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The White Gauntlet

Volume Three – Chapter Eighteen

Scarthe stood for a time astounded – stupefied. Had Marion Wade gone mad? Her singular behaviour seemed to say so.

But no. There appeared to be method in the movement she had made. As she glided through the open casement, he had observed, that her eye was fixed upon something outside – something that must have influenced her to the making of that unexpected exit.

On recovering from his surprise, the cuirassier captain hastened towards the window; but, before reaching it, he heard sounds without, conducting him to alarming conjectures. They might have been unintelligible, but for the sight that came under his eyes as he looked forth.

A crowd was coming up the main avenue of the park – a crowd of men. They were not marching in order, and might have been called a “mob;” although it consisted of right merry fellows – neither disorderly nor dangerous. The individuals who composed it appeared to be of every condition in life, and equally varied as to their costumes. But the greater number of them could be identified as men of the farmer and mechanic class – the “bone and sinew” of the country.

The miller under his hoary hat; the butcher in his blood-stained boots; the blacksmith in grimy sheepskin; the small shopkeeper, and pale-faced artisan; the grazier and agriculturist of ruddy hue – alongside the tavern-keeper and tapster of equally florid complexion – could be distinguished in that crowd coming on towards the walls of Bulstrode mansion.

The cuirassier captain had seen such an assemblage before. It might have been the same, that saluted him with jeers – as he crossed the Colne bridge, returning from his unsuccessful pursuit of the black horseman. With slight exceptions, it was the same.

One of these exceptions was an individual, who, mounted on horseback, was riding conspicuously in front; and who appeared to occupy a large share of the attention of those who followed him. He was a man of mature age, dressed in dark velvet tunic, and with trunk-hose of a corresponding colour. A man with an aspect to inspire regard – even from a crowd to which he might have been a stranger.

But he was evidently no stranger to the men who surrounded him: for at every step of their progress, they could be heard vociferating in hearty hurrah, “Long live Sir Marmaduke Wade!”

It was the Knight of Bulstrode who headed that cheerful procession.

Though much-loved, Sir Marmaduke did not monopolise the enthusiasm of the assemblage. Mounted upon a magnificent horse – black as a coal fresh hoisted upon the windlass – rode by his side a cavalier of more youthful, but equally noble, aspect.

It did not need the cry, “Hurrah for the black horseman!” at intervals reaching his ears, to apprise Captain Scarthe, who was the second cavalier at the head of the approaching cortege. The images of both horse and rider were engraven upon his memory – in lines too deep ever to be effaced.

What the devil did it mean?

This was the thought in Scarthe’s mind – the identical expression that rose to his lips – as he looked forth from the opened casement.

Sir Marmaduke Wade, on horseback – unguarded – followed by a host of sympathising friends! The rebel Henry Holtspur riding by his side! Marion with her yellow tresses afloat behind her – like a snow-white avalanche under the full flood of a golden sunlight – gliding forward to meet them!

“What the devil can it mean?” was the interrogatory of Captain Scarthe repeatedly put to himself, as the procession drew near.

He was not allowed much time to speculate on a reply to his self-asked question. Before he had quite recovered from the surprise caused by the unexpected sight, the crowd had closed in to the walls; where they once more raised their voices in shouts of congratulation.

“Three cheers for John Hampden!” “Three more for Pym!” were proposed, and unanimously responded to. With equal unanimity were accepted two cries, of far more significance in the ear of the royalist officer: “Long live the Parliament!” “Death to the traitor Strafford!”

Though still unable to account for what appeared to him some strange travestie, Scarthe could endure it no longer. Strafford was his peculiar patron; and, on bearing him thus denounced, he sprang forth from the casement; and ran with all speed in the direction of the crowd.

The cuirassier captain was followed by a score of his troopers, who chanced to be standing near – like himself at a loss to make out the meaning of that unlooked-for invasion.

“Disloyal knaves!” shouted he, confronting the crowd, with his sword raised in a threatening manner, “Who is he that has dared to insult the noble Strafford? Let me hear that traitorous phrase once more; and I shall split the tongue that repeats it!”

“Not so fastish, Master!” cried a stalwart individual, stepping to the front, and whose black bushy whiskers, and fantastic fashion of dress, proclaimed him to be the ex-footpad, Gregory Garth – “doan’t a be so fastish wi’ your threets – you mayen’t be able to carry ’em out so easyish as you suppose. Ye can have a try, though. I’m one o’ them as cried: ‘Death to the treetur Strafford!’”

