—”“Mistress Marion? Sartintly I do, Master capten. Seed her; gied her the packidge; an’ sayed, what you told me to say.”“When? Where?”“For the first—it han’t been gone a half-hour since the words passed out o’ my mouth; and as to the where, that war ’bout a mile from heear—on the wood road as runs from the Park to Stone Dean.”“She there at this hour? You must be mistaken, my man?”“No mistake about it, Master capten; I seed her, and spoke to her, as you bid me. I’ve seed her a many a time along that road. It be a favourite ride wi’ her; but she bean’t a horseback this mornin’. She be afut.”“And alone, you say?”“Sartinly, Master: else how could I ha’ gied her the packidge? You told me to let no one see me handin’ it to her.”“This is strange,” muttered Scarthe to himself. “You are sure there was no one near her?”“I seed ne’er a creetur.”“What was she doing?”“Nothin’, Capten; only standing under a tree—the big beech as grows in the middle o’ the road. I went up to her pretty quick, lest she might gi’ me the slip. After I put the packidge in her hand, and sayed what you told me, I coomed directly away.”“You left her there?”“Left her, just as I found her—under the big beech.”“And you met no one, as you returned along the road?”“Neither met nor passed a sinner.”“You think she may be there still? You say you came direct?”“Straight as the road ’ud let me, Capten. I won’t say she be theear still—that are, under the tree; but she ain’t got home as yet: for I coomed as fast as my legs ’ud carry me. I knew you didn’t want me seen about here, and thought I would be safest to coom up afore the sarvints were stirrin’. She beean’t got home yet, nor half o’ the way—even supposin’ she set off right after me.”“The road to Stone Dean, you say?”“That as gooes through Stampwell’s wood, an’ over the hills. It strikes off from the King’s highway, a leetle beyont the gates o’ the park.”“I know—I know. There, my man! Something to get you your morning dram. Away at once; and don’t let yourself be seen in my company. Go where you like now; but be in your own nest at night: I may want you.”The messenger took the money; and along with it his instant departure.“What the deuce can she be doing out at this hour?” inquired Scarthe of himself, as he strode nervously across the parterre.“Ha! the place—the forest road leading to Stone Dean! Can it be possible that he—The fiends! If it be so, I may yet be in time to take him. Ho, there!” he cried to the guard corporal, who had just appeared outside the courtyard gate. “A dozen men to horse. Quick, corporal! Let them not lose a moment. I shall be out before they have time to strap on their saddles.”And, having delivered these orders, he turned back into his room; and commenced encasing his body in the steel armour, that lay in pieces around the apartment.In less than ten minutes’ time he was armedcap-à-pied. Staying only to quaff off a cup of wine—which he hurriedly filled from a decanter that stood upon the side table—he passed out of his apartment; and strode clanking along the stone-flagged corridor that communicated with the rear of the dwelling.Emerging into the courtyard, he mounted his horse—already caparisoned to receive him; and, giving the word of command to the cuirassiers, who had climbed to their saddles, he galloped out of the court—on toward the entrance of the park that opened in the direction of Stone Dean.It was a short gallop—ending almost as soon as it had begun. It came to a termination, at the head of the hill—down which trended the long avenue skirted with chestnut trees.There Scarthe suddenly checked his steed—at the same time giving his followers the order to bait.Naturally enough, the troopers were a little surprised at this sudden interruption of their ride; but they were altogether astonished at a second order—following quick upon the first—which enjoined upon them to wheel round, and return to their stables!They obeyed, though not without, a show of reluctance. They would much rather have continued their excursion—supposing it to have been intended for some foraging expedition that promised pleasure and plunder.They were not entirely ignorant of what had caused the countermand. As they were wheeling upon the path, they had caught sight of an object at the other end of the avenue, whose motions betrayed it to be animate. Though but dimly seen through the dawn, and under the shadow of the chestnuts, they could tell what it was—the figure of a woman.“A sail in sight!” muttered one, who had seen saltwater service. “The captain’s going to hail the craft; and don’t want us Jack-tars on the quarter deck.”“’Tis she!” muttered Scarthe to himself, as his followers retired. “Even ifhehas been with her, ’twould be of little use going after him now. He would scarce be such a fool as to remain upon the ground. ’Tis impossible she can have seen any one, since Walford left her? There has not been time for an interview such as that. She may have been with him before? If so, the sham message will result in my own discomfiture. Or she may have been expecting him, and he has not come? If so, the parcel would be just in time. I can scarce look for such a lucky combination of circumstances!”