Chapter XVI: Part 16

She felt it, as with trembling fingers she broke the seal, and tore open the envelope of that tiny parcel. To her heart's core she felt it, as her eyes rested upon the contents. Her token returned to her--that fatal gift--_the White Gauntlet_! The glove dropped to the ground; and, with a suppressed scream--that sounded like the knell of a shattered heart--sank Marion Wade beside it! For some moments she lay along the grass, like some beautiful statue struck down from its pedestal.

She was not unconscious--only unnerved, and rendered powerless by a strong, quick spasm of despair.

Beyond the stifled scream, that escaped her as she fell, no sound passed from her lips. Hers was a despair that speech was incapable of relieving. There was nothing on which hope could hinge itself. The restored token told the tale in all its sad reality. A letter--a volume could not have conveyed the information more fully. _Holtspur no longer loved her_!

There was even a more fell reflection. _He had never loved her_: else how could he have changed so soon?

The paroxysm at length passed; and the prostrate form once more stood erect. Erect, but not triumphant. Sad and subdued was the spirit that animated it--almost shivered by that fearful shock.

In silent agony she turned to go homeward. She no more remembered the errand that had summoned her forth. It was no longer of any importance. The information she would have sought had met her on the way--had been communicated, with a fullness and surety that left nothing to be added. _Holtspur loved her no more_. With that thought in her mind, what mattered it whether he were married or no? But the words of the messenger had equally ended all doubt of this. If there might be any lingering uncertainty, as to what she had heard, there could be none as to what she saw. There lay the White Gauntlet under her eyes--down among the weeds. It lay neglected as if without an owner--no more to be regarded by Marion Wade; or only as the cause of a life-long anguish.

Slowly and sadly she retraced the forest path; slowly and sadly she re-entered the gateway of the park; slowly and sadly walked back along that avenue, once trodden by her with a bosom filled with supremest joy.

Volume Three, Chapter XIV.

The course which Scarthe was pursuing may seem strange. He now knew that for the hand of Marion Wade, Holtspur could not be his rival. What then could be his motive for sending back the _glove_: for motive there must have been?

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

He was still uncertain as to the state of Marion's heart--still in doubt whether the white gauntlet had or had not been a _guage d'amour_. If the former, then the restoring of it as designed by him might produce a revulsion of feeling in his own favour; if not, no evil could result to him from the act.

On his side the sending back, of the glove was a mere conjectural experiment--made under a vague fancy that it might, to some little extent, further his interests. If in the mind of Marion Wade there existed a partiality for the patriot conspirator, a slight such as that should crush out every vestige of the feeling, and create a reaction in favour of the first fresh lover who might present himself--Richard Scarthe more likely than any other. Little did he anticipate the terrible effect which that returned token, with the message that accompanied it, would have upon her who was to receive it. He knew nothing of the strange conditions which the lovers had arranged at their last parting.

He had too much experience in the heart of woman to have reasoned thus-- had he not been purblind with his own passion. In this condition, however, he gave way to a fancy, that, under other circumstances, he would have instantly rejected.

He was also influenced by considerations of a very different kind. The hand of Marion Wade was almost as desirable as her heart--or rather the fortune that should accompany it. The cuirassier captain possessed but his pay--along with proud patronage it is true--but, neither was anything to make him, what he should become as the son-in-law of Sir Marmaduke Wade.

The crisis had arrived to attempt bringing about this desired relationship. It must not be delayed. The power he possessed for its accomplishment might at any moment pass out of his hands. The times were uncertain; and procrastination might imperil his chances of success.

The sending of the glove was the first move in the matrimonial scheme he had concocted. It was to be followed by an offer of his hand. If the offer should be accepted, well; if not, then stronger measures were to be adopted.

Such was the programme that had passed through the mind of Richard Scarthe, and was still before it, as he paced the floor of his apartment, an hour after having dismissed the messenger Walford.

"I wonder," said he, as he reflected upon the importance of time, "when the fellow Walford will succeed in delivering his false message? He's but a dull-brained dolt; though knave enough for that, or anything else. I hope he won't be so stupid as to bring it back to the house; or give it her in the presence of any one. Surely he will have understood my instructions about that? I told him to watch for her till she walked abroad, and alone. But when may that be? Perhaps not to-day; nor to-morrow; nor for many days? I'm burning with impatience to bring the business to a conclusion. What, after all my well-conceived strategy, if--Ho! who comes yonder? By Heaven! 'tis Walford! What brings the brute back? From the grin upon that hideous countenance of his-- intended no doubt for a smile--one might fancy he had already accomplished his errand. I must go forth and meet him--before he shows himself in front of the windows. It's early yet, and I see no one abroad; still some of them may be astir inside? He must not be seen coming here."

With this reflection, Scarthe seized his beaver; and, flinging it upon his head, sallied forth from the house.

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

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

"Not as I knows on, Master capten. Only as bein' an early bird this mornin' I ha' picked up the early wurum."

"Ah! what mean you by that?"

"I gin it to her."

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

"The packidge--to the young lady."

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

"Mistress Marion? Sartintly I do, Master capten. Seed her; gied her the packidge; an' sayed, what you told me to say."

"When? Where?"

"For the first--it han't been gone a half-hour since the words passed out o' my mouth; and as to the where, that war 'bout a mile from heear-- on the wood road as runs from the Park to Stone Dean."

