He had easily obtained the knight’s condemnation. From the peculiar interest which he possessed at Court, he knew—or believed—that with equal facility he could procure his pardon.
In his own mind he had resolved upon doing this. On certain conditions Marion Wade might expect a prompt answer to the inquiry she was about to make. It was already determined upon: the price of Sir Marmaduke’s life would be the hand of his daughter.
Scarthe did not design addressing his reiterated proposal to the condemned knight; but to Marion herself. His former appeal to the father had been met with a refusal so firm, that from him he might readily apprehend a similar response. True, at that time the knight was only threatened with danger. Now, death stared him in the face—death inglorious, even ignominious. The prospect could not fail to cause fear and faltering; and an ordinary man should be only too fain, by any means, to save himself from such a fate.
But Sir Marmaduke Wade was not one of this stamp. On the contrary, he was just the type of those antique heroic parents, who prefer death to the sacrifice of a daughter’s happiness. Scarthe knew it; and believed it quite possible that the conditions he meant to offer might still provoke a noble and negative rejoinder. Although he had not determined to forego the chances of a last appeal to the condemned prisoner, this was only to be made in the event of Marion’s rejection of his terms. Filial affection was first to be put upon its trial. After that it would be time to test the parental.
This design had been conceived, before the trial of Sir Marmaduke—even previous to his imprisonment: for it was but a sequence of his scheme; and he who concocted it had only been waiting for the knight’s condemnation, to bring matters to a climax.
Of the sentence he had been already advised—in fact, knew it before leaving London. Twenty-four hours sooner he could have communicated the intelligence to those whom it most concerned; but, for reasons of his own, he had preferred leaving it to reach them through the natural channel—by the return of Walter from that short sad interview, the last he had been permitted to hold with his unfortunate father.
It was late in the evening when Walter arrived to tell the melancholy tale. Perhaps, had the hour been earlier, Scarthe would have intruded upon the scene of sorrow—to speak his sham sympathy, and mingle hypocritical tears with those that were real. As it was, he only expressed himself thus by deputy—sending one of the domestics with a message of condolence, and reserving his interview with Marion for the morrow.
It was his design to see her, just at that hour when it might be supposed, the first fresh throes of her sorrow had subsided, and his proffer of assistance might stand a better chance of being appreciated.
Ever since the departure of the prisoner he had been cunningly preparing his plans. He had lost no opportunity of letting it be understood—or at all events surmised—that he possessed the power to save. He had hinted at great sacrifices that would accrue to himself in the exertion of this power—at the same time, making certain innuendos, that left the conditions to be guessed at.
His scheme had become matured. To-morrow would see it carried into effect, either for failure or success, and that morrow had now arrived.