“What shall I do?” he continued, after a pause. “If she has not met him, it is a splendid opportunity for my proposal! The events are ominous of success. Shall I make it now—this moment?”“There is danger in delay,” he muttered, as the old adage came into his mind. “She may have some means of communicating with him; and the glove trick may be discovered? I shall trust no longer to chance. This uncertainty is insufferable. Within the hour I shall put an end to it, and find out my fate, one way or the other. If accepted, then shall Richard Scarthe play traitor to his king, and the good knight Sir Marmaduke may conspire to his heart’s content. If rejected, then—in that contingency—ah—then—the old rebel will risk the losing of his head.”“Now, Mistress Marion Wade,” apostrophised he, as he watched the advancing figure. “On thine answer there is much depending: your father’s head and my happiness. I hope you will be gracious, and give security to both. If you refuse me, then must I make use of that power, with which a lucky chance has provided me. Surely thy father’s danger will undo your objections? If you resist, let the ruin fall—let him suffer his doom!”“I must dismount and meet her,” he continued, as he saw Marion coming on with slow steps. “A declaration in the saddle would never do. It must be made on foot—or still more humbly on bended knee; and so shall it, if that be necessary to secure success. Ha! ha! what would they say at Court? The invincible Scarthe, who has made conquest of a queen, kneeling in humble suit at the feet of a country maiden—the daughter of a rank rebel—begging for her heart, and worse still, bargaining for her hand! Ha! ha! ha!”While uttering this laugh, he flung himself from his horse; and, tossing the rein of his bridle over the branch of a tree, he commenced descending the hill.Although advancing towards the interview, with all thenonchalancehe was capable of assuming, he was at the same time trembling with apprehension as to the result.He met the maiden at the bottom of the hill—under the sombre shadow of the chestnuts.He encountered a look of cold surprise, accompanied by a simple nod of recognition.Such a reception might have turned him from his purpose; but it did not. He had made up his mind to propose; and, without much circumlocution, he proceeded to carry out the intention.“Mistress Marion Wade!” said he, approaching her with an air of profound respect, and bowing low as he drew near, “if you be not offended by my intruding upon you at this early hour, I shall thank the fate that has favoured me.”“Captain Scarthe, this interview is unexpected.”“By me it has beensought. I have been for some time desirous of an opportunity to speak with you alone.”“To speak with me alone? I am at a loss to know, sir, what you can have to say that requires such a condition.”“Youshallknow, Mistress Wade; if, indeed, you have not divined my purpose already. Need I tell you that I am in love?”“And why, Sir, have you chosen me for this confidence? I should think that was a secret to be communicated only to her whom it concerns?”“And to her alone has it been communicated. Surely I need not name the object of my love. You cannot have been blind to emotions—to sufferings—I have been unable to conceal. I can be silent no longer. O Marion Wade! I love you with all the fondness of a true affection—all the fervour of an admiration that knows no limits. Do not be angry at me for thus declaring myself. Do not frown upon my suit. O, beautiful Marion! say that I may hope?”Scarthe had dashed his helmet to the ground, and flung himself on his knees in the attitude of an humble suppliant. With eyes upturned to her face, he tremblingly awaited the reply.She was silent. Her features betrayed no sign of gladness, as she listened to that earnest declaration. Scarce, even, did they show surprise. Whatever of this she may have felt was concealed under the cloud of chagrin, that, springing from a very different cause, still overspread her countenance.The kneeling suitor waited some moments for a response; but none was given. She to whom he was making suit remained proudly silent.Becoming sensible of a certain ludicrousness in the situation, Scarthe impatiently continued:—“Oh! do not deny me! At least, vouchsafe an answer. If it be favourable, I promise—I swear—that my heart—my hand—my soul—my sword—my life—all will be yours—yours for any sacrifice you may summon me to make. O Marion!—beautiful Marion Wade!—I know I am not worthy of you now. Think not of me as I am; but rather what I shall be. I may one day be more deserving of your esteem—perhaps your love. I have hopes of preferment—high hopes. I may be excused for saying, they are founded on the patronage of a queen. With one like you for my bride—my wife—highborn, gifted, lovelier than all others, these hopes would soon be realised. To be worthy of loving you—to have the pleasure of illustrating you—of making you happy by the highest fame—I could accomplish anything. Fear not, Marion Wade! He who sues to you, if now humble, may hope for higher rank. Ere long shall I obtain the much-coveted title of Lord. It matters little to me. Only for your sake should I prize it. But oh! hapless lord should I be, if not the lord of your heart! A word, Marion Wade!