Volume 3 Chapter 10 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
In the days of Charles (the Martyr!) a state prisoner was not such a rara avis as at present. Laud had his list, and Strafford also—that noble but truculent tool of a tyrant—who ended his life by becoming himself a state prisoner—the most distinguished of all.
A gentleman denounced, and taken to the Tower, was anything but a rare event; and created scarce more sensation than would at the present day the capture of a swell-mobsman.
The arrest of Henry Holtspur passed over as a common occurrence. His rescue and escape were of a less common character; though even these served only for a nine days’ wonder in the mind of the general public. There were few who understood exactly how the rescue had been brought about; or how that crowd of “disloyal knaves”—as they were termed by the king’s partisans—had come to be so opportunely assembled in front of the “Rose and Crown.”
No one seemed to know whither the fugitive had betaken himself—not even rumour. It was only conjectured that he had sought concealment—and found it—in that grand hiding place, safe as the desert itself: London. For those attainted with “treasonable proclivities” towards the tyrant king, the great city was, at that time, a safer asylum than any other part of his kingdom.
The cuirassier captain had done all in his power, to hinder the event from obtaining general publicity. He had not reported at head quarters, either the arrest or what followed; and he had been equally remiss of duty, in permitting the circumstances of Holtspur’s rescue to pass without investigation.
He still clung to the hope of being able to effect his recapture; and to that end he employed—though in a clandestine manner—all the influence he could bring to his aid. He despatched secret agents into different parts of the country; and no communication—not even a letter—could enter the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, without Captain Scarthe knowing the nature of its contents.
During this period, his position in the quarters he occupied, may be regarded as somewhat anomalous. A certain intimacy had become established between him and the family of his host. How far it was friendly, on either side, was a question.
A stranger, or superficial observer, might have fancied it so—on the part of Scarthe even cordial.
Ever since the first day of his residence under the roof of Sir Marmaduke, he had held his troopers in strict subordination: so strict as to have given these worthies no slight offence. But Captain Scarthe was a commander not to be trifled with; and his followers knew it.
For every little incident of trouble or annoyance, occurring to the inmates of the mansion, ample apologies were rendered; and it might have been imagined, that the king’s cuirassiers had been sent to Bulstrode as a guard of honour to attend upon its owner, rather than a “billet” to live at his expense!
These delicate attentions to Sir Marmaduke, sprang not from any motive of chivalry or kindness; they were simply designed for the securing of his daughter. Scarthe wanted her heart, as well as her hand. The former, because he loved her, with all the fierce passion of a soul highly gifted, though ill-guided; the latter, because he coveted her fortune: for Marion Wade, in addition to her transcendant charms, was heiress to a noble domain. She was endowed second to none in the shire; for a separate property was hers, independent of the estate of Bulstrode. Scarthe knew it; and for this reason desired to have her hand, along with her heart.
Failing to win the latter, he might still hope to obtain the former; which, with the fortune that accompanied it, would go far towards consoling his disappointed vanity.
Whether loving him or not, he was determined Marion Wade should be his wife; and, if fair means should not serve for the execution of his project, he would not scruple to make use of the contrary. He was ready to avail himself of that terrible secret—of which he had become surreptitiously possessed.
The life of Sir Marmaduke Wade lay upon his lips. The knight was, at that moment, as much in his power, as if standing in the presence of the Star Chamber, with a score of witnesses to swear to his treason.
It needed but a word from Scarthe to place him in that dread presence; and the latter knew it. A sign to his followers, and his host might have been transformed into his prisoner!
He had not much fear, that he would ever be called upon to carry matters to such an ill-starred extreme. He had too grand a reliance upon his own irresistibility with the sex. The man, whom he had originally believed to be his rival, now out of Marion’s sight, appeared to be also out of her mind; and, during his absence, Scarthe had been every day becoming more convinced—his wish being father to the thought—that the relationship between Marion and Holtspur had not been of an amatory character.
