The White Gauntlet

Sir Marmaduke believed the captain of the King’s cuirassiers quite capable of the infamous act. His apparent friendship and courtesy – his professions of regret for the part he was compelled to play – had not deceived his host. Sir Marmaduke had no difficulty in detecting the spurious pretences of his guest.

As yet Scarthe had given him no hint of the knowledge he possessed. For his own reasons, he had carefully abstained from this. Nevertheless, Sir Marmaduke had his suspicions.

Unfortunately, he had no means of satisfying them, one way or the other. Scarthe had carefully scrutinised his correspondence – under the pretence that he did so by orders from the King – and such of the members of that meeting, as Sir Marmaduke had been able to see personally, were, like himself, only suspicious. No one in the neighbourhood knew of the doings of that night, except Dancey, Walford, and Gregory Garth. Dancey and his daughter had both been absent for weeks – it was not known where; Walford had no dealings with Sir Marmaduke Wade; and Garth was utterly unknown to him.

The knight knew that his liberty – his life – were in the scales. A feather – a breath – and the beam might be kicked against him. No wonder he was apprehensive – even to wretchedness.

There was but one clear spot in the sky – one beacon on which to fix his hopes – the Parliament.

This Parliament – afterwards distinguished as the “Long” – perhaps the most patriotic assembly that ever met amongst men – was about to commence its sittings, as well as its struggles with the hoary hydra of royal prerogative. To the oppressed it promised relief – to the condemned a respite – to the imprisoned a restoration of their liberty.

But the royal reptile, though cowering, and partially crushed, had not yet been deprived of his fangs. There were places throughout the realm where his power was rampant as ever – where he could still seize, confiscate, and behead. With reason, therefore, might Sir Marmaduke feel dread of his vengeance. And no wonder: with Sir John Elliot pining away his life in a prison; with the wrongs of Lenthall, and Lilburne, and Prynne unavenged; with men walking the streets deprived of their ears, and outraged by other mutilations; with Holtspur himself, whom Sir Marmaduke now knew to be the noble patriot Henry – , an outlawed fugitive, hiding himself from the sleuth-hounds of a spited queen!

The good knight resembled the mariner in the midst of a tempest. The re-summoned Parliament was the life-boat struggling across the surge – surrounded by angry breakers. Would it live to reach, and relieve him? Or was he destined to see it strike upon a rock, and its gallant crew washed away amidst the waste of waters?

In truth, a gallant crew, as ever carried ship of state through the storm – as ever landed one in a haven of safety. Hark to their names – every one of them a household word! Pym, Hampden, Hollis, and Hazlerig; the Lords Kimbolton, Essex, and Fairfax; and last and greatest, the immortal Oliver Cromwell! It was a glorious galaxy of names – enough to inspire even the timid with confidence; and by such were the timid sustained.

In the retrospect of two hundred years’ alongside such names, how sounds the paltry title of “Carolus Rex?” Even then it was, day by day, losing its authoritative significance. A crisis was coming, as when men awake from a drunken dream – when the word “loyalty” only reminds them of liberties surreptitiously stolen, and rights too slackly surrendered; when “king” sounds synonymous with “tyrant;” and “patriot” assumes its proper meaning. Not, as the so-called “statesmen” of the present day – statesmen forsooth! – palterers with the people’s rights – smug trimmers of parliamentary majorities – bottle-holders – the very chicanes of statecraft – the “smush” of England’s manhood, with reputations destined to damnation, almost as soon as their puny breath becomes choked within their inglorious coffins!

Oh, the contrast between that day and this – the difference of its deeds, and its men! – distinct as glory from shame! That was the grandest throe ever felt by England’s heart in its aspirations after Liberty.

Let us hope it will not be the last. Let us hope that the boasted spirit of Great Britain – at this hour lower than it has ever been – will have a speedy resuscitation; and strike to the dust the demon of thraldom, in whatever form he may make himself manifest – in the old fashioned shape of serfdom, or its modern substitute the tax: for, though differing in tide, both are essentially the same.

Sir Marmaduke sate in his library, as we have said, a prey to uneasy thoughts. They were not tranquillised by the announcement, just then made by one of the domestics: that Captain Scarthe desired an interview with him.