—one word! Tell me I may hope?”Marion turned her eyes upon the eloquent suppliant. His attitude, the expression of his countenance, and the fervent tone in which he had declared himself, were evidence that he was in earnest. She could not fail to perceive that he loved her. Whatever may have been the deceit of his nature, in other respects, there could be no doubt that he was honest in his admiration for herself.Perhaps it was this thought that restrained her from making an indignant reply. Why should she be offended at one thus humbly suing—one who was willing to become her slave?The expression in her eye, called up by the attitude of the suitor, seemed to speak of pity, rather than indignation.It soon passed away; and was succeeded by the same calm look of indifference—with which she had hitherto regarded him.Misinterpreting that momentary glance of kindness, Scarthe for an instant fancied himself successful.Only for an instant. His heart fell as he noted the change of countenance that succeeded; and it needed not for Marion to signify her refusal in speech. Words could not have more plainly told him, that his suit was rejected.In words, however, he was told it; and with a laconism that left him no alternative, but to rise from his kneeling attitude, place his helmet once more upon his head, and bid Marion Wade good-morning.Alone the lady pursued her homeward way—Scarthe standing silent and statue-like, till she had passed out of sight. Then his features suddenly changed expression; his true temper, for the time restrained, escaped from the control in which he had been keeping it; and both voice and gesture testified to the terrible conflict of emotions that convulsed his soul.“I shall seek no more to sue her,” muttered he, as he detached his bridle from the branch. “’Tis not the mode to deal with this proud damsel. Force, not favour, is the way to win her—at least her hand—ah! and maybe her heart? I’ve known such as she before. Are there not hundreds in history? Did the Sabine women continue to despise their bold abductors? No; they became loving wives: loving them for the very act, that, in the fancy of fools, should have excited their hatred! By Heaven! I shall imitate those Roman ravishers—if driven to thedernier resort. Thank fortune! there’s another arrow in my quiver. And now to place it to the string. By this time Sir Marmaduke should be stirring; though it seems he keeps not so early hours as his charming child! Curses! what can have carried her abroad? No doubt, I shall discover in time; and if it be, that—”He interrupted himself, as if some conception, painful beyond common, had caused a sudden suspension of his breath.“If it be that—a mistress, instead of awife, shall I make of Marion Wade!”With this vile threat, he sprang nervously to the back of his horse; and, deeply driving in the spurs, forced the animal into a rapid gallop, homeward against the hill.
The course which Scarthe was pursuing may seem strange. He now knew that for the hand of Marion Wade, Holtspur could not be his rival. What then could be his motive for sending back theglove: for motive there must have been?
There was one; though to say the truth it was not very definite.
He was still uncertain as to the state of Marion’s heart—still in doubt whether the white gauntlet had or had not been aguage d’amour. If the former, then the restoring of it as designed by him might produce a revulsion of feeling in his own favour; if not, no evil could result to him from the act.
On his side the sending back, of the glove was a mere conjectural experiment—made under a vague fancy that it might, to some little extent, further his interests. If in the mind of Marion Wade there existed a partiality for the patriot conspirator, a slight such as that should crush out every vestige of the feeling, and create a reaction in favour of the first fresh lover who might present himself—Richard Scarthe more likely than any other. Little did he anticipate the terrible effect which that returned token, with the message that accompanied it, would have upon her who was to receive it. He knew nothing of the strange conditions which the lovers had arranged at their last parting.
He had too much experience in the heart of woman to have reasoned thus—had he not been purblind with his own passion. In this condition, however, he gave way to a fancy, that, under other circumstances, he would have instantly rejected.
He was also influenced by considerations of a very different kind. The hand of Marion Wade was almost as desirable as her heart—or rather the fortune that should accompany it. The cuirassier captain possessed but his pay—along with proud patronage it is true—but, neither was anything to make him, what he should become as the son-in-law of Sir Marmaduke Wade.
The crisis had arrived to attempt bringing about this desired relationship. It must not be delayed. The power he possessed for its accomplishment might at any moment pass out of his hands. The times were uncertain; and procrastination might imperil his chances of success.
The sending of the glove was the first move in the matrimonial scheme he had concocted. It was to be followed by an offer of his hand. If the offer should be accepted, well; if not, then stronger measures were to be adopted.