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

"No mistake about it, Master capten; I seed her, and spoke to her, as you bid me. I've seed her a many a time along that road. It be a favourite ride wi' her; but she bean't a horseback this mornin'. She be afut."

"And alone, you say?"

"Sartinly, Master: else how could I ha' gied her the packidge? You told me to let no one see me handin' it to her."

"This is strange," muttered Scarthe to himself. "You are sure there was no one near her?"

"I seed ne'er a creetur."

"What was she doing?"

"Nothin', Capten; only standing under a tree--the big beech as grows in the middle o' the road. I went up to her pretty quick, lest she might gi' me the slip. After I put the packidge in her hand, and sayed what you told me, I coomed directly away."

"You left her there?"

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

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

"Neither met nor passed a sinner."

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

"Straight as the road 'ud let me, Capten. I won't say she be theear still--that are, under the tree; but she ain't got home as yet: for I coomed as fast as my legs 'ud carry me. I knew you didn't want me seen about here, and thought I would be safest to coom up afore the sarvints were stirrin'. She beean't got home yet, nor half o' the way--even supposin' she set off right after me."

"The road to Stone Dean, you say?"

"That as gooes through Stampwell's wood, an' over the hills. It strikes off from the King's highway, a leetle beyont the gates o' the park."

"I know--I know. There, my man! Something to get you your morning dram. Away at once; and don't let yourself be seen in my company. Go where you like now; but be in your own nest at night: I may want you."

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

"What the deuce can she be doing out at this hour?" inquired Scarthe of himself, as he strode nervously across the parterre.

"Ha! the place--the forest road leading to Stone Dean! Can it be possible that he--The fiends! If it be so, I may yet be in time to take him. Ho, there!" he cried to the guard corporal, who had just appeared outside the courtyard gate. "A dozen men to horse. Quick, corporal! Let them not lose a moment. I shall be out before they have time to strap on their saddles."

And, having delivered these orders, he turned back into his room; and commenced encasing his body in the steel armour, that lay in pieces around the apartment.

In less than ten minutes' time he was armed _cap-a-pied_. Staying only to quaff off a cup of wine--which he hurriedly filled from a decanter that stood upon the side table--he passed out of his apartment; and strode clanking along the stone-flagged corridor that communicated with the rear of the dwelling.

Emerging into the courtyard, he mounted his horse--already caparisoned to receive him; and, giving the word of command to the cuirassiers, who had climbed to their saddles, he galloped out of the court--on toward the entrance of the park that opened in the direction of Stone Dean.

It was a short gallop--ending almost as soon as it had begun. It came to a termination, at the head of the hill--down which trended the long avenue skirted with chestnut trees.

There Scarthe suddenly checked his steed--at the same time giving his followers the order to bait.

Naturally enough, the troopers were a little surprised at this sudden interruption of their ride; but they were altogether astonished at a second order--following quick upon the first--which enjoined upon them to wheel round, and return to their stables!

They obeyed, though not without, a show of reluctance. They would much rather have continued their excursion--supposing it to have been intended for some foraging expedition that promised pleasure and plunder.

They were not entirely ignorant of what had caused the countermand. As they were wheeling upon the path, they had caught sight of an object at the other end of the avenue, whose motions betrayed it to be animate. Though but dimly seen through the dawn, and under the shadow of the chestnuts, they could tell what it was--the figure of a woman.

"A sail in sight!" muttered one, who had seen saltwater service. "The captain's going to hail the craft; and don't want us Jack-tars on the quarter deck."

"'Tis she!" muttered Scarthe to himself, as his followers retired. "Even if _he_ has been with her, 'twould be of little use going after him now. He would scarce be such a fool as to remain upon the ground. 'Tis impossible she can have seen any one, since Walford left her? There has not been time for an interview such as that. She may have been with him before? If so, the sham message will result in my own discomfiture. Or she may have been expecting him, and he has not come? If so, the parcel would be just in time. I can scarce look for such a lucky combination of circumstances!"

"What shall I do?" he continued, after a pause. "If she has not met him, it is a splendid opportunity for my proposal! The events are ominous of success. Shall I make it now--this moment?"

"There is danger in delay," he muttered, as the old adage came into his mind. "She may have some means of communicating with him; and the glove trick may be discovered? I shall trust no longer to chance. This uncertainty is insufferable. Within the hour I shall put an end to it, and find out my fate, one way or the other. If accepted, then shall Richard Scarthe play traitor to his king, and the good knight Sir Marmaduke may conspire to his heart's content. If rejected, then--in that contingency--ah--then--the old rebel will risk the losing of his head."

"Now, Mistress Marion Wade," apostrophised he, as he watched the advancing figure. "On thine answer there is much depending: your father's head and my happiness. I hope you will be gracious, and give security to both. If you refuse me, then must I make use of that power, with which a lucky chance has provided me. Surely thy father's danger will undo your objections? If you resist, let the ruin fall--let him suffer his doom!"

"I must dismount and meet her," he continued, as he saw Marion coming on with slow steps. "A declaration in the saddle would never do. It must be made on foot--or still more humbly on bended knee; and so shall it, if that be necessary to secure success. Ha! ha! what would they say at Court? The invincible Scarthe, who has made conquest of a queen, kneeling in humble suit at the feet of a country maiden--the daughter of a rank rebel--begging for her heart, and worse still, bargaining for her hand! Ha! ha! ha!"

