"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 p.r.o.nounced 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 a.s.semblage 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 a.s.sembly. 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d! give me the strength!

"Ah! 'tis easy to talk of breaking it. Merciful Heaven! the power has pa.s.sed 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 att.i.tude--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!"