Chapter XV: Part 15

The high-crowned beaver hats; the close-fitting habits of green velvet; the gauntlets upon their hands; and the whips in them, proclaimed the two ladies to be those, for whom the sidesaddle horses had been caparisoned.

Both had given the finishing touch to their toilettes, before forsaking their separate chambers. They had met in Marion's sitting-room--there to hold a moment's converse, and be ready when summoned to the saddle.

"Walter promises we'll have fine sport," said the little Lora, tripping across the chamber, light as a fawn, and gay as a lark. "He says the mere has not been disturbed for long--ever so long--and there have been several broods of herons this season--besides sedge-hens, snipe, and woodcock. We shall find game for goshawks, kestrels, jer-falcons, merlins, and every sort. Won't it be delightful?"

"Pleasant enough, I dare say--for those who can enjoy it."

"What, Marion! and will not you--you so fond of falconry, as often to go hawking alone?"

"Ah, Lora! this sport, like many others, may be pleasanter alone, than in company--that is, company one don't care for."

"Dear me cousin! you'd make believe, that there isn't one, among the grand people we are going to meet to-day, worth caring for?"

"Not one--of my knowing."

"What! our very gallant guest, who is to be our escort--not Captain Scarthe?"

"I should have expected you to say Cornet Stubbs, instead."

"Ha, ha, ha! No, no! He's too stupid to be a pleasant companion for me."

"And Captain Scarthe is too much the opposite to be a pleasant companion for me. In truth, of the two I like Stubbs best--spite of his vulgar patronymic."

"You are jesting, Marion? Stubbs, Stubbs,--Cornet Stubbs! How would it sound as Colonel Stubbs? Not a whit better. No: not if he were General Stubbs. Mistress Stubbs? I wouldn't be called so for the world! Lady Stubbs? No, not for a coronet!"

"Between Stubbs, and Scarthe, I see not much to choose."

"Marion, you mistake. There's a warlike sound about Scarthe. I could imagine a man of that name to be a hero."

"And I could imagine a man of that name to be a poltroon--I _do_."

"What! not our Captain Scarthe? Why everybody calls him a most accomplished cavalier. Certes, he appears so. A little rude at first, I acknowledge; but since then, who could have acted more cavalierly? And to you, cousin, surely he has been sufficiently attentive, to have won your profound esteem?"

"Say rather my profound detestation. Then you would come nearer speaking the truth: he has won that."

"You don't show it, I'm sure. I've seen you and Captain Scarthe very happy together--very happy indeed--if one may judge from appearances."

"Wheels within wheels, coz. A smiling cheek don't always prove a contented heart; nor is a smooth tongue the truest indication of courtesy. You have seen me polite to Captain Scarthe--nothing more; and for that, I have my reasons."

"Reasons!"

"Yes; good reasons, dear Lora. But for them, I shouldn't go hawking to-day--least of all, with _him_ as my companion. Captain Scarthe may be a hero in your eyes, my gay cousin; but he is not the one that's enthroned within my heart; and _you_ know that."

"I do--I do, dear Marion. I was only jesting. I know Captain Scarthe is not your hero; and can tell who is. His name begins with Henry, and ends with Holtspur."

"Ah, there you have named a true hero! But hark you, my little parrot! Don't be prattling these confidences. If you do, I'll tell Walter how much you admire Captain Scarthe, or Cornet Stubbs. Of which do you wish him to be jealous?"

"Oh, Marion! not a word to Walter about Stubbs. Do you know I believe, that he's a little jealous of him already. He don't like his attentions to me--not a bit, Walter don't. I'm sure neither do I; but I can't help them, you know--so long as we _must_ meet three or four times a day. I think the refusal I gave might have been sufficient. It was flat enough. But it hasn't; and would you believe it, he still continues his attentions, as if nothing had happened between us? Pray don't make Walter worse; else there might be a fight between them; and then--"

"The valiant cornet might crack Walter's crown?"

"No! that he couldn't; though he _is_ bigger than Walter. He's not braver, I'm sure. That he isn't, the ugly impertinent."

"What! has he been impertinent to you?"

"Not exactly that; but he don't seem to know much about politeness. How different with Captain Scarthe. He _is_ polite."

"I suppose--after a fashion."

"Dorothy Dayrell thinks him perfection. I'm sure that girl's in love with him. Why is she always riding up to Bulstrode, if it isn't to have an opportunity of seeing him? I'm sure, it's neither of us she comes to visit."

"She's quite welcome to come--if it be for the purpose you suppose."

"Ay! and it's for nothing else than to get into his company, that she gives the hawking party to-day. She's a dangerous designing creature-- that's what she is."

"If her design be to catch Captain Scarthe, I hope she may succeed in it. I'm sure I shan't be the one to stand in her way."

"Well!" rejoined Lora, "I'm determined to keep my eyes on her this very day; and see how she behaves. Oh! you don't know how I detest that girl; and why, do you think?"

"Really, I cannot tell."

"Well! it is because I know that she is _your enemy_!"

"I never gave her cause!"

"I know that."

"Perhaps you know why it is so?"

"I do!"

"Tell me?"

"Because you are beautiful."

"If that be her reason, she should be your enemy as much as mine?"