While uttering this laugh, he flung himself from his horse; and, tossing the rein of his bridle over the branch of a tree, he commenced descending the hill.

Although advancing towards the interview, with all the _nonchalance_ he was capable of assuming, he was at the same time trembling with apprehension as to the result.

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

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

Such a reception might have turned him from his purpose; but it did not. He had made up his mind to propose; and, without much circumlocution, he proceeded to carry out the intention.

"Mistress Marion Wade!" said he, approaching her with an air of profound respect, and bowing low as he drew near, "if you be not offended by my intruding upon you at this early hour, I shall thank the fate that has favoured me."

"Captain Scarthe, this interview is unexpected."

"By me it has been _sought_. I have been for some time desirous of an opportunity to speak with you alone."

"To speak with me alone? I am at a loss to know, sir, what you can have to say that requires such a condition."

"You _shall_ know, Mistress Wade; if, indeed, you have not divined my purpose already. Need I tell you that I am in love?"

"And why, Sir, have you chosen me for this confidence? I should think that was a secret to be communicated only to her whom it concerns?"

"And to her alone has it been communicated. Surely I need not name the object of my love. You cannot have been blind to emotions--to sufferings--I have been unable to conceal. I can be silent no longer. O Marion Wade! I love you with all the fondness of a true affection-- all the fervour of an admiration that knows no limits. Do not be angry at me for thus declaring myself. Do not frown upon my suit. O, beautiful Marion! say that I may hope?"

Scarthe had dashed his helmet to the ground, and flung himself on his knees in the attitude of an humble suppliant. With eyes upturned to her face, he tremblingly awaited the reply.

She was silent. Her features betrayed no sign of gladness, as she listened to that earnest declaration. Scarce, even, did they show surprise. Whatever of this she may have felt was concealed under the cloud of chagrin, that, springing from a very different cause, still overspread her countenance.

The kneeling suitor waited some moments for a response; but none was given. She to whom he was making suit remained proudly silent.

Becoming sensible of a certain ludicrousness in the situation, Scarthe impatiently continued:--"Oh! do not deny me! At least, vouchsafe an answer. If it be favourable, I promise--I swear--that my heart--my hand--my soul--my sword--my life--all will be yours--yours for any sacrifice you may summon me to make. O Marion!--beautiful Marion Wade!--I know I am not worthy of you now. Think not of me as I am; but rather what I shall be. I may one day be more deserving of your esteem--perhaps your love. I have hopes of preferment--high hopes. I may be excused for saying, they are founded on the patronage of a queen. With one like you for my bride--my wife--highborn, gifted, lovelier than all others, these hopes would soon be realised. To be worthy of loving you--to have the pleasure of illustrating you--of making you happy by the highest fame--I could accomplish anything. Fear not, Marion Wade! He who sues to you, if now humble, may hope for higher rank. Ere long shall I obtain the much-coveted title of Lord. It matters little to me. Only for your sake should I prize it. But oh! hapless lord should I be, if not the lord of your heart! A word, Marion Wade!--one word! Tell me I may hope?"

Marion turned her eyes upon the eloquent suppliant. His attitude, the expression of his countenance, and the fervent tone in which he had declared himself, were evidence that he was in earnest. She could not fail to perceive that he loved her. Whatever may have been the deceit of his nature, in other respects, there could be no doubt that he was honest in his admiration for herself.

Perhaps it was this thought that restrained her from making an indignant reply. Why should she be offended at one thus humbly suing--one who was willing to become her slave?

The expression in her eye, called up by the attitude of the suitor, seemed to speak of pity, rather than indignation.

It soon passed away; and was succeeded by the same calm look of indifference--with which she had hitherto regarded him.

Misinterpreting that momentary glance of kindness, Scarthe for an instant fancied himself successful.

Only for an instant. His heart fell as he noted the change of countenance that succeeded; and it needed not for Marion to signify her refusal in speech. Words could not have more plainly told him, that his suit was rejected.

In words, however, he was told it; and with a laconism that left him no alternative, but to rise from his kneeling attitude, place his helmet once more upon his head, and bid Marion Wade good-morning.

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Alone the lady pursued her homeward way--Scarthe standing silent and statue-like, till she had passed out of sight. Then his features suddenly changed expression; his true temper, for the time restrained, escaped from the control in which he had been keeping it; and both voice and gesture testified to the terrible conflict of emotions that convulsed his soul.

"I shall seek no more to sue her," muttered he, as he detached his bridle from the branch. "'Tis not the mode to deal with this proud damsel. Force, not favour, is the way to win her--at least her hand-- ah! and maybe her heart? I've known such as she before. Are there not hundreds in history? Did the Sabine women continue to despise their bold abductors? No; they became loving wives: loving them for the very act, that, in the fancy of fools, should have excited their hatred! By Heaven! I shall imitate those Roman ravishers--if driven to the _dernier resort_. Thank fortune! there's another arrow in my quiver. And now to place it to the string. By this time Sir Marmaduke should be stirring; though it seems he keeps not so early hours as his charming child! Curses! what can have carried her abroad? No doubt, I shall discover in time; and if it be, that--"

He interrupted himself, as if some conception, painful beyond common, had caused a sudden suspension of his breath.

"If it be that--_a mistress_, instead of a _wife_, shall I make of Marion Wade!"

