Volume 3 Chapter 15 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
Sir Marmaduke was in his library—not busied with his books, but his thoughts.
It is unnecessary to say that these were of a serious nature. They were more than serious—they were melancholy. The cause has been already, or may be easily, guessed.
In the circumstances that surrounded him, the noble knight had more than one source of anxiety. But there was one now paramount—an apprehension for his own personal safety—which of course, included the welfare of those dear to him.
He had reason to be thus apprehensive. He knew that he had committed himself—not only by his presence among the conspirators of Stone Dean, but by various other acts that would not bear the scrutiny of the Star Chamber.
Conjectures, referring to the midnight meeting at Holtspur’s house, were at that moment more particularly before his mind. The arrest of Holtspur himself upon the following morning—so close on the breaking up of the assemblage—had an ominous significance. It suggested—in fact, almost proclaimed—the presence of a spy.
If such had been among them—and Sir Marmaduke could come to no other conclusion—then would his life be worth no more, than that of a man already attainted, tried, condemned, and standing by the side of the block!
If there had been a spy, it must either have been Scarthe himself, or one who had communicated with him: else why the arrest of Holtspur?
Sir Marmaduke believed the captain of the King’s cuirassiers quite capable of the infamous act. His apparent friendship and courtesy—his professions of regret for the part he was compelled to play—had not deceived his host. Sir Marmaduke had no difficulty in detecting the spurious pretences of his guest.
As yet Scarthe had given him no hint of the knowledge he possessed. For his own reasons, he had carefully abstained from this. Nevertheless, Sir Marmaduke had his suspicions.
Unfortunately, he had no means of satisfying them, one way or the other. Scarthe had carefully scrutinised his correspondence—under the pretence that he did so by orders from the King—and such of the members of that meeting, as Sir Marmaduke had been able to see personally, were, like himself, only suspicious. No one in the neighbourhood knew of the doings of that night, except Dancey, Walford, and Gregory Garth. Dancey and his daughter had both been absent for weeks—it was not known where; Walford had no dealings with Sir Marmaduke Wade; and Garth was utterly unknown to him.
The knight knew that his liberty—his life—were in the scales. A feather—a breath—and the beam might be kicked against him. No wonder he was apprehensive—even to wretchedness.
There was but one clear spot in the sky—one beacon on which to fix his hopes—the Parliament.
This Parliament—afterwards distinguished as the “Long”—perhaps the most patriotic assembly that ever met amongst men—was about to commence its sittings, as well as its struggles with the hoary hydra of royal prerogative. To the oppressed it promised relief—to the condemned a respite—to the imprisoned a restoration of their liberty.
But the royal reptile, though cowering, and partially crushed, had not yet been deprived of his fangs. There were places throughout the realm where his power was rampant as ever—where he could still seize, confiscate, and behead. With reason, therefore, might Sir Marmaduke feel dread of his vengeance. And no wonder: with Sir John Elliot pining away his life in a prison; with the wrongs of Lenthall, and Lilburne, and Prynne unavenged; with men walking the streets deprived of their ears, and outraged by other mutilations; with Holtspur himself, whom Sir Marmaduke now knew to be the noble patriot Henry —, an outlawed fugitive, hiding himself from the sleuth-hounds of a spited queen!
The good knight resembled the mariner in the midst of a tempest. The re-summoned Parliament was the life-boat struggling across the surge—surrounded by angry breakers. Would it live to reach, and relieve him? Or was he destined to see it strike upon a rock, and its gallant crew washed away amidst the waste of waters?
In truth, a gallant crew, as ever carried ship of state through the storm—as ever landed one in a haven of safety. Hark to their names—every one of them a household word! Pym, Hampden, Hollis, and Hazlerig; the Lords Kimbolton, Essex, and Fairfax; and last and greatest, the immortal Oliver Cromwell! It was a glorious galaxy of names—enough to inspire even the timid with confidence; and by such were the timid sustained.
In the retrospect of two hundred years’ alongside such names, how sounds the paltry title of “Carolus Rex?” Even then it was, day by day, losing its authoritative significance. A crisis was coming, as when men awake from a drunken dream—when the word “loyalty” only reminds them of liberties surreptitiously stolen, and rights too slackly surrendered; when “king” sounds synonymous with “tyrant;” and “patriot” assumes its proper meaning. Not, as the so-called “statesmen” of the present day—statesmen forsooth!—palterers with the people’s rights—smug trimmers of parliamentary majorities—bottle-holders—the very chicanes of statecraft—the “smush” of England’s manhood, with reputations destined to damnation, almost as soon as their puny breath becomes choked within their inglorious coffins!