"Oh, no! I have not the vanity to think so. My beauty is only prettiness; while yours--ah! cousin Marion, you are beautiful in my eyes--a woman! What must you be in the eyes of a man?"

"You're a simpleton, Little Lora. You are much prettier than I; and as for Dorothy Dayrell--don't every one call her the _belle of the county_? I've heard it a score of times."

"And so have I. But what signifies that? Though you're my senior, Marion, I think I have as much wisdom as you in matters of this kind. Besides I'm only a spectator, and can judge between you. I believe that the `belle of the county,' and the `belle of the ball-room,' are never the most beautiful of those, with whom they are compared. Very often such reputation is obtained, not from beauty, but behaviour; and from behaviour not always the best."

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

"Nay, nay; I speak only sentiments such as anyone may conceive. You and Dorothy Dayrell are just the two to illustrate them. While everybody _calls her_ the belle of the county, everybody _thinks you_ to be so. Indeed cousin! you are truly beautiful--so beautiful, that even the peasant children of the parish gaze upon you with wonder and delight!"

"Fulsome flatterer!"

"In troth! 'tis true; and that's why Dorothy Dayrell dislikes you. She wants to be everything; and knows that you take her laurels from her. On the day of the _fete_, she did everything in her power to captivate the man, whom she pretended to disparage!"

"Holtspur?"

"Yes: I saw her. She used all her arts to attract his attention. Ah, Marion! he had only eyes for you. And now that he is gone, she's set herself to attract Captain Scarthe. My word! won't she try to-day? Sweet coz! I don't want you to act the hypocrite; but can't you--yes you can--flirt a little with Scarthe--just to give her a chagrin? Oh! I should so like to see that girl suffer what she deserves,--a chapter of humiliation!"

"Foolish child! you know I cannot do that? It is not according to my inclination--and just now less than ever in my life."

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

"How should you like to be so punished yourself? Suppose some one, to-day, were to flirt with Walter; or he with some one?"

"Then I'd flirt with Stubbs!"

"Incorrigible coquette! I think you _like_ Walter; but only that: Ah, Lora! you know not what it is to _love_!"

"Don't I though--"

"Mistress Marion?" cried a groom, showing his face at the door of the chamber, "Sir Marm'duke be mounted. They're only waitin' for you, and Miss Lora!"

The man, after delivering his message, retired.

"Lora!" whispered Marion, as they issued forth from the room; "not a word of what you know--not to anyone! Promise me that; and I may give you the satisfaction you have asked for."

During the conversation between the cousins, the two men, who were the chief subjects of it, were engaged in a dialogue of a somewhat kindred character. Scarthe's sitting apartment was the scene; though neither of the speakers was seated. Both were on their feet; and in costume for the saddle--not military--but merely booted and spurred, with certain equipments covering their dresses, that betokened an intention of going forth upon the sport of falconry.

A splendid jer-falcon--perched upon the back of a chair, and wearing his hood--gave further evidence of this intention; while their gloves drawn on, and their beavers held in hand, told that, like the two ladies, they were only awaiting a summons to sally forth.

Scarthe, following a favourite habit, was pacing the floor; while the cornet stood watching him with attention: as if he had asked counsel from his superior, and was waiting to receive it.

"And so, my gay cornet;" said Scarthe, addressing the subaltern in his usual bantering way, "you're determined to try her again?"

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

"Oh! as to my approval, it don't need that. It's not a military matter. You may propose to every woman in the county for aught I care; twenty times to each, if you think fit."

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

"Why that would be awkward--especially as you're sleeping under the same roof, and eating at the same table with her. The more awkward, since you say you've had a refusal already."

"It wasn't a regular offer. Besides I was too quick with it. There's been a good deal since, that gives me hope. She'll think better of it now--if I don't mistake her."

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

"Well--not exactly."

"Don't you think you had better postpone your proposal, till you're more certain of its being favourably received?"

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

"Let me hear your `way'?"

"Well; you see, captain, though the girl's only the niece of Sir Marmaduke, she loves him quite as much as his own daughter does. I don't think she cares about that stripling--farther than as a cousin. What's between them is just like sister and brother: since she's got no brother of her own. They've been brought up together--that's all."

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

Perspicuity was just that quality with which the cornet was not gifted; else he could hardly have failed to notice the tone of irony, in which the compliment was uttered.

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

"What then are you afraid of? Is there any other rival, you think, she's likely to prefer to you? May be young Dayrell; or that rather good-looking son of Sir Roger Hammersley? Either of them, eh?"

"No--nor any one else."

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

"Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't. She appears to change every day. But I've reason to believe, she likes me now; or did yesterday."

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

"No--not in words; but I think so from her way. I hinted to her, that I intended to have a private talk with her upon an important matter, when we should be out on this hawking party. She appeared delighted at the idea--did, by Ged! Besides; she was in tip-top spirits all the evening after; and several times spoke of the pleasure she expected from to-morrow's sport--that is to-day. Now, what could that mean, unless--"

"Unless the pleasure she anticipated from your proposing to her. But if her liking be only on alternate days--as you say--and she was so fond of you yesterday, she might be in the contrary mood to-day? For that reason I'd advise you to suspend proceedings till to-morrow."

"But, captain; you forget that I've got a way that will insure her consent--whether it be to-day or to-morrow."

"Disclose it, my sagacious cornet."