As he pronounced the challenging speech, Garth drew from its scabbard a huge broadsword – at the same time placing himself in an attitude of defence.

“Goo it, Gregory!” cried another colossal individual, recognisable as Dick Dancey, the deer-stealer. “Gooit like bleezes! I’ll stan’ to yer back.”

“And we!” simultaneously shouted a score of butchers, bakers, and blacksmiths, ranging themselves by the side of Garth, and severally confronting the cuirassiers – who had formed a phalanx in rear of their chief.

Scarthe hesitated in the execution of his threat. He saw that his adversaries, one and all of them, wielded ugly weapons; while his own men had only their light side-arms – some even without arms of any kind. The attitude of the opposing party – their looks, words, and gestures – told that they were in earnest in their resolution to resist. Moreover, it was stronger than his own; and constantly gaining accessions from the crowd in the rear.

With the quick perception of a skilled strategist, Scarthe saw that in a hand-to-hand fight with such redoubtable antagonists, his men would have the worst of it. This influenced him to pause in his purpose.

The unexpected opposition caused him to change his design. He suddenly resolved to retire from the contest; arm and mount his whole troop; sally forth again; and rout the rabble who had so flagrantly defied him.

Such was the project that had presented itself to his brain; but before he could make any movement, Sir Marmaduke had dismounted from his horse, and placed himself between the opposing parties.

“Captain Scarthe!” said he, addressing himself to the officer, and speaking in a calm tone – in which a touch of irony was perceptible; “In this matter, it appears to me, you overstep the limits of your duty. Men may differ in opinion about the merits of the ‘noble Strafford,’ as you have designated Thomas Wentworth. He is now in the hands of his judges; who will no doubt deal with him according to his deserts.”

“Judges!” exclaimed Scarthe, turning pale as he spoke; “Earl Strafford in the hand of judges?”

“It is as I have said. Thomas Wentworth as this moment occupies the same domicile which has been my dwelling for some days past; and from which I am not sorry to have been ejected. I know, Captain Scarthe, you could not have been aware of this change in the fortunes of your friend: since it was only yesterday he made his entrance into the Tower!”

“Strafford in the Tower!” gasped out the cuirassier captain, utterly astounded at the intelligence.

“Yes,” continued the knight; “and soon to stand, not before the Star Chamber – which was yesterday abolished – but a court that will deal more honestly with his derelictions – the High Court of Parliament. Thomas Wentworth appears in its presence – an attainted traitor to his country.”

“Long live the Parliament! Death to the traitor Strafford!” were the cries that responded to the speech of Sir Marmaduke – though from none to whom the announcement was new. The men, who accompanied the knight to his home, had already learnt the news of Strafford’s attainder; which, like a blaze of cheerful light, was fast spreading over the land.

For some seconds Scarthe seemed like a man bereft of reason. He was about to retire from the spot, when Sir Marmaduke again addressed him – speaking in the same calm voice, but with a more perceptible irony of tone —

“Captain Scarthe,” pursued he, “some time ago you were good enough to bring me a despatch from the king. It is my fortune to be able to reciprocate the compliment – and in kind. I am the bearer of one for you – also from his Majesty, as you may see by the seal.”

Sir Marmaduke, as he spoke, exhibited a parchment bearing the stamp of the royal signet.

“On that occasion,” continued he, “you were good enough to have it read aloud – so that the bystanders should have the benefit of its contents. In this, also shall I follow your example.”

On saying this the knightly bearer of the despatch broke open the seal, and read: —

“To ye Captain Scarthe, commanding ye King’s cuirassiers at Bulstrode Park.

“His Majestie doth hereby command ye Captain Scarthe to withdraw his troops from ye mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, and transfer ye same to quarters in our Royal Palace at Windsor; and His Majestie doth further enjoin on his faithful officer, ye said Captain Scarthe, to obey this order on ye instant of receipt thereof.

“Carolus Rex.

“Whitehall.”

The despatch of his “Majestie” was received with a vociferous cheer; though there was not a voice in the crowd to cry “Long live the King!” They knew that the amende, thus made to Sir Marmaduke Wade, was not a voluntary act on the part of the Royal cuckold, but had been wrung from his fears. It was the Parliament who had obtained that measure of justice; and once more rang out the cry: —

“Long live the Parliament!”