“What business has he now?” was the mental interrogatory of the knight, when the request was conveyed to him.

“Something of more than ordinary import,” thought he, on glancing at the countenance of Scarthe, as the latter presented himself within the apartment.

Well might Sir Marmaduke give thought to the conjecture: for, in truth, was there upon the mind of his visitor something that might well merit the name of extraordinary; which, despite his habitual sang froid, did not fail to show itself upon his features. Upon them a guilty intention was as plainly expressed, as if the lines had been letters on the page of a printed book.

The knight knew not this intention by any overture hitherto made to him. He had his suspicions nevertheless, too truly pointing to the pretensions which Scarthe was about to put forward to the hand of his daughter. These had been sufficiently painful to him: now more so, when coupled with that other suspicion already harassing him: as to the power possessed by his soldier guest.

They might have been even more painful, had he known the extent of that power – real and assumed – with which the latter was endowed. At that moment Scarthe carried in his pocket signed “Carolus Rex,” an order for the knight’s arrest, and commitment to the Tower of London!

It signified little, that both the order and its signature were counterfeits. They would be equally efficacious for the purpose intended. Sir Marmaduke had not the means, nor would he be allowed the opportunity to test their genuineness.

They were forgeries both. It was in concocting them that Captain Scarthe had spent the half-hour, between the time of his parting with Marion Wade, and betaking himself into the presence of her father.

Before Sir Marmaduke he now stood, prepared for an emergency he had already contemplated – ready for its extremest measures.

“Pardon me, Sir Marmaduke Wade!” began he, bowing with ceremonious respect. “Pardon me for intruding upon you at this early hour; but my business is of importance. When you have heard it, you will no doubt excuse this deviation from the rules of etiquette.”

“Captain Scarthe is, I presume, on the performance of some duty; and that will be his excuse.”

“In truth, Sir Marmaduke, I have a double errand. One is on duty – and I grieve to say a painful duty to me. The other I might designate an errand of affection; and could I flatter myself that it would prove a welcome one to you, I should deem it as pleasant as that of my duty is painful.”

“You speak in enigmas, sir? I cannot comprehend them. May I ask you to tell me, in plain speech, what are your two errands? One, you say, is painful to yourself – the other, on certain conditions, may prove pleasant. Choose which you please to communicate first.”

“Sir Marmaduke Wade,” rejoined the cuirassier captain, “you accuse me of circumlocution. It is an accusation I will not give you cause to repeat. My first errand – and that to me of most importance – is to tell you that I love your daughter; and that I wish to make her my wife.”

“I admire your candour, Captain Scarthe; but permit me to say, in reply, that the information you have thus volunteered concerns my daughter, more than myself. You are free to impart it to her; as is she to answer you according to her inclinations.”

“I have imparted it. I have already proposed to her.”

“And her answer?”

“A refusal.”

“And you come to me! For what purpose, Captain Scarthe?”

“Need I declare it, Sir Marmaduke? I love your daughter with all the love of my heart. I would wed her – make her happy – in time, perhaps, high and noble, as any in the land. I know that I offer myself under unfavourable circumstances. But with your assistance, Sir Marmaduke – your authority exerted over her – ”

“You need not go on, sir;” said Sir Marmaduke, interrupting the petitioner in a calm, firm tone. “Whatever answer my daughter has given you shall be mine. You speak of my authority. I have none in such a matter as this. The father has no right to restrain, or thwart, the inclinations of his child. I have never assumed such a power; nor shall I now – either in your favour, or against you. If you have won the heart of Marion Wade, you are welcome to wear it – welcome both to her heart and hand. If not, you need not look to me. So far as I am concerned, my daughter is free to accept whomsoever she may please, or reject whom she may dislike. Now, sir!” added the knight, in a tone that told of stern determination, “that matter is ended between us – I hope to your satisfaction.”

“Enough!” ejaculated Scarthe, his voice betraying indignant chagrin. “’Tis just as I expected,” he muttered to himself. “It will be idle to urge the matter any more – at least until I’ve got my lever on its fulcrum; then, perhaps – ”

“May I beg of you to make known your other errand, sir?” said Sir Marmaduke, impatient to bring the unpleasant interview to a termination, “that which you say is of a painful nature?”