With this vile threat, he sprang nervously to the back of his horse; and, deeply driving in the spurs, forced the animal into a rapid gallop, homeward against the hill.

Volume Three, Chapter XV.

Sir Marmaduke was in his library--not busied with his books, but his thoughts.

It is unnecessary to say that these were of a serious nature. They were more than serious--they were melancholy. The cause has been already, or may be easily, guessed.

In the circumstances that surrounded him, the noble knight had more than one source of anxiety. But there was one now paramount--an apprehension for his own personal safety--which of course, included the welfare of those dear to him.

He had reason to be thus apprehensive. He knew that he had committed himself--not only by his presence among the conspirators of Stone Dean, but by various other acts that would not bear the scrutiny of the Star Chamber.

Conjectures, referring to the midnight meeting at Holtspur's house, were at that moment more particularly before his mind. The arrest of Holtspur himself upon the following morning--so close on the breaking up of the assemblage--had an ominous significance. It suggested--in fact, almost proclaimed--the presence of a spy.

If such had been among them--and Sir Marmaduke could come to no other conclusion--then would his life be worth no more, than that of a man already attainted, tried, condemned, and standing by the side of the block!

If there had been a spy, it must either have been Scarthe himself, or one who had communicated with him: else why the arrest of Holtspur?

Sir Marmaduke believed the captain of the King's cuirassiers quite capable of the infamous act. His apparent friendship and courtesy--his professions of regret for the part he was compelled to play--had not deceived his host. Sir Marmaduke had no difficulty in detecting the spurious pretences of his guest.

As yet Scarthe had given him no hint of the knowledge he possessed. For his own reasons, he had carefully abstained from this. Nevertheless, Sir Marmaduke had his suspicions.

Unfortunately, he had no means of satisfying them, one way or the other. Scarthe had carefully scrutinised his correspondence--under the pretence that he did so by orders from the King--and such of the members of that meeting, as Sir Marmaduke had been able to see personally, were, like himself, only suspicious. No one in the neighbourhood knew of the doings of that night, except Dancey, Walford, and Gregory Garth. Dancey and his daughter had both been absent for weeks--it was not known where; Walford had no dealings with Sir Marmaduke Wade; and Garth was utterly unknown to him.

The knight knew that his liberty--his life--were in the scales. A feather--a breath--and the beam might be kicked against him. No wonder he was apprehensive--even to wretchedness.

There was but one clear spot in the sky--one beacon on which to fix his hopes--the _Parliament_.

This Parliament--afterwards distinguished as the "Long"--perhaps the most patriotic assembly that ever met amongst men--was about to commence its sittings, as well as its struggles with the hoary hydra of _royal prerogative_. To the oppressed it promised relief--to the condemned a respite--to the imprisoned a restoration of their liberty.

But the royal reptile, though cowering, and partially crushed, had not yet been deprived of his fangs. There were places throughout the realm where his power was rampant as ever--where he could still seize, confiscate, and behead. With reason, therefore, might Sir Marmaduke feel dread of his vengeance. And no wonder: with Sir John Elliot pining away his life in a prison; with the wrongs of Lenthall, and Lilburne, and Prynne unavenged; with men walking the streets deprived of their ears, and outraged by other mutilations; with Holtspur himself, whom Sir Marmaduke now knew to be the noble patriot Henry --, an outlawed fugitive, hiding himself from the sleuth-hounds of a spited queen!

The good knight resembled the mariner in the midst of a tempest. The re-summoned Parliament was the life-boat struggling across the surge-- surrounded by angry breakers. Would it live to reach, and relieve him? Or was he destined to see it strike upon a rock, and its gallant crew washed away amidst the waste of waters?

In truth, a gallant crew, as ever carried ship of state through the storm--as ever landed one in a haven of safety. Hark to their names-- every one of them a household word! Pym, Hampden, Hollis, and Hazlerig; the Lords Kimbolton, Essex, and Fairfax; and last and greatest, the immortal Oliver Cromwell! It was a glorious galaxy of names--enough to inspire even the timid with confidence; and by such were the timid sustained.

In the retrospect of two hundred years' alongside such names, how sounds the paltry title of "Carolus Rex?" Even then it was, day by day, losing its authoritative significance. A crisis was coming, as when men awake from a drunken dream--when the word "loyalty" only reminds them of liberties surreptitiously stolen, and rights too slackly surrendered; when "king" sounds synonymous with "tyrant;" and "patriot" assumes its proper meaning. Not, as the so-called "statesmen" of the present day-- statesmen forsooth!--palterers with the people's rights--smug trimmers of parliamentary majorities--bottle-holders--the very chicanes of statecraft--the "smush" of England's manhood, with reputations destined to damnation, almost as soon as their puny breath becomes choked within their inglorious coffins!

Oh, the contrast between that day and this--the difference of its deeds, and its men!--distinct as glory from shame! That was the grandest throe ever felt by England's heart in its aspirations after Liberty.

Let us hope it will not be the last. Let us hope that the boasted spirit of Great Britain--at this hour lower than it has ever been--will have a speedy resuscitation; and strike to the dust the demon of thraldom, in whatever form he may make himself manifest--in the old fashioned shape of _serfdom_, or its modern substitute the _tax_: for, though differing in tide, _both are essentially the same_.

Sir Marmaduke sate in his library, as we have said, a prey to uneasy thoughts. They were not tranquillised by the announcement, just then made by one of the domestics: that Captain Scarthe desired an interview with him.

