Chapter XIII: Part 13

On hearing the key grating in the lock, the substitute of Henry Holtspur--believing it to be a visit of inspection on the part of the guard corporal--or some similar intrusion--had suddenly snatched the lamp from off the stool, and placed it in a less conspicuous position-- behind some lumber in a corner of the room.

The result was to make that portion occupied by herself, almost as obscure as if no light was in the place; and, the girl, who had glided back to the bench, and taken her seat upon it, might without close scrutiny have been taken for a man--for Henry Holtspur.

And for him was she for a time mistaken. It was under this belief, that Marion made that timid and trembling approach; and this it was that caused her voice to quiver, as she faltered forth his name.

The voice that spoke in response, at once dispelled the illusion. It was not that of Henry Holtspur--which would have been known to Marion Wade, despite the obscurity that surrounded her. It was not the voice of any man. It was a woman's!

Before the lady could recover from her surprise, the form of a woman-- tall as her own--was seen rising erect from the bench; then stepping forth from the shadowed side of the room until the face was conspicuously displayed under the light of the lamp.

Marion Wade recognised that countenance, as one that had often--too often--disturbed her dreams. It was Bet Dancey who was thus unexpectedly confronting her!

The short, sharp scream that escaped from the lips of the lady, expressed an emotion stronger than surprise. It comprehended that, and far more. She who had uttered it, comprehended all!

This was the girl who had been sent to speak with the prisoner! Who sent her? No one. She had come on her own errand. _She_ had come, and _he_ was gone! She had rescued him, by remaining in his place!

These thoughts followed one another so rapidly, as to be almost simultaneous. They had all passed through the mind of Marion Wade, before a word was exchanged between herself and the individual who stood before her.

The latter, with equally quick comprehension, interpreted the presence of the lady in that apartment. She had come in the same cause as herself; though too late for a like success. Not a doubt had Bet Dancey that she in the dark velvet cloak had entered that room with the design of releasing the prisoner--in the same manner as she had herself done scarce five minutes before.

She well knew who was her competitor in this self-sacrificing game. If the black hair and dark flashing orbs of Dick Dancey's daughter had disturbed the dreams of Marion Wade, so too had the golden tresses and blue beaming eyes of Sir Marmaduke's, more than once, rendered uneasy the slumbers of the forest maiden. The understanding was mutual. In her own thoughts each found a key to the actions of the other.

The rivals stood face to face--Marion shrinking, chagrined--Betsy unabashed, triumphant.

There was an interval of embarrassing silence. It was brought to an end by the girl; otherwise it might have remained unbroken, as the lady was turning to leave the room in silence.

"You've named the name of Henry Holtspur? He's not here, Mistress Marion Wade."

"I can perceive that without your assistance," answered the proud daughter of Sir Marmaduke--who perhaps would not have deigned a reply, had she not been piqued by the tone of the interrogator.

"You expected to find him, didn't you?"

Marion hesitated to make reply.

"Of course you did; else why should you have come here? You intended to set him free; but you're too late Mistress Wade. Master Holtspur has friends who think as much of him as you--perhaps more. One of them, you see, has been before you?"

"You mean yourself?"

Marion was constrained to put this question, by a thought that had suddenly occurred to her. She remembered the words of the sentry, who had spoken of "a girl having been _sent_ by a lady."

After all, was Bet Dancey only a messenger? And was there a real rival--one of her own rank--in the back ground?

Such a belief would to some extent have been consolatory to the heart of the questioner. But even this slight hope was crushed, by the reply to her interrogatory.

"A strange question that, Mistress Marion Wade? You see me here? You see I have risked my life to save _his_? Do you think I would do that for another? No--not for the queen herself--who I've heard likes him as much, as either you or me?"

"There's not much risk," replied Marion becoming irritated in spite of herself, at the insolent tone of her rustic rival. "To you I should think, not much risk of anything."

"Indeed! And to you--had you been in time to set him free? How then?"

Marion had turned her back upon her taunting interrogator, and was moving towards the door--to avoid the unpleasantness of any further parley with one whose words, as well as actions, had already given her so much pain.

"Stay!" cried her tormentor, as if delighted to continue the persecution. "You appear disappointed, at not having an opportunity to show your friendship for Master Holtspur. You may do something yet, if you have a mind. I dare ye to take my place, and let _me_ go out. If you do, I'll let _him_ know of it the first time I see him. I know that that would be doing _him_ a service. Now?"

"Away, rude girl! I decline your absurd proposition. I shall hold no further speech with you."

As the lady said this, she stretched forth her hand, and rapped against the door--making as much noise as her trembling fingers were capable of, and without any regard to the precautions with which she had been charged by the sentry.

