Conjoined with these grievances were discussed the kindred impositions and persecutions of that iniquitous council, the Court of High Commission, which for cruel zeal rivalled even the Inquisition – and the infamous Star Chamber, that numbered its victims by thousands.
These truculent tools of tyranny had been for ten years in the full performance of their flagitious work; but, instead of crushing out the spirit of a brave people – which was their real aim and end – they had only been preparing it for a more determined and effective resistance.
The trial of Hampden – the favourite of Buckinghamshire – for his daring refusal to pay the arbitrary impost of “ship money,” had met with the approbation of all honest men; while the judges, who condemned him, were denounced on all sides as worse than “unjust.”
To its eternal glory be it told, nowhere was this noble spirit more eminently displayed than in the shire of Bucks – nowhere, in those days, was the word liberty so often, or so emphatically, pronounced. Shall I say, alas! the change?
True, it was yet spoken only in whispers – low, but earnest – like thunder heard far off over the distant horizon – heard only in low mutterings, but ready, at any moment, to play its red lightnings athwart the sky of despotism.
Such mutterings might have been heard in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade. In the midst of that joyous gathering, signs and sounds of a serious import might have been detected – intermingling with scenes of the most light-hearted hilarity.
It may be wondered why those sentiments of freedom were not more openly declared. But that is easy of explanation. If among the assemblage who assisted at the birthday celebration, there were enemies to Court and King, there were also many who were not friends to the cause of the People. In the crowd which occupied the old camp, there was a liberal sprinkling of spies and informers – with eyes sharply set to see, and ears to catch, every word that might be tainted with treason. No man knew how soon he might be made the victim of a denunciation – how soon he might stand in the awe-inspiring presence of the “Chamber.”
No wonder that men expressed their sentiments with caution.
Among the gentlemen present there was a similar difference of opinion upon political matters – even among members of the same family! But such topics of discussion were studiously avoided, as unbecoming the occasion; and no one, carelessly contemplating the faces of the fair dames and gay cavaliers grouped laughingly together, could have suspected the presence of any sentiment that sprang not from the most contented concordance.
There was one countenance an exception to this general look of contentment – one individual in that brilliant throng that had as yet taken no pleasure in the sports. It was Marion Wade.
She, whose smile was esteemed a blessing wherever it fell, seemed herself unblessed.
Her bosom was a chaos of aching unrest. There was wanting in that concourse one whose presence could have given it peace.
Ever since entering the enclosure of the camp, had the eye of Marion Wade been wandering over the heads of the assembled spectators; over the fosse, and toward the gates of the park – where some late guests still continued to straggle in.
Evidently was she searching for that she failed to find: for her glance, after each sweeping tour of inquiry, fell back upon the faces around her, with an ill-concealed expression of disappointment.
When the last of the company appeared to have arrived, the expression deepened to chagrin.
Her reflections, had they been uttered aloud, would have given a clue to the discontent betraying itself on her countenance.
“He comes not – he wills not to come! Was there nothing in those looks? I’ve been mad to do as I have done! And what will he think of me? What can he? He took up my glove – perhaps a mere freak of curiosity, or caprice – only to fling it down again in disdain? Now I know he cares not to come – else would he have been here. Walter promised to introduce him – to me– to me! Oh! there was no lure in that. He knows he might have introduced himself. Have I not invited him? Oh! the humiliation!”
Despite her painful reflections, the lady tried to look gay. But the effort was unsuccessful. Among those standing near there were some, who did not fail to notice her wan brow and wandering glance; dames envious of her distinction – gallants, who for one smile from her proud, pretty lips, would have instantly sacrificed their long love-locks, and plucked from their hats those trivial tokens, they had sworn so hypocritically to wear.
There was only one, however, who could guess at the cause; and that one could only guess at it. Her cousin alone had any suspicion, that the heart of Marion was wandering, as well as her eyes. A knowledge of this fact would have created surprise – almost wonder – in the circle that surrounded her. Marion Wade was a full-grown woman; had been so for more than a year. She had been wooed by many – by some worshipped almost to idolatry. Wealth and title, youth and manhood, lands and lordships, had been laid at her feet; and all alike rejected – not with the proud flourish of the triumphant flirt, but with the tranquil dignity of a true woman, who can only be wed after being won.
Among the many aspirants to her hand, there was not one who could tell the tale of conquest. More than once had that tale been whispered; but the world would not believe it. It would have been a proud feat for the man who could achieve it – too proud to remain unproclaimed.
And yet it had been achieved, though the world knew it not. She alone suspected it, whose opportunities had been far beyond those of the world. Her cousin, Lora Lovelace, had not failed to feel surprise at those lonely rides – lonely from choice – since her own companionship had been repeatedly declined. Neither had she failed to observe, how Marion had chafed and fretted, at the command of Sir Marmaduke, requiring their discontinuance. There were other circumstances besides: the lost glove, and the bleeding wrist – the fevered sleep at night, and the dreamy reveries by day. How could Lora shut her eyes to signs so significant?
Lora was herself in love, and could interpret them. No wonder that she should suspect that her cousin was in a like dilemma; no wonder she should feel sure that Marion’s heart had been given away; though when, and to whom, she was still ignorant, as any stranger within the limits of the camp.
“Marion!” said she, drawing near to her cousin, and whispering so as not to be overheard, “you are not happy to-day?”
“You silly child! what makes you think so?”
“How can I help it? In your looks – ”
“What of my looks, Lora?”
“Dear Marion, don’t mind me. It’s because I dread that others may notice them. There’s Winifred Wayland has been watching you; and, more still, that wicked Dorothy Dayrell. She has been keeping her eyes on you like a cat upon a mouse. Cousin! do try to look different, and don’t give them something to talk about: for you know that’s just what Dorothy Dayrell would desire.”
“Look different! How do I look, pray?”
“Ah! I needn’t tell you how? You know how you feel; and from that you may tell how you look.”
“Ho! sage counsellor, you must explain. What is it in my appearance that has struck you? Tell me, chit!”
“You want me to be candid, Marion?”
“I do – I do!”
The answer was given with an eagerness, that left Lora no wish to withhold her explanation.
“Marion,” said she, placing her lips close to the ear of her who was alone intended to hear it, “you are in love?”
“Nonsense, Lora. What puts such a thought into your silly little head?”
“No nonsense, Marion; I know it by your looks. I don’t know who has won you, dear cousin. I only know he’s not here to-day. You’ve been expecting him. He hasn’t come. Now!”
“You’re either a great big deceiver, or a great little conjuror, Lora.