"What business has he _now_?" was the mental interrogatory of the knight, when the request was conveyed to him.

"Something of more than ordinary import," thought he, on glancing at the countenance of Scarthe, as the latter presented himself within the apartment.

Well might Sir Marmaduke give thought to the conjecture: for, in truth, was there upon the mind of his visitor something that might well merit the name of extraordinary; which, despite his habitual _sang froid_, did not fail to show itself upon his features. Upon them a guilty intention was as plainly expressed, as if the lines had been letters on the page of a printed book.

The knight knew not this intention by any overture hitherto made to him. He had his suspicions nevertheless, too truly pointing to the pretensions which Scarthe was about to put forward to the hand of his daughter. These had been sufficiently painful to him: now more so, when coupled with that other suspicion already harassing him: as to the power possessed by his soldier guest.

They might have been even more painful, had he known the extent of that power--real and assumed--with which the latter was endowed. At that moment Scarthe carried in his pocket signed "Carolus Rex," an order for the knight's arrest, and commitment to the Tower of London!

It signified little, that both the order and its signature were counterfeits. They would be equally efficacious for the purpose intended. Sir Marmaduke had not the means, nor would he be allowed the opportunity to test their genuineness.

They were forgeries both. It was in concocting them that Captain Scarthe had spent the half-hour, between the time of his parting with Marion Wade, and betaking himself into the presence of her father.

Before Sir Marmaduke he now stood, prepared for an emergency he had already contemplated--ready for its extremest measures.

"Pardon me, Sir Marmaduke Wade!" began he, bowing with ceremonious respect. "Pardon me for intruding upon you at this early hour; but my business is of importance. When you have heard it, you will no doubt excuse this deviation from the rules of etiquette."

"Captain Scarthe is, I presume, on the performance of some duty; and that will be his excuse."

"In truth, Sir Marmaduke, I have a double errand. One _is_ on duty--and I grieve to say a painful duty to me. The other I might designate an errand of _affection_; and could I flatter myself that it would prove a welcome one to you, I should deem it as pleasant as that of my duty is painful."

"You speak in enigmas, sir? I cannot comprehend them. May I ask you to tell me, in plain speech, what are your two errands? One, you say, is painful to yourself--the other, on certain conditions, may prove pleasant. Choose which you please to communicate first."

"Sir Marmaduke Wade," rejoined the cuirassier captain, "you accuse me of circumlocution. It is an accusation I will not give you cause to repeat. My first errand--and that to me of most importance--is to tell you that I love your daughter; and that I wish to make her my wife."

"I admire your candour, Captain Scarthe; but permit me to say, in reply, that the information you have thus volunteered concerns my daughter, more than myself. You are free to impart it to her; as is she to answer you according to her inclinations."

"I _have_ imparted it. I have already proposed to her."

"And her answer?"

"A refusal."

"And you come to me! For what purpose, Captain Scarthe?"

"Need I declare it, Sir Marmaduke? I love your daughter with all the love of my heart. I would wed her--make her happy--in time, perhaps, high and noble, as any in the land. I know that I offer myself under unfavourable circumstances. But with your assistance, Sir Marmaduke-- your authority exerted over her--"

"You need not go on, sir;" said Sir Marmaduke, interrupting the petitioner in a calm, firm tone. "Whatever answer my daughter has given you shall be mine. You speak of my authority. I have none in such a matter as this. The father has no right to restrain, or thwart, the inclinations of his child. I have never assumed such a power; nor shall I now--either in your favour, or against you. If you have won the heart of Marion Wade, you are welcome to wear it--welcome both to her heart and hand. If not, you need not look to me. So far as I am concerned, my daughter is free to accept whomsoever she may please, or reject whom she may dislike. Now, sir!" added the knight, in a tone that told of stern determination, "that matter is ended between us--I hope to your satisfaction."

"Enough!" ejaculated Scarthe, his voice betraying indignant chagrin. "'Tis just as I expected," he muttered to himself. "It will be idle to urge the matter any more--at least until I've got my lever on its fulcrum; then, perhaps--"

"May I beg of you to make known your other errand, sir?" said Sir Marmaduke, impatient to bring the unpleasant interview to a termination, "that which you say is of a painful nature?"

"I say it with truth," rejoined Scarthe, still keeping up a show of sympathy for his victim. "Perhaps you will not give me credit for the declaration; though I pledge my honour--as a gentleman holding the commission of the king--that a more unpleasant duty, than that which is now before me, I have never been called upon to perform."

"When you condescend to make it known, sir, perhaps I shall be the better able to judge. Can I assist you in any way?"

"O, Sir Marmaduke--noble Sir Marmaduke Wade! I wish it were in my power to assist _you_."

"Ha!"

"Alas! But a short month ago I could with indifference have enacted the part I am now called upon to play. Then I knew you not. I knew not your daughter. Oh! that I had never known one, or the other--neither the noble father, nor the--"

"Sir!" interrupted Sir Marmaduke sternly, "I beg you will come to the point. What is this disagreeable communication you would make? You surprise and puzzle me."

"I cannot declare it with my own lips. Noble knight! excuse me from giving speech to it. Here are my orders--too plain--too peremptory. Read them for yourself!"

Sir Marmaduke took hold of the paper--extended to him, apparently, with a trembling hand. The hand trembled that received it. He read:--

"_To ye Captain Richard Scarthe, commanding ye cuirassiers at Bulstrode Park_.