Oh, the contrast between that day and this—the difference of its deeds, and its men!—distinct as glory from shame! That was the grandest throe ever felt by England’s heart in its aspirations after Liberty.
Let us hope it will not be the last. Let us hope that the boasted spirit of Great Britain—at this hour lower than it has ever been—will have a speedy resuscitation; and strike to the dust the demon of thraldom, in whatever form he may make himself manifest—in the old fashioned shape of serfdom, or its modern substitute the tax: for, though differing in tide, both are essentially the same.
Sir Marmaduke sate in his library, as we have said, a prey to uneasy thoughts. They were not tranquillised by the announcement, just then made by one of the domestics: that Captain Scarthe desired an interview with him.
“What business has he now?” was the mental interrogatory of the knight, when the request was conveyed to him.
“Something of more than ordinary import,” thought he, on glancing at the countenance of Scarthe, as the latter presented himself within the apartment.
Well might Sir Marmaduke give thought to the conjecture: for, in truth, was there upon the mind of his visitor something that might well merit the name of extraordinary; which, despite his habitual sang froid, did not fail to show itself upon his features. Upon them a guilty intention was as plainly expressed, as if the lines had been letters on the page of a printed book.
The knight knew not this intention by any overture hitherto made to him. He had his suspicions nevertheless, too truly pointing to the pretensions which Scarthe was about to put forward to the hand of his daughter. These had been sufficiently painful to him: now more so, when coupled with that other suspicion already harassing him: as to the power possessed by his soldier guest.
They might have been even more painful, had he known the extent of that power—real and assumed—with which the latter was endowed. At that moment Scarthe carried in his pocket signed “Carolus Rex,” an order for the knight’s arrest, and commitment to the Tower of London!
It signified little, that both the order and its signature were counterfeits. They would be equally efficacious for the purpose intended. Sir Marmaduke had not the means, nor would he be allowed the opportunity to test their genuineness.
They were forgeries both. It was in concocting them that Captain Scarthe had spent the half-hour, between the time of his parting with Marion Wade, and betaking himself into the presence of her father.
Before Sir Marmaduke he now stood, prepared for an emergency he had already contemplated—ready for its extremest measures.
“Pardon me, Sir Marmaduke Wade!” began he, bowing with ceremonious respect. “Pardon me for intruding upon you at this early hour; but my business is of importance. When you have heard it, you will no doubt excuse this deviation from the rules of etiquette.”
“Captain Scarthe is, I presume, on the performance of some duty; and that will be his excuse.”
“In truth, Sir Marmaduke, I have a double errand. One is on duty—and I grieve to say a painful duty to me. The other I might designate an errand of affection; and could I flatter myself that it would prove a welcome one to you, I should deem it as pleasant as that of my duty is painful.”
“You speak in enigmas, sir? I cannot comprehend them. May I ask you to tell me, in plain speech, what are your two errands? One, you say, is painful to yourself—the other, on certain conditions, may prove pleasant. Choose which you please to communicate first.”
“Sir Marmaduke Wade,” rejoined the cuirassier captain, “you accuse me of circumlocution. It is an accusation I will not give you cause to repeat. My first errand—and that to me of most importance—is to tell you that I love your daughter; and that I wish to make her my wife.”
“I admire your candour, Captain Scarthe; but permit me to say, in reply, that the information you have thus volunteered concerns my daughter, more than myself. You are free to impart it to her; as is she to answer you according to her inclinations.”
“I have imparted it. I have already proposed to her.”
“And her answer?”
“A refusal.”
“And you come to me! For what purpose, Captain Scarthe?”
“Need I declare it, Sir Marmaduke? I love your daughter with all the love of my heart. I would wed her—make her happy—in time, perhaps, high and noble, as any in the land. I know that I offer myself under unfavourable circumstances. But with your assistance, Sir Marmaduke—your authority exerted over her—”
“You need not go on, sir;” said Sir Marmaduke, interrupting the petitioner in a calm, firm tone. “Whatever answer my daughter has given you shall be mine. You speak of my authority. I have none in such a matter as this. The father has no right to restrain, or thwart, the inclinations of his child. I have never assumed such a power; nor shall I now—either in your favour, or against you. If you have won the heart of Marion Wade, you are welcome to wear it—welcome both to her heart and hand. If not, you need not look to me. So far as I am concerned, my daughter is free to accept whomsoever she may please, or reject whom she may dislike. Now, sir!” added the knight, in a tone that told of stern determination, “that matter is ended between us—I hope to your satisfaction.”