Scarthe’s chagrin had culminated to its climax. He was black in the face, as he strode off to make preparations for his departure; and the words “coward” and “poltroon,” muttered hissingly through his closed teeth, were not intended for the citizens who were jeering, but the sovereign who had exposed him to such overwhelming humiliation.

In less than ten minutes after, he was seen at the head of his troop galloping outward through the gates of Bulstrode Park, having left a few stragglers to look after the impedimenta.

He was not likely ever to forget the loud huzza, that rose ironically from the crowd, as his discomfited cuirassiers swept past on their departure.

At the moment of his dismounting, Marion had rushed into the arms of Sir Marmaduke.

“Father!” exclaimed she, joyfully, trembling in his embrace. “Saved! you are safe!”

“Safe, my child! Sure with such a brave following, I may feel safe enough!”

“And I am spared. Oh! to come at such a crisis! Just as I was on the eve of consenting to a sacrifice – painful as death itself.”

“What sacrifice, my daughter?”

“Myself – to him yonder. He promised to obtain your pardon; but only on the condition, I should become – ”

Marion hesitated to pronounce the terms that Scarthe had proposed to her.

“I know them,” interposed Sir Marmaduke. “And you would have accepted them, noble girl! I know that too. Thank heaven! my pardon has been obtained, not through the favour of an enemy, but by friends – foremost among whom is this gallant gentleman by my side. But for him, the King’s grace might have come too late.”

Marion looked up. Holtspur, still seated in his saddle, was tenderly gazing upon her.

It was at this moment, that Sir Marmaduke was called upon to interfere between the cuirassiers of Scarthe, and his own enthusiastic escort. For an instant Marion and Holtspur were left alone.

“I thank you, sir,” said she, her voice trembling from a conflict of emotions – “I thank you for my father’s life. The happiness arising from that is some recompense – for – for the misery you have caused me.”

“Misery, Marion? I – I – ”

“Oh, sir, let it pass. ’Tis better without explanation. You know what is meant – too well you know it. O Henry! Henry! I could not have believed you capable of such a deception – such cruelty.”

“Cruelty?”

“No more – go – go! Leave me to my sorrow – leave me to a life-long repentance!”

“I obey your commands,” said Holtspur, taking up his bridle-reins, as if with the intention of riding away. “Alas!” he added, in an accent of bitterness, “whither am I to go? For me there is no life – no happiness – where thou art not O God! whither am I to go?”

“To your wife,” muttered Marion, in a low reproachful tone, and with faltering accent.

“Ha! ’tis that! You have heard then?”

“All – all.”

“No – not all – I have no wife.”

“O sir! Henry! Why try to deceive me any longer? You have a wife! I have been told it, by those who know. It is true!”

“I have deceived you. That is true, that only. I had a wife. She is dead!”

“Dead!”

“Ay, dead.”

“I acknowledge my crime,” continued he, after a solemn pause. “I should have told you all. For my justification I can plead only my own wrongs, and your beauty. I loved you, while she was still living.”

“O, mercy! what is this? She is dead; and you love me no more?”

“No more? What mean you, Marion? Heart and hand, soul and body, I am yours. I swore it at our last interview. It cost no sacrifice to keep the oath: I could not break it if I would.”

“O Henry! This is cruel. ’Tis insulting! Have you not kept that promise? How, then, can you be true to your troth?”

“What promise?”

“Cruel – cruel! You are trifling with my misery; but you cannot make it more. Ah! the white gauntlet! When it was brought back – with your message that accompanied it – my dream of happiness came to an end. My heart was broken!”

“Brought back – the white gauntlet – message!”

“Marion!” cried Sir Marmaduke, who had by this time disposed of the pretty quarrel between Scarthe and his own following; “Indoors, my daughter! and see that your father’s house does not forfeit its character for hospitality. There’s dust upon the king’s highway; which somehow or other has got into the throats of our worthy friends from Uxbridge, Denham, and Iver. Surely there’s an antidote in the cellars of Bulstrode? Go find it, my girl!”

Promptly did Marion obey the commands of her father; the more promptly, from having been admonished, by the surprise exhibited in Holtspur’s countenance, that the return of her token would admit of a different interpretation, from that she had hitherto put upon it.