The bestowal of the glove might have been a mere complimentary favour, for some service rendered? Such gifts were not uncommon; and tokens worn in hats or helmets were not always emblematic of the tender passion. The short acquaintanceship that had existed between them—for Scarthe had taken pains to inform himself on this head—gave some colour to his conjecture; at least, it was pleasant for him to think so.
Women, in those days, were the most potent politicians. It was a woman who had brought on the war with Spain—another who had caused the interference in Flanders—a woman who had led to our artificial alliance with France—a woman who, then as now, ruled England!
Marion Wade was a woman—just such an one as might be supposed to wield the destinies of a nation. Her political sentiments were no secret to the royalist officer. His own creed, and its partisans, were often the victims of her satirical sallies; and he could not doubt of her republican inclinings.
It might be only that sort of sympathy thus existed between her and Holtspur?
Had he been an eye-witness to her behaviour—throughout that eventful day on which the conspirator had made his escape—he might have found it more difficult to reconcile himself to this pleasant belief. Her sad countenance, as, looking from the lattice, she once more beheld her lover in the power of his enemies—once more in vile bonds—might have proved, to the most uninterested observer, the existence of a care which love alone could create. Could he have seen her during the interval which transpired—between the time when the prisoner was borne off towards his perilous prison, and the return of the mounted messenger who told of his escape—he might have been convinced of an anxiety, which love alone can feel.
With what unspeakable joy had Marion listened to this last announcement! Perhaps it repaid her for the moments of misery, she had been silently enduring.
Deep as had been the chagrin, consequent on that event, Scarthe had found some consolation in the thought, that, henceforth, he should have the field to himself. He would take care that his rival should not again cross the threshold of Sir Marmaduke’s mansion, nor in any way obtain access to his daughter’s presence till he had settled the question of his own acceptance, or rejection.
During all this while, Sir Marmaduke and his people in their behaviour towards their uninvited guests, appeared civil enough.
Though one closely acquainted with the relationship—or narrowly scrutinising the intercourse between them—could not have failed to perceive that this civility was less free, than forced.
That it was so—or rather that a friendship existed even in appearance—needs but little explanation.
Sir Marmaduke’s conduct was ruled by something more than a vague apprehension of danger. The arrest of his fellow-conspirator was significant; and it was not difficult to draw from that circumstance a host of uncomfortable conclusions.
The course he was pursuing towards Scarthe, was not only opposed to his inclinations, but exceedingly irksome to him. There were times when he was almost tempted to throw off the mask; and brave the worst that might come of it. But prudence suggested endurance—backed by the belief that, ere long, things might take a more favourable turn.
The king had been compelled to issue a writ—not for the election of a new parliament, but for the re-assembling of the old one. In that centred the hopes and expectations of the party, of which Sir Marmaduke was now a declared member.
Marion’s politeness to Scarthe was equally dashed with distrust. It had no other foundation than her affection for her father. She loved the latter, with even more than filial fondness: for she was old enough, and possessed of sufficient intelligence, to understand the intrinsic nobility of his character. She was not without apprehension, that some danger overshadowed him; though she knew not exactly what. Sir Marmaduke had not made known to her the secret, that would have explained it. He had forborne doing so, under the fear of causing her unnecessary anxiety; and had simply requested her, to treat the unwelcome intruders with a fair show of respect.
The hint had been enough; and Marion, subduing her haughty spirit, yielded faithful obedience to it.
Scarthe had no reason to complain of any slights received from the daughter of his host. On the contrary, her behaviour towards him appeared so friendly, that there were times when he drew deductions from it, sufficiently flattering to himself.
Thus tranquilly did affairs progress during the first few weeks of Scarthe’s sojourn at Bulstrode—when an event was announced, that was destined to cause an exciting change in the situation. It was a Fête champètre, to be given by Sir Frederick Dayrell, lord of the manor of Fulmere—at which a grand flight of falcons was to form part of the entertainment. The elite of the county was to be present, including Sir Marmaduke Wade and his family, and along with them his military guests—Captain Scarthe and Cornet Stubbs.