"_It hath come, to ye knowledge of his Majestie that Sir Marmaduke Wade, Knight, hath been guilty of treasonable practices and designs against his Majestie and ye government. Therefore Captain Scarthe is hereby commanded to arrest ye said Sir Marmaduke, and convey him to ye Tower prison, there to await trial by Star Chamber, or such other Court as may be deemed sufficient for ye crime charged_.

"_And Captain Scarthe is moreover enjoined and commanded by his Majestie to lose no time in carrying out ye said command of his Majestie, but that he proceed to its execution on ye receipt of these presents_.

"_Given at my Palace, Whitehall_.

"_Carolus Rex_."

"I am your prisoner, then?" said Sir Marmaduke, folding up the paper, and returning it to the cuirassier captain.

"Not mine, Sir Marmaduke. Alas! not mine, but the king's."

"And where am I to be taken? But I forget. I need not have asked."

"The place is mentioned in the despatch."

"The time too!"

"I regret it is so," rejoined Scarthe, with a pretence of being pained in the performance of his duty. "By this document you will perceive, that my orders are peremptory."

"I presume, I shall be permitted to take leave of my family?"

"It grieves me to the heart, Sir Marmaduke, to inform you that my instructions are painfully stringent. Even that has been made a part of them."

"Then I am not to bid farewell to my children, before parting with them--perhaps, for ever?"

"Do not talk thus, sir," said Scarthe, with a show, of profound sympathy. "There must be a misunderstanding. Some enemy has been abusing you to the ear of the king. Let us hope it will be nothing serious in the end. I wish it were otherwise; but I am instructed in a confidential despatch--that, after making known the order for your arrest, I am not to permit any communication between you and your friends--even the members of your own family--_except in my presence_."

"In your presence be our parting then. Can I summon my children hither?"

"Certainly, Sir Marmaduke. Alas! alas! that I am compelled to be the witness of such a sad spectacle."

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Scarthe truly characterised the scene that followed, by calling it a sad spectacle. Such it was--too sad to be described: the cuirassier captain appearing as much affected as any of those who assisted at it!

In an hour after, Sir Marmaduke Wade--in the custody of a cuirassier guard--might have been seen passing out of Bulstrode Park, on his way to that famous, or rather infamous, receptacle of political prisoners--the Tower of London.

Volume Three, Chapter XVI.

In less than a week from this time, Sir Marmaduke Wade stood in the presence of the Star Chamber--that Court which for long years had been the dread--less of criminals, than of innocent men.

When accuser and judge are one and the same person, condemnation is sure to follow. In Sir Marmaduke's case the accuser was the king himself. The Star Chamber was a mere mask--a means of carrying out his arbitrary acts, while screening him from their responsibility.

The trial was as much a farce, as if it had been held before a conclave of the Holy Inquisition. Indeed, both Star Chamber and High Commission Court bore a close resemblance to that terrible tribunal; and, like the latter, however farcical might be the form of their trials, they had too often a tragical ending.

Sir Marmaduke's trial, like many others of the time, was a mockery of justice--a mere formality to satisfy the slight remnants of liberty that still lingered in the Constitution. The Court had already doomed him. It needed only for the Star Chamber to endorse the foregone decree; which was done by its truculent judges without any delay, and with as little noise or ceremony.

The knight was accused of treason towards the crown--of conspiring against the king.

The charge was proven; and the criminal was condemned to death, by the mode in use against political offenders of the time. His sentence was:--_to be beheaded upon the block_.

He was not even confronted with his accusers; and knew not who they were who bore witness against him. But the most specific charge brought up-- that of his presence and speech at the night meeting at Stone Dean--left him no reason to doubt that Richard Scarthe was one of their number--if not the prime instigator of the prosecution.

During the investigation, the accused was kept in complete ignorance, both of the witnesses and the testimony preferred against him. None was allowed in his favour--no advocate was permitted to plead for him; and indeed, long before his trial came to a termination, he had made up his mind as to the result.

It was scarce a shock to him, when the president of that iniquitous conclave, pronounced in mock solemnity the sentence of _death_.

But it was a terrible shock to two tender hearts, when his son, Walter, hurrying home after the trial, carried the melancholy tidings--to the mansion of Bulstrode, soon to be deprived of its master.

Never was the hypocrisy of Richard Scarthe more successfully exerted than in that sad hour.

The children of his victim were almost deceived into a belief in his friendship. So sincere did his expressions of sympathy appear, and so often were they repeated, that Walter and Lora became almost disarmed as to his treason; and even Marion wavered in her suspicions of the honesty of this accomplished impostor.

Could Sir Marmaduke have communicated with them, there would have been no danger of such a deception. But this he was not allowed to do. From the hour of his arrest, his enemy had adopted every precaution to prevent it. The parting with his children had taken place in Scarthe's presence--where no word could be spoken unheard. Afterwards, from his prison in the Tower, he had not been allowed to hold the slightest intercourse with the outside world--neither before his trial, nor after it. Only a few minutes had his son Walter been permitted to stay in his company; and then only with spies and jailers standing near, and listening to every speech that passed between them.

Sir Marmaduke had not even found opportunity to communicate to his son the suspicions he entertained: that the man who was making such loud protestations of sympathy and friendship, was not only his enemy, but the very individual who had denounced him.

