Captain Mayne Reid (continued 4)

Dancey saw that he was expected to take the road at once; and, without further parley, he started off on his distant round of delivery: before leaving the house, however, having fortified himself against the raw air of the night, by a stoup of strong ale—with which Oriole had been directed to supply him.

Will Walford—who among the dramatis personae of the morris dance had performed the rôle of Robin Hood—next presented himself to receive his chapter of instructions.

This worthy had doffed his tunic of Kendal green, and now figured in his proper costume—a jerkin of grey homespun russet, with wide petticoat breeches reaching to mid thigh. The green woollen stockings, in which he had personated the outlaw, still appeared upon his legs—with a pair of heavy hobnailed buskins on his feet. On his head was the high-crowned hat worn at the fête, with a portion of the plume of cock’s feathers still sticking behind its band of scarlet coloured tape.

Altogether the costume of the woodman was not inelegant; and the wearer affected a certain air of rustic dandyism, which showed him conceited of his personal appearance.

He had but slight reason for this vanity, however. At the fête he had proved himself but a poor representative of the chivalrous outlaw of Sherwood-Forest; and, now that he stood partially plucked of his borrowed feathers, he looked altogether unlike the man, whom the beautiful Bet Dancey would have chosen for her champion.

It was a countenance, though naturally of an evil aspect, more sullen than sinister; while the glance of a watery otter-like eye, along with a certain expression of cowardice, betrayed insincerity.

Will Walford was evidently a man not to be trusted—very far. He appeared like one who, to gratify a passion, would turn traitor upon a partisan.

It was just such a suspicion of his character that hindered Henry Holtspur from revealing to him the secret contained within those half-dozen letters—which he now entrusted to him for delivery, after giving him the names of the gentlemen for whom they were intended.

With a promise to perform the duty—apparently sincere—the woodman walked out of the room; but, as he turned off into the shadowy hall, a glance flung back over his shoulder betrayed some feeling towards his patron, anything but friendly.

Still more surly was the look cast upon the young Indian, as the latter—apparently with an unwilling grace—presented him with the parting cup.

There was no word spoken, no health drunk—neither of master, nor man. The ale vessel was emptied in sullen silence; and then thanklessly tossed back into the hands from which it had been received.

A gruff “good-night,” and Will Walford, striding off through the corridor, was soon lost to view.

Oriole turned back into the room occupied by his master; and, stopping near the door, stood waiting, for the latter to look round. On his doing so, the Indian elevated his right arm; and holding it horizontally, with the back of his hand upwards, he described a wide curve in an outward direction from his body.

“Good, you say? Who is good?”

The Indian made a motion, to signify that he had not completed his pantomime.

“Ah! you’ve something to add? Go on!”

The hand was again carried out from the body in a waving direction; but this time with the thumb turned upwards.

“No,” said the cavalier, translating the sign, “not good, you mean to say? He who has just gone off?”

Oriole nodded assent—at the same time placing his fore and middle fingers, joined together, over his mouth; and then separating them as he carried them away from his lips:—thus signifying, that the words of the woodman would proceed in two directions: otherwise, that he was double tongued.

“A liar—a deceiver, you think, Oriole? I have some suspicion of it myself. Do not be afraid; I shall not trust him too far. But come! my faithful red-skin; you must be tired sitting up? Close the door, to keep out the rats and robbers; and get to your bed. I hope we shall have no more visitors to trouble us, till we’ve both had a good night’s rest. Go sleep, my lad.”

So saying, the cavalier lifted up the lamp; stepped forth from the library; and betook himself to his own sleeping apartment.

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Five.

On the bold brow of one of the central hills of Bulstrode Park, stood the dwelling—a palatial structure of red brick, with facings of white stone—the latter transported over the sea from the quarries of Caen.

The style of architecture was that known as “Norman”—with thick massive walls, having the circular Roman arch over the doors and windows.

In front was a space appropriated to the purposes of parterre and shrubbery; while to the rearward extended the stables and other offices—enclosing an extensive courtyard between them and the dwelling.

In rear of the outbuildings was the garden—approached through the courtyard by a strong iron wicket; while encircling all—grounds, garden, and houses—was a deep battlemented moat, which imparted to the mansion somewhat of the character of a fortified castle.

On the morning after the fête in Bulstrode Park, the courtyard of the dwelling presented an unusual spectacle. A stranger, entering through the great arched gateway, might have mistaken the square enclosure inside for the yard of a barrack. Horses were standing in rows around the walls—their heads tied up to hooks that had been freshly driven into the mason-work; while men in topped boots, wide hanging hose, and grogram shirts—with sleeves rolled up to the elbows—were engaged in grooming them.

Leathern buckets, containing water, stood by the heels of the horses—where the pavement appeared splashed and wet.

Other men, of similar appearance, might have been seen seated upon benches, or squatted upon the coarse woollen covers of their horses—occupying themselves with the cleaning of armour—furbishing steel cuirasses, cuisses, and helmets, to the sheen of silver, and then hanging them against the walls, under a sort of shed that had been specially erected for their reception.

Under the same shelter large demi-pique dragoon saddles had been placed in rows—astride of long trestles set up for the purpose.

Every available space upon the walls was occupied by a bridle, a pair of spurs, pistols, or holsters, a sword with its belt, or some piece either of offensive, or defensive, armour.

It is scarce necessary to say, that these horses and men—these saddles, bridles, arms, and armour—were the component parts of Captain Scarthe’s troop of cuirassiers, viewed en dishabille.

What with the neighing of steeds that did not belong to the place, the barking of dogs that did, and the swearing and gibbering of threescore men in half-a-dozen distinct languages, the usually quiet courtyard of Sir Marmaduke’s mansion had been transformed into a sort of Pandemonium: for, to say nothing of any other sounds, the conversation usually carried on among Scarthe’s cuirassiers was not unlike what might be heard—could one only penetrate into that mythical locality.

Notwithstanding their noted ruffianism, they appeared to be behaving better than was their wont—as if under some unusual restraint. They were merry enough—no doubt from being installed in such comfortable quarters—but they did not appear to exhibit any offensive attitude towards the inmates of the mansion.

If by chance a pretty housemaid tripped across the courtyard—on some errand to the garden, or elsewhere—she was sure of being saluted by a volley of jeux-d’esprit in French, Flemish, or English; but beyond this, the behaviour of the troopers was no worse than that of most soldiers similarly quartered.

Moreover, the men, instead of being permitted within the mansion, were contenting themselves to sleep in the outhouses: as testified by the straw beds scattered over the floors of the granary, and other offices, in which they had passed the night.

This semi-courteous tolerance, on the part of Captain Scarthe’s followers towards their involuntary host—unlike the character of the former, as it was unexpected by the latter—requires some explanation; which the conversation between Scarthe himself and his cornet, occurring at that very moment, will supply.

The two officers were in a large sitting-room, that had been assigned to them in the eastern wing of the dwelling. It is scarce necessary to say that the room was handsomely furnished: for the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, besides being one of the oldest, was also one of the grandest of the time. The walls of the apartment specified were covered with Cordovan leather, stamped with heraldic devices; the huge bay window was hung with curtains of dark green velvet; while the pieces of massive furniture exhibited sculptural carvings not only elaborate, but perhaps of higher art than can be produced at the present time.

A massive round table in the middle of the floor was covered by a heavy cloth of rich Damascus pattern; while the floor itself, in lieu of Brussels or Turkey carpet, was hidden under a mattress of smooth shining rushes, neatly woven into a variety of patterns.

Scarthe was seated, or rather reclining on a fauteuil covered with crimson velvet; while his cornet, who had just entered the room, stood in front of him—as if in the reception, or delivery, of a message.

Neither of the officers was in armour. The steel plates had been laid aside; or not fastened on for that day.

Scarthe himself was habited in all the fantastic frippery fashionable at the time. A doublet of yellow satin, with trunk hose of the same—the latter fringed at the bottoms with silk ribbons, tipped with tags of gold. A broad Vandyke collar of point lace; cuffs to correspond; and a scarlet sash—also weighted with golden tags—adorned the upper part of his body; while boots of yellow Cordovan leather—with snow-white lawn puffing out at the ample tops—completed the list of his habiliments.

Despite his pale face; despite a certain sinister cast of his countenance—not always to be observed—Richard Scarthe was a handsome man. The eyes of many a courtly dame had deemed him more than interesting; and as he reclined against the back of the fauteuil in an attitude of perfect ease, he looked not the less interesting, that the scarlet scarf passed over his right shoulder was crossed by another of more sombre hue—acting as a sling, in which his right arm rested.

A wounded man—especially if the damage has been received in a duel—is a dangerous object for the eye of a sentimental young lady to rest upon. It might be that Captain Scarthe was acquainted with this not very recondite truth. It might be, that some such thought had been in his mind that very morning, while making his toilette before the mirror.

The cornet was neither so handsome as his captain, nor so daintily dressed; and yet one, previously acquainted with Stubbs’ rather slovenly habit, could not have failed to notice, on that particular morning, that more than ordinary pains had been taken with his “make-up.”

He was in a plain military suit of buff; but the collar and cuffs were clean; and so also his plump flesh-coloured face—a condition in which it was not always to be found.

His hay-coloured hair, too, exhibited something of a gloss—as though the brush had been recently and repeatedly passed through it.

There was a flush on Stubbs’ cheek, with a soft subdued light in his eye, that betokened some unusual emotion in his mind—some thought more refined than ordinarily held dominion there. In short, Stubbs had the look of a man who had been so unfortunate, as to fall in love!

As we have said, the cornet was standing. He was silent also; as if he had already delivered his report, and was awaiting the reply.