“Enough!” ejaculated Scarthe, his voice betraying indignant chagrin. “’Tis just as I expected,” he muttered to himself. “It will be idle to urge the matter any more—at least until I’ve got my lever on its fulcrum; then, perhaps—”
“May I beg of you to make known your other errand, sir?” said Sir Marmaduke, impatient to bring the unpleasant interview to a termination, “that which you say is of a painful nature?”
“I say it with truth,” rejoined Scarthe, still keeping up a show of sympathy for his victim. “Perhaps you will not give me credit for the declaration; though I pledge my honour—as a gentleman holding the commission of the king—that a more unpleasant duty, than that which is now before me, I have never been called upon to perform.”
“When you condescend to make it known, sir, perhaps I shall be the better able to judge. Can I assist you in any way?”
“O, Sir Marmaduke—noble Sir Marmaduke Wade! I wish it were in my power to assist you.”
“Ha!”
“Alas! But a short month ago I could with indifference have enacted the part I am now called upon to play. Then I knew you not. I knew not your daughter. Oh! that I had never known one, or the other—neither the noble father, nor the—”
“Sir!” interrupted Sir Marmaduke sternly, “I beg you will come to the point. What is this disagreeable communication you would make? You surprise and puzzle me.”
“I cannot declare it with my own lips. Noble knight! excuse me from giving speech to it. Here are my orders—too plain—too peremptory. Read them for yourself!”
Sir Marmaduke took hold of the paper—extended to him, apparently, with a trembling hand. The hand trembled that received it. He read:—
“To ye Captain Richard Scarthe, commanding ye cuirassiers at Bulstrode Park.
“It hath come, to ye knowledge of his Majestie that Sir Marmaduke Wade, Knight, hath been guilty of treasonable practices and designs against his Majestie and ye government. Therefore Captain Scarthe is hereby commanded to arrest ye said Sir Marmaduke, and convey him to ye Tower prison, there to await trial by Star Chamber, or such other Court as may be deemed sufficient for ye crime charged.
“And Captain Scarthe is moreover enjoined and commanded by his Majestie to lose no time in carrying out ye said command of his Majestie, but that he proceed to its execution on ye receipt of these presents.
“Given at my Palace, Whitehall.
“Carolus Rex.”
“I am your prisoner, then?” said Sir Marmaduke, folding up the paper, and returning it to the cuirassier captain.
“Not mine, Sir Marmaduke. Alas! not mine, but the king’s.”
“And where am I to be taken? But I forget. I need not have asked.”
“The place is mentioned in the despatch.”
“The time too!”
“I regret it is so,” rejoined Scarthe, with a pretence of being pained in the performance of his duty. “By this document you will perceive, that my orders are peremptory.”
“I presume, I shall be permitted to take leave of my family?”
“It grieves me to the heart, Sir Marmaduke, to inform you that my instructions are painfully stringent. Even that has been made a part of them.”
“Then I am not to bid farewell to my children, before parting with them—perhaps, for ever?”
“Do not talk thus, sir,” said Scarthe, with a show, of profound sympathy. “There must be a misunderstanding. Some enemy has been abusing you to the ear of the king. Let us hope it will be nothing serious in the end. I wish it were otherwise; but I am instructed in a confidential despatch—that, after making known the order for your arrest, I am not to permit any communication between you and your friends—even the members of your own family—except in my presence.”
“In your presence be our parting then. Can I summon my children hither?”
“Certainly, Sir Marmaduke. Alas! alas! that I am compelled to be the witness of such a sad spectacle.”
Scarthe truly characterised the scene that followed, by calling it a sad spectacle. Such it was—too sad to be described: the cuirassier captain appearing as much affected as any of those who assisted at it!
In an hour after, Sir Marmaduke Wade—in the custody of a cuirassier guard—might have been seen passing out of Bulstrode Park, on his way to that famous, or rather infamous, receptacle of political prisoners—the Tower of London.