Time permitting, it would be a pleasant task to depict the many joyous scenes that took place in the precincts of Bulstrode Park, subsequent to the departure of Scarthe and his cuirassiers.

Lora, no longer subject to the tiresome importunities of Stubbs, found little else to do than listen to Walter’s pretty love prattlings – excepting to respond to them.

Near at hand were two hearts equally en rapport with one another – equally brimful of beatitude – trembling under a passion still more intense – the one paramount passion of a life, destined to endure to its ending.

It was no young love’s dream, – no fickle fondness – that filled the bosoms of Henry Holtspur and Marion Wade; but a love that burned with a bold, blazing flame – like a torch that no time could extinguish – such a love as may exist between the eagle and his majestic mate.

With all its boldness, it sought not notoriety. The scenes in which it was displayed lay not inside the walls of the proud mansion; nor yet within the enclosure of its park. A spot to Marion Wade reminiscent of the keenest pang she had ever experienced – was now the oft-repeated scene of earth’s purest pleasure – at least its supremest. Oft might the lovers have been seen in that solitary spot, under the spreading beech tree, not recumbent as Tityrus, but seated in the saddles, their horses in close approximation – the noble black steed curving his neck, not in proud disdain, but bent caressingly downward, till his velvet muzzle met in friendly contact with that of the white palfrey.

And yet there was scarce necessity for these clandestine meetings. The presence of Scarthe and his cuirassiers no longer interdicted the entrance of Henry Holtspur into the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade – who was ever but too happy to make his preserver welcome.

Why then did the lovers prefer the forest shade, for interviews, that no one had the right to interrupt? Perhaps it was caprice? Perhaps the mystic influence of past emotions – in which, to Marion at least, there was a co-mingling of pain with pleasure? Perhaps, and more probably, their choice was determined by that desire – or instinct – felt by all true lovers, to keep their secret unrevealed – to indulge in the sweetness of the stolen?

Whatever may have been their motive, they were successful in their measures. Oft, – almost daily, – did they meet under the spreading tree whose sombre shadow could not dim the bright colour of Marion’s golden hair, nor make pallid the roseate hue of her cheeks – always more radiant at parting!

Volume Three – Chapter Nineteen

To bring our drama to a dénouement, only two more scenes require to be described.

Two scenes were they, antagonistic in character, – though oft coupled together, like their emblematical deities in the pagan Pantheon.

Over the first, presided Mars. The god called cruel – and not always just – on this occasion, gave the victory to the side that deserved it.

For three years had the trumpet of war been braying loudly over the land: and England’s best blood, marshalled into the field, was arrayed on both sides of the fraternal strife. The combatants had become known as royalist and republican: for the latter phrase – first breathed by Holtspur in the secret conference at Stone Dean – was no longer a title to be concealed. On the contrary, it had become openly avowed – proclaimed as a thing to be proud of —as it ever will and must among enlightened and noble men.

There were heard also the words “Cavalier” and “Roundhead;” but these were only terms of boasting and reproach – proceeding principally from the lips of ribald royalists, humiliated by defeat, and giving way to the ferocious instincts that have distinguished “Toryism” in all times; alas! still rife at the present day, both in the tax-paying shires of England, and the slave-holding territories outré the Atlantic.

The “Cavalier” of Charles’s time – so specifically styled – was a true sham; in every respect shabby as his modern representative, the swell– distinguished only by his vanity and his vices; with scarce a virtue: for, even in the ordinary endowment of courage, he was not equal to his “Roundhead” antagonist. His title of “cavalier,” and his “chivalry,” like that of the Southern slave-driver, were simply pseudonyms – a ludicrous misapplication of terms, self-appropriated by a prurient conceit.

It had come to the meeting on Marston Moor – that field ever to be remembered with pride by the lovers of liberty. The rash swaggerer Rupert, disregarding the counsels of a wiser head, had sallied forth from York, at the head of one of the largest armies ever mustered on the side of the king. He had already raised the siege, so gallantly protracted by the Marquis of Newcastle; and, flushed with success, he was in haste to crush the ci-devant besiegers; who, it must be confessed, with some dispirit were retiring – though slowly, and with the sulky reluctance of wounded lions.

Rupert overtook them upon Marston Moor; where, to his misfortune, they had determined on making stand.