“I’m glad they’re taking it so quietly,” said the captain, in rejoinder to whatever communication his cornet had made. “Our fellows are not used to sleeping in stables—with a fine house standing close by. But we’re in England now, Stubbs; and it won’t do to keep up the fashions of Flanders. By so doing, we might get our good king into disgrace.”

“We might, by Ged!” stiffly assented Stubbs.

“Besides,” continued the captain, speaking rather to himself than to his subaltern, “I’ve another reason for not letting them forage too freely, just now. The time may come, when it will be more profitable to put the screw on. The cat plays with the mouse, before killing it. Did the vagabonds grumble at my order?”

“Not a bit. No, by Ged! They’re too fond of you for that.”

“Well, cornet; next time you go among them, you can promise them plenty of beef and beer. They shall have full rations of both, and double ones too. But no pickings and stealings. Tell them that the eighth commandment must be kept; and that nothing short of hanging will satisfy me if it be broken. They must be given to understand, that we’re no longer engaged in a campaign; though the Lord knows how soon we may be. From what I heard, and saw, yesterday among that rabble, I shouldn’t wonder if the king sets us to cutting their throats before spring.”

“Like enough,” quietly assented Stubbs.

“I don’t care how soon,” continued the cuirassier captain, musing as he spoke. “I shouldn’t care how soon—but—that, if it come to blows, we’ll be called away from here; and after the infernal marchings and countermarchings we’ve had for the last six months, I feel inclined for a little rest. I think I could enjoy the dolce far niente devilish well down here—that is, for a month or so. Nice quarters, a’nt they?”

“Are, by Ged!”

“Nice girls too—you’ve seen them, haven’t you?”

“Just a glimpse of them through the window, as I was dressing. There were two of them out on the terrace.”

“There are only two—a daughter, and a niece. Come, cornet; declare yourself! Which?”

“Well, the little un’s the one to my taste. She’s a beauty, by Ged!”

“Ha! ha! ha! I might have known it?” cried the captain. “Well—well—well!” he continued speaking to himself in a careless drawl. “I believe, as I always did, that Nature has formed some souls utterly incapable of appreciating her highest works. Now here is a man, who actually thinks that dapper little prude more beautiful than her queenlike cousin; a woman that to me—a man of true taste and experience—is known to possess qualities—ah! such qualities! Ha! ha! ha! Stubbs sees but the bodice and skirt. I can perceive something more—never mind what—the soul that is concealed under them. He sees a pretty lip—a sparkling eye—a neat nose—a shining tress; and he falls over head and ears in love with one or other of these objects. To me ’tis neither lip, glance, nor tress: ’tis the tout ensemble—lips, nose, eyes, cheeks, and chevelure—soul and body all combined!”

“By Ged! that would be perfection,” cried Stubbs, who stood listening to the enraptured soliloquy.

“So it would, cornet.”

“But where will you find such? Nowhere, I should say?”

“You are blind, cornet—stone-blind, or you might have seen it this morning.”

“I admit,” said the cornet, “I’ve seen something very near it—the nearest it I ever saw in my life. I didn’t think there was a girl in all England as pretty as that creature. I didn’t, by Ged.”

“What creature?”

“The one we’ve been speaking of, the little one—Mistress Lora Lovelace is her name. I had it from her maid.”

“Ha! ha! ha! You’re a fool, Stubbs; and it’s fortunate you are so. Fortunate for me, I mean. If you’d been gifted with either taste or sense, we might have been rivals; and that, my killing cornet, would have been a great misfortune for me. As it is, our roads lie in different directions. You see something—I can’t, nor can you tell what—in Mistress Lora Lovelace. I see that in her cousin which I can, and do, comprehend. I see perfection. Yes, Stubbs, this morning you have had before your eyes not only the most beautiful woman in the shire of Bucks, but, perhaps, the loveliest in all England. And yet you did not know it! Never mind, worthy cornet. Chacun a son goût. How lucky we don’t all think alike!”

“Is, by Ged!” assented the cornet, in his characteristic fashion. “I like the little ’un best.”

“You shall have her all to yourself. And now, Stubbs, as I can’t leave my room with this wounded wing of mine, go and seek an interview with Sir Marmaduke. Smooth over the little rudenesses of yesterday; and make known to him, in a roundabout way—you understand—that we had a cup of sack too much at the inn. Say something of our late campaign in Flanders, and the free life we had been accustomed to lead while there. Say what you like; but see that it be the thing to soften him down, and make him our friend. I don’t think the worthy knight is so disloyal, after all. It’s something about this young sprig’s being recalled from Court, that has got him into trouble with the king. Do all you can to make him friendly to us. Remember! if you fail, we may get no nearer to that brace of beauties, than looking at them through a window, as you did this morning. It would be of no use forcing ourselves into their company. If we attempt that, Sir Marmaduke may remove his chicks into some other nest; and then, cornet, our quarters would be dull enough.”

“I’ll see Sir Marmaduke at once?” said the subaltern interrogatively.

“The sooner the better. I suppose they have breakfasted ere this. These country people keep early hours. Try the library. No doubt you’ll find him there: he’s reported to be a man of books.”

“I’ll go there, by Ged!”

And with this characteristic speech, the cornet hastened out of the room.

“I must win this woman,” said Scarthe, rising to his feet, and striding across the floor with an air of resolution: “‘I must win her, if I should lose my soul!’ Oh! beauty! beauty! the true and only enchanter on earth. Thou canst change the tiger into a tender lamb, or transform the lamb into a fierce tiger. What was I yesterday but a tiger? To-day subdued—tamed to the softness of a suckling. ’Sdeath! Had I but known that such a woman was watching—for she was there no doubt—I might have avoided that accursed encounter. She saw it all—she must have seen it! Struck down from my horse, defeated—’Sdeath!”

The exclamation hoarsely hissing through his teeth, with the fierce expression that accompanied it, showed how bitterly he bore his humiliation. It was not only the pain of his recent wound—though that may have added to his irritation—but the sting of defeat that was rankling in his soul—defeat under such eyes as those of Marion Wade!

“’Sdeath!” he again exclaimed, striding nervously to and fro. “Who and what can the fellow be? Only his name could they tell me—nothing more—Holtspur! Not known to Sir Marmaduke before yesterday! He cannot, then, have been known to her? He cannot have had an opportunity for that? Not yet—not yet!”

“Perhaps,” he continued after a pause, his brow once more brightening, “they have never met? She may not have witnessed the unfortunate affair? Is it certain she was on the ground? I did not see her.

“After all the man may be married? He’s old enough. But, no: the glove in his hat—I had forgotten that. It could scarcely be his wife’s! Ha! ha! ha! what signifies? I’ve been a blessed Benedict myself; and yet while so, have worn my beaver loaded with love-tokens. I wonder to whom that glove belonged. Ha! Death and the devil!”

Scarthe had been pacing the apartment, not from side to side, but in every direction, as his wandering thoughts carried him. As the blasphemous exclamation escaped from his lips, he stopped suddenly—his eyes becoming fixed upon some object before him!

On a small table that stood in a shadowed corner of the apartment, a glove was lying—as if carelessly thrown there. It was a lady’s glove—with gauntlet attached, embroidered with gold wire, and bordered with lace. It appeared the very counterpart of that at the moment occupying his thoughts—the glove that had the day before decorated the hat of Henry Holtspur!

“By heaven, ’tis the same!” he exclaimed, the colour forsaking his cheeks as he stood gazing upon it. “No—not the same,” he continued, taking up the glove, and scrutinising it with care. “Not the same; but its mate—its fellow! The resemblance is exact; the lace, the embroidery, the design—all. I cannot be mistaken!”

And as he repeated this last phrase, he struck his heel fiercely upon the floor.

“There’s a mystery!” he continued, after the first painful pulsations of his heart had passed; “Not known to Sir Marmaduke until yesterday! Not known to Sir Marmaduke’s daughter! And yet wearing her gauntlet conspicuously in the crown of his hat! Was it hers? Is this hers? May it not belong to the other—the niece? No—no—though small enough, ’tis too large for her tiny claw. ’Tis the glove of Marion!”

For some seconds Scarthe stood twirling the piece of doeskin between his fingers, and examining it on all sides. A feeling far stronger than mere curiosity prompted him to this minute inspection, as would be divined by the dark shadows rapidly chasing each other over his pallid brow.

His looks betrayed both anguish and anger, as he emphatically repeated the phrase—“Forestalled, by heaven!”

“Stay there!” he continued, thrusting the glove under the breast of his doublet. “Stay there, thou devilish tell-tale—close to the bosom thou hast filled with bitter thoughts. Trifle as thou seemest, I may yet find thee of serious service.”

And with a countenance in which bitter chagrin was blended with dark determination, he continued to pace excitedly over the floor of the apartment.

End of Volume One.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

The warm golden light of an autumn sun was struggling through the half-closed curtains of a window, in the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade.

It was still early in the afternoon; and the window in question, opening from an upper storey, and facing westward, commanded one of the finest views of the park of Bulstrode. The sunbeams slanting through the parted tapestry lit up an apartment, which by its light luxurious style of furniture, and costly decoration, proclaimed itself to be a boudoir, or room exclusively appropriated to the use of a lady.

At that hour there was other and better evidence of such appropriation: since the lady herself was seen standing in the embayment of its window, under the arcade formed by the drooping folds of the curtains.

The sunbeams glittered upon tresses of a kindred colour—among which they seemed delighted to linger. They flashed into eyes as blue as the canopy whence they came; and the rose-coloured clouds, they had themselves created in the western sky, were not of fairer effulgence than the cheeks they appeared so fondly to kiss.

