Майн Рид
The White Gauntlet
Volume Three – Chapter Sixteen
In less than a week from this time, Sir Marmaduke Wade stood in the presence of the Star Chamber – that Court which for long years had been the dread – less of criminals, than of innocent men.
When accuser and judge are one and the same person, condemnation is sure to follow. In Sir Marmaduke’s case the accuser was the king himself. The Star Chamber was a mere mask – a means of carrying out his arbitrary acts, while screening him from their responsibility.
The trial was as much a farce, as if it had been held before a conclave of the Holy Inquisition. Indeed, both Star Chamber and High Commission Court bore a close resemblance to that terrible tribunal; and, like the latter, however farcical might be the form of their trials, they had too often a tragical ending.
Sir Marmaduke’s trial, like many others of the time, was a mockery of justice – a mere formality to satisfy the slight remnants of liberty that still lingered in the Constitution. The Court had already doomed him. It needed only for the Star Chamber to endorse the foregone decree; which was done by its truculent judges without any delay, and with as little noise or ceremony.
The knight was accused of treason towards the crown – of conspiring against the king.
The charge was proven; and the criminal was condemned to death, by the mode in use against political offenders of the time. His sentence was: —to be beheaded upon the block.
He was not even confronted with his accusers; and knew not who they were who bore witness against him. But the most specific charge brought up – that of his presence and speech at the night meeting at Stone Dean – left him no reason to doubt that Richard Scarthe was one of their number – if not the prime instigator of the prosecution.
During the investigation, the accused was kept in complete ignorance, both of the witnesses and the testimony preferred against him. None was allowed in his favour – no advocate was permitted to plead for him; and indeed, long before his trial came to a termination, he had made up his mind as to the result.
It was scarce a shock to him, when the president of that iniquitous conclave, pronounced in mock solemnity the sentence of death.
But it was a terrible shock to two tender hearts, when his son, Walter, hurrying home after the trial, carried the melancholy tidings – to the mansion of Bulstrode, soon to be deprived of its master.
Never was the hypocrisy of Richard Scarthe more successfully exerted than in that sad hour.
The children of his victim were almost deceived into a belief in his friendship. So sincere did his expressions of sympathy appear, and so often were they repeated, that Walter and Lora became almost disarmed as to his treason; and even Marion wavered in her suspicions of the honesty of this accomplished impostor.
Could Sir Marmaduke have communicated with them, there would have been no danger of such a deception. But this he was not allowed to do. From the hour of his arrest, his enemy had adopted every precaution to prevent it. The parting with his children had taken place in Scarthe’s presence – where no word could be spoken unheard. Afterwards, from his prison in the Tower, he had not been allowed to hold the slightest intercourse with the outside world – neither before his trial, nor after it. Only a few minutes had his son Walter been permitted to stay in his company; and then only with spies and jailers standing near, and listening to every speech that passed between them.
Sir Marmaduke had not even found opportunity to communicate to his son the suspicions he entertained: that the man who was making such loud protestations of sympathy and friendship, was not only his enemy, but the very individual who had denounced him.
To Walter, and Lora, and Marion, all this remained unknown. It had never occurred to them to speculate on the cause of Scarthe’s absence from the mansion – during the two days of the trial. Little did they suspect that the double-tongued villain – so profuse in expressions of sympathy and condolence – during that interval, had been himself in the presence of the Star Chamber – secretly testifying against the accused – freely supplying the testimony that had sealed his condemnation.
On the morning after the sad intelligence had been conveyed to the inmates of Bulstrode mansion, Marion was in her chamber, the victim of a double sorrow.
The Spaniards have a proverb, “One nail drives out another,” (un clavo saca otro clavo), intending to convey, by this homely figure, that the heart cannot contain two sorrows at the same time, but that one must give place to the other.
To some extent is this proverb true; but, like most others, yielding to certain conditions. For a while recent sorrow, overweighing that of anterior date, may tend to its alleviation. If it be greater, it may conduct to its cure; but, if less, the old grief will in time return, and again resume dominion over the throne of the heart.