Such was the programme that had passed through the mind of Richard Scarthe, and was still before it, as he paced the floor of his apartment, an hour after having dismissed the messenger Walford.
“I wonder,” said he, as he reflected upon the importance of time, “when the fellow Walford will succeed in delivering his false message? He’s but a dull-brained dolt; though knave enough for that, or anything else. I hope he won’t be so stupid as to bring it back to the house; or give it her in the presence of any one. Surely he will have understood my instructions about that? I told him to watch for her till she walked abroad, and alone. But when may that be? Perhaps not to-day; nor to-morrow; nor for many days? I’m burning with impatience to bring the business to a conclusion. What, after all my well-conceived strategy, if—Ho! who comes yonder? By Heaven! ’tis Walford! What brings the brute back? From the grin upon that hideous countenance of his—intended no doubt for a smile—one might fancy he had already accomplished his errand. I must go forth and meet him—before he shows himself in front of the windows. It’s early yet, and I see no one abroad; still some of them may be astir inside? He must not be seen coming here.”
With this reflection, Scarthe seized his beaver; and, flinging it upon his head, sallied forth from the house.
In the thick of the shrubbery he encountered the returning envoy.
“Well, Walford,” said he, “what has brought you back so soon? Has anything miscarried?”
“Not as I knows on, Master capten. Only as bein’ an early bird this mornin’ I ha’ picked up the early wurum.”
“Ah! what mean you by that?”
“I gin it to her.”
“Gin it to her? What, and to whom?”
“The packidge—to the young lady.”
“What, you don’t say that you have seen—”
“Mistress Marion? Sartintly I do, Master capten. Seed her; gied her the packidge; an’ sayed, what you told me to say.”
“When? Where?”
“For the first—it han’t been gone a half-hour since the words passed out o’ my mouth; and as to the where, that war ’bout a mile from heear—on the wood road as runs from the Park to Stone Dean.”
“She there at this hour? You must be mistaken, my man?”
“No mistake about it, Master capten; I seed her, and spoke to her, as you bid me. I’ve seed her a many a time along that road. It be a favourite ride wi’ her; but she bean’t a horseback this mornin’. She be afut.”
“And alone, you say?”
“Sartinly, Master: else how could I ha’ gied her the packidge? You told me to let no one see me handin’ it to her.”
“This is strange,” muttered Scarthe to himself. “You are sure there was no one near her?”
“I seed ne’er a creetur.”
“What was she doing?”
“Nothin’, Capten; only standing under a tree—the big beech as grows in the middle o’ the road. I went up to her pretty quick, lest she might gi’ me the slip. After I put the packidge in her hand, and sayed what you told me, I coomed directly away.”
“You left her there?”
“Left her, just as I found her—under the big beech.”
“And you met no one, as you returned along the road?”
“Neither met nor passed a sinner.”
“You think she may be there still? You say you came direct?”
“Straight as the road ’ud let me, Capten. I won’t say she be theear still—that are, under the tree; but she ain’t got home as yet: for I coomed as fast as my legs ’ud carry me. I knew you didn’t want me seen about here, and thought I would be safest to coom up afore the sarvints were stirrin’. She beean’t got home yet, nor half o’ the way—even supposin’ she set off right after me.”
“The road to Stone Dean, you say?”
“That as gooes through Stampwell’s wood, an’ over the hills. It strikes off from the King’s highway, a leetle beyont the gates o’ the park.”
“I know—I know. There, my man! Something to get you your morning dram. Away at once; and don’t let yourself be seen in my company. Go where you like now; but be in your own nest at night: I may want you.”
The messenger took the money; and along with it his instant departure.
“What the deuce can she be doing out at this hour?” inquired Scarthe of himself, as he strode nervously across the parterre.
“Ha! the place—the forest road leading to Stone Dean! Can it be possible that he—The fiends! If it be so, I may yet be in time to take him. Ho, there!” he cried to the guard corporal, who had just appeared outside the courtyard gate. “A dozen men to horse. Quick, corporal! Let them not lose a moment. I shall be out before they have time to strap on their saddles.”
And, having delivered these orders, he turned back into his room; and commenced encasing his body in the steel armour, that lay in pieces around the apartment.
In less than ten minutes’ time he was armedcap-à-pied. Staying only to quaff off a cup of wine—which he hurriedly filled from a decanter that stood upon the side table—he passed out of his apartment; and strode clanking along the stone-flagged corridor that communicated with the rear of the dwelling.