These were not in their brightest bloom. Though slightly blanched, neither were they pale. The strongest emotion could not produce absolute pallor on the cheeks of Marion Wade—where the rose never altogether gave place to the lily.

The young lady stood in the window, looking outward upon the park. With inquiring glance she swept its undulating outlines; traced the softly-rounded tops of the chestnut trees; scrutinised the curving lines of the copses; saw the spotted kine roaming slowly o’er the lea, and the deer darting swiftly across the sward; but none of these sights were the theme of her thoughts, or fixed her attention for more than a passing moment.

There was but one object within that field of vision, upon which her eyes rested for any length of time; not constantly, but with glances straying from it only to return. This was a gate between two massive piers of mason-work, grey and ivy-grown. It was not the principal entrance to the park; but one of occasional use, which opened near the western extremity of the enclosure into the main road. It was the nearest way for any one going in the direction of Stone Dean, or coming thither.

There was nothing in the architecture of those ivy-covered piers to account for the almost continuous scrutiny given to it by Mistress Marion Wade; nor yet in the old gate itself—a mass of red-coloured rusty iron. Neither was new to her. She had looked upon that entrance—which opened directly in front of her chamber window every day—almost every hour of her life. Why, then, was she now so assiduously gazing upon it?

Her soliloquy will furnish the explanation.

“He promised he would come to-day. He told Walter so before leaving the camp—the scene of his conquest over one who appears to hate him—far more over one who loves him No. The last triumph came not then. Long before was it obtained. Ah me! it must be love, or why should I so long to see him?”

“Dear cousin, how is this? Not dressed for dinner? ’Tis within five minutes of the hour!”

It was the pretty Lora Lovelace who, tripping into the room, asked these questions—Lora fresh from her toilette, and radiant with smiles.

There was no heaviness on her heart—no shadow on her countenance. Walter and she had spent the morning together; and, whatever may have passed between them, it had left behind no trace of a cloud.

“I do not intend dressing,” rejoined Marion. “I shall dine as you see me.”

“What, Marion! and these strange gentlemen to be at the table!”

“A fig for the strange gentlemen! It’s just for that I won’t dress. Nay, had my father not made a special request of it, I should not go to the table at all. I’m rather surprised, cousin, at your taking such pains to be agreeable to guests thus forced upon us. For which of the two are you setting your snare, little Lora—the conceited captain, or his stupid subaltern?”

“Oh!” said Lora, with a reproachful pouting of her pretty lips; “you do me wrong, Marion. I have not taken pains on their account. There are to be others at the table besides the strangers.”

“Who?” demanded Marion.

“Who—why,”—stammered Lora, slightly blushing as she made answer, “why, of course there is uncle Sir Marmaduke.”

“That all?”

“And—and—Cousin Walter as well.”

“Ha! ha! Lora; it’s an original idea of yours, to be dressing with such studied care for father and Walter. Well, here goes to get ready. I don’t intend to make any farther sacrifice to the rigour of fashion than just pull off these sleeves, dip my fingers into a basin of water, and tuck up my tresses a little.”

“O Marion!”

“Not a pin, nor ribbon, except what’s necessary to hold up my troublesome horse-load of hair. I’ve a good mind to cut it short. Sooth! I feel like pulling some of it out through sheer vexation!”

“Vexation—with what?”

“What—what—why being bored with these blustering fellows—especially when one wants to be alone.”

“But, cousin; these gentlemen cannot help their being here. They have to obey the commands of the king. They are behaving very civilly? Walter has told me so. Besides, uncle has enjoined upon us to treat them with courtesy.”

“Aha! they’ll have scant courtesy from me. All they’ll get will be a yes and a no; and that not very civilly, unless they deserve it.”

“But if they deserve it?”

“If they do—”

“Walter says they have offered profuse apologies, and regrets.”

“For what?”

“For the necessity they are under of becoming uncle’s guests.”

“I don’t believe so—no, not a bit. Look at their rude behaviour at the very beginning—kissing that bold girl Bet Dancey, in the presence of a thousand spectators! Ha! well punished was captain Scarthe for his presumption. He feel regret! I don’t believe it, Lora. That man’s a hypocrite. There’s falsehood written in his face, along with a large quantity of conceit; and as for the cornet—the only thing discernible in his countenance is—stupidity.”

As Marion pronounced the last word, she had completed her toilette—all that she had promised or intended to make. She was one who needed not to take much trouble before the mirror. Dressed or in déshabille she was the same—ever beautiful. Nature had made her in its fairest mould, and Art could not alter the design.

Her preparations for the dinner table consisted simply in replacing her morning boddice by one without sleeves—which displayed her snow-white arms nearly to the shoulders. Having adjusted this, she inserted one hand under her wavy golden hair; and, adroitly turning its profuse tresses round her wrist, she rolled them into a spiral coil, which by means of a pair of large hair pins she confined at the back of her head. Then, dipping her hands into a basin of water, she shook off the crystal drops from the tips of her roseate fingers; wiped them on a white napkin; flung the towel upon the table; and cried “Come on!”

Followed by the light-hearted Lora, she descended to the dining hall, where the two officers were already awaiting their presence.

A dinner-party under such circumstances as that which assembled around the table of Sir Marmaduke Wade—small in numbers though it was—could not be otherwise than coldly formal.

The host himself was polite to his uninvited guests—studiously so; but not all his habitual practice of courtly manners could conceal a certain embarrassment, that now and then exhibited itself in incidents of a trivial character.

On his part the cuirassier captain used every effort to thaw the ice that surrounded him. He lost no opportunity of expressing his regret: at being the recipient of such a peculiar hospitality; nor was he at all backward in censuring his royal master for making him so.

But for an occasional distrustful glance visible under the shaggy eyebrows of the knight—visible only at intervals, and to one closely watching him—it might have been supposed that Sir Marmaduke was warming to the words of his wily guest. That glance, however, told of a distrust, not to be removed by the softest and most courteous of speeches.

Marion adhered to her promise, and spoke only in monosyllables; though her fine open countenance expressed neither distrust nor dislike. The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was too proud to appear otherwise than indifferent. If she felt contempt, there was no evidence of it—neither in the curling of her lip, nor the cast of her eye.

Equally in vain did Scarthe scrutinise her countenance for a sign of admiration. His most gallant speeches were received with an air of frigid indifference—his wittiest sallies elicited only such smiles as courtesy could not refuse.

If Marion at any time showed sign of emotion, it was when her glance was turned towards the window: apparently in quest of some object that should be visible outside. Then her bosom might be seen swelling with a suppressed sigh—as if her thoughts were dwelling on one who was absent.

Slight as were these manifestations, they did not escape the observation of the experienced Scarthe. He saw, and half interpreted, their meaning—his brow blackening under bitter fancies thus conjured up.

Though seated with his back to the window, more than once he turned half round: to see if there was any one in sight.

When the wine had been passed several times, making him less cautious, his glances of admiration became bolder, his speeches less courteous, and reserved.

The cornet talked little. It was enough for him to endorse the sentiments of his superior officer by an occasional monosyllable.

Though silent, Stubbs was not altogether satisfied with what was passing. The by-play between Walter and Lora, who were seated together, was far from pleasing to him. He had not been many minutes at the table, before discovering that the cousins had an amiable inclination towards each other; which carried him to the conclusion, that, in the son of Sir Marmaduke he would find a formidable rival.

Even on the blank page of his stolid countenance soon became discernible the lines that indicate jealousy; while in his white skewbald eyes could be detected a glance not a whit more amiable, than that which flashed more determinedly from the dark orbs of the cuirassier captain.

The dinner passed without any unpleasant contretemps. The party separated after a reasonable time—Sir Marmaduke excusing himself upon some matter of business—the ladies having already made their curtsey to their stranger guests.

Walter, rather from politeness than any inclination, remained a while longer in the company of the two officers; but, as the companionship was kept up under a certain feeling of restraint, he was only too well pleased to join them in toasting The king!—which, like our modern lay of royalty, was regarded as the finale to every species of entertainment.

Walter strayed off in search of his sister and cousin—most likely only the latter; while the officers, not yet invited into the sanctuary of the family circle, retired to their room—to talk over the incidents of the dinner, or plot some scheme for securing the indulgence of those amorous inclinations, with which both were now thoroughly imbued.

Volume Two—Chapter Two.

Marion Wade was alone—as before, standing in her window under the arcade of parted tapestry—as before, with eyes bent on the iron gate and ivy-wreathed portals that supported it.

Everything was as before: the spotted kine lounging slowly over the lea; the fallow deer browsing upon the sward; and the birds singing their sweet songs, or winging their way from copse to copse.

The sun only had changed position. Lower down in the sky, he was sinking still lower—softly and slowly, upon a couch of purple coloured clouds. The crests of the Chilterns were tinted with a roseate hue; and the summit of the Beacon-hill appeared in a blaze, as when by night its red fires had been wont to give warning of the approach of a hostile fleet by the channels of the Severn.

Brilliant and lovely as was the sunset, Marion Wade saw it not; or, if seeing, it was with an eye that stayed not to admire.

That little space of rust-coloured iron and grey stonework—just visible under the hanging branches of the trees—had an attraction for her far outstripping the gaudy changes of the sunset.

Thus ran her reflections:—“Walter said he would come—perhaps not before evening. ’Tis a visit to papa—only him! What can be its purpose? Maybe something relating to the trouble that has fallen upon us? Us said he is against the king, and for the people. ’Twas on that account Dorothy Dayrell spoke slightingly of him. For that shall not I. No—never—never! She said he must be peasant born. ’Tis a false slander. He is gentle, or I know not a gentleman.

“What am I to think of yesterday—that girl and her flowers? I wish there had not been a fête. I shall never go to another!