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

"Of what?"

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

"I do."

"Well; if I only were to slip in a word about her uncle being in danger; not only of his liberty but his life--"

"Stubbs!" cried the cuirassier captain, springing forward fiercely, and shaking his clenched fist before the face of his subaltern; "if you slip in a word about that--or dare to whisper the slightest hint of such a thing--your own life will be in greater danger, than that of Sir Marmaduke Wade. I've commanded you already to keep your tongue to yourself on that theme; and now, more emphatically do I repeat the command."

"Oh! captain," stammered out the terrified Stubbs, in an apologetic whine; "if you don't approve, of course I won't say a word about it. I won't, by Ged!"

"No; you had better not. Win the consent of your sweetheart, after your own way; but don't try to take advantage of a power, that does not appertain to you. A contingency may arise, for disclosing that secret; but it is for _me_, not _you_, to judge of the crisis."

The further protestations of the scared cornet were cut short by the entrance of a messenger; who came to announce that the party, about to proceed on the hawking excursion, was ready to start, and only waited the company of Captain Scarthe and Cornet Stubbs.

Five minutes later, a cavalcade of splendid appearance might have been seen passing through Bulstrode Park, towards one of the side gates that opened out to the eastward.

It consisted of Sir Marmaduke Wade, his son, daughter and niece--the two officers, his guests--with a large following of grooms, falconers, and other attendants; a number of them on horseback, with hawks perched upon their shoulders; a still larger number afoot--conducting the retrievers, others _chiens de chasse_, employed in the _venerie_ of the time.

On clearing the enclosure of the park, the gay procession turned in a southerly direction--towards the beautiful lake of Fulmere; which, fed by the Alder "burn," lay embosomed between two parallel spurs of the beech-embowered Chilterns.

Volume Three, Chapter XII.

The Lake "Fulmere" is no longer in existence; though a village--so picturesque, as to appear the creation of a painter's fancy--still retains the name. The "mere" itself--yielding to the all-absorbing spirit of utilitarianism--has disappeared from the landscape--drained off by the brook "Alderburne," and the rivers Colne, and Thames, to mingle its waters with the ocean. Its bed has become a meadow--the residue of its waters being retained in sundry stagnant pools, which serve to supply the neighbouring markets with cress, and the pharmacopoeia of the village apothecaries with "calamus root."

Once a broad sheet of crystal water covered the cress-beds of Fulmere--a sheet with sedgy shores, in which sheltered the bittern, and blue heron, the bald coot, the water-hen, and the gold-crested widgeon.

It was so on that day, when Dorothy Dayrell--the daughter of Sir Frederick, Lord of the Manor of Fulmere--invited her friends to be present at a grand entertainment--including falconry--the spectacle to be exhibited upon the shores of the lake.

Dorothy Dayrell was something more than pretty. She was what might be termed a "dashing creature,"--a little devilish, it is true--but this, in the eyes of her male acquaintances, only rendered her prettiness more piquant. Following the fashion of her father, she was of the true Tory type--devotedly attached to King and State--and blindly believing in that theory--worthy the conception of a community of apes--the "right divine."

Silly as is the belief, it was then entertained, as, now. At that time, human bipeds of both sexes were just as parasitical, as they are at the present hour; and as loudly proclaimed their ignoble longings for King Stork, or King Log. Not, however, quite so unanimously. The word "republic" was beginning to be heard, issuing from the lips of great statesmen, and true patriots. It was beginning to find an echo in remote villages, and cottage homes, throughout all England.

Not that such sentiments had ever been spoken in the village of Fulmere. To have pronounced them there, would have been deemed rank treason; and the rustic giving utterance to them, would have found himself in the pillory, almost before the speech could have passed from his lips.

Dorothy hated the idea of a republic; as small-souled people do now, and have done in all ages. We regret having to place the fair Dayrell in this category; but we must succumb to the requirements of truth; and this compels us to say that Mistress Dorothy, physically, _petite_, was morally little-minded. Her pretty face, however, concealed the defects of her selfish soul; and, aided by many wiles and winning ways, rendered her sufficiently popular in that large social circle, of which she was, or wished to be, both the star and the centre.

Some proof of her popularity was the crowd that responded to her call, and was present at her hawking party. Scores of people of "first quality"--dames of high degree, and cavaliers appropriate to such companionship--collected upon the shores of Fulmere Lake; cast resplendent shadows upon its smooth surface; and caused its enclosing hills to resound with the echoes of their merry voices.

It is not our purpose to detail the various incidents of the day's sport: how the party, having met at an appointed place, proceeded around the shores of the lake; how the herons rose screaming from the sedge, and the hawks shot like winged arrows after them; how the owners of the predatory birds bantered one another, and wagers were laid and lost by betters of both sexes; and how--when the circuit of the lake had been accomplished, and the adjacent reedy marshes quartered by the spaniels, until cleared of their feathered game--the gay company wended their way to the summit of the adjoining hill; and there, under the shadows of the greenwood trees, partook of an _al fresco_ banquet, which their knightly entertainer had provided for them.

Nor need we describe the conversation--varied of course--always lively under such circumstances; often witty--after the wine has flowed freely.

One topic alone claims our attention--as it did that of the company. It was introduced by Mistress Dorothy herself--to whom of course every one obsequiously listened.