To Walter, and Lora, and Marion, all this remained unknown. It had never occurred to them to speculate on the cause of Scarthe's absence from the mansion--during the two days of the trial. Little did they suspect that the double-tongued villain--so profuse in expressions of sympathy and condolence--during that interval, had been himself in the presence of the Star Chamber--secretly testifying against the accused-- freely supplying the testimony that had sealed his condemnation.

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On the morning after the sad intelligence had been conveyed to the inmates of Bulstrode mansion, Marion was in her chamber, the victim of a double sorrow.

The Spaniards have a proverb, "One nail drives out another," (_un clavo saca otro clavo_), intending to convey, by this homely figure, that the heart cannot contain two sorrows at the same time, but that one must give place to the other.

To some extent is this proverb true; but, like most others, yielding to certain conditions. For a while recent sorrow, overweighing that of anterior date, may tend to its alleviation. If it be greater, it may conduct to its cure; but, if less, the old grief will in time return, and again resume dominion over the throne of the heart.

Either one of the sorrows from which Marion suffered, was enough to have occupied her heart, to the exclusion of the other; and yet, her experience confirmed the proverb only in part. Long after listening to the sad tale told by her brother, she had brooded over the misfortunes of her much-loved father, and the fearful fate that was awaiting him. But love is stronger than filial affection; and there were intervals, during which, her anguish for a parent she was about to lose, was perhaps, less intense than that for a lover she had already lost! Judge her not harshly, if in the midst of her convulsive grief, there were moments when her mind dwelt upon the other and older sorrow. Judge her not harshly; but as you would yourself be judged! She was not alone. Her affectionate cousin was by her side; and near by, her fond brother. They had passed the night together--in vain endeavours to impart mutual consolation. Their cheeks and eyes told of a night spent in sleeplessness and tears.

Spent in mutual counsel, too; which they seemed to have exhausted: as was testified by the words now spoken by Walter.

Marion had suggested an appeal to the Queen--had proposed making a journey to London for this purpose.

"I fear it will be of no use," rejoined the ex-courtier. "I fell upon my knees before her--I protested our father's innocence--I entreated her with tears in my eyes; but she gave me no hope. On the contrary, she was angry with me. I never saw her so before. She even insulted me with vile words: called me the cub of a conspirator; while Jermyn, and Holland, and others of the young lords in her company, made merry at my expense. The king I dared not see. Ah! sister; I fear even you would meet no favour among that Court crew. There is but one who can help us; and that because he is of their kind. You know who I mean, Marion?"

"You speak of Captain Scarthe?"

"I do."

"Indeed! it is true," interposed Lora. "You know he has more than once thrown out hints, as to what he could do to obtain dear uncle's freedom. I would go upon my knees to him, if it were of any use; but you know, Marion, one word from you would be worth all the entreaties that Walter and I could make. O, cousin! let us not speak in riddles at such a time as this. You know the reason?"

"Marion!" said Walter, half divining Lora's implied meaning; "If this man speak sincerely--if it be true that he has the influence he boasts of--and I have heard as much at Court--then there may be a hope. I know not to what Lora refers. She says that a word from you may accomplish much. Dear sister; is it a sacrifice?"

"You have styled it truly, Walter, in calling it a sacrifice. Without that, my entreaties would be vain as yours. I am sure of it."

"Say, sister! What sacrifice?"

"My hand--my hand!"

"Dear, dear Marion! If it be not with your heart, you cannot promise it--you could not give it."

"Without such promise, I know he would deny me."

"The wretch! O, heavens! And yet it is our father's life--ay, his very life!"

"Would it were mine!" exclaimed Marion, with a look of abandoned anguish; "only mine. The thought of death would be easier to endure than the sorrows I have already!"

Walter comprehended not the meaning of her wild words. Lora better understood their import.

Neither had time to reflect upon them: for, on the instant of their utterance, Marion rose to her feet, and walked with a determined air towards the door of the apartment.

"Where are you going, dear cousin?" asked Lora, slightly frayed at Marion's resolute mien.

"To Captain Scarthe," was the firm rejoinder. "To fling myself at his feet--prostrate, if he please it; to ask him _the price of my father's life_."

Before either cousin or brother could interfere, to oppose or strengthen her resolution, the self-appointed suppliant had passed out of the room.

Volume Three, Chapter XVII.

The sentence passed upon Sir Marmaduke had given Scarthe a new string to his bow; and the crisis had now arrived for testing its strength.

He had easily obtained the knight's condemnation. From the peculiar interest which he possessed at Court, he knew--or believed--that with equal facility he could procure his pardon.

In his own mind he had resolved upon doing this. On certain conditions Marion Wade might expect a prompt answer to the inquiry she was about to make. It was already determined upon: the price of Sir Marmaduke's life would be the hand of his daughter.

Scarthe did not design addressing his reiterated proposal to the condemned knight; but to Marion herself. His former appeal to the father had been met with a refusal so firm, that from him he might readily apprehend a similar response. True, at that time the knight was only threatened with danger. Now, death stared him in the face--death inglorious, even ignominious. The prospect could not fail to cause fear and faltering; and an ordinary man should be only too fain, by any means, to save himself from such a fate.