Either one of the sorrows from which Marion suffered, was enough to have occupied her heart, to the exclusion of the other; and yet, her experience confirmed the proverb only in part. Long after listening to the sad tale told by her brother, she had brooded over the misfortunes of her much-loved father, and the fearful fate that was awaiting him. But love is stronger than filial affection; and there were intervals, during which, her anguish for a parent she was about to lose, was perhaps, less intense than that for a lover she had already lost! Judge her not harshly, if in the midst of her convulsive grief, there were moments when her mind dwelt upon the other and older sorrow. Judge her not harshly; but as you would yourself be judged! She was not alone. Her affectionate cousin was by her side; and near by, her fond brother. They had passed the night together – in vain endeavours to impart mutual consolation. Their cheeks and eyes told of a night spent in sleeplessness and tears.
Spent in mutual counsel, too; which they seemed to have exhausted: as was testified by the words now spoken by Walter.
Marion had suggested an appeal to the Queen – had proposed making a journey to London for this purpose.
“I fear it will be of no use,” rejoined the ex-courtier. “I fell upon my knees before her – I protested our father’s innocence – I entreated her with tears in my eyes; but she gave me no hope. On the contrary, she was angry with me. I never saw her so before. She even insulted me with vile words: called me the cub of a conspirator; while Jermyn, and Holland, and others of the young lords in her company, made merry at my expense. The king I dared not see. Ah! sister; I fear even you would meet no favour among that Court crew. There is but one who can help us; and that because he is of their kind. You know who I mean, Marion?”
“You speak of Captain Scarthe?”
“I do.”
“Indeed! it is true,” interposed Lora. “You know he has more than once thrown out hints, as to what he could do to obtain dear uncle’s freedom. I would go upon my knees to him, if it were of any use; but you know, Marion, one word from you would be worth all the entreaties that Walter and I could make. O, cousin! let us not speak in riddles at such a time as this. You know the reason?”
“Marion!” said Walter, half divining Lora’s implied meaning; “If this man speak sincerely – if it be true that he has the influence he boasts of – and I have heard as much at Court – then there may be a hope. I know not to what Lora refers. She says that a word from you may accomplish much. Dear sister; is it a sacrifice?”
“You have styled it truly, Walter, in calling it a sacrifice. Without that, my entreaties would be vain as yours. I am sure of it.”
“Say, sister! What sacrifice?”
“My hand – my hand!”
“Dear, dear Marion! If it be not with your heart, you cannot promise it – you could not give it.”
“Without such promise, I know he would deny me.”
“The wretch! O, heavens! And yet it is our father’s life – ay, his very life!”
“Would it were mine!” exclaimed Marion, with a look of abandoned anguish; “only mine. The thought of death would be easier to endure than the sorrows I have already!”
Walter comprehended not the meaning of her wild words. Lora better understood their import.
Neither had time to reflect upon them: for, on the instant of their utterance, Marion rose to her feet, and walked with a determined air towards the door of the apartment.
“Where are you going, dear cousin?” asked Lora, slightly frayed at Marion’s resolute mien.
“To Captain Scarthe,” was the firm rejoinder. “To fling myself at his feet – prostrate, if he please it; to ask him the price of my father’s life.”
Before either cousin or brother could interfere, to oppose or strengthen her resolution, the self-appointed suppliant had passed out of the room.
Volume Three – Chapter Seventeen
The sentence passed upon Sir Marmaduke had given Scarthe a new string to his bow; and the crisis had now arrived for testing its strength.
He had easily obtained the knight’s condemnation. From the peculiar interest which he possessed at Court, he knew – or believed – that with equal facility he could procure his pardon.
In his own mind he had resolved upon doing this. On certain conditions Marion Wade might expect a prompt answer to the inquiry she was about to make. It was already determined upon: the price of Sir Marmaduke’s life would be the hand of his daughter.
Scarthe did not design addressing his reiterated proposal to the condemned knight; but to Marion herself. His former appeal to the father had been met with a refusal so firm, that from him he might readily apprehend a similar response. True, at that time the knight was only threatened with danger. Now, death stared him in the face – death inglorious, even ignominious. The prospect could not fail to cause fear and faltering; and an ordinary man should be only too fain, by any means, to save himself from such a fate.
But Sir Marmaduke Wade was not one of this stamp. On the contrary, he was just the type of those antique heroic parents, who prefer death to the sacrifice of a daughter’s happiness. Scarthe knew it; and believed it quite possible that the conditions he meant to offer might still provoke a noble and negative rejoinder. Although he had not determined to forego the chances of a last appeal to the condemned prisoner, this was only to be made in the event of Marion’s rejection of his terms. Filial affection was first to be put upon its trial. After that it would be time to test the parental.