Withers was waiting outside. The key turned quickly in the lock; and the door was once more held open.

The lady glided silently out, and on through the wicket, without staying to speak a word of thanks.

But she had thanked the sentry in advance, and was thinking no more of his services.

As she looked forth from the wicket, the storm, for some hours threatening, had burst; and the rain was descending like a deluge upon the earth.

She stayed not under the shelter of the arched entrance--she did not think of staying; but stepped fearlessly over the threshold, and out into the open way--reckless of the rain, and daring the darkness.

There was a storm in her own bosom; in violence equalling that of the elements--in blackness eclipsing them!

There was not a gleam of light in the cloudy canopy of the heavens.

So, on the horoscope of her own future, there was not a ray of hope.

To her Henry Holtspur was no more--at least, no more to make her happy. She scarce felt gladness at his escape; though it would have been supreme joy, had she herself been the instrument that had secured it.

After all her fond imaginings--after a sacrifice that brought shame, and a confession that made known to him the complete surrender of her heart--to be thus crossed in the full career of her passion--abandoned-- slighted, she might almost say--and for a rival who was only a rustic! Oh! it was the very _acme_ of bitterness--the fellest shape that jealousy could have assumed!

It was not merely the last incident that was leading her into the depth of despair. It only overflowed the cup already at its full. Too many signs had appeared before her eyes--the report of too many circumstances had reached her ears--to leave her in doubt, about the relationship that existed between Henry Holtspur and his late deliverer. How cordial must it be, on the part of the latter, to stimulate her to such an act as that just performed; and how confident must she have been of being rewarded for her self-sacrifice!

A woman would not do such a thing for one likely to treat her with indifference?

So reasoned Marion Wade; though she reasoned wrongly.

It might be a _liaison_, and not an honest love? Considering the relative position of the parties, this was probable enough; but to the mind of Marion it mended not the matter to think so. On the contrary, it only made the ruin appear more complete! Both men and women are more painfully affected by a jealousy of the former, than of the latter!

Alas! that the statement should be true; but it is so. He who denies it knows not human nature--knows not human love!

It would not be true to say, that Marion Wade reflected after this philosophic fashion; and yet it would be equally untrue, to allege that her mind was altogether free from such a reflection. Though beautiful as an angel, she was but a woman--imbued with all a woman's sensibilities--her sensualities too, though divinely adorned!

With the reckless air of one crossed in love, she strode forth into the darkness--taking no heed of the direction.

She walked with hasty steps; though not to avoid the pelting of the rain, or shun exposure to the storm.

On the contrary, she seemed to court these assaults: for, having arrived at the end of the verandah--whither she had strayed by chance--instead of seeking shelter under its roof, she stayed outside upon the open sward.

Although within a very short distance of the door--by which she might have found easy ingress to the mansion--she refrained from entering. Flinging the hood back upon her shoulders, she turned her face upward to the sky, and seemed as if seeking solace from, the cold deluge that poured down from the clouds--the big drops dancing upon her golden tresses, and leaving them as if with reluctance to saturate the silken foldings that draped her majestic form.

"Oh! that I could weep like you, ye skies!" she exclaimed, "and, like you, cast the cloud that is over me! Alas! 'tis too dense to be dissolved in tears. To-morrow ye will be bright again, and gay as ever! To-morrow! Ah! 'twill be the same to me--to-morrow and for ever!"

"Marion!"

The voice pronouncing her name came not from the sky she was apostrophising; though it was one that sounded in her ear sweet as any music of heaven!

Were her senses deceiving her? Was it the distant thunder that muttered "Marion?"

No thunder could have spoken so pleasantly: it was the voice of a lover, uttering the accents of love!

Once more heard she the voice--once more pronouncing: "Marion!"

She had listened for its repetition with an earnestness that brooked not ambiguity. She no longer suspected the thunder of having proclaimed her name. The voice was recognised. It was that of one not worshipped in Heaven, but upon Earth.

The lightning aided in his identification. A favouring flash discovered a well-known form and face, Henry Holtspur was standing by her side!

Volume Three, Chapter III.

Holtspur's presence at this point requires explanation. Why did he linger upon a spot to him fraught with extreme peril--when almost certain death would be the consequence of his recapture?

'Tis said, that the fox and hare delight to roam around the precincts of the kennel--as if fascinated with the danger!

The conduct of Scarthe's prisoner, in thus keeping to the proximity of his prison, though seeming to resemble the folly of the fox, and the phrenzy of the hare, admits of an easy explanation.