Emerging into the courtyard, he mounted his horse—already caparisoned to receive him; and, giving the word of command to the cuirassiers, who had climbed to their saddles, he galloped out of the court—on toward the entrance of the park that opened in the direction of Stone Dean.
It was a short gallop—ending almost as soon as it had begun. It came to a termination, at the head of the hill—down which trended the long avenue skirted with chestnut trees.
There Scarthe suddenly checked his steed—at the same time giving his followers the order to bait.
Naturally enough, the troopers were a little surprised at this sudden interruption of their ride; but they were altogether astonished at a second order—following quick upon the first—which enjoined upon them to wheel round, and return to their stables!
They obeyed, though not without, a show of reluctance. They would much rather have continued their excursion—supposing it to have been intended for some foraging expedition that promised pleasure and plunder.
They were not entirely ignorant of what had caused the countermand. As they were wheeling upon the path, they had caught sight of an object at the other end of the avenue, whose motions betrayed it to be animate. Though but dimly seen through the dawn, and under the shadow of the chestnuts, they could tell what it was—the figure of a woman.
“A sail in sight!” muttered one, who had seen saltwater service. “The captain’s going to hail the craft; and don’t want us Jack-tars on the quarter deck.”
“’Tis she!” muttered Scarthe to himself, as his followers retired. “Even ifhehas been with her, ’twould be of little use going after him now. He would scarce be such a fool as to remain upon the ground. ’Tis impossible she can have seen any one, since Walford left her? There has not been time for an interview such as that. She may have been with him before? If so, the sham message will result in my own discomfiture. Or she may have been expecting him, and he has not come? If so, the parcel would be just in time. I can scarce look for such a lucky combination of circumstances!”
“What shall I do?” he continued, after a pause. “If she has not met him, it is a splendid opportunity for my proposal! The events are ominous of success. Shall I make it now—this moment?”
“There is danger in delay,” he muttered, as the old adage came into his mind. “She may have some means of communicating with him; and the glove trick may be discovered? I shall trust no longer to chance. This uncertainty is insufferable. Within the hour I shall put an end to it, and find out my fate, one way or the other. If accepted, then shall Richard Scarthe play traitor to his king, and the good knight Sir Marmaduke may conspire to his heart’s content. If rejected, then—in that contingency—ah—then—the old rebel will risk the losing of his head.”
“Now, Mistress Marion Wade,” apostrophised he, as he watched the advancing figure. “On thine answer there is much depending: your father’s head and my happiness. I hope you will be gracious, and give security to both. If you refuse me, then must I make use of that power, with which a lucky chance has provided me. Surely thy father’s danger will undo your objections? If you resist, let the ruin fall—let him suffer his doom!”
“I must dismount and meet her,” he continued, as he saw Marion coming on with slow steps. “A declaration in the saddle would never do. It must be made on foot—or still more humbly on bended knee; and so shall it, if that be necessary to secure success. Ha! ha! what would they say at Court? The invincible Scarthe, who has made conquest of a queen, kneeling in humble suit at the feet of a country maiden—the daughter of a rank rebel—begging for her heart, and worse still, bargaining for her hand! Ha! ha! ha!”
While uttering this laugh, he flung himself from his horse; and, tossing the rein of his bridle over the branch of a tree, he commenced descending the hill.
Although advancing towards the interview, with all thenonchalancehe was capable of assuming, he was at the same time trembling with apprehension as to the result.
He met the maiden at the bottom of the hill—under the sombre shadow of the chestnuts.
He encountered a look of cold surprise, accompanied by a simple nod of recognition.
Such a reception might have turned him from his purpose; but it did not. He had made up his mind to propose; and, without much circumlocution, he proceeded to carry out the intention.
“Mistress Marion Wade!” said he, approaching her with an air of profound respect, and bowing low as he drew near, “if you be not offended by my intruding upon you at this early hour, I shall thank the fate that has favoured me.”
“Captain Scarthe, this interview is unexpected.”
“By me it has beensought. I have been for some time desirous of an opportunity to speak with you alone.”
“To speak with me alone? I am at a loss to know, sir, what you can have to say that requires such a condition.”
“Youshallknow, Mistress Wade; if, indeed, you have not divined my purpose already. Need I tell you that I am in love?”
“And why, Sir, have you chosen me for this confidence? I should think that was a secret to be communicated only to her whom it concerns?”
