done it, then, dang me--I'll keep my threet, if I shud ha' to swing for it!"

"Done what?"

"Made a fool o' Bet--that's what I meean. What is it 't ye know, Mister Captain? Please to tell me that!"

"Well, then," replied the tempter, speaking slowly and deliberately--as if to find time for the concoction of some plausible tale. "For myself, I can't say I know anything--that is, for certain--I have only heard-- altogether by accident, too--that your Maid Marian was seen--out in the woods with a gentleman--and at a very unreasonable hour of the night."

"What night?" gasped the woodman.

"Let me see! Was it the night of the fete? No. It was the next after--if I remember aright."

"d.a.m.n her! The very night I war gone over to Rickmans'orth wi' them letters. Augh!"

"I shouldn't have known it was this fellow Holtspur: as the person who gave me the information didn't say it was him. It was only told me that the man--whoever he might be--was dressed in fine velvet doublet, with a beaver and black plumes; but from what I've seen myself, and what you've just now told me, I think it very likely that the black horseman was the individual. It was in the woods--near Stone Dean--where they were seen.

You say he lives there. It looks suspicious, don't it?"

"'Twar him! I know it--I be sure o't. Augh! If I don't ha' revenge on him, and her too! Dang the deceitful s.l.u.t! I will! I will!"

"Perhaps the girl's not so much to blame. He's a rich fellow--this Holtspur, and may have tempted her with his money. Gold goes a great way in such matters."

"Oh! if't were only money, I could abear it better. No! It an't that, master, it an't that! I'm a'most sure it an't. She's done it, d.a.m.n her!"

"Perhaps we may be mistaken. Things may not have gone so far as you think. At all events, I should advise you to let the girl alone; and confine your revenge to the villain who has wronged her."

"Him first--him first! And then, if I find she's let herself be made a fool o'--"

"Whether or not, he deserves no thanks from you for having made the attempt."

"I'll thank him!--I will, whenever I gets the chance. Wait till I gets the chance."

"If I am not mistaken, you may have that--without waiting long."

Misinterpreting these words, the woodman glanced towards his axe with a significant and savage leer, that did not escape the keen eye of Scarthe.

"True," said the latter, in a tone of disapproval, "you might have _that_ chance almost at any hour. But there would also be a chance of failure, with a considerable risk of your getting run through the ribs.

If what you've told me be as I suspect, there will be no need to resort to such extreme measures. Perhaps I may be able to point out a surer and safer method for you to rid yourself of this rival."

"Oh! Mister Captain! If you would only do that--only tell me _how_-- I'll--I'll--"

"Have patience! Very likely I may be able to a.s.sist you," interrupted Scarthe, rising to take his departure. "I've something in my mind will just suit, I think. But it requires a little reflection--and--some preliminary steps that must be taken elsewhere. I shall return here to-night, after sunset. Meanwhile, stay at home; or, if you go abroad, keep your tongue behind your teeth. Not a word to any one of what has pa.s.sed between us. Take another pull at the flask, to keep up your spirits. Now, Walford, good day to you!"

Having p.r.o.nounced these parting words, the officer walked out of the hut; and, returning to his horse, leaped lightly into the saddle, and rode off--followed by his attendant Withers.

He did not communicate to the latter aught of what had transpired between him and the woodman. The muttered words that escaped him, as he trotted off among the trees, were spoken in a slow, measured soliloquy.

"No doubt one of the very meetings of which his Majesty has spoken so opportunely in his despatch? Richard Scarthe shall make one at this midnight a.s.sembly--uninvited though he be. Ah! if I can only find a fair opportunity to play eavesdropper, I promise Master Holtspur a more substantial dwelling than he now inhabits! Ho! have no fear, kind King Carolus! Right willingly shall I play the spy! Ha! ha! ha!"

Elated by the high hope with which his new-gained knowledge had inspired him, he gave the spur to his grey, while Wapsey's Wood gave back the echoes of his joyous laughter.

Volume Two, Chapter IX.

It was Michaelmas night over merry England; but at that late hour when the rustic--weary with the revels incidental to the day--had retired to rest and dream. In other words, it was midnight.

Though at a season of the year when a clear sky might be expected, the night in question chanced to be an exception. The canopy of bright blue, usually smiling over the Chiltern Hills, was obscured by black c.u.mulus clouds, that hung in motionless ma.s.ses--completely shrouding the firmament. Not a ray of light, from either moon or stars, was shed upon the earth; and the narrow bridle-path, as well as the wider highway, could with difficulty be discerned under the hoof of the traveller's horse.