On getting outside the wicket-gate--which he had taken the precaution to shut behind him--Holtspur had gone off in a line at right angles to the western _facade_ of the mansion. He had some remembrance of the moated ditch that surrounded the shrubbery. He had observed that it was waterless; and could be easily reached from the glacis. Once in its bottom, he would be safe from observation; and, standing erect, he could see over the parapet, and ascertain whether he was pursued. If not, he could go at his leisure along its dry hollow; and get round to the rear of the dwelling, without setting foot upon the open pasture ground. If pursued at once, the ditch would still be his best place of concealment.

On reaching its edge, he had leaped into it.

It was no fancy of the sentinel, that a cloaked figure had disappeared in that direction--in a somewhat mysterious manner.

After making his descent into the ditch, Holtspur came to a halt--to disembarrass himself of the unbecoming garments that impeded the action of his arms and limbs. Both the skirt and cloak were cast off.

His next action was to elevate his eyes above the parapet; and, if possible, ascertain whether his escape had become known to the guards. This action took place, just as the sentry had stepped outside the wicket, and was calling upon his Betsey to come back. It was so dark, Holtspur could not see the man; but he had noted the lifting of the latch, and could hear his mutterings.

Next moment the lightning flashed--revealing to the astonished eyes of the sentry a lady robed in rich velvet.

Holtspur saw the lady by the same light--deriving from the sight a very different impression.

His first feeling was one of surprise--quickly succeeded by a vague sense of pain.

The first arose from seeing Marion Wade abroad at that hour of the night; for, despite the cloak and close-drawn hood, he had recognised the daughter of Sir Marmaduke. Her bounding step and tall symmetrical form were not to be mistaken by any one who had ever observed them; and upon the mind of Henry Holtspur they were indelibly impressed.

His second emotion was the result of a series of interrogative conjectures. For what purpose was she abroad? Was it to meet some one? An appointment? Scarthe?

For some seconds the lover's heart was on fire--or felt as if it was.

Fortunately, the dread sensation was short-lived.

It was replaced by a feeling of supreme pleasure. The soul of Henry Holtspur trembled with triumphant joy, as he saw the lady moving forward to the courtyard gate, and seeking admission from the sentry. He could hear part of the conversation passing between them. The lightning's flash showed him her hand extended, with the yellow gold glittering between her fingers. There was no difficulty in divining her intention. She was bribing the guard. For what? For the privilege of passing inside?

"I've been wronging her!" exclaimed Holtspur, conjecturally, shaping her purpose to his wishes. "If so, I shall make full atonement. The glove worn by Scarthe may have been stolen--must have been. If 'tis for me her visit is intended, then I shall know to a certainty. Such a sacrifice as this could not come from a coquette? Ah! she is risking every thing. I shall risk my liberty--my life--to make sure that it is for me. 'Tis bliss to fancy that it is so."

As he said this, he stepped eagerly up to the moated wall--with the intention of scaling it, and returning to the gateway.

He did not succeed in the attempt. The parapet was high above his head. He had been able to see over it, only by standing back upon the sloping acclivity of the counterscarp. He could not reach it with his hands-- though springing several feet upward from the bottom of the fosse.

After several times repeating the attempt, he desisted.

"The footbridge!" muttered he, remembering the latter. "I can go round by it."

He turned along the outside edge of the moat--in his anxious haste no longer taking precaution to keep concealed. The darkness favoured him. The night was now further obscured by the thick rain, that had suddenly commenced descending. This, however, hindered him from making rapid progress: for the sloping sward of the counterscarp had at once become slippery, and it was with difficulty he could keep his footing upon it.

On reaching the bridge, another obstacle presented itself. The gate that crossed it at midway was shut and locked--as was customary at night--and it was a somewhat perilous feat to climb over it.

It was performed, however; and Holtspur stood once more within the enclosed grounds of the shrubbery.

The delay of gaining access to them had been fatal to his original design. As he faced towards the gate entrance, he heard the wicket once more turning upon its hinges; and saw a woman's figure outlined in the opening. In another instant it had moved around the angle of the building, and was advancing in the direction of the verandah.

Holtspur paused; and for a moment hesitated to present himself. Could he have been mistaken as to the purpose of that nocturnal visit to the courtyard? What would he not have given for the secret, that had been confided to that _trusty_ sentinel?

If in error, how awkward would be an interview! Not that he feared betrayal. Such a thought did not enter his mind. But the oddness of such an encounter--its _gaucherie_--would be all upon his side?

His indecision was but for a moment. It might be the last time he should have an opportunity of speaking with Marion Wade?

This thought--along with a fond belief that he had rightly-construed the errand on which she had come forth--once more emboldened him; and, gliding on through the shrubbery, he placed himself by her side--at the same time pronouncing her name.