“And to her alone has it been communicated. Surely I need not name the object of my love. You cannot have been blind to emotions—to sufferings—I have been unable to conceal. I can be silent no longer. O Marion Wade! I love you with all the fondness of a true affection—all the fervour of an admiration that knows no limits. Do not be angry at me for thus declaring myself. Do not frown upon my suit. O, beautiful Marion! say that I may hope?”
Scarthe had dashed his helmet to the ground, and flung himself on his knees in the attitude of an humble suppliant. With eyes upturned to her face, he tremblingly awaited the reply.
She was silent. Her features betrayed no sign of gladness, as she listened to that earnest declaration. Scarce, even, did they show surprise. Whatever of this she may have felt was concealed under the cloud of chagrin, that, springing from a very different cause, still overspread her countenance.
The kneeling suitor waited some moments for a response; but none was given. She to whom he was making suit remained proudly silent.
Becoming sensible of a certain ludicrousness in the situation, Scarthe impatiently continued:—“Oh! do not deny me! At least, vouchsafe an answer. If it be favourable, I promise—I swear—that my heart—my hand—my soul—my sword—my life—all will be yours—yours for any sacrifice you may summon me to make. O Marion!—beautiful Marion Wade!—I know I am not worthy of you now. Think not of me as I am; but rather what I shall be. I may one day be more deserving of your esteem—perhaps your love. I have hopes of preferment—high hopes. I may be excused for saying, they are founded on the patronage of a queen. With one like you for my bride—my wife—highborn, gifted, lovelier than all others, these hopes would soon be realised. To be worthy of loving you—to have the pleasure of illustrating you—of making you happy by the highest fame—I could accomplish anything. Fear not, Marion Wade! He who sues to you, if now humble, may hope for higher rank. Ere long shall I obtain the much-coveted title of Lord. It matters little to me. Only for your sake should I prize it. But oh! hapless lord should I be, if not the lord of your heart! A word, Marion Wade!—one word! Tell me I may hope?”
Marion turned her eyes upon the eloquent suppliant. His attitude, the expression of his countenance, and the fervent tone in which he had declared himself, were evidence that he was in earnest. She could not fail to perceive that he loved her. Whatever may have been the deceit of his nature, in other respects, there could be no doubt that he was honest in his admiration for herself.
Perhaps it was this thought that restrained her from making an indignant reply. Why should she be offended at one thus humbly suing—one who was willing to become her slave?
The expression in her eye, called up by the attitude of the suitor, seemed to speak of pity, rather than indignation.
It soon passed away; and was succeeded by the same calm look of indifference—with which she had hitherto regarded him.
Misinterpreting that momentary glance of kindness, Scarthe for an instant fancied himself successful.
Only for an instant. His heart fell as he noted the change of countenance that succeeded; and it needed not for Marion to signify her refusal in speech. Words could not have more plainly told him, that his suit was rejected.
In words, however, he was told it; and with a laconism that left him no alternative, but to rise from his kneeling attitude, place his helmet once more upon his head, and bid Marion Wade good-morning.
Alone the lady pursued her homeward way—Scarthe standing silent and statue-like, till she had passed out of sight. Then his features suddenly changed expression; his true temper, for the time restrained, escaped from the control in which he had been keeping it; and both voice and gesture testified to the terrible conflict of emotions that convulsed his soul.
“I shall seek no more to sue her,” muttered he, as he detached his bridle from the branch. “’Tis not the mode to deal with this proud damsel. Force, not favour, is the way to win her—at least her hand—ah! and maybe her heart? I’ve known such as she before. Are there not hundreds in history? Did the Sabine women continue to despise their bold abductors? No; they became loving wives: loving them for the very act, that, in the fancy of fools, should have excited their hatred! By Heaven! I shall imitate those Roman ravishers—if driven to thedernier resort. Thank fortune! there’s another arrow in my quiver. And now to place it to the string. By this time Sir Marmaduke should be stirring; though it seems he keeps not so early hours as his charming child! Curses! what can have carried her abroad? No doubt, I shall discover in time; and if it be, that—”
He interrupted himself, as if some conception, painful beyond common, had caused a sudden suspension of his breath.
“If it be that—a mistress, instead of awife, shall I make of Marion Wade!”
With this vile threat, he sprang nervously to the back of his horse; and, deeply driving in the spurs, forced the animal into a rapid gallop, homeward against the hill.