"I regret," said this charming creature, addressing herself to her splendid surrounding, "that I've not been able to provide you with a more spirited entertainment. After that, we witnessed the other day in Bulstrode Park, our fete will appear tame, I know. Ah! if we only had the _black horseman_ here. How cruel of you, Captain Scarthe, to have deprived us of that pleasure?"

"Mistress Dayrell," replied the officer, on whom the speech had made anything but a pleasant impression, "I regret exceedingly that in the performance of my duty--in dealing with a rebel--I should--"

"No apologies, Captain Scarthe!" interposed Sir Frederick, coming to the rescue of the embarrassed cuirassier. "We all know that you acted, as becomes a loyal servant of his Majesty. It would be well if others, in these doubtful times, would display a like energy." Here Sir Frederick glanced sarcastically towards his neighbour knight--between whom and himself there was not the most cordial friendship. "The only regret is, that the fellow--whoever he may be--was permitted to escape; but, I dare say, he will soon be retaken, and meet with his deserts."

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

"The block!" replied the fiery Sir Frederick, who had been partaking rather freely of his own wine. "What else for an adventurer like him, who conspires against his king? I'd chop off his head like a cabbage."

"By so doing," rejoined Sir Marmaduke, in a tone of satirical significancy, "you would only cause a score of like heads to _sprout_ up in its place."

"Let them sprout up! We'll serve them the same way. We shall still have the power to do so--in spite of this parliament of traitors, which the king has been so foolish as to think of recalling around him."

"Oh, dear father!" interrupted the pretty Dorothy, in a tone of pseudo-sentimentality.

"Don't talk of chopping off heads. What a pity it would be if Captain Scarthe's late prisoner were to lose his! I'm so glad he escaped from you, captain."

"Why is this, girl?" asked Sir Frederick, turning rather sharply upon his daughter. "Why would it be a pity? I've heard you this very morning express the opposite opinion!"

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

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

"That there were _others_ interested in the fate of the unfortunate man. Ah! deeply so!" A malicious glance towards Marion Wade did not escape the attention of the latter; and it was also noticed by Scarthe.

"Others interested in his fate. Who, pray?" demanded Sir Frederick, looking inquiringly towards his daughter.

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

"His wife!" simultaneously echoed a score of voices. "The black horseman a Benedict! Holtspur married! We never knew that."

"Nor I," continued the pretty imparter of the startling intelligence--"not till an hour ago. I've just heard it from cousin Wayland here; who came this morning from court--where, it seems, Master Holtspur is well-known; though not by the name he has chosen to make celebrated among us simple rustics of Buckinghamshire."

"'Tis quite true," said a youth in courtier costume, who stood close to her who had thus appealed to him. "The gentleman my cousin speaks of _is_ married. I thought it was known to everybody."

"How could it, dear Wayland?" asked Dorothy, with an air of charming simplicity. "Master Holtspur was not known to any one here--except, I believe, to Sir Marmaduke Wade and his family; and, if I mistake not, only very slightly to them?"

A significant curling of the speaker's pretty nostril accompanied this final remark--which was intended as an interrogative.

"That is true," answered Sir Marmaduke. "My acquaintance, with the gentleman you speak of, is but slight. I was not aware of his being a married man; but what has that to do--"

"O, ladies and gentlemen!" interrupted the freshly arrived courtier, "perhaps you are not aware of the real name of this cavalier who has been calling himself Holtspur. He has been of some notoriety at court; though that was before my time; and I've only heard of it from others. There was a scandal, I believe--"

"Come, come, Wayland!" cried his fair cousin, interrupting him. "No scandals here. Keep it, whatever it be, to yourself."

"His name! his name!" shouted a score of voices; while twice that number of ears--piqued by the word "scandal"--were eagerly bent to listen to the threatened disclosure.

The courtier gave utterance to a name, known to most of the company; and which ten years before had been oftener pronounced in connexion with that of England's queen. Only in whispers, it is true, and less discreditable to Henry than Henrietta.

The announcement produced an effect upon the auditory of a very peculiar character. It was certainly not so damaging to him, who was the subject of their criticisms: for in the minds of many there present, the man of _bonnes fortunes_ was a character to be envied rather than despised; and the favourite page--whose mysterious disappearance from court, some ten years before, had given rise to a "royal scandal"--could not be otherwise than interesting.

The knowledge that Henry Holtspur, the black horseman--the mysterious-- the unknown--was identical with Henry --, once a queen's page--the recipient of royal smiles--perhaps, in that assemblage gained him more friends than enemies. Such as were still disposed to be hostile to him, could no longer avail themselves of that mode of reviling--still so customary among the "_elite_"--by calling him an "adventurer." This had he been in the true sense of the term--an adventurer, but one to be envied by his enemies.

Even the heart of the dashing Dorothy, became suddenly softened towards him, on hearing the new revelation made by her cousin Wayland. That expression of sympathy for him--supposed by her auditory to have been ironical--was a more sincere sentiment, than usually fell from her lips.

The scandal was not discussed among Sir Frederick's guests--at least not in open assembly. The whisperings of side groups may have referred to it; but it was too old to be interesting--even to the most industrious dealers in _crim. con._ gossip.

