"I shall go down, and see," he muttered, after a moment of indecision.

Opening the wicket he pa.s.sed through; quickly traversed the remaining portion of the causeway; and continued on towards the spot where the steed was standing.

He did not go in a direct path towards the object that had thus interested him--which would have been the avenue itself--but proceeded in a circuitous direction, through some copsewood that skirted the slope of the hill.

He had his reasons for thus deviating.

"Holtspur in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade!" muttered he, as he crept through the thicket with the cautious tread of a deer-stalker. "Where is Sir Marmaduke's daughter?"

As the suspicion swept across his brain, it brought the blood scorching like fire through his veins. His limbs felt weak under him. He almost tottered, as he trod the sward!

His jealous agony was scarce more acute, when, on reaching the row of chestnuts that bordered the avenue, and craning his neck outward to get a view, he saw a man come out from among the trees, and step up to the side of the steed; while at the same instant a white object, like a lady's coverchief or scarf, fluttered amid the foliage that overhung the path.

The man he recognised: Henry Holtspur! The woman, though seen less distinctly, could be only the one occupying his thoughts--only Marion Wade!

Though not a coward--and accustomed to encounters abrupt and dangerous-- Scarthe was at that crisis the victim of both fear and indecision. In his chagrin, he could have rushed down the slope, and stabbed Holtspur to the heart, without mercy or remorse. But he had no intention of acting in this off-hand way. The encounter of the day before--of which the torture of his wounded arm emphatically reminded him--had robbed him of all zest for a renewal of the black horseman's acquaintance. He only hesitated as to whether he should screen himself behind the trees, and permit the lady to pa.s.s on to the house, or remain in ambush till she came up, and then join company with her.

He was no longer uncertain as to who it was. The white-robed figure, that now stood out in the open avenue, was Marion Wade. No other could have shown that imposing outline under the doubtful shadow of the twilight.

It was not till the horseman had sprung into the saddle, turned his back upon the mansion, and was riding away, that Scarthe recovered from his irresolution.

He felt sensible of being in a state of mind to make himself ridiculous; and that the more prudent plan would be to remain out of sight. But the bitter sting was rankling in his breast--all the more bitter that he suspected an _intrigue_. This fell fancy torturing him to the heart's core, stifled all thoughts of either policy or prudence; and impelled him to present himself.

With an effort such as his cunning, and the control which experience had given him over his pa.s.sions, enabled him to make--he succeeded in calming himself--sufficiently for a pretence at courteous conversation.

At this moment, Marion came up.

She started on seeing Scarthe glide out from among the trees. The wild pa.s.sion gleaming in his eyes was enough to cause her alarm though she made but slight exhibition of it. She was too highly bred to show emotion, even under such suspicious circ.u.mstances. Her heart, at that moment thrilling with supreme happiness, was too strong to feel fear.

"Good even, sir," she simply said, in return to the salute, which Scarthe had made as he approached.

"Pardon my question, Mistress Wade," said he, joining her, and walking by her side, "Are you not afraid to be out alone at this late hour-- especially as the neighbourhood is infested with such ferocious footpads as your brother has been telling me of? Ha! ha! ha!"

"Oh!" said Marion--answering the interrogatory in the same spirit in which it appeared to have been put--"that was before Captain Scarthe and his redoubtable cuira.s.siers came to reside with us. Under their protection I presume there will no longer be anything to fear from footpads, or even highwaymen!"

"Thanks for your compliment, lady! If I could only flatter myself that our presence here would be considered a protection by Mistress Marion Wade, it would be some compensation for the unpleasantness of being forced as a guest upon her father."

"You are gracious, sir," said she, bowing slightly in return to the implied apology.

Then, casting a quick but scrutinising glance at the countenance of the speaker, she continued in thought--"If this man be honest, the devil's a witch. If he be, I never saw look that so belies the heart."

"Believe me, Mistress Wade," proceeded the hypocrite, "I keenly feel my position here. I know that I cannot be regarded in any other light than that of an intruder. Notwithstanding the pleasure it may be, to partake of the hospitality of your n.o.ble house, I would gladly forego that happiness, were it in consonance with my duty to the King--which of course is paramount to everything else."

"Indeed!"

"To an officer of his Majesty's cuira.s.siers it should be."