“I was so happy when I saw my glove upon his beaver. If ’tis gone, and those flowers have replaced it, I shall not care to live longer—not a day—not an hour!”

A sudden change came over both the attitude and reflections of Marion Wade.

Some one had opened the gate! It was a man—a rider—bestriding a black horse!

An instinct stronger than ordinary aided in the identification of this approaching horseman. The eyes of love need not the aid of a glass; and Marion saw him with such.

“It is he!” she repeated in full confidence, as the cavalier, emerging from the shadow of the trees commenced ascending the slope of the hill.

Marion kept her eyes bent upon the advancing horseman, in straining gaze; and thus continued until he had arrived within a hundred yards of the moat that surrounded the mansion. One might have supposed that she was still uncertain as to his identity.

But her glance was directed neither upon his face nor form, but towards a point higher than either—towards the brow of his beaver—where something white appeared to have fixed her regard. This soon assumed the form and dimensions of a lady’s gauntlet—its slender fingers tapering towards the crown of the hat, and outlined conspicuously against the darker background.

“It is the glove—my glove!” said she, gasping out the words, as if the recognition had relieved her from some terrible suspense. “Yes, it is still there. O joy!”

All at once the thrill of triumph became checked, by a contrary emotion. Something red was seen protruding from under the rim of the beaver, and close to the glove. Was it a flower?

The flowers given by Maid Marian were of that colour! Was it one of them?

Quick as the suspicion had arisen did it pass away. The red object sparkled in the sun. It was not a flower; but the garnet clasp that held the gauntlet in its place. Marion remembered the clasp. She had noticed it the day before.

She breathed freely again. Her heart was happier than ever. She was too happy to gaze longer on that which was giving her content. She dreaded to exhibit her blushing cheek to the eyes of the man, whose presence caused it to blush; and she retired behind the curtain, to enjoy unobserved a moment of delicious emotion.

Her happiness did not hinder her from once more returning to the window; but too late to see the cavalier as he passed across the parterre. She knew, however, that he had entered the house, and was at that moment below in the library—holding with her father the promised interview.

She knew not the purpose of his visit. It could not have reference to herself. She could only conjecture its connection with the political incidents of the time; which were talked of in every house—even to dividing the sentiments of the family circle, and disturbing the tranquillity of more than one erst happy home.

She was aware that the visit of Henry Holtspur was only to her father. He had come, and might go as he had come, without the chance of her exchanging speech with him; and as this thought came into her mind, she half regretted having retired from the window. By so doing, she had lost the very opportunity long desired—often wished for in vain.

Only a word or two had been spoken between them on the day before,—the stiff ceremonial phrases of introduction—after which the incident of the duel had abruptly parted them.

Now that Holtspur had been presented by a brother—and with the sanction of a father—what reason was there for reserve? Even prudery could not show excuse for keeping aloof. She should have spoken to him from the balcony. She should have welcomed him to the house. He must have seen her at the window? What reflection might he have, about her retiring—as if to hide herself from his gaze? He would scarce consider it courtesy? He might fancy he had given her some offence—perhaps in that very act which had produced such an opposite impression—the triumphant exposure of her glove?

Perhaps he might take offence at her coy conduct, and pluck the token from its place? How could she convey to him the knowledge, of her happiness at beholding it there? How tell him that he was but too welcome to wear it?

“If I could find the other,” she soliloquised in low murmuring, “I should carry it in some conspicuous place, where he might see it—on my hand—my breast—in the frontlet of my coif, as he wears its fellow in his beaver. If only for a moment, it would tell him what I wish, without words. Alas! I’ve lost the other. Too surely have I lost it. Everywhere have I searched in vain. What can I have done with it? Bad omen, I fear, to miss it at such a time!”

“If he go forth as he has come,” continued she, resuming her mental soliloquy, “I shall not have the opportunity to speak to him at all—perhaps not even to exchange salutation. He will scarce ask to see me. He may not look back. I cannot call after him. What is to be done?”

There was a pause, as if her thoughts were silently occupied in forming some plan.

“Ha!” she exclaimed at length, pretending to look inquiringly out of the window. “Lora and Walter are wandering somewhere through the park? I shall go in search of them.”

The motive thus disclosed was but a mere pretence—put forth to satisfy the natural instincts of a maiden’s modesty. It ended the struggle between this, and the powerful passion that was warring against it.

Marion flung the coifed hood over her head; drew the coverchief forward to shade the sun from her face—perchance also to hide the virgin blush which her thoughts had called forth; and, gliding down stairs, passed out on her pretended errand.

If she had either desire, or design, to find those she went forth to seek, she was destined to disappointment. Indeed her search was not likely to have been successful: for, on issuing from the house, she went only in one particular direction—the most unlikely one for Walter and Lora Lovelace to have taken at that hour: since it was a path that led directly to the western entrance of the park.

Had she sought the old Saxon camp, it is probable she would have found the missing pair, though more than probable, that neither would have thanked her for her pains.

As it was, she took the opposite way; and, after traversing a long stretch of avenue with slow lingering steps, she found herself near that old ivy-grown gateway that opened upon the Oxford high-road.

Apparently terrified at having strayed so far, at such a late hour—for the sun was now hidden behind the trees—she faced round, and commenced retracing her steps towards the mansion.

True, there was an expression upon her face resembling fear; but it was not that of alarm at the late hour, nor the distance that lay between her and the dwelling. Rather was it the fear one feels in doing some act that may expose to censure or shame.

Marion Wade was upon the eve of committing such an act. She had long since abandoned the idea of that self-deception—with which upon starting forth she had tried to still the scruples of her conscience. She was no longer looking for Lora Lovelace or Walter Wade; but for one who was now dearer to her than either cousin or brother. She was waiting for Henry Holtspur—that noble cavalier, whose graceful image had taken complete possession of her heart—waiting and watching for him, with all the eagerness that a powerful passion can inspire.

It was still only twilight; and any one, coming down the avenue, might have noticed a white object, appearing at intervals round the stems of the trees that skirted the path. This object would remain stationary for a moment, and be then withdrawn—to appear again at another point, a little nearer to the house. A good eye might have told it to be the head of a woman, wearing a white hood—the graceful coif or coverchief of the time.

Henry Holtspur observed it as he rode down the slope of the hill—after having taken leave of Sir Marmaduke Wade. He simply supposed it to be some peasant girl coming up the path—for in such a light, and at such distance, who could tell the difference between a cottager and a queen?

Had he known who it was—had he suspected the bright object moving like a meteor from tree to tree was the beautiful Marion Wade, it would have sent the blood tingling from the stirrups under his feet to the crown of his head.

No such suspicion was in his mind. He was too busy chafing at the disappointment of having left the house, without seeing her, to imagine for a moment that such a splendid fortune was still in store for him.

And the blood did tingle from the stirrups beneath his feet to the crown of his head—thrilled through every vein of his body—as, arriving opposite to the advancing form, he perceived it to be no peasant, but the peerless Marion Wade—she so exclusively occupying his thoughts.

To check his steed to a stand, as if threatened by some sudden danger—to raise the beaver from his head, and bow to the peak of his saddle—were acts that proceeded rather from instinct than any reasoned design.

At the same instant escaped from his lips, partially in salute, and partially as if elicited by surprise, the words—

“Mistress Marion Wade!” There was an interval of embarrassment; how could it be otherwise?

It was brief. Henry Holtspur was over thirty years of age, and Marion Wade had escaped from her teens. The passion that had sprung up between them was not the fond fancy of boyhood or girlhood. On his side it was the love of manhood; on hers an affection with a man for its object—a man mature, with a past to be proud of—one in whose face and features could be traced the souvenirs of gallant deeds—whose romantic mien betrayed a type of heroism not to be mistaken.

With Marion it was her first affection—the first that could be called real. With Holtspur perhaps, it was to be the last love of his life—ever the strongest: since the heart then can hope for no other.

It was not the place of the maiden to speak first; and, though scarce knowing what to say, Holtspur made an effort to break the spell of that hesitating silence.

“Pardon me, for interrupting your walk!” said he, seeing that she had stopped, and stood facing him; “It is but fair to confess that I have been wishing for an opportunity of speaking with you. The unlucky incident of yesterday—of which I believe you were a spectator—hindered me from meeting you again; and I was just reflecting upon having experienced a similar misfortune to-day, when you appeared. I hope, Mistress Wade you will not be offended at being thus waylaid?”

“Oh! certainly not,” answered she, slightly surprised, if not piqued, by the somewhat business-like candour of his speeches. “You have been on a visit to my father, I believe?”

“I have,” replied the cavalier, equally chilled by the indifferent character of the question.

“I hope, sir,” said Marion, throwing a little more warmth into her manner, “you received no hurt from your encounter of yesterday?”

“Thanks, Mistress Marion! not the slightest; except, indeed—”

“Except what, sir?” inquired the lady, with a look of alarm.

“Only that I looked for fair eyes to smile upon my poor victory.”

“If mine deceived me not, you were not disappointed. There was one who not only smiled upon it, but seemed desirous to crown it with flowers! It was but natural: since it was in her defence you drew your sword, brave sir.”

“Ah!” responded the cavalier, appearing for the first time to remember the incident of the flower presentation. “You speak of the peasant girl who represented Maid Marian? I believe she did force some flowers into my hand; though she owed me less gratitude than she thinks for. It was not to champion her that I took up the quarrel; but rather to punish a swaggerer. In truth I had quite forgotten the episode of the flowers.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Marion, a flush of joy suffusing her face, which she seemed endeavouring to conceal. “Is it thus you reward gratitude? Methinks, Sir, you should value it at a higher price!”