It is not our purpose to describe that famous fight – which for a time settled the question between Throne and Tribune. Of the many thrilling episodes witnessed on Marston Moor, one only can be of interest in this narrative; and it alone is given.

Among the followers of the impetuous prince was one Richard Scarthe – late promoted to be a colonel, and commanding a “colour” of cuirassier horse. On the opposite side, among the following of Fairfax, was an officer of like rank – a colonel of cavalry – by name Henry Holtspur.

Was it destiny, or mutual design, that brought these two men together, face to face, in the middle of the fight? It may have been chance – a simple coincidence – but whether or no, of a certain they so met upon Marston Moor.

Scarthe rode at the head of his glittering troop. Holtspur astride his sable charger, gallantly conducted into the field the brave yeomen of Bucks clad in cloth doublets of forest green, – each bestriding a horse he had led from his own stable, to figure in this glorious fight for freedom.

While still a hundred yards separated the opposing parties, their leaders recognised one another. There was also a mutual recognition among their men: for many of those commanded by Scarthe were the cuirassiers who had been billeted at Bulstrode mansion; while many of the “green coats” in the following of the black horseman had figured conspicuously in that crowd who had jeered the soldiers on their departure from its park.

On identifying each other as old antagonists there was a general desire on both sides to be led forward. This impulse, however, was stronger in the breasts of the two leaders; who, without waiting to give the word to their men, put spurs to their horses, and galloped across the intervening space. In a second’s time, both had separated from the general line of battle, and were fast closing upon each other.

Their followers taken by surprise at this unexpected action, for a moment remained without imitating their rapid advance. Two young officers only – one from each side – had ridden after their respective chiefs; not as if stirred by their example, but to all appearance actuated by an analogous hostility.

The action of these youths, – known to their comrades as the cornets Stubbs and Wade – did not attract any particular attention. The eyes of all were upon the two chiefs – Scarthe and Holtspur – each exhibiting that mien that proclaimed him determined upon the death of his adversary.

In the breast of Scarthe raged the fires of a long enduring rancour – fed by the remembrance of former defeats – stimulated to a fiendish fierceness by never-dying jealousy.

In the bosom of Holtspur burned a nobler flame – an impulse altogether unselfish – though not less impelling him towards the destruction of his antagonist.

The proud republican saw before him a true type of the Janizary – one of those minions who form the protecting entourage of tyrants – ready to ride over and oppress the peoples of the Earth – ready even to die in their infamous harness – on the battle-field breathing with their last breath that senseless, as contradictory declaration; that they die for king and country!

Holtspur had no personal antipathy to Scarthe – at least none like that by which he was himself regarded.

Notwithstanding the wrongs which the latter had attempted to inflict upon him, his antagonism to the royalist officer was chiefly of a political character – chiefly the sublime contempt which a republican must needs feel for a partisan of monarchy – whether simpleton or villain: since one of the two he must be. It was sufficient, however, to stimulate him to a keen desire to kill Scarthe – such as the shepherd may feel for destroying the wolf that has been preying upon his innocent fold, or the game-keeper the “vermin” that has been spoiling his master’s preserves.

Nerved by noble thoughts – confident in a holy cause – sure of the thanks of millions yet to be – did the soldier of liberty charge forward upon his adversary.

The action was instantaneous; the event quick as the killing of a stoat, crushed beneath the heel of the irate keeper. In less than a score of seconds – after the commencement of the encounter – Scarthe lay motionless upon the turf of Marston Moor – doubled up in his steel equipments, like a pile of mediaeval armour!

By this time the two comets were crossing swords; but before either could give the other a death wound, the royalist bugles brayed the “Retreat;” and the gallant “green coats,” sweeping over the field, put the discomfited cuirassiers to flight; who from that moment, with the rest of Rupert’s army, made more use of their spurs, than their sabres.

One more act, and the curtain must close upon our drama.

The mise en scène of this act has been already presented; and, as often on the stage, it is again repeated; with but little change in the dramatis personae.

Bulstrode Park is once more enlivened by a fête champètre– as before, the old Saxon camp being its arena.

An occasion, even more joyful than then, has called together the friends of Sir Marmaduke Wade; in which category might be comprised every honest man in the shire of Bucks.