The general conversation became changed to a theme more appropriate to the occasion; though a small congenial group, who had gathered around the young Wayland, were treated to some further details--relating to the matrimonial affairs of the patriot conspirator.

Of these not much knew the courtier; nor indeed any one else upon the ground. He could only inform his auditory--what some of them already knew: that Henry--had been secretly married to one of the noble ladies of Queen Henrietta's court--that the marriage ceremony, had been followed by an affair, in which the Queen herself had taken an unusual interest--in short, by a separation between man and wife--by the loss of the greater part of the young husband's fortune--and finally by his disappearance, both from the court and the country. Among other adventurous spirits of the time, he had emigrated to the colonies of Virginia.

To do Master Wayland justice, he evinced no particular hostility towards the man, whose history he was narrating; though, on the other hand, he said nothing in his defence. It was not his province to make known the nature of that conjugal quarrel; or say who was in fault. In truth, the stripling but ill understood it. He did not know that royal jealousy had been the cause of that sudden separation between Henry--and his bride-wife; and that it was an act of royal revenge, that had transformed the courtier into a colonist.

The subject, after a time, losing interest, was permitted to drop--the conversation changing to other themes.

There was one whose thoughts could not be distracted from it. Need I say it was Marion Wade?

Amidst the gay company, her gaiety was gone. The roses upon which the mid-day son was but the moment before brightly beaming, had forsaken her cheeks--on that instant when the word "wife" fell from the lips of Dorothy Dayrell.

To her the hawking party was no longer a party of pleasure. The sociality that surrounded her was only irksome and to withdraw from it had been her first thought. To escape observation as well: for she knew that the dire cloud, that had settled over her heart, could not fail to be reflected in her face.

On recovering from the shock caused by the unexpected announcement, she had turned her back upon the company, and stolen silently away.

The trees standing closely around the spot--with the underwood still in foliage--favoured her withdrawal--as also the peculiar topic of conversation which at the moment was absorbing the attention of all.

She had not stayed to listen to the further revelations made by the courtier Wayland--the one word spoken by his cousin had been the cue for her silent exit from the circle of conversation.

She needed no confirmation of what she had heard. A vague suspicion already conceived, springing out of the ambiguity of some stray speeches let fall by Holtspur himself--not only at their first interview, but while arranging the terms of that parting promise--had the foundation for an easy faith in the statement of Dorothy Dayrell.

Painful as was the conviction, Marion could not resist it. She thought not of calling it in question.

Once among the trees she glided rapidly on--knowing not whether; nor caring: so long as her steps carried her far from the companionship of her own kind.

After wandering awhile, she came to a stop; and now, for the first time, did her countenance betray, in all its palpable reality, the bitterness that was burning within her.

Her heart felt, as if parting in twain. A sigh--a half-suppressed scream--escaped from her bosom; and, but that she had seized upon a sapling to support herself, she would have fallen to the earth.

No pen could paint her emotions at that moment. They were too painful to permit of speech. Only one word fell from her lips--low-murmured and in accents of extremest sadness--the black word "Betrayed!"

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

This, then, is the barrier that might come between us. _Might_ come! Oh! the falsehood! And such a promise as I have given! Despite every obstacle, to love him! I thought not of this--how could I? No promise can bridge over such a chasm. I may not--I dare not keep it. 'Tis no sin to break it now. Mother of God! give me the strength!

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

"'Tis sinful on either side. Perjury the one, a worse crime the other. I feel powerless to choose between them. Alas!--alas! Despite his betrayal, _I love him, I love him_!

"Am I not wronging him? Was not I the wooer--I, Marion Wade? Was it not I who gave the first sign--the challenge--everything?

"What meant he to have said at that moment, when our last interview was interrupted? What was it, he was about to declare--and yet hesitated? Perhaps he intended to have made this very disclosure--to tell me all? Oh I could have forgiven him; but now I may not--I dare not--"

She paused, as if conscious how idle it was, to give thought to a resolve she had not the power to keep.

"Married! Holtspur married! Alas! my love dream is ended! No--not ended! 'tis only changed from sweet to sad; and this will never change till my unhappy heart be stilled in the sleep of death!"

The despairing maiden stood with her white fingers still clasped around the stem of the sapling--her eyes bent upon the ground in vacant gaze, as if all thought had forsaken her.

For some minutes she remained in this attitude--motionless as the tree that supported her.

The sound of an approaching footstep failed to startle her. She heard, without heeding it. Her sorrow had rendered her insensible even to shame. She cared little now, who might behold her emotion.

The footstep was too light to be mistaken for that of a man. Marion had no time for conjecture: for almost on the instant, she heard the voice of her cousin Lora calling her by name.

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

"Here, Lora!" replied the latter, in a feeble voice, at the same time making an effort to appear calm.

"Oh!" exclaimed the pretty blonde, hurriedly making her way through the underwood, and stopping before her cousin with blushing cheeks and palpitating bosom. "Lord a mercy, coz!--I've got such a story to tell you. What do you think it is? Guess!"

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

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

"What, pray?"

"A lover!"

"Ah!" exclaimed Marion with a sad emphasis. Then, making an effort to conceal her emotion, she added in another strain, "I hope Walter hasn't been flirting with Dorothy Dayrell?"

"Bother Dorothy Dayrell!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not I. I never gave him the slightest encouragement. I am sure, never. Did you ever see me, coz?"