This design had been conceived, before the trial of Sir Marmaduke – even previous to his imprisonment: for it was but a sequence of his scheme; and he who concocted it had only been waiting for the knight’s condemnation, to bring matters to a climax.
Of the sentence he had been already advised – in fact, knew it before leaving London. Twenty-four hours sooner he could have communicated the intelligence to those whom it most concerned; but, for reasons of his own, he had preferred leaving it to reach them through the natural channel – by the return of Walter from that short sad interview, the last he had been permitted to hold with his unfortunate father.
It was late in the evening when Walter arrived to tell the melancholy tale. Perhaps, had the hour been earlier, Scarthe would have intruded upon the scene of sorrow – to speak his sham sympathy, and mingle hypocritical tears with those that were real. As it was, he only expressed himself thus by deputy – sending one of the domestics with a message of condolence, and reserving his interview with Marion for the morrow.
It was his design to see her, just at that hour when it might be supposed, the first fresh throes of her sorrow had subsided, and his proffer of assistance might stand a better chance of being appreciated.
Ever since the departure of the prisoner he had been cunningly preparing his plans. He had lost no opportunity of letting it be understood – or at all events surmised – that he possessed the power to save. He had hinted at great sacrifices that would accrue to himself in the exertion of this power – at the same time, making certain innuendos, that left the conditions to be guessed at.
His scheme had become matured. To-morrow would see it carried into effect, either for failure or success, and that morrow had now arrived.
On the eve of action he was far from being either confident, or tranquil. As he paced the large drawing-room of the mansion, previous to asking an interview with its young mistress, his steps betrayed agitation. His glances told of mingled emotions – hope, fear, and shame: for, hardened as he was, he could not contemplate his sinister intent without some slight sense of abasement. Several times had he laid his hand upon the bell, to summon some one, as the bearer of his request; but as often had his resolution failed him.
“By Phoebus! I’m a fool,” he exclaimed at length, as if to fortify his courage by the self-accusation: “and a coward, too! What have I to fear? She cannot refuse me – with her father’s life as the forfeit? She would be false to filial duty – affection – nature – everything. Bah! I’ll dally with doubt no longer. I’ll bring it to a crisis at once! Now is the time or never!”
He strode back to the table on which stood the bell. He took it up, with the intention of ringing it. The sound of an opening door, accompanied by the rustling of silken robes, caused him to turn round. She, from whom he was about to ask an interview, stood before him.
Scarthe was surprised – disconcerted – as one detected in a guilty action. He fancied that his visitor had divined his intent. On glancing at her countenance, his momentary abashment became suddenly changed to a feeling of triumph. He fancied that he divined hers.
She must have known he was in the room: else why did she not pause, or retire? On the contrary, she was approaching him – she had never done so before – evidently with a purpose! There could be but one —to ask his intercession.
This forestalling was in his favour. It gave him strength and confidence. It gave him a cue, for the disclosure he meditated making.
“Mistress Marion!” said he, bowing low, “you have saved me the chagrin of intruding upon your grief: for, in truth, I had intended soliciting an interview, to offer my poor mite of consolation.”
“By your own showing, sir,” rejoined she, placing herself in a firm yet humble attitude, “you can do more. If I mistake not, you have spoken of your influence with the king?”
“Perhaps it is greater with the king’s wife,” replied the soldier with a smile, evidently intended to make a peculiar impression on his petitioner. “True, fair Marion; I own to some little influence in that quarter. ’Tis not much; but such as it be, ’tis at your service.”
“O sir! thank you for these words. Say you will exert it, to save the life of my father! Say that; and you shall win the gratitude of – of – ”
“Marion Wade?”
“More than mine – my father – my brother – our kindred – perhaps our country – will all be grateful; will bless you for the act.”
“And of all these gratitudes, the only one I should in the least esteem is your own, beautiful Marion. That will be sufficient recompense for me.”
“Sir, you shall have it – to the very depth of my soul.”
“Say rather to the depth of your heart.”
“I have said it. You shall have my heart’s gratitude, now and for ever.”
“Ah! gratitude 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 sex – ”
“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 assurance 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 gratitude 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 gratitude,” said he, no longer speaking in a strain of fervour, but with an air of piqued formality, “your gratitude, 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 circumlocution. 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 God! 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 attitude, 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 passion; 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 casement, rushed out into the verandah!