The camp enclosure is capable of containing many thousands. It is full: so full, that there is hardly room for the sports of wrestling and single stick, bowls, and baloon – which are, nevertheless, carried on with zealous earnestness by their respective devotees.

What is the occasion? Another son come of age? It cannot be that: since there is but one heir to Sir Marmaduke’s estate; and his majority has been already commemorated?

It is not that. An event of still greater interest has called together the concourse in question. A double event it might be designated: since upon this day the knight of Bulstrode has given away two brides; one to his own son – the other to an “adventurer,” formerly known as Henry Holtspur, the “black horseman,” but of late recognised as Sir Henry – , a colonel in the Parliamentary army, and a member of the Parliament itself.

I have told who are the bridegrooms. I need not name the brides: you have already guessed them!

Behold the two couples, as they stand upon the green-tufted bank – overlooking the sports – pleased spectators of the people’s enjoyment.

For a short while your eyes will rest upon the more youthful pair – the pretty Lora Lovelace, and her cousin-husband Walter.

’Tis well you have first looked upon them: for your eye will scarce care to return to them. Once bent upon Marion Wade, it will not wish to wander away. There you will behold all those hues most distinguished in nature – the blue of the sky – the gold scattered by the sun – the radiance of the rose. Shapes, too, of divine ideal corresponding to such fair colours: the oval of the forehead; the arched outline of the nose; the spiral curving of the nostrils; the hemisphere expressed in two contiguous bosoms; and the limitless parabola passing downward from her lithesome waist – are all conspicuous proofs that, in the construction of Marion Wade, Nature has employed the most accomplished architects – in her adornment, the most skilful of artists.

The crowd has eyes for no one else. She is alike the cynosure of gentle and simple. It is only when these reflect on their late acquired privileges, that they gaze with grateful pride upon the man who stands by her side, – recognised by all present as one of the patriot heroes who has helped them to their liberty.

On this day of the double marriage, as on that of Walter’s majority, there are morris-dancers; and, as before, are personated the “merry men” of Sherwood Forest. But, with some unnoticeable exceptions, the individuals who now figure as the representatives of the outlawed fraternity are not the same. The huge bearded man, who in grotesque attire personifies Little John, can be recognised as the ex-footpad Gregory Garth. No wonder he plays the part to perfection! The representative of Robin Hood is different; and so also she who performs the métier of Maid Marian.

The latter is a girl with golden hair; and the outlaw chief is the ex-cuirassier Withers – long since transformed into a staunch supporter of the Parliament.

Why is Bet Dancey not there as of yore? And where is the woodman Walford?

There are few upon the ground who could not answer these questions: for the sad tragedy, that will account for the absence of both, is still fresh in the minds of the multitude.

A middle-aged man of herculean frame, leaning against a tree, looks sadly upon the sports. All knew him to be old Dick Dancey the deer-stealer. His colossal form is bowed more than when last seen; for he has not been abroad for months. He has come forth to the marriage fête for the first time – from his lone forest hut; where for months he has been mourning the loss of his only child – daughter. There is sadness in his glance, and sorrow in his attitude. Even the ludicrous sallies of his friend and confederate, Garth, cannot win from him a smile; and, as he looks upon the timid fair-haired representative of Maid Marian, and remembers his own brave, and brown, and beautiful Betsey, a tear, telling of a strong heart’s despair, can be seen trickling down his rudely furrowed cheek.

Ah! the brave and beautiful Betsey – for she was both – well may her father sorrow for her fate: for it was one of the saddest. Her love – her wild passion – for Henry Holtspur, however unholy in its aim, was hallowed by truth, and ennobled by generous unselfishness. It should be regarded with the tear of pity – not the smile of contempt. It led to her untimely end. She died by the hand of the lurching ruffian, who had laid presumptuous claim to her love – by the weapon he had threatened to wield – but dared not – against the man he foolishly believed his rival.

His own end was more just and appropriate. That with which, during all his life, he had been warring, was called into requisition to expedite his exit from the world. He terminated his existence upon a tree!

The fête celebrating the double marriage – unlike its predecessor, came to a conclusion, without being interrupted by any unpleasant incident. Everybody on the ground seemed happy; excepting, perhaps, the bereaved father, Dick Dancey, and one other who was present – almost without a purpose – Dorothy Dayrell.

If she had come with a purpose, it must have been to criticise.