“It depends,” said the cavalier, rather puzzled for a reply, “on whether gratitude has been deserved. For my part I consider myself as altogether without any claim to the gratitude of the girl. The conduct of the cuirassier captain was a slight to all on the ground. But now, since I have come to confession, I should say that it was in the interest of others I took up the gauntlet against him.”

Marion glanced at the little glove set coquettishly in the crown of the cavalier’s hat. She fancied that he laid a significant emphasis on the figurative phrase, “took up the gauntlet.” Her glance, however, was quick and furtive—as if fearful of betraying the sweet thoughts his words had suggested.

There was a pause in the conversation—another interval of hesitating silence, when neither knew what to say—each fearing to risk the compromise of a trivial remark.

Marion had recalled the introductory speech of the cavalier. She had it upon her tongue to demand from him its meaning; when the latter relieved her by resuming the discourse.

“Yes,” he said, “there are occasions when one does not deserve gratitude, even for what may appear an honest act; as, for instance, one who has found something that has been lost, and returns it to the owner, only after long delay, and with great reluctance.”

As Holtspur spoke, he pointed to the glove in his hat. Marion’s face betrayed a strange mixture of emotion—half distressed, half triumphant.

She was too much embarrassed to make answer.

The cavalier continued his figurative discourse.

“The finder having no right to the thing found, it should be given up. That is but simple honesty, and scarce deserving of thanks. For example, I have picked up this pretty gauntlet; and, however much I might wish to keep it—as a souvenir of one of the happiest moments of my existence—I feel constrained, by all the rules of honour and honesty, to restore it to its rightful owner—unless that owner, knowing how much I prize it, will consent to my keeping it.”

Holtspur bent low in his saddle, and listened attentively for the rejoinder.

“Keep it!” said Marion, abandoning all affectation of ignorance as to his meaning, and accompanying the assent with a gracious smile. “Keep it, sir, if it so please you.”

Then, as if fearing that she had surrendered too freely, she added in a tone of naïveté,—“It would be no longer of any use to me—since I have lost the other—its fellow.”

This last announcement counteracted the pleasant impression which her consent had produced; and once more precipitated Henry Holtspur into the sea of uncertainty.

“No longer of any use to her,” thought he, repeating her words. “If that be her only motive for bestowing it, then will it be no longer of any value to me.”

He felt something like chagrin. He was almost on the point of returning the doubtful token.

“Perhaps,” said he, hesitatingly, “I have offended, by keeping it so long without your consent—and more by displaying it as I have done. For the former I might claim excuse: on the plea that I had no opportunity of restoring it. But for the latter I fear I can offer no justification. I can only plead the promptings of a vain hope—of a passion, that I now believe to be hopeless, as it will be deemed presumptive.”

The tone of despondency in which this speech was delivered, struck sweetly on the ear of Marion Wade. It had the true ring of love’s utterance; and she intuitively recognised it. She could scarce conceal her joy as she made rejoinder:—

“Why should I be offended, either at your detaining the glove, or wearing it?” As she said this she regarded the cavalier with a forgiving smile. “The first was unavoidable; the other I ought to esteem an honour. Setting store by a lady’s favour is not the way, sir, to offend her.”

“Favour! Then she has meant it as such!”

Along with the unspoken thought, a gleam of returning confidence shot over the cavalier’s countenance.

“I can no longer endure the doubt,” muttered he: “I shall speak to her more plainly. Marion Wade!”

Her name was uttered aloud, and in a tone of appeal that caused her to glance up with some surprise. In her look there was no trace of displeasure at the familiar mode of address.

“Speak, sir!” she said, encouragingly. “You have something to say?”

“A question to ask—only one; and oh! Marion Wade, answer it with candour! You promise?”

“I promise.”

“You say you have lost the other glove?”

Marion nodded an affirmative.

“Tell me then, and truly: did you lose this one?”

“The cavalier, as he spoke, pointed to the white gauntlet.”

“Your meaning, sir?”

“Ah! Marion Wade, you are evading the answer. Tell me if it fell from your fair hand unknown—unnoticed—or was it dropped by design? Tell me—oh, tell me truly!”

He could not read the answer in her eyes: for the long lashes had fallen over them, hiding the blue orbs beneath. The red blood mantling upon her cheeks, and mounting up to her forehead, should have aided him to it, had he been closely observing. Her silence, too, might have served to enlighten him, as to the reply she would have made, had her modesty permitted speech.

“I have been candid with you,” he continued, urging his appeal by argument; “I have thrown myself upon your mercy. If you care not for the happiness of one who would risk his life for yours, then do I adjure you, as you care for truth, to speak the truth! Dropped you this glove by accident, or design?”

With the silence of one who awaits to hear the pronouncing of his sentence, Henry Holtspur sat listening for her answer.

It came like an echo to his speech; but an echo that only repeated the final word.

“Design!” murmured Marion Wade, in a low soft voice, whose very trembling betokened its truth.

The abyss of ceremony no longer lay between them. That one word had bridged it.

Henry Holtspur sprang from his saddle, and glided in among the trees.

In another instant their arms were entwined; their lips in mutual contact; and their hearts pressed close together, beating responses, sweet as the pulsations of celestial life.

“Adieu! sweet Marion, adieu!” cried the lover, as she glided from his arms—reluctant to let her leave.

“She will be the last love of my life!” he muttered, as he leaped into his saddle almost without touching stirrup.

The trained steed stood at rest, till his rider was fairly fixed in the seat. He had remained silent and motionless throughout that sweet interview of the lovers—its sole witness. Proudly champing his bit, he seemed exulting in the fair conquest his master had made—as he had shown himself after the triumph of yesterday. Perhaps Hubert had some share in achieving the victory of love, as of war?

The steed stirred not till he felt the spur; and even then, as if participating in the reluctance of his rider, he moved but slowly from the spot.

Volume Two—Chapter Three.

If do eye beheld the meeting between Marion Wade and Henry Holtspur, there was one that witnessed their parting with a glance that betokened pain. It was the eye of Richard Scarthe.

On leaving the dinner table, some details of military duty had occupied the cuirassier captain for an hour or two; after which, having no further occupation for the evening, he resolved to seek an interview with the ladies of the house—more especially with her who, in the short space of a single day, had kindled within him a passion that, honourable or not, was at least ardent.

He was already as much in love with the lady, as it was possible for such a nature to be. A month in her company could not have more completely enamoured him. Her cold reception of his complimentary phrases—as yet only offered to her with the insinuating delicacy of an experienced seducer—instead of chilling his incipient desires, had only served to add fuel to the flame. He was too well exercised in conquering the scruples of maiden modesty, to feel despair at such primary repulses.

“I shall win her!” in spite of this monosyllabic indifference! muttered he to Stubbs, as they returned to their sitting-room. “Pshaw! ’tis only pretence before strangers! By my troth, I like this sort of a beginning. I’m fashed of facile conquests. This promises to be a little difficult; and will enable me to kill the ennui, which otherwise might have killed me in these rural quarters. I shall win her, as I have won others—as I should Lucretia herself, had she lived in our time.”

To this triumphant boast, his satellite spoke assent, in his characteristic fashion.

“Safe to do it, by Ged!” said he, as if convinced of the invincibility of one, who more than once had spoiled his own chances in the game of love-making.

Scarthe was determined to let but little time elapse before entering upon his amour. His passion prompted him to immediate action; and the first step was to seek an interview with the woman he had resolved upon winning.

It was one thing, however, to desire an interview with the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade—another to obtain it. The cuirassier captain was not in the position to demand, or even seek it by request. Any attempt on his part to force such an event might end in discomfiture: for although he could compel Sir Marmaduke to find bed, board, and forage for himself and his troopers, the tyranny of the King did not—or rather dared not—extend so far as to violate the sanctity of a gentleman’s family. That of his household had been sufficiently outraged by the act of benevolence itself.

These circumstances considered, it was clear to Scarthe, that the desired interview must be brought about by stratagem, and appear the result of simple accident.

In pursuance of this idea, about half-an-hour before sunset, he sallied forth from his room, and commenced strolling through the grounds; here stopping to examine a flower; there standing to scrutinise a statue—as if the science of botany, and the art of sculpture, were the only subjects in which, at that particular moment, he felt any interest.

One near enough to note the expression upon his features, might easily have told that neither a love of art, nor an admiration of nature, was there indicated. On the contrary, while apparently occupied with the flower or the statue, his eyes were turned towards the house, wandering in furtive glance from window to window.

In order not to compromise his character for good breeding, he kept at some distance from the walls, along the outer edge of the shrubbery. In this way he proceeded past the front of the mansion, until he had reached that side, facing to the west.

Here his stealthy reconnoissance was carried on with increased earnestness; for, although not certain what part of the house was occupied by the female members of the family, he had surmised that it was the western wing. The pleasant exposure on this side—with the more careful cultivation of the flower beds and turf sward—plainly proclaimed it to be the sacred precinct.

One by one he examined the windows—endeavouring to pierce the interior of the apartments into which they opened; but after spending a full quarter of an hour in this fantastic scrutiny, he discovered nothing to repay him for his pains—not the face of a living creature.

Once only he caught sight of a figure inside one of the rooms upon the ground-floor; but the dress was dark, and the glimpse he had of it told it to be that of a man. Sir Marmaduke it was, moving about in his library.

“The women don’t appear to be inside at all,” muttered he, with an air of discontent. “By Phoebus! what if they should have gone for a stroll through the park? Fine evening—charming sunset. I’faith, I shouldn’t wonder but that they’re out enjoying it. If I could only find her outside that would be just the thing. I’ll try a stroll myself. Perhaps I may meet her? ’Tis possible?”

