"Ah! grat.i.tude 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 s.e.x--"

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

"I did not mean it in that sense. Only to say, that, knowing our nature as you do, you must be aware that what you ask is impossible? O, Sir!

woman cannot _give_ her heart. _That must be taken from her_."

"And yours, Marion Wade?"

"Is not in my power to give. It has been surrendered already."

"Surrendered!" cried Scarthe, with an angry emphasis on the word: for this was his first a.s.surance of a fact that had long formed the theme of his conjectures. "Surrendered, you say?"

"'Tis too true. Stolen, if you will, but still surrendered! 'Tis broken now, and cannot be restored. O sir! you would not value it, if offered to you. Do not make that a condition. Accept instead what is still in my power to give--a grat.i.tude that shall know no end!"

For some seconds the discomfited sooer neither spoke nor moved. What he had heard appeared to have paralysed him. His lips were white, and drawn tightly over his teeth, with an expression of half-indignation-- half-chagrin.

Skilled as he certainly was in woman's heart, he had heard enough to convince him, that he could never win that of Marion Wade. Her declaration had been made in a tone too serious--too sober in its style--to leave him the vestige of a hope. Her heart had been surely surrendered. Strange she should say _stolen_! Stranger still she should declare it to be _broken_!

Both were points that might have suggested curious speculations; but at that moment Scarthe was not in the vein for indulging in idle hypotheses. He had formed the resolution to possess the hand, and the fortune, of Marion Wade. If she could not give her heart, she could give these--as compensation for the saving of her father's life.

"Your grat.i.tude," said he, no longer speaking in a strain of fervour, but with an air of piqued formality, "your grat.i.tude, beautiful Marion, would go far with me. I would make much sacrifice to obtain it; but there is something you can bestow, which I should prize more."

Marion looked--"What is it?"

"Your hand."

"That then is the price of my father's life?"

"It is."

"Captain Scarthe! what can my hand be worth to you, without--"

"Your heart, you would say? I must live in hopes to win that. Fair Marion, reflect! A woman's heart may be won more than once."

"_Only once can it be lost_."

"Be it so. I must bear the chagrin. I shall bear it all the better, by having your hand. Marion Wade! I scorn further circ.u.mlocution. Give me what I have asked, and _your father lives_. Refuse it, and he _must forfeit his head_."

"Oh, sir, have pity! Have you a father? Ah! could you but feel the anguish of one about to be made fatherless. Mercy, Captain Scarthe! On my knees I ask it. O sir! you can save him--you will?"

While speaking, the proud beautiful woman had dropped down upon her knees. Her rich golden hair, escaping from its silken coif, swept the floor at her feet. Her tear-drops sparkled, like pearls, among its profusion of tresses.

For a second Scarthe remained silent, gazing upon the lovely suppliant-- a Venus dissolved in tears. He gazed not coldly; though his cruel thoughts glowed only with exultation. Marion Wade was at his feet!

"_I can_ save him--_I will_!" he answered emphatically, echoing her last words.

Marion looked up--hope beaming in her tear-bedewed eyes. The sweet thought was stifled on the instant. The cynical glance, meeting hers, told her that Scarthe had not finished his speech.

"Yes," he triumphantly continued, "I have said that I can, and will. It needs but one word from you. Promise that you will be mine?"

"O G.o.d! has this man no mercy?" muttered the maiden, as she rose despairingly to her feet.

The speech was not intended to be heard; but it was. Involuntarily had it been uttered aloud. It elicited an instant reply.

"There is no mercy in love--when scorned, as you have scorned mine."

"I have not scorned it. You ask what is impossible."

"No," suddenly rejoined Scarthe, conceiving a hope from the gentle character of the reply. "'Tis not impossible. I expect not the firstlings of your heart. Alas! for me, they are gone. I can scarce hope for even a second love; though I should do everything within the power of man to deserve it. All I ask for is the opportunity to win you, by making you my wife. O, Marion Wade!" he continued, adopting a more fervent form of speech, "you have met with a man--never before gainsayed--one who has never wooed woman in vain--even when wearing a crown upon her brow. One, too, who will not be thwarted. Heaven and earth shall not turn me from my intent. Say you will be mine, and all will be well. Reflect upon the fearful issue that must follow your refusal. I await your answer. Is it yes, or no?"

Having thus delivered himself, the impetuous lover commenced pacing to and fro--as if to allow time for the reply.

Marion, on rising from her supplicating att.i.tude, had withdrawn to the window. She stood within its embayment--her back turned towards that dark type of humanity--her eyes upon the blue heaven: as if there seeking inspiration.

Was she hesitating as to her answer? Was she wavering between her father's life, and her own happiness--or rather, might it be said, her life-long misery? Did the thought cross her mind, that her unhappiness, springing from the defection--the deception--of her lost lover--could scarce be increased either in amount or intensity; and that the sacrifice she was now called upon to make could add but little to a misery already at its maximum?

Whether or no, may never be revealed. Marion Wade can alone disclose the thoughts that struggled within her soul at that critical moment.

Scarthe continued to pace the floor, impatiently awaiting her decision.

Not that he wished it to be given on the instant: for he believed that delay would favour him. A sudden answer might be a negative, springing from pa.s.sion; while fear for her father's fate--strengthened by reflection--might influence her to agree to his proposal.

At length came the answer, or what Scarthe was compelled to accept as one. It came not in words; but in a cry--at once joyous and triumphant!

Simultaneous with its utterance, Marion Wade extended her arms; and, flinging open the cas.e.m.e.nt, rushed out into the verandah!

Volume Three, Chapter XVIII.

Scarthe stood for a time astounded--stupefied. Had Marion Wade gone mad? Her singular behaviour seemed to say so.

But no. There appeared to be method in the movement she had made. As she glided through the open cas.e.m.e.nt, he had observed, that her eye was fixed upon something outside--something that must have influenced her to the making of that unexpected exit.

On recovering from his surprise, the cuira.s.sier captain hastened towards the window; but, before reaching it, he heard sounds without, conducting him to alarming conjectures. They might have been unintelligible, but for the sight that came under his eyes as he looked forth.

A crowd was coming up the main avenue of the park--a crowd of men. They were not marching in order, and might have been called a "mob;" although it consisted of right merry fellows--neither disorderly nor dangerous.