“I say it with truth,” rejoined Scarthe, still keeping up a show of sympathy for his victim. “Perhaps you will not give me credit for the declaration; though I pledge my honour – as a gentleman holding the commission of the king – that a more unpleasant duty, than that which is now before me, I have never been called upon to perform.”

“When you condescend to make it known, sir, perhaps I shall be the better able to judge. Can I assist you in any way?”

“O, Sir Marmaduke – noble Sir Marmaduke Wade! I wish it were in my power to assist you.”

“Ha!”

“Alas! But a short month ago I could with indifference have enacted the part I am now called upon to play. Then I knew you not. I knew not your daughter. Oh! that I had never known one, or the other – neither the noble father, nor the – ”

“Sir!” interrupted Sir Marmaduke sternly, “I beg you will come to the point. What is this disagreeable communication you would make? You surprise and puzzle me.”

“I cannot declare it with my own lips. Noble knight! excuse me from giving speech to it. Here are my orders – too plain – too peremptory. Read them for yourself!”

Sir Marmaduke took hold of the paper – extended to him, apparently, with a trembling hand. The hand trembled that received it. He read: —

“To ye Captain Richard Scarthe, commanding ye cuirassiers at Bulstrode Park.

“It hath come, to ye knowledge of his Majestie that Sir Marmaduke Wade, Knight, hath been guilty of treasonable practices and designs against his Majestie and ye government. Therefore Captain Scarthe is hereby commanded to arrest ye said Sir Marmaduke, and convey him to ye Tower prison, there to await trial by Star Chamber, or such other Court as may be deemed sufficient for ye crime charged.

“And Captain Scarthe is moreover enjoined and commanded by his Majestie to lose no time in carrying out ye said command of his Majestie, but that he proceed to its execution on ye receipt of these presents.

“Given at my Palace, Whitehall.

“Carolus Rex.”

“I am your prisoner, then?” said Sir Marmaduke, folding up the paper, and returning it to the cuirassier captain.

“Not mine, Sir Marmaduke. Alas! not mine, but the king’s.”

“And where am I to be taken? But I forget. I need not have asked.”

“The place is mentioned in the despatch.”

“The time too!”

“I regret it is so,” rejoined Scarthe, with a pretence of being pained in the performance of his duty. “By this document you will perceive, that my orders are peremptory.”

“I presume, I shall be permitted to take leave of my family?”

“It grieves me to the heart, Sir Marmaduke, to inform you that my instructions are painfully stringent. Even that has been made a part of them.”

“Then I am not to bid farewell to my children, before parting with them – perhaps, for ever?”

“Do not talk thus, sir,” said Scarthe, with a show, of profound sympathy. “There must be a misunderstanding. Some enemy has been abusing you to the ear of the king. Let us hope it will be nothing serious in the end. I wish it were otherwise; but I am instructed in a confidential despatch – that, after making known the order for your arrest, I am not to permit any communication between you and your friends – even the members of your own family —except in my presence.”

“In your presence be our parting then. Can I summon my children hither?”

“Certainly, Sir Marmaduke. Alas! alas! that I am compelled to be the witness of such a sad spectacle.”

Scarthe truly characterised the scene that followed, by calling it a sad spectacle. Such it was – too sad to be described: the cuirassier captain appearing as much affected as any of those who assisted at it!

In an hour after, Sir Marmaduke Wade – in the custody of a cuirassier guard – might have been seen passing out of Bulstrode Park, on his way to that famous, or rather infamous, receptacle of political prisoners – the Tower of London.

Volume Three – Chapter Sixteen

In less than a week from this time, Sir Marmaduke Wade stood in the presence of the Star Chamber – that Court which for long years had been the dread – less of criminals, than of innocent men.

When accuser and judge are one and the same person, condemnation is sure to follow. In Sir Marmaduke’s case the accuser was the king himself. The Star Chamber was a mere mask – a means of carrying out his arbitrary acts, while screening him from their responsibility.

The trial was as much a farce, as if it had been held before a conclave of the Holy Inquisition. Indeed, both Star Chamber and High Commission Court bore a close resemblance to that terrible tribunal; and, like the latter, however farcical might be the form of their trials, they had too often a tragical ending.