So saying, he turned away from the statue—which he had been so long criticising—and faced to the footbridge that spanned the fosse.

As he laid his hand upon the wicket gate—with the intention of opening it—an object came under his eyes—that caused the blood to leap into his cheeks, and mantle upward upon his pale forehead.

The elevated causeway of the bridge had placed him in a position, from which he could view the long avenue leading down to the road. Far down it, near the gateway, a steed, saddled and bridled—as if ready for a rider to mount—was standing on the path.

There was no one holding the animal—no one looking after him—no one near!

It was not the circumstance of seeing a horse thus caparisoned, and uncared for—though this was odd enough—that flushed the face of the cuirassier captain, and caused his fingers to tremble on the uplifted latch. It was the sight of that particular horse which produced such effect: for the curving neck and sable coat of the animal—visible even through the grey gloaming of the twilight—enabled Scarthe to recognise the steed, that had played so conspicuous a part in his own humiliation!

“Holtspur’s horse, by Heaven!” were the words that fell mechanically from his lips. “The man must be there himself—behind the trees? There, and what doing there?”

“I shall go down, and see,” he muttered, after a moment of indecision.

Opening the wicket he passed through; quickly traversed the remaining portion of the causeway; and continued on towards the spot where the steed was standing.

He did not go in a direct path towards the object that had thus interested him—which would have been the avenue itself—but proceeded in a circuitous direction, through some copsewood that skirted the slope of the hill.

He had his reasons for thus deviating.

“Holtspur in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade!” muttered he, as he crept through the thicket with the cautious tread of a deer-stalker. “Where is Sir Marmaduke’s daughter?”

As the suspicion swept across his brain, it brought the blood scorching like fire through his veins. His limbs felt weak under him. He almost tottered, as he trod the sward!

His jealous agony was scarce more acute, when, on reaching the row of chestnuts that bordered the avenue, and craning his neck outward to get a view, he saw a man come out from among the trees, and step up to the side of the steed; while at the same instant a white object, like a lady’s coverchief or scarf, fluttered amid the foliage that overhung the path.

The man he recognised: Henry Holtspur! The woman, though seen less distinctly, could be only the one occupying his thoughts—only Marion Wade!

Though not a coward—and accustomed to encounters abrupt and dangerous—Scarthe was at that crisis the victim of both fear and indecision. In his chagrin, he could have rushed down the slope, and stabbed Holtspur to the heart, without mercy or remorse. But he had no intention of acting in this off-hand way. The encounter of the day before—of which the torture of his wounded arm emphatically reminded him—had robbed him of all zest for a renewal of the black horseman’s acquaintance. He only hesitated as to whether he should screen himself behind the trees, and permit the lady to pass on to the house, or remain in ambush till she came up, and then join company with her.

He was no longer uncertain as to who it was. The white-robed figure, that now stood out in the open avenue, was Marion Wade. No other could have shown that imposing outline under the doubtful shadow of the twilight.

It was not till the horseman had sprung into the saddle, turned his back upon the mansion, and was riding away, that Scarthe recovered from his irresolution.

He felt sensible of being in a state of mind to make himself ridiculous; and that the more prudent plan would be to remain out of sight. But the bitter sting was rankling in his breast—all the more bitter that he suspected an intrigue. This fell fancy torturing him to the heart’s core, stifled all thoughts of either policy or prudence; and impelled him to present himself.

With an effort such as his cunning, and the control which experience had given him over his passions, enabled him to make—he succeeded in calming himself—sufficiently for a pretence at courteous conversation.

At this moment, Marion came up.

She started on seeing Scarthe glide out from among the trees. The wild passion gleaming in his eyes was enough to cause her alarm though she made but slight exhibition of it. She was too highly bred to show emotion, even under such suspicious circumstances. Her heart, at that moment thrilling with supreme happiness, was too strong to feel fear.

“Good even, sir,” she simply said, in return to the salute, which Scarthe had made as he approached.

“Pardon my question, Mistress Wade,” said he, joining her, and walking by her side, “Are you not afraid to be out alone at this late hour—especially as the neighbourhood is infested with such ferocious footpads as your brother has been telling me of? Ha! ha! ha!”

“Oh!” said Marion—answering the interrogatory in the same spirit in which it appeared to have been put—“that was before Captain Scarthe and his redoubtable cuirassiers came to reside with us. Under their protection I presume there will no longer be anything to fear from footpads, or even highwaymen!”

“Thanks for your compliment, lady! If I could only flatter myself that our presence here would be considered a protection by Mistress Marion Wade, it would be some compensation for the unpleasantness of being forced as a guest upon her father.”

“You are gracious, sir,” said she, bowing slightly in return to the implied apology.

Then, casting a quick but scrutinising glance at the countenance of the speaker, she continued in thought—“If this man be honest, the devil’s a witch. If he be, I never saw look that so belies the heart.”

“Believe me, Mistress Wade,” proceeded the hypocrite, “I keenly feel my position here. I know that I cannot be regarded in any other light than that of an intruder. Notwithstanding the pleasure it may be, to partake of the hospitality of your noble house, I would gladly forego that happiness, were it in consonance with my duty to the King—which of course is paramount to everything else.”

“Indeed!”

“To an officer of his Majesty’s cuirassiers it should be.”

“In France, perhaps—or in Flanders, where I understand you’ve been campaigning. In England, sir, and in the eyes of an Englishwoman, there are higher duties than those owing to a king. Did it never occur to you that you owe a duty to the people; or, if you prefer the expression, to the State.”

“L’état est roi. L’état est moi! That is the creed of Richard Scarthe!”

“Even if your king be a tyrant?”

“I am but a soldier. It is not mine to question the prerogatives of royalty—only to obey its edicts.”

“A noble creed! Noble sentiments for a soldier! Hear mine, sir!”

“With pleasure, Mistress Wade!” replied Scarthe, cowering under her scornful glance.

“Were I a man,” she continued, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, “rather would I shave my crown, and cover it with the cowl of a friar, than wear a sword to be drawn in no better cause than that of an unscrupulous king! Ha! There are men rising in this land, whose fame shall outlive the petty notoriety of its princes. When these have become obscured behind the oblivion of ages, the names of Vane and Pym, and Cromwell, and Hampden and Holt”—she but half pronounced the one she held highest—“shall be household words!”

“These are wild words, Mistress Wade!” rejoined Scarthe, his loyalty—along with a slight inclination towards anger—struggling against the admiration which he could not help feeling for the beautiful enthusiast; “I fear you are a rebel; and were I as true to the interests of my king as I should be, it would be my duty to make you a captive. Ah!” he continued, bending towards the proud maiden, and speaking in a tone of ambiguous appeal, “to make you a captive—my captive—that would indeed be a pleasant duty for a soldier—the recompense of a whole life.”

“Ho!” exclaimed Marion, pretending not to understand the innuendo, “since you talk of making me a captive, I must endeavour to escape from you. Good evening, sir.”

Flinging a triumphant smile towards the disappointed wooer, she glided rapidly beyond his reach; and, nimbly tripping over the footbridge, disappeared from his sight amid the shrubbery surrounding the mansion.

Volume Two—Chapter Four.

On parting from Marion Wade, Henry Holtspur should have been the happiest of men. The loveliest woman in the shire—to his eyes, in the world—had declared to him her love, and vowed eternal devotion. Its full fruition could not have given him firmer assurance of the fact.

And yet he was not happy. On the contrary, it was with a heavy heart that he rode away from the scene of that interview with his splendid sweetheart. He knew that the interview should not have occurred—that Marion Wade ought not to be his sweetheart!

After riding half a dozen lengths of his horse, he turned in his saddle, to look back, in hopes that the sight of the loved form might tranquillise his conscience.

Happier for him had he ridden on.

If unhappy before, he now saw that which made him miserable. Marion had commenced ascending the slope. Her light-coloured garments rendered her easily recognisable through the dimness of the twilight. Holtspur watched her movements, admiring the queenly grace of her step—distinguishable despite the darkness and distance.

He was fast recovering composure of mind—so late disturbed by some unpleasant thought—and no doubt would have left the spot with contentment, but for an incident which at that moment transpired under his view.

Marion Wade had got half-way up the hill, and was advancing with rapid step. Just then some one, going at a quicker pace, appeared in the avenue behind her!

This second pedestrian must have passed out from among the trees: since but the moment before the receding form of the lady was alone in the avenue.

In a few seconds she was overtaken; and the two figures were now seen side by side. In this way they moved on—their heads slightly inclined towards each other, as if engaged in familiar conversation!

The dress of the individual who had thus sprung suddenly into sight was also of a light colour, and might have been a woman’s. But a red scarf diagonally crossing the shoulders—a high peaked hat with plume of ostrich feathers—and, more than all, the tallness of the figure, told Henry Holtspur that it was a man who was walking with Marion Wade.

The same tokens declared he was not her brother: Walter was not near so tall. It could not be her father: Sir Marmaduke was accustomed to dress in black.

The rows of chestnuts that bordered the walk came to a termination near the top of the hill. The figures had arrived there. Next moment they moved out from under the shadow of the trees, and could be seen more distinctly.

“’Tis neither her father, nor brother—’tis Scarthe!”

It was Holtspur who pronounced these words, and with an intonation that betokened both surprise and chagrin.

“He has forced himself upon her! He came skulkingly out from the trees, as if he had been lying in wait for her! I shouldn’t wonder if ’twas so. What can I do? Shall I follow and interrupt the interview?”

“There is danger here,” he continued, after a pause. “Ah! villain!” he exclaimed, standing erect in his stirrups, and stretching out his clenched hand in the direction of the departing figures, “if you but dare—one word of insult—one ribald look, and I am told of it—the chastisement you’ve already had will be nothing to that in store for you!”