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

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

"Oh! he. And how have you come to lose him? Has he made away with himself? He hasn't drowned himself in the mere, I hope?"

"I don't know. I shouldn't like to swear he hasn't. When I last looked upon his ugly face, I fancied there was drowning in it. Ha! ha! ha!"

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

"Marion!" said Lora, catching hold of her cousin's arm; and speaking in a tone of greater solemnity. "Would you believe it--that impertinent has again proposed to me?"

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

"Ay, a second declaration; and this time far more determined than before. Why, he would take no denial!"

"And what answer did you make him?"

"Well, the first time, as I told you, I gave him a flat refusal. This time it wasn't so very flat. It was both pointed and indignant. I talked to him sharp enough: no mincing of words I assure you. And yet, for all that, the _pig_ persisted in his proposal, as if he had the power to force me to say, yes! I couldn't get rid of him, until I threatened him with a box on the ear. Ay, and I'd have given it him, if some of the company hadn't come up at the time, and relieved me of his importunities. I shouldn't have cared if I had ever given him cause-- the impudent pleb! I wonder that keeping the company of his more accomplished captain don't have the effect of refining him a little--the impertinent upstart!"

"Have you told Walter?"

"No--that I haven't; and don't you, dear Marion. You know Walter has been jealous of Stubbs--without the slightest cause--and might want to challenge him. I shouldn't that, for the world; though I'd like some one--not Walter--to teach him a lesson, such as your brave Henry Holtspur taught--

"Ah!" exclaimed the speaker, suddenly interrupting herself, as she saw the painful impression which the mention of that name had produced. "Pardon me, cousin! I had quite forgotten. This scene with Stubbs has driven everything out of my mind. O, dear Marion! may be it is not true? There may be some mistake? Dorothy Dayrell is wicked enough to invent anything; and as for that foppish brother of Miss Winifred Wayland, he is as full of conceit as his own sister; and as full of falsehood as his cousin. Dear Marion! don't take it for truth! It may be all a misconception. Holtspur may not be married after all; and if he be, then the base villain--"

"Lora!" interrupted Marion, in a firm tone of voice, "I command--I intreat you--to say nothing of what you know--not even to Walter--and above all, speak not of _him_, as you have done just now. Even if he be, what you have said, it would not be pleasant for me to hear it repeated."

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

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

"Dear, dear Marion!" cried Lora, as she felt the arms of her cousin entwined around her neck, and saw the tears streaming down her cheek, "I pity you--poor Marion, from my heart I pity you! Do not weep, dearest. It will pass. In time you will cease to think of him!"

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

It came amid tears and choking sobs--but with an emphasis, and an accent, that admitted of no rejoinder.

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

Then, tossing her head backward, and, by a vigorous effort of her proud spirit, assuming an air of indifference, the speaker clasped the hand of her cousin; and walked resolutely back towards the assemblage, from which she had so furtively separated.

Volume Three, Chapter XIII.

Of all who enjoyed the sports of the hawking party, no one left it with a heavier heart than Marion Wade. The shadows of night descending over the lake--as the company took their departure from its shores--might well symbolise the shadow that had fallen upon her heart. Throughout the afternoon, it had been a hard struggle with her to conceal her chagrin from curious eyes; to appear joyous, amid so many happy faces; to wear pretended smiles, while those around were laughing gaily.

All this, however, her strength of character had enabled her to accomplish; though it was like removing a load from off her breast, when the falling shades of twilight summoned the party to a separation.

That night no sleep for Marion Wade--not enough to give her a moment's relief from the thoughts that tortured her. Her pillow was pressed, but with a pale and sleepless cheek; and often, during the night, had she risen from her couch, and paced the floor of her apartment, like one under the influence of a delirious dream.

The bosom that has been betrayed can alone understand the nature of her sufferings. Perhaps only a woman's heart can fully appreciate the pain she was enduring? Hers had received into its inmost recesses--into the very citadel itself--the image of the heroic Holtspur. It was still there; but all around it was rankling as with poison.

The arrow had entered. Its distilled venom permeated the bosom it had pierced. There was no balsam to subdue the pain--no hope to afford the slightest solace--only regret for the past, and despair for the future.

Until that day Marion Wade had never known what it was to be truly unhappy. Her pangs of jealousy hitherto experienced, had been slight, compared with those which were now wringing her breast. Even her apprehensions for the fate of her lover had been endurable: since hope for his safety had never wholly forsaken her. During the interval that had lapsed since his escape, she had not been altogether unhappy. Her heart had been fortified by hope; and still farther supported by the remembrance of that last sweet interview. So long as Holtspur lived, and loved her, she felt that she could be happy--even under those circumstances hypothetically foreshadowed in his parting speeches.

There were times when she pondered on their mysterious import; when she wondered what they could have meant--and not without a sense of dissatisfaction.

But she had not allowed this to intrude itself either often or long. Her love was too loyal, too trusting, to be shaken by suspicions. She remembered how unjust had been those formerly indulged in; and, influenced by this memory, she had resolved never again to give way to doubt, without some certain sign--such as the return of the love-token, as arranged between them. She might have had cause to wonder, why she had not heard from him--if only a word to ensure her of his safety. But she was not chagrined by his silence. The risk of communicating with her might account for it. Under an hypocritical pretence of duty--of obedience to orders he dared not depart from--the cuirassier captain permitted nothing--not even an epistle--to enter the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, without being first submitted to his own scrutiny.