Sir Marmaduke’s trial, like many others of the time, was a mockery of justice – a mere formality to satisfy the slight remnants of liberty that still lingered in the Constitution. The Court had already doomed him. It needed only for the Star Chamber to endorse the foregone decree; which was done by its truculent judges without any delay, and with as little noise or ceremony.

The knight was accused of treason towards the crown – of conspiring against the king.

The charge was proven; and the criminal was condemned to death, by the mode in use against political offenders of the time. His sentence was: —to be beheaded upon the block.

He was not even confronted with his accusers; and knew not who they were who bore witness against him. But the most specific charge brought up – that of his presence and speech at the night meeting at Stone Dean – left him no reason to doubt that Richard Scarthe was one of their number – if not the prime instigator of the prosecution.

During the investigation, the accused was kept in complete ignorance, both of the witnesses and the testimony preferred against him. None was allowed in his favour – no advocate was permitted to plead for him; and indeed, long before his trial came to a termination, he had made up his mind as to the result.

It was scarce a shock to him, when the president of that iniquitous conclave, pronounced in mock solemnity the sentence of death.

But it was a terrible shock to two tender hearts, when his son, Walter, hurrying home after the trial, carried the melancholy tidings – to the mansion of Bulstrode, soon to be deprived of its master.

Never was the hypocrisy of Richard Scarthe more successfully exerted than in that sad hour.

The children of his victim were almost deceived into a belief in his friendship. So sincere did his expressions of sympathy appear, and so often were they repeated, that Walter and Lora became almost disarmed as to his treason; and even Marion wavered in her suspicions of the honesty of this accomplished impostor.

Could Sir Marmaduke have communicated with them, there would have been no danger of such a deception. But this he was not allowed to do. From the hour of his arrest, his enemy had adopted every precaution to prevent it. The parting with his children had taken place in Scarthe’s presence – where no word could be spoken unheard. Afterwards, from his prison in the Tower, he had not been allowed to hold the slightest intercourse with the outside world – neither before his trial, nor after it. Only a few minutes had his son Walter been permitted to stay in his company; and then only with spies and jailers standing near, and listening to every speech that passed between them.

Sir Marmaduke had not even found opportunity to communicate to his son the suspicions he entertained: that the man who was making such loud protestations of sympathy and friendship, was not only his enemy, but the very individual who had denounced him.

To Walter, and Lora, and Marion, all this remained unknown. It had never occurred to them to speculate on the cause of Scarthe’s absence from the mansion – during the two days of the trial. Little did they suspect that the double-tongued villain – so profuse in expressions of sympathy and condolence – during that interval, had been himself in the presence of the Star Chamber – secretly testifying against the accused – freely supplying the testimony that had sealed his condemnation.

On the morning after the sad intelligence had been conveyed to the inmates of Bulstrode mansion, Marion was in her chamber, the victim of a double sorrow.

The Spaniards have a proverb, “One nail drives out another,” (un clavo saca otro clavo), intending to convey, by this homely figure, that the heart cannot contain two sorrows at the same time, but that one must give place to the other.

To some extent is this proverb true; but, like most others, yielding to certain conditions. For a while recent sorrow, overweighing that of anterior date, may tend to its alleviation. If it be greater, it may conduct to its cure; but, if less, the old grief will in time return, and again resume dominion over the throne of the heart.

Either one of the sorrows from which Marion suffered, was enough to have occupied her heart, to the exclusion of the other; and yet, her experience confirmed the proverb only in part. Long after listening to the sad tale told by her brother, she had brooded over the misfortunes of her much-loved father, and the fearful fate that was awaiting him. But love is stronger than filial affection; and there were intervals, during which, her anguish for a parent she was about to lose, was perhaps, less intense than that for a lover she had already lost! Judge her not harshly, if in the midst of her convulsive grief, there were moments when her mind dwelt upon the other and older sorrow. Judge her not harshly; but as you would yourself be judged! She was not alone. Her affectionate cousin was by her side; and near by, her fond brother. They had passed the night together – in vain endeavours to impart mutual consolation. Their cheeks and eyes told of a night spent in sleeplessness and tears.