“O God!” he exclaimed, as though some still more disagreeable thought had succeeded to this paroxysm of spite, “a dread spectacle it is! The wolf walking by the side of the lamb!

“He is bowing and bending to her! See! She turns towards him! She appears complacent. O God! is it possible?”

Involuntarily his hand glided to the hilt of his sword—while the spurs were pressed against the ribs of his horse.

The spirited animal sprang forward along the path—his head turned towards the mansion; but, before he had made a second spring, he was checked up again.

“I’m a fool!” muttered his rider, “and you, too, Hubert. At all events I should have been thought so, had I ridden up yonder. What could I have said to excuse myself? ’Tis not possible. If it were so, I should feel no remorse. If it were so, there could be no ruin!

“Ha! they have reached the bridge. She is leaving him. She has hurried inside the house. He remains without, apparently forsaken!

“O Marion, if I’ve wronged thee, ’tis because I love thee madly—madly! Pardon!—pardon! I will watch thee no more!”

So saying, he wheeled his steed once more; and, without again looking back, galloped on toward the gateway.

Even while opening the gate and closing it behind him, he turned not his eyes towards the avenue; but, spurring into the public road, continued the gallop which the gate had interrupted.

The head of his horse was homeward—so far only as the embouchure of the forest path that opened towards Stone Dean. On reaching this point he halted; and instead of entering upon the by-way, remained out in the middle of the high-road—as if undecided as to his course.

He glanced towards the sky—a small patch of which was visible between the trees, on both sides overarching the road.

The purple twilight was still lingering amid the spray of the forest; and through the break opening eastward, he could perceive the horned moon cutting sharply against the horizon.

“Scarce worth while to go home now,” he muttered, drawing forth his watch, and holding the dial up to his eyes, “How swiftly the last hour has sped—ah! how sweetly! In another hour the men will be there. By riding slowly I shall just be in time; and you, Hubert, can have your supper in a stall at the Saracen’s Head. Aha! a woman in the window! ’Tis Marion!”

The exclamatory phrases were called forth, as turning towards the park, he caught sight of the mansion, visible through an opening between the chestnuts.

Several windows were alight; but the eye of the cavalier dwelt only on one—where under the arcade of the curtains, and against the luminous background of a burning lamp, a female form was discernible. Only the figure could be traced at that far distance; but this—tall, graceful and majestic—proclaimed it to be the silhouette of Marion Wade.

After a prolonged gaze—commencing with a smile, and terminating in a sigh—Holtspur once more gave Hubert the rein, and moved silently onward.

The ruined hut on Jarret’s Heath was soon reached, conspicuous under the silvery moonlight, as he had last viewed it: but no longer the rendezvous of Gregory Garth and his fierce footpads. The dummies had disappeared—even to the sticks that had served to support them—and nought remained to indicate, that in that solitary place the traveller had ever listened to the unpleasant summons:—“Stand and deliver!”

Holtspur could not pass the spot without smiling; and more: for, as the ludicrous incident came more clearly before his mind, he drew up his horse, and, leaning back in the saddle, gave utterance to a loud laugh.

Hubert, on hearing his master in such a merry mood, uttered a responsive neigh. Perhaps Hubert was laughing too; but man and horse became silent instantly, and from precaution.

More than one neigh had responded to that of Holtspur’s steed; which the cavalier knew were not echoes, but proceeded from horses approaching the spot.

Suddenly checking his laughter, and giving his own steed a signal to be still, he remained listening.

The neighing of the strange horses had been heard at a distance: as if from some cavalcade coming up the road by Red Hill. In time, there were other sounds to confirm the surmise: the clanking of sabres against iron stirrups, and the hoof-strokes of the horses themselves.

“A troop!” muttered Holtspur. “Some of Scarthe’s following, I suppose—from an errand to Uxbridge? Come, Hubert! They must not meet us.”

A touch of the spur, with a slight pull upon the bridle rein, guided the well-trained steed behind the hovel; where, under the shadow of some leafy boughs, he was once more brought to a stand.

Soon the hoof-strokes sounded more distinctly, as also the clank of the scabbards, the tinkling of the spur-rowels, and curb-chains.

The voices of men were also mingled with these sounds; and both they and their horses, soon after, emerged from the shadows of the thicket, and entered the opening by the hut.

There were seven of them; the odd one in advance of the others—who were riding two and two behind him.

A glance at their habiliments proclaimed them to be men of military calling—an officer accompanied by an escort.

As they arrived in front of the hovel, the leader halted—commanding the others to follow his example.

The movement was sudden—apparently improvised on the part of the officer—and unexpected by his following. It was evidently the appearance of the ruin that had caused it to be made.

“Sergeant!” said the leader of the little troop, addressing himself to one of the men who rode nearest to him, “this must be the place where the king’s courier was stopped? There’s the ruined hovel he spoke about: and this I take to be Jarret’s Heath. What say you?”

“It must be that place, major,” replied the sergeant, “It can’t be no other. We’ve come full four mile from Uxbridge, and should now be close to the park of Bulstrode. This be Jarret’s Heath for sure.”

“What a pity those rascals don’t show themselves to-night! I’d give something to carry them back with me bound hand and foot. It would be some satisfaction to poor Cunliffe, whom they stripped so clean: leaving him nothing but his stockings. Ha! ha! ha! I should like to have seen that noted court dandy, as he must have appeared just here—under the moonlight. Ha! ha! ha!”

“I fancy I heard the neighing of a horse in this direction?” continued the leader of the little troop. “If the fellows who plundered the courier hadn’t been footpads, we might have hoped to encounter them—”

“You forget, major,” rejoined the sergeant, “that Master Cunliffe’s horse was taken from him. May be the captain of the robbers is no longer a footpad, but mounted?”

“No—no,” rejoined the officer, “the neighing we heard, was only from some farmer’s hack running loose in the pastures. Forward! we’ve already lost too much time. If this be Jarret’s Heath, we must be near the end of our errand. Forward!”

Saying this, the leader of the band, close followed by the treble file of troopers, dashed forward along the road—their accoutrements, and the hooves of their horses, making a noise that hindered them from hearing the scornful, half involuntary laugh sent after them from the cavalier concealed under the shadow of the hut.

“Another king’s courier for Scarthe!” muttered Holtspur, as he headed his horse once more to the road. “No doubt, the duplicate of that precious despatch! Ha! ha! His Majesty seems determined, that this time it shall reach its destination. An escort of six troopers! Notwithstanding all that, and the bravado of their leader, if I had only coughed loud enough for them to hear me, I believe they’d have, scampered off a little faster than they are now going. These conceited satellites of royalty—‘cavaliers,’ as they affectedly call themselves—are the veriest poltroons: brave only in words. Oh! that the hour were come, when Englishmen may be prevailed upon to demand their lights at the point of the sword—the only mode by which they will ever obtain them! Then may I hope to see such swaggerers scattered like chaff, and fleeing before the soldiers of Liberty! God grant the time may be near! Hubert, let us on, and hasten it!”

Hubert, ever willing, obeyed the slight signal vouchsafed to him; and, spreading his limbs to the road, rapidly bore his master to the summit of Red Hill; then down its sloping declivity; and on through the fertile, far-stretching meadows of the Colne.

Volume Two—Chapter Five.

The Saracen’s Head stood an exact half-mile from the Colne river and the end of Uxbridge town. To reach it from the latter it was necessary to cross over the quaint old bridge—whence the place derives its name.

It was a road-side inn, old as the bridge itself—perhaps ancient as the Crusades, from which its cognomen had come. It was the inn at which Scarthe and his cuirassiers had made their night halt, when proceeding to Bulstrode Park; the same afterwards known—as it is to the present day—by the appellation of Queen’s Head. The altered lettering on its sign-board was not the act of the honest Saxon Boniface, who held it in the time of the first Charles; but of a plush-clad proprietor, who succeeded him during the servile days of the Restoration.

While in Master Jarvis’s occupancy it might have borne a title equally as appropriate, and perhaps more significant than either—the King’s Head: since under its roof, this phrase was frequently whispered—sometimes loudly pronounced—with a peculiar significance—one very different from the idea usually attached to it. It may be, that words spoken, and thoughts exchanged, within the walls of the old hostelry led to a king’s losing his head; or, at all events, precipitated that just and proper event.

On the same night that Henry Holtspur was riding down Red Hill—with the Saracen’s Head as the declared goal of his journey—and about the same hour—a number of pedestrians, not all going together, but in scattered groups of two, three, and four, might have been seen crossing the Colne river at Uxbridge; who, after clearing the causeway of the bridge, continued on up the road, in the direction of the inn.

On reaching it—one group after the other—they were seen to enter; after giving a preliminary challenge or greeting to its host, who received them by the door as they came up.

This reception continued; until at least fifty men had glided inside the ivy-grown portico of the Saracen’s Head.

They were all men—nothing in woman’s shape, or apparel, appearing amongst them.

They were men in the humbler walks of life, though not the very humblest. Their dresses betokened them to be artisans; and of different callings,—as proclaimed by the various costumes: for in those days the costume told the trade.

Nor did they appear to be habited for any particular occasion. The butcher was in his tall leathern boots, redolent of suet; the miller, in white cap, hoary with the “stoor” of the mill; the blacksmith, with wide hose hidden under an apron of singed sheepskin; and the tailor’s jour, with his bowed legs encased in a covering of cotton velveteen.

In some of the groups there were individuals of a more pretentious appearance: men who wore beaver hats and doublets of superior quality, with sound russet boots, white linen cuffs, and collars. Still was there about their garments a certain commonness of cut, that proclaimed the wearers to be of the class of small shopkeepers—in modern days miscalled tradesmen.