Since the hour of his escape, the only intimation she had had of her lost lover--almost the first time she had heard his name pronounced--was when coupled with those two words, that were now filling her with woe--"_His wife_!"

Marion had heard no more. She had stayed for no farther torture from those scandal-loving lips. She had heard that her lover--the man to whom she had surrendered the reins of her heart--was the _husband_ of another! That was knowledge enough for one hour of wretchedness--ay, for a whole lifetime of sadness and chagrin.

Though in the midst of that gay assemblage, she had not essayed to seek an explanation; she was now desirous of having it. So long as the slightest remnant of either hope or doubt remains within the mind of one who suspected an unrequited passion, that mind cannot feel satisfaction. It will seek the truth--although the search may conduct to eternal ruin.

So determined the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade, during the mid hours of that sleepless night; and, long before the great bell of Bulstrode summoned its retainers to their daily toil, the young mistress of this lordly mansion might have been seen--closely wrapped in cloak and hood-- issuing forth from one of its portals; and, under the grey light of dawn, with quick but stealthy step, making her way over the dew-bespangled pastures of its park.

The gate through which she had often passed outward into the high road-- often, of late, with a heart trembling in sweet anticipation--was the one towards which she directed her steps.

How different was now her prospect--how dissimilar her purpose! She went not forth to meet one, who, though still undeclared, she instinctively believed to be her lover--loyal and true. Her errand was no more of this joyous nature, but the sad reverse. It was to make inquiries as to that lover's loyalty, or seek confirmation of his falsehood!

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

She could think of no one save Holtspur himself; and the white paper-- clutched in a hand almost as white--concealed under her cloak, gave a clue to her design. It was an epistle that had been penned by the light of the midnight lamp, and sealed under a flood of scorching tears. There was no direction upon it--only the name _Henry Holtspur_. She knew not his address. She was taking it to a place where she had hopes of seeing some one, who might be able to forward it to its destination.

The path she was following pointed to this place. It was the road leading to Stone Dean. It was not the first time she had thought of thus communicating with her absent lover. She had forborne, partly through fear of being betrayed by those to whom her letter might be entrusted--partly by the feminine reflection, that _he_, not _she_, should be the first to write--and partly by the hope, deferred from day to day, that he _would_ write. These hindrances she regarded no longer. An epistle was now addressed to him--far different from that hitherto intended. It was no longer a letter of love, but one filled with reproaches and regrets.

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Marion Wade was not the only one under her father's roof, who at that same hour had been employing the pen. Another had been similarly occupied.

As a soldier, Scarthe was accustomed to keep early hours. It was a rare circumstance for him to be a-bed after six o'clock in the morning. In those times of political agitation, the military man often took part in state intrigues; and in this craft the cuirassier captain, under the guidance of his royal patroness, had inextricably engaged himself.

This double duty entailed upon him an extensive correspondence; to which his morning hours were chiefly devoted. Although essentially a man of pleasure, he did not surrender himself to idleness. He was too ambitious, to be inactive; and both his military and political duties were attended to with system and energy.

On the day of the hawking party, his correspondence had fallen behind; and, to clear off the arrears, he was astir at a very early hour next morning, and busy before his writing table.

His military and political despatches were not the only matters that called for the use of his pen on this particular morning. Upon the table before him lay a sealed packet, that might have contained a letter, but evidently something more--something of a different character, as indicated by its shape and size.

But there was no letter inside; and the object within the envelope might be guessed at, by the soliloquy that fell from the lips of Captain Scarthe, as he sate regarding it. It was a glove--the _white gauntlet_, once worn upon the hand of Marion Wade--once worn upon the hat of Henry Holtspur, and thence surreptitiously abstracted. _It was once more to be restored to its original owner_, in a secret and mysterious manner; and to that end had it been enclosed in a wrapping of spotless paper, and sealed with a blank seal stamp.

As yet there was no superscription upon the parcel; and he who had made it up, sate contemplating it--pen in hand--as if uncertain as to how he should address it. It was not this, however, about which he was pausing. He knew the address well enough. It was the mode of writing it--the chirography--that was occupying his thoughts.

"Ha!" he exclaimed at length, "an excellent idea! It must be like _his_ handwriting; which in all probability, she is acquainted with. I can easily imitate it. Thank fortune I've got copies enough--in this traitorous correspondence."

As he said this, he drew towards him a number of papers, consisting of letters and other documents. They were those he had taken from Stone Dean, on the morning of Holtspur's arrest.

After regarding them for some seconds--with the attention of an expert, in the act of deciphering some difficult manuscript--he took his pen, and wrote upon the parcel the words, "_Mistress Marion Wade_."

"That will be enough," reflected he. "The address is superfluous. It would never do for it to be delivered at the house. It must be put into her hands secretly, and as if sent by a trusty messenger. There's no reason why she should mistrust the woodman Walford. She may know him to have been in Holtspur's service, and can scarce have heard of his defection. He'll do. He must watch for an opportunity, when she goes out. I wonder what delays the knave. He should have been here by this time. I told him to come before daylight. Ha! speak of the fiend! That must be his shadow passing the window?"