"In France, perhaps--or in Flanders, where I understand you've been campaigning. In England, sir, and in the eyes of an Englishwoman, there are higher duties than those owing to a king. Did it never occur to you that you owe a duty to _the people_; or, if you prefer the expression, _to the State_."

"_L'etat est roi. L'etat est moi_! That is the creed of Richard Scarthe!"

"Even if your king be a tyrant?"

"I am but a soldier. It is not mine to question the prerogatives of royalty--only to obey its edicts."

"A n.o.ble creed! n.o.ble sentiments for a soldier! Hear mine, sir!"

"With pleasure, Mistress Wade!" replied Scarthe, cowering under her scornful glance.

"Were I a man," she continued, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, "rather would I shave my crown, and cover it with the cowl of a friar, than wear a sword to be drawn in no better cause than that of an unscrupulous king! Ha! There are men rising in this land, whose fame shall outlive the petty notoriety of its princes. When these have become obscured behind the oblivion of ages, the names of Vane and Pym, and Cromwell, and Hampden and Holt"--she but half p.r.o.nounced the one she held highest--"shall be household words!"

"These are wild words, Mistress Wade!" rejoined Scarthe, his loyalty-- along with a slight inclination towards anger--struggling against the admiration which he could not help feeling for the beautiful enthusiast; "I fear you are a rebel; and were I as true to the interests of my king as I should be, it would be my duty to make you a captive. Ah!" he continued, bending towards the proud maiden, and speaking in a tone of ambiguous appeal, "to make _you_ a captive--_my_ captive--that would indeed be a pleasant duty for a soldier--the recompense of a whole life."

"Ho!" exclaimed Marion, pretending not to understand the _innuendo_, "since you talk of making me a captive, I must endeavour to escape from you. Good evening, sir."

Flinging a triumphant smile towards the disappointed wooer, she glided rapidly beyond his reach; and, nimbly tripping over the footbridge, disappeared from his sight amid the shrubbery surrounding the mansion.

Volume Two, Chapter IV.

On parting from Marion Wade, Henry Holtspur should have been the happiest of men. The loveliest woman in the _shire_--to his eyes, in the _world_--had declared to him her love, and vowed eternal devotion.

Its full fruition could not have given him firmer a.s.surance of the fact.

And yet he was not happy. On the contrary, it was with a heavy heart that he rode away from the scene of that interview with his splendid sweetheart. He knew that the interview _should not have occurred--that Marion Wade ought not to be his sweetheart_!

After riding half a dozen lengths of his horse, he turned in his saddle, to look back, in hopes that the sight of the loved form might tranquillise his conscience.

Happier for him had he ridden on.

If unhappy before, he now saw that which made him miserable. Marion had commenced ascending the slope. Her light-coloured garments rendered her easily recognisable through the dimness of the twilight. Holtspur watched her movements, admiring the queenly grace of her step-- distinguishable despite the darkness and distance.

He was fast recovering composure of mind--so late disturbed by some unpleasant thought--and no doubt would have left the spot with contentment, but for an incident which at that moment transpired under his view.

Marion Wade had got half-way up the hill, and was advancing with rapid step. Just then some one, going at a quicker pace, appeared in the avenue behind her!

This second pedestrian must have pa.s.sed out from among the trees: since but the moment before the receding form of the lady was alone in the avenue.

In a few seconds she was overtaken; and the two figures were now seen side by side. In this way they moved on--their heads slightly inclined towards each other, as if engaged in familiar conversation!

The dress of the individual who had thus sprung suddenly into sight was also of a light colour, and might have been a woman's. But a red scarf diagonally crossing the shoulders--a high peaked hat with plume of ostrich feathers--and, more than all, the tallness of the figure, told Henry Holtspur that it was a man who was walking with Marion Wade.

The same tokens declared he was not her brother: Walter was not near so tall. It could not be her father: Sir Marmaduke was accustomed to dress in black.

The rows of chestnuts that bordered the walk came to a termination near the top of the hill. The figures had arrived there. Next moment they moved out from under the shadow of the trees, and could be seen more distinctly.

"'Tis neither her father, nor brother--'tis Scarthe!"

It was Holtspur who p.r.o.nounced these words, and with an intonation that betokened both surprise and chagrin.

"He has forced himself upon her! He came skulkingly out from the trees, as if he had been lying in wait for her! I shouldn't wonder if 'twas so. What can I do? Shall I follow and interrupt the interview?"