It was his voice--heard above the rushing of the storm--that had fallen so unexpectedly upon her ear.

"'Tis you, Henry!" she said, yielding to her first instinct of pleasure at seeing him free and unfettered.

Then, as if remembering how he had come by that freedom--with the wild words of his deliverer still ringing in her ears--her demeanour suddenly changed to that haughty reserve, which the proud daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade had the right to assume.

"Sir!" continued she, with an effort at indifference; "I am surprised to see you here. I presumed that by this time you would have been far from this place."

"I should have been; but--"

"You need not hesitate to tell the reason. I know it. It is easy to guess that."

"Marion!"

"No doubt your deliverer will soon find the opportunity of rejoining you?"

"You know how I escaped, then?" cried Holtspur, who in the delight of discovering that Marion had been to his prison, paid no heed to her scornful insinuation. "You have been inside? You saw--"

"Your substitute, sir. It is not singular you should be anxious on account of one, who has done you such signal service. I can report, that she is in the best of spirits--proud of her achievement--only a little anxious, perhaps, to participate in your sight. Do not be uneasy on her account. She will not keep you long waiting. One gifted with so much ingenuity will find little obstacle in a score of sentries."

"Marion!"

"A pity it is not `Betsey' to whom you are addressing yourself! A pity she should keep you waiting--especially in such weather. For myself, I must get out of it. Good-night, sir; or, good-morning--which you will it."

"Marion--Marion Wade! do not go! Do not leave me thus! One word--hear me!"

Holtspur could well afford to place himself in the attitude of a petitioner. That visit to his prison, with its conjectured design, had reassured him of Marion's love lately doubted.

She paused at the appeal. It was too earnest to be resisted.

"It was not _her_, for whom I was waiting," continued Holtspur, now more clearly comprehending the conduct that had surprised him. "It was for you, Marion--for _you_."

"This shallow pretence is unworthy of you, sir; unworthy of a gentleman. How could you have expected to see _me_? Oh! weak that I have been to trust my reputation, to one who--"

"One who will lay down his life to guard it against being sullied by the slightest stain. Believe me, Marion Wade, it was to speak with you, I have stayed. I saw you as I was hastening away. Little had I been hoping for such a heaven-sent chance! I saw you approach the gate and go in. Need I declare to you the hope that thrilled through my heart, when I fancied your mission might be to myself? I cannot--words will not express what I felt--what I feel!"

Yieldingly did the proud maiden turn towards him--as the flower turns to its natural deity, the sun, from whom it derives all its delight.

Just as its petals are unclosed by his kissing rays after the long night of damp and darkness, so was the bosom of Marion Wade revivified with fresh life, and hope, and joy, while she stood listening to those earnest asseverations.

As yet she had not put her threat into execution. The shelter was near, but she had not availed herself of it; and, at the close of her lover's speech, she seemed no longer to care for it.

Her hood was still hanging over her shoulders--her head uncovered to the storm. The raindrops sparkled upon her golden hair, losing themselves amid its profuse masses. They chased one another over her warm, flushed cheeks, as if in very delight. They streamed down the furrows of her rich robe, freely entering at its foldings--and still she regarded them not.

If misery, but the moment before, had rendered her insensible to the storm, happiness was now producing the like effect.

Holtspur's appeal was no more rejected--his approach no longer repelled. He was left free to manifest the lover's care; and, gently engaging the hand of his beloved, he conducted her within the verandah.

The storm raged on, but neither regarded it. They had escaped from a storm--far more to be dreaded than the conflict of the elements--that of the two most powerful passions of the human heart--jealousy and love. The struggle was over. The former had fled from the field--leaving the latter triumphant in the bosoms of both.

Volume Three, Chapter IV.

The calm after the tempest--the day after the night--sunshine succeeding shadow--any of these physical transformations may symbolise the change from the passion of jealousy to that of love. At best they are but faint emblems; and we must seek in the soul itself for truer representatives of those its extremest contrasting emotions; or find it in our promised future of eternal torture and eternal bliss.

It is in the crisis of transformation--or, rather, in the moment succeeding it--that the true agony is endured; whether it be an agony of pain, or one of pleasure.

The latter was the lot of Henry Holtspur and Marion Wade, as they rested under the sheltering toile of the verandah. To both, it was a moment of unalloyed happiness; such as they had experienced only on one other occasion;--when, entwined in each other's arms, under the verdant canopy of the chestnut trees, they had, with lips that lied not, made reciprocal surrender of their hearts.

One listening to those mutual vows--poured forth with the tender and emphatic eloquence which love alone can impart--could scarce have believed that mistrust should ever again spring up between them!