As Scarthe said this, he hastily rose to his feet; scattered some drying sand over the wet superscription; and, taking the packet from the table, walked towards the door to meet his messenger.

It was the traitor Walford, whose shadow had been seen passing the window. His patron found him standing on the step.

He was not admitted inside the house. The business, for the execution of which he was required, had been already arranged; and a few words of instruction, spoken in a low tone, sufficed to impart to him a full comprehension of its native.

He was told that the packet then placed in his hands, was for Mistress Marion Wade; that he was to watch for an opportunity when she should be out of doors; and deliver it to her--if possible, unseen by any third party. He was instructed to assume an air of secrecy; to announce himself as a messenger from Henry Holtspur; and, after delivering a verbal message--supposed to proceed from the cavalier, but carefully concocted by Scarthe--he was to hasten out of the lady's presence, and avoid the danger of a cross-questioning.

"Now, begone!" commanded his employer, when he had completed his chapter of instructions. "Get away from the house--if you can, without being observed. It won't do for you to be seen here at this early hour--least of all on a visit to me. Let me know when you have succeeded; and if you do the business adroitly, I shall double this _douceur_."

As Scarthe said this, he slipped a gold coin into the hand of the pseudo-messenger; and, turning upon his heel, walked back towards his apartment.

The woodman, after grinning gleefully at the gold that lay glistening in his palm, thrust the piece into his pocket; and, gliding down from the steps, commenced making a stealthy departure through the shrubbery.

He little thought how near he was to the opportunity he desired--of earning the duplicate of that _douceur_.

But fate, or the fiend, was propitious to him. On clearing the moated enclosure, he saw before him the form of a woman, closely wrapped in cloak and hood.

She, too, seemed hastening onward with stealthy step; but the tall, symmetrical figure, and the rich robes that enveloped it, left no doubt upon the mind of Walford as to the person who was preceding him down the sloping avenue of Bulstrode Park. It was the young mistress of the mansion--she for whom his message was intended--she who would be made wretched by its delivery.

The emissary of Scarthe neither knew, nor would have cared, for this. His only thought was to earn the promised perquisite; and, with this object in view, he followed the female figure fast flitting toward the gate of the park.

Quickly and silently did Marion glide upon her errand. Absorbed by its painful nature, she fancied herself unobserved. She saw not that dark form skulking but a short distance behind her, like an evil shadow, ill defined, under the dim light of the dawn--and keeping pace with her as she advanced.

Unconscious of the proximity of her suspicious follower, she passed out through the park gates, and on along the forest road--a path well known to her. Never before had she trodden it with a heavier heart. Never before had she stood under the shadow of the trysting tree--to her now sadly sacred--influenced by such painful emotion.

She paused beneath its spreading branches. She could not resist the mystic spell, which the place seemed to cast around her. There was something, even in the sadness of its souvenirs, that had a soothing effect upon her spirits, that could scarce have been more embittered.

Whether soothing, or saddening, she was permitted to indulge only a short time in silent reflection. A heavy footfall--evidently that of a man--was heard approaching along the path, and shuffling among the crisp leaves with which it was bestrewed.

The sounds grew louder and drew nearer; until he who was causing them came in sight--a rustic making his way through the wood.

Marion knew the man--the woodman Walford.

She knew him only by sight, and but slightly. She had no words for such as he--especially in an hour like that.

She moved not. Her eyes were averted. The intruder might have passed on, without receiving from her even a nod of recognition, had such been his wish.

It was only on hearing her own name pronounced, and seeing the man advance towards her, that the young lady took note of his presence.

"Mistress Wade!" muttered he, awkwardly uncovering his head, and making a bow of doubtful politeness.

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

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

"Alone! And for what purpose, sirrah?"

The interrogatory was uttered in a voice that betokened indignation not unmingled with alarm. No wonder. He to whom it was addressed was not the man, with whom a timid woman would elect to hold an interview, alone, and in the heart of a wood.

Was the rustic intruding himself with an evil intention?

The apprehensions, thus quickly conceived were as speedily dissipated by the woodman declaring himself to have come in the capacity of a messenger.

"I ha' brought thee a package, Mistress Wade," said he, drawing something from under the skirt of his doublet. "It be a small 'un, I trow; but for all that I darn't gie it ye afore company--for I had orders not to, by him as sent me."

"Who sent you?" hastily inquired the lady, at the same time taking the packet from the hand of the cautious carrier.

"Master Holtspur," bluntly replied the man.

"I darn't stay here aside ye," continued he. "Some of them may come this way, an' see us thegither. I've only to tell you that Master Holtspur be safe; an' that it be all right _atween him an his wife_. They be reconciled agin. But I needn't be tellin' ye that: I s'pose it's all wrote inside the package. Now, mistress, I must away, an' get back to him as sent me. Good mornin'."

With another grotesque attempt at polite salutation, the deliverer of the message walked hurriedly away; and was soon lost to the sight of its trembling recipient.

Marion had listened to his words without knowing their wicked design-- without even suspecting that they were false. But, false or true, she did not imagine there could be a new pang conveyed in their meaning. She had already felt the sting, as she supposed,--in all its black bitterness! She did not believe that in the same quiver, there was another arrow, bearing upon its point a still more potent poison.