Notwithstanding the almost complete opacity of the darkness, it was not continuous. Gleams of lightning at intervals flashed over the sward; or, in fitful coruscation, illumined the deep arcades of the forest--the beeches, for a moment, appearing burnished by the blaze. Though not a breath of air stirred among the trees, nor a drop of rain had as yet fallen upon their leaves, those three sure foretellers of the storm-- clouds, lightning, and thunder--betokened its proximity. It was such a night as a traveller would have sought shelter at the nearest inn, and stayed under its roof, unless urged upon an errand of more than ordinary importance. Despite the darkness of the paths, and the lateness of the hour--despite the tempest surely threatening in the sky--some such errand had tempted forth at least two travellers on that very night.

As Marion Wade and Lora Lovelace sate conversing in their chamber, on the eve of retiring to rest, two hors.e.m.e.n, heavily cloaked, might have been been pa.s.sing out from under the windows, and heading towards the high-road, as if bent upon a journey.

It was Marion's sleeping apartment, that was occupied by the brace of beautiful maidens--whose intention it was to share the same couch.

It had not been their habit to do so: for each had her separate chamber.

But an event had occurred making it desirable that, on that particular night, they should depart from their usual custom. Lora required the confidence of her cousin--older than herself--and her counsel, as well-- in a matter so serious as to demand the privacy of a sleeping apartment.

Indeed, two events had happened to her on the day preceding, both of which called for the interposition of a friend. They were matters too weighty to be borne by a single bosom.

They were somewhat similar in character--if not altogether so: both being avowals of love, ending in offers of marriage.

There was, however, a considerable dissimilarity in the individuals from whom the tender declarations had proceeded. One was her own cousin-- Walter Wade--the other, it is scarce necessary to say, being Cornet Stubbs.

Lora had not hesitated as to the reply she should make to either. It was not for this she was seeking the counsel of her cousin. The answers had been given frankly and freely--on the same instant as the asking.

To Walter an affirmative; to Stubbs a negative, if not indignant, at least final and emphatic.

That point had been settled before the sun went down; and Marion's advice was only sought in order that the little Lora--her junior in years, as well as womanly experience--might become better acquainted with the details relating to that most important ceremony of a woman's life--the _nuptial_.

Alas, for Lora; her cousin proved but a poor counsellor. Instead of being able to give advice, Marion needed rather to receive it; and it was from a vague hope, that Lora might suggest some scheme to alleviate her own unpleasant reflections, that she had so gladly listened to the proposal of their pa.s.sing the night together.

What had occurred to disquiet the thoughts of Marion Wade?

Nothing--at least nothing but what is known already; and from that, some may think she should have been _very_ happy. She had met the man she loved--had received from his own lips the a.s.surance that her love was reciprocated--had heard it in pa.s.sionate speech, sealed and confirmed by a fervent kiss, and a close rapturous embrace.

What more wanted she to confirm her in the supremest happiness that can be enjoyed--outside the limits of Elysium?

And yet Marion Wade was far from being happy!

What was the cause of her disquietude?

Had aught arisen to make her jealous? Did she doubt the fidelity of her lover?

A simple negative will serve as the answer to both questions.

She felt neither jealousy, nor doubt. The mind of Marion Wade was not easily swayed by such influences. Partly from a sense of self rect.i.tude; partly from a knowledge of her own beauty--for she could not help knowing that she was beautiful--and partly, perhaps, from an instinctive consciousness of the power consequent on such a possession-- hers was not a love to succ.u.mb readily to suspicion. Previous to that interview with her lover--the first and last properly deserving the name--she had yielded a little to this unpleasant emotion. But that was while she was still uncertain of Holtspur's love--before she had heard it declared by himself--before she had listened to his vows plighted in words, in all the earnestness of eternal truth.

Since that hour no doubt had occurred to her mind. Suspicion she would have scorned as a guilty thing. She had given her own heart away--her heart and soul--wholly, and without reserve; and she had no other belief than that she had received the heart of Henry Holtspur in return.

Her unhappiness sprang from a different cause--or rather causes: for she had three sources of disquietude.

The first was a consciousness of having acted wrongly--of having failed in filial duty; and to a parent whose generous indulgence caused the dereliction to be all the more keenly felt.