It had done so--perhaps not to be regretted. It had vanished; and the reaction had introduced them to an agony of pleasure--if possible more piquant than even that which had accompanied the first surrender of their souls. Both now experienced the pleasure of surrendering them again. No more might jealousy intrude itself upon their enjoyment; and, for a while, they even forgot those trifling signs that had led to it-- she the faded flowers--he that _sinister_ gauntlet.

It was only natural, however, that the causes of their late mistrust should become the subject of conversation; which they did.

Mutual surprise was the result of a mutual interrogation; though neither could give to the other the explanation asked for.

The flowers in Holtspur's hat, and the glove in Scarthe's helmet, were enigmas equally inexplicable.

As to the latter, Marion only knew that she had lost it--that she had looked for it--she did not say why--and without success.

Holtspur still wore his beaver. Indeed, he had not till that hour found the chance of taking it off. Only within the last ten minutes had his hands been free to remove it.

He had not the slightest suspicion of the manner in which it was bedecked--not until he learnt it from the lips of her, upon whom the faded flowers had produced such a painful impression.

Marion could not misinterpret his surprise--mingled with indignation--as he lifted the hat from his head; wrenched the flowers from their fastening; and flung them scornfully upon the sward.

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, as she witnessed the act. It was the kind of homage a woman's heart could comprehend and appreciate; and hers trembled with a triumphant joy.

Only for a short moment could this sweet contentment continue. Nature is niggardly of such supreme pleasure. It was succeeded by a sombre thought--some dark presentiment pointing to the distant future. It found expression in speech.

"O Henry!" she said, laying hold of his arm--at the same time fixing her earnest blue eyes upon his, "sometime--I fear to think it, much more to speak it--sometime might you not do the same with--"

"With what, Marion?"

"Sweet love! you know what I mean! Or shall I tell it you? 'Tis a shame for you not to understand me--you, who are so clever, as I've heard say, ah! as I, myself, have reason to know."

"Dearest! I fear I am not very clever at comprehending the ways of your sex. Perhaps if I had--"

Holtspur interrupted himself, as if he had arrived on the verge of some disclosure he did not desire to make.

"If you had," inquired Marion, in a tone that told of an altered interest. "What if you had, Henry?"

"If I had," replied her lover, escaping from his embarrassment by a happy subterfuge, "I should not have been so dilatory in declaring my love to you."

The speech was pretty; but alas! ambiguous. It gave Marion pleasure, to think he had long loved her; and yet it stirred within her a painful emotion--by recalling the bold challenge by which she had lured him to the avowal of it.

He, too, as soon as he had spoken, appeared to perceive the danger of such an interpretation; and in order to avert it, hurriedly had recourse to his former interrogatory.

"Do the same, you said, as I have done with the flowers. And with what?"

"The token I gave you, Henry--the _white gauntlet_."

"When I fling it to the earth, as I have done these withered blossoms, it will be to defy him who may question my right to wear it. When that time comes, Marion Wade--"

"Oh! never!" cried she--in the enthusiasm of her admiration fervently pressing his arm, and looking fondly in his face. "None but you, Henry, shall ever have that right. To no other could I concede it. Believe me--believe me!"

Why was it that Holtspur received this earnest declaration with a sigh? Why did he respond to it with a look of sadness?

Upon his arm was hanging the fairest form in the county of Buckinghamshire--perhaps in all England; upon his shoulder rested the loveliest cheek; against his bosom throbbed a heart responsive to his own--a heart that princes would have been proud to possess. Why that sigh, on listening to the earnest speeches that assured him of its possession?

But for the darkness that obscured the expression of his face--but for the beatings of her own heart, that hindered her from hearing the sigh that escaped his--Marion Wade might have asked this question with fearful interest in the answer.

She saw not the look--she heard not the sigh; and yet she was troubled with some vague suspicion. The reply had something in it that did not satisfy her--something _reticent_.

"O Henry!" she said, "you are going from me now. I know we must part. When shall I see you again? It may be long--long?"

"No longer than I can help, love!"

"You will give me a promise, Henry?"

"Yes, Marion; any promise you may dictate to me."

"Thanks! thanks! I know you will keep it. Come nearer, Henry! look into my eyes! 'Tis a poor light; but I need not much to see that yours are true. I know they are beautiful, Henry."

Holtspur's frame quivered under the searching scrutiny.

"What am I to promise?" he asked, in the hope of hiding his embarrassment.

"Do not be afraid, Henry! 'Tis not much I am going to ask of you. Not much to you; but all the world to me. Listen, and I will tell you. Since we met--I mean since I knew that you loved me--I have learnt one thing. It