Spent in mutual counsel, too; which they seemed to have exhausted: as was testified by the words now spoken by Walter.

Marion had suggested an appeal to the Queen – had proposed making a journey to London for this purpose.

“I fear it will be of no use,” rejoined the ex-courtier. “I fell upon my knees before her – I protested our father’s innocence – I entreated her with tears in my eyes; but she gave me no hope. On the contrary, she was angry with me. I never saw her so before. She even insulted me with vile words: called me the cub of a conspirator; while Jermyn, and Holland, and others of the young lords in her company, made merry at my expense. The king I dared not see. Ah! sister; I fear even you would meet no favour among that Court crew. There is but one who can help us; and that because he is of their kind. You know who I mean, Marion?”

“You speak of Captain Scarthe?”

“I do.”

“Indeed! it is true,” interposed Lora. “You know he has more than once thrown out hints, as to what he could do to obtain dear uncle’s freedom. I would go upon my knees to him, if it were of any use; but you know, Marion, one word from you would be worth all the entreaties that Walter and I could make. O, cousin! let us not speak in riddles at such a time as this. You know the reason?”

“Marion!” said Walter, half divining Lora’s implied meaning; “If this man speak sincerely – if it be true that he has the influence he boasts of – and I have heard as much at Court – then there may be a hope. I know not to what Lora refers. She says that a word from you may accomplish much. Dear sister; is it a sacrifice?”

“You have styled it truly, Walter, in calling it a sacrifice. Without that, my entreaties would be vain as yours. I am sure of it.”

“Say, sister! What sacrifice?”

“My hand – my hand!”

“Dear, dear Marion! If it be not with your heart, you cannot promise it – you could not give it.”

“Without such promise, I know he would deny me.”

“The wretch! O, heavens! And yet it is our father’s life – ay, his very life!”

“Would it were mine!” exclaimed Marion, with a look of abandoned anguish; “only mine. The thought of death would be easier to endure than the sorrows I have already!”

Walter comprehended not the meaning of her wild words. Lora better understood their import.

Neither had time to reflect upon them: for, on the instant of their utterance, Marion rose to her feet, and walked with a determined air towards the door of the apartment.

“Where are you going, dear cousin?” asked Lora, slightly frayed at Marion’s resolute mien.

“To Captain Scarthe,” was the firm rejoinder. “To fling myself at his feet – prostrate, if he please it; to ask him the price of my father’s life.”

Before either cousin or brother could interfere, to oppose or strengthen her resolution, the self-appointed suppliant had passed out of the room.

Volume Three – Chapter Seventeen

The sentence passed upon Sir Marmaduke had given Scarthe a new string to his bow; and the crisis had now arrived for testing its strength.

He had easily obtained the knight’s condemnation. From the peculiar interest which he possessed at Court, he knew – or believed – that with equal facility he could procure his pardon.

In his own mind he had resolved upon doing this. On certain conditions Marion Wade might expect a prompt answer to the inquiry she was about to make. It was already determined upon: the price of Sir Marmaduke’s life would be the hand of his daughter.

Scarthe did not design addressing his reiterated proposal to the condemned knight; but to Marion herself. His former appeal to the father had been met with a refusal so firm, that from him he might readily apprehend a similar response. True, at that time the knight was only threatened with danger. Now, death stared him in the face – death inglorious, even ignominious. The prospect could not fail to cause fear and faltering; and an ordinary man should be only too fain, by any means, to save himself from such a fate.

But Sir Marmaduke Wade was not one of this stamp. On the contrary, he was just the type of those antique heroic parents, who prefer death to the sacrifice of a daughter’s happiness. Scarthe knew it; and believed it quite possible that the conditions he meant to offer might still provoke a noble and negative rejoinder. Although he had not determined to forego the chances of a last appeal to the condemned prisoner, this was only to be made in the event of Marion’s rejection of his terms. Filial affection was first to be put upon its trial. After that it would be time to test the parental.

This design had been conceived, before the trial of Sir Marmaduke – even previous to his imprisonment: for it was but a sequence of his scheme; and he who concocted it had only been waiting for the knight’s condemnation, to bring matters to a climax.