But Sir Marmaduke Wade was not one of this stamp. On the contrary, he was just the type of those antique heroic parents, who prefer death to the sacrifice of a daughter's happiness. Scarthe knew it; and believed it quite possible that the conditions he meant to offer might still provoke a noble and negative rejoinder. Although he had not determined to forego the chances of a last appeal to the condemned prisoner, this was only to be made in the event of Marion's rejection of his terms. Filial affection was first to be put upon its trial. After that it would be time to test the parental.

This design had been conceived, before the trial of Sir Marmaduke--even previous to his imprisonment: for it was but a sequence of his scheme; and he who concocted it had only been waiting for the knight's condemnation, to bring matters to a climax.

Of the sentence he had been already advised--in fact, knew it before leaving London. Twenty-four hours sooner he could have communicated the intelligence to those whom it most concerned; but, for reasons of his own, he had preferred leaving it to reach them through the natural channel--by the return of Walter from that short sad interview, the last he had been permitted to hold with his unfortunate father.

It was late in the evening when Walter arrived to tell the melancholy tale. Perhaps, had the hour been earlier, Scarthe would have intruded upon the scene of sorrow--to speak his sham sympathy, and mingle hypocritical tears with those that were real. As it was, he only expressed himself thus by deputy--sending one of the domestics with a message of condolence, and reserving his interview with Marion for the morrow.

It was his design to see her, just at that hour when it might be supposed, the first fresh throes of her sorrow had subsided, and his proffer of assistance might stand a better chance of being appreciated.

Ever since the departure of the prisoner he had been cunningly preparing his plans. He had lost no opportunity of letting it be understood--or at all events surmised--that he possessed the _power to save_. He had hinted at great sacrifices that would accrue to himself in the exertion of this power--at the same time, making certain innuendos, that left the conditions to be guessed at.

His scheme had become matured. To-morrow would see it carried into effect, either for failure or success, and that morrow had now arrived.

On the eve of action he was far from being either confident, or tranquil. As he paced the large drawing-room of the mansion, previous to asking an interview with its young mistress, his steps betrayed agitation. His glances told of mingled emotions--hope, fear, and shame: for, hardened as he was, he could not contemplate his sinister intent without some slight sense of abasement. Several times had he laid his hand upon the bell, to summon some one, as the bearer of his request; but as often had his resolution failed him.

"By Phoebus! I'm a fool," he exclaimed at length, as if to fortify his courage by the self-accusation: "and a coward, too! What have I to fear? She cannot refuse me--with her father's life as the forfeit? She would be false to filial duty--affection--nature--everything. Bah! I'll dally with doubt no longer. I'll bring it to a crisis at once! Now is the time or never!"

He strode back to the table on which stood the bell. He took it up, with the intention of ringing it. The sound of an opening door, accompanied by the rustling of silken robes, caused him to turn round. She, from whom he was about to ask an interview, stood before him.

Scarthe was surprised--disconcerted--as one detected in a guilty action. He fancied that his visitor had divined his intent. On glancing at her countenance, his momentary abashment became suddenly changed to a feeling of triumph. He fancied that he divined _hers_.

She must have known he was in the room: else why did she not pause, or retire? On the contrary, she was approaching him--she had never done so before--evidently with a purpose! There could be but one--_to ask his intercession_.

This forestalling was in his favour. It gave him strength and confidence. It gave him a cue, for the disclosure he meditated making.

"Mistress Marion!" said he, bowing low, "you have saved me the chagrin of intruding upon your grief: for, in truth, I had intended soliciting an interview, to offer my poor mite of consolation."

"By your own showing, sir," rejoined she, placing herself in a firm yet humble attitude, "you can do more. If I mistake not, you have spoken of your influence with the king?"

"Perhaps it is greater with the king's wife," replied the soldier with a smile, evidently intended to make a peculiar impression on his petitioner. "True, fair Marion; I own to some little influence in that quarter. 'Tis not much; but such as it be, 'tis at your service."

"O sir! thank you for these words. Say you will exert it, to save the life of my father! Say that; and you shall win the gratitude of--of--"

"Marion Wade?"

"More than mine--my father--my brother--our kindred--perhaps our country--will all be grateful; will bless you for the act."

"And of all these gratitudes, the only one I should in the least esteem is your own, beautiful Marion. That will be sufficient recompense for me."

"Sir, you shall have it--to the very depth of my soul."

"Say rather to the depth of your _heart_."

"I have said it. You shall have my heart's gratitude, now and for ever."

"Ah! gratitude is but a cold word. Exchange it for another."

"Another! What mean you, Sir?"

"Say your _love_. Give me but that, and I promise--I swear, by my hopes of happiness here and hereafter--that I shall not rest, till your father's pardon be obtained; or till I, by my unwelcome interference in his behalf, be sentenced to partake of his prison and punishment! O Marion Wade! have mercy upon me! I, not you, am the suppliant in this cause. Give me what I have asked; and command me as your slave!"

For some seconds Marion stood without making reply.

From the fervour of his appeal, and the silence with which it had been received, Scarthe was beginning to conceive a hope; and kept his eyes keenly bent upon the countenance of his suitor.

He could read nothing there. Not a thought was betrayed by those beautiful features--immovable as though chiselled out of stone.

When she at length spoke, her answer told him, that he had misinterpreted her silence.

"Captain Scarthe," said she, "you are a man of the world--one, as I have heard, skilled in the thoughts of our sex--"

"You flatter me," interrupted he, making an effort to recover his customary coolness. "May I know why I am thus complimented?"