On any evening—especially if the weather chanced to be fine—a few such individuals might have been seen seeking the hospitality of the Saracen’s Head: for its tap was one of the most popular, and attracted customers even from Uxbridge. On the night in question, however, the great number of guests—as well as the lateness of the hour at which they were seeking the noted rendezvous—told of some purpose more important than merely to imbibe Master Jarvis’s celebrated brewage.

There was an air of business about the men, as they marched along the road; and in their muttered conversations could be distinguished a tone of earnestness, that betokened some serious subject. They did not loiter, like men strolling out for an evening’s pastime; but walked briskly forward, as bent upon an errand, or keeping some preconcerted appointment.

As already stated, the landlord of the inn received the different groups. There was something mysterious in this wordless welcome—so unusual at the Saracen’s Head; the more so, as on the broad open countenance of its owner there was no trace of churlishness. Equally mysterious might have appeared a circumstance observed as the guests came up to the door:—each raising his right hand within a few inches of Master Jarvis’s nose, with the thumb bent inward; holding the hand a second or two, in that position, and then withdrawing it!

The mystery could only be explained, by presuming that this was a signal; and the slight assenting nod, with which it was answered, was simply a permission to enter.

It might have been observed, moreover: that the guests so signalling, instead of going towards the common or tap-room of the inn, proceeded through a long corridor—leading to the interior of the establishment—where a large and much better appointed apartment had been arranged to receive them.

Others who entered the house, without giving the thumb signal, greeted the landlord in a different way, and were shown towards the tap-room, or walked on, as was their wont, without invitation.

For more than an hour these groups of men continued to arrive up the road from Uxbridge. At the same time other men—though not in such numbers—might have been seen coming down the same road from the direction of Red Hill, and Denham; and also along bye-paths—from the villages of Harefield, and Iver.

Some difference might have been noticed between these and the men who came from Uxbridge—the former by their style of dress and general appearance being evidently denizens of the country—graziers or farmers—and not a few of them having the substantial look of independence that bespoke the freeholder.

All, however, were evidently moving towards the inn with a like motive—as each of them upon entering was seen to offer to its owner that silent masonic salute, which admitted them into the secret interior of the establishment.

Of those who came in from the country, not a few were on horseback, as if they had ridden from a distance; and the ample stables were soon almost as well filled—and perhaps more profitably—than when Scarthe and his cuirassiers had honoured the inn with their patronage.

Among the last who rode up was a horseman of distinguished mien; whose dress and equipments—but still more the steed he bestrode, and the style of his equitation—proclaimed him to be different from all the others. Even under the deceptive light of the moon there was no mistaking him for a common man. His free, graceful bearing, declared the cavalier.

To the landlord, and a few others just entering the inn, he was individually known. These, as he rode forward to the door, could be heard whispering to one another that phrase that had lately become of almost cabalistic import—the black horseman!

He dismounted; and without hesitancy entered along with the rest—simply nodding to them as he passed.

It was not necessary for him to hold up his thumb before the eyes of the stalwart door-keeper. This precaution, against the admission of traitorous spies, was not required in the case of Henry Holtspur. The owner of the hostelry knew the master of the ceremonies about to be performed under its roof; and the latter, passing him with a significant smile, kept on unattended along the dimly-lit corridor—as one who had oft trodden it before.

With like familiarity, he opened the door of the inner apartment, now filled with men—whose manifold voices mingling in earnest conversation could be heard even to the entrance outside.

Suddenly the sounds became hushed; but only for an instant. Then arose something more than a murmur of applause—amidst which could be heard, in many an enthusiastic repetition, the name of him who had entered, and the sobriquet by which to most of them he was better known.

Though the massive door of oak closing again hindered the voices from being any longer heard outside, the conversation was not discontinued. Only was it conducted into its true channel—the master mind of that enthusiastic assemblage guiding it in its course.

It might have been termed treasonable—if such phrase can be applied to speech condemning the conduct of the uxorious tyrant. Freely were the acts of the king commented upon, and his late edicts discussed; until some of the speakers, becoming inspired—partly by the intoxicating tap of the Saracen’s Head, which, at the cost of the cavalier, circulated without stint; and partly from the smart of some recent wrong—shook their clenched fists in the air, to render more emphatic their vows of vengeance.

On that night, in the conclave held in the hostelry of the Saracen’s Head, was foreshadowed a spectacle—not long after to be realised and even witnessed by some there present—a king standing upon a scaffold!

“Thank the Lord!” muttered Holtspur to himself, as he sprang into his saddle, and headed Hubert for the hills. “Thank the Lord for all his mercies!” added he, in the phraseology of some of his Puritan co-conspirators late ringing in his ears. “There can be no mistaking the temper of these fellows. After ten years of tyrannical usurpation they’re aroused at last. The time is come, not only for the dethronement of a tyrant, but for establishing in dear old England the only form of government that—is not a mockery of common sense—the only one upon which Liberty may rely—the Republic!”

After he had given utterance to this speech, a smile—half of regretful bitterness, half of contempt—not only for his fellow countrymen, but his fellow-men—cynically shadowed his countenance: for the sentiment so expressed, naturally led him to reflect: how few there were in his own country who shared it with him!

Holtspur lived in a time when the word republic was scarcely ever heard; or, when heard, only ill-understood, and scoffed at as a dream of the enthusiast. Not that he had himself any doubt as to its true signification. Perfectly did he comprehend its import—awful—grand—including the whole theory of human happiness, and man’s misery. Even in those times of tyrannical persecution—when Laud lorded it over the souls, and Strafford over the bodies of men—or even, still later, when, with impunity, the Waldense Protestant could be impaled upon the spear of the Inquisition—there were men and minds who could not be coerced to deny the divine origin of democracy, and believe in the pseudo “divine right” of kings.

Not in those times alone, but in all ages: for time cannot alter truth. A circle was a circle, before God made man to trace its curvature; and when God made men He intended them to govern themselves uncontrolled by tyrants.

That they have not done so does not prove an error in the intention. The circumference of the circle, imperfect by some interruption, does not argue the non-existence of the curve. No more in early ages—no more in mediaeval times—no more now—does the non-existence of the pure republic prove that it is not the proper form. It is the proper form,—the only one recognised by the laws of right and truth. He who does not acknowledge this, must be the owner either of a bad head or a bad heart. On either horn of the dilemma does he hang, who denies the republic!

Is there such a man, or thing in human shape? I cannot think there is. Thinking so, I could not avoid imitating my hero, in that scornful contempt, that expressed itself on his countenance, while reflecting how few there were who participated in his sentiments.

Ah! had he lived in the present time he would have witnessed strange proofs of their truth. He would have recognised—as I do—in what others call the failure of republican institutions, their proudest triumph. He would have seen thirty millions of men, comparatively with the rest of their race, transformed into giants, by the influence of less than a century of republican training! He would have seen them divided into two parties—warring against each other like Titans of the olden time; and seeing this, he could have come to no other conclusion, than that, united, these thirty millions of republican people would have been a match for the whole monarchical world!

Henry Holtspur did not need to dive into futurity for facts, to substantiate his belief in a republican form of government. His conviction came from the past—from the sources of eternal truth. The sarcasm expressed upon his features was caused by the contempt which a noble soul must naturally feel, for those things in human shape who believe, or pretend it, in the “divine right” of kings.

The cloud lingered, until he had turned into the forest road, and came in sight of the old beech—that tree whose umbrageous branches overshadowed—to him, the sweetest and most sacred spot upon Earth.

Once again he drew up under its canopy—once again gazed upon the white gauntlet, till love absorbed his every thought—even to the exclusion of that political passion—the republic.

Volume Two—Chapter Six.

The domicile of Dick Dancey could scarce with correctness be called a house. Even cottage would be too dignified a name for the wooden hovel, in which the woodman and his family habitually found shelter from rain and wind.

To the latter the house itself was but little exposed: for, when a tempest raged, before striking on the frail structure, its fury was expended upon the giant beeches of Wapsey’s Wood, that stretched their protecting arms over and around it.

It was a cabin of rough logs, clayed between the chinks, and roofed with a thatch of rushes—such, excepting the roof, as might be seen at the present day in the backwoods of America.

A narrow doorway, barely wide enough to admit the big body of the woodman himself; two or three small windows, with diminutive panes of glass set in lead; an enclosure of limited dimensions, girt with a flimsy paling—designed for a garden, but grown into a weed bed; a stack of fire faggots; a shed that gave occasional shelter to a scraggy cob; a clay-bedaubed kennel containing a large fierce-looking mongrel—the cross between sheep-dog and deer-hound; these were the principal features in the external aspect of Dick Dancey’s domicile.

The interior view was equally rude, and equally simple. A kitchen with a clay floor, and clay-plastered walls—against which stood upon shelves, or hung upon pegs, a sparse collection of utensils; some dingy old prints on common paper, and in cheap frames; a string of onions; another of rabbit skins; and close by the freshly-flayed hide of a fallow deer. Traps, gins, nets, and other implements for taking forest game and fish, were visible in a corner by themselves; and in another corner lay a large wooden axe, the implement of the owner’s proper calling. On the floor stood a beechwood table, with half-a-dozen rush-bottomed chairs, and some culinary utensils of red earthenware; while in the cavity, representing a fire-place, two large stones did duty for andirons.

The kitchen was everything—the two rooms, the only others in the house—were both bedchambers; and both of very limited divisions. Each contained only a single bed; but one of the rooms was furnished a little better than its fellow:—that is, the bed had sheets and a coverlet; while the other was only a shakedown of straw rushes, with some rags of coarse grogram, and a couple of deer-skins for bed-clothes.