“As Heaven is my judge, I have endeavoured to avoid it. I have tried not to love her; at times wished she should not love me. This was at first; but alas! no longer can I resist the sweet fascination. My heart has leaped beyond my control; and both soul and body must now obey its inclinings. Without the love of Marion Wade, I care not how soon my life may come to an end—not much either in what way—an ignominious gallows, or an honoured grave.
“Sir Marmaduke I must speak to in person. Even a letter might not now reach him. ’Tis monstrous this act of his Gracious Majesty!” The cavalier pronounced the last words with a scornful emphasis. “Monstrous, as on the King’s part, stupidly foolish. It cannot fail to effect good service for our side; and I should rejoice were it any other than Sir Marmaduke. But, to think of this man, in his house—Richard Scarthe—the wily courtier—the notorious profligate—under the same roof with Marion Wade—in the same room—seated by the same table—in her presence at all hours, by night as by day—wielding that dangerous power that springs from an attitude of authority. O Heavens!”
The painful thoughts which this train of reasoning produced, caused the cavalier to start to his feet, and rapidly pace the room—in hope of allaying his agitation.
“Will Sir Marmaduke remain at Bulstrode?” he continued, after a time. “He cannot help himself? To go elsewhere would only bring down upon him the wrath of this queen-ridden tyrant—perhaps subject him to some still more severe infliction? But will he keep his family there—exposed among the swaggering soldiery—perhaps to be insulted—perhaps—?
“Surely he will send them away—somewhere, anywhere until a better time? Thank Heaven, there is hope of a better! I shall see Sir Marmaduke to-morrow. I promised him I should. With her, too, shall I seek an interview; although it may end in giving me chagrin—even if it should be the last.”
Having muttered this somewhat reckless resolve, the cavalier once more threw himself into a chair; and with his elbows resting upon the table, and the palms of his hands crossed over his forehead, he seemed to give way to some profound and painful reflection.
Whatever it was, he was not allowed long to indulge in it. The entrance of Oriole would scarce have aroused him from his reverie—for the mocassined foot of the Indian made no sound upon the floor—but at the same instant a noise of another kind was heard within the apartment—the grinding of a horse’s hoof on the gravel scattered outside the entrance door.
Oriole, after entering, had stopped in an attitude that told he had something to communicate.
“What is it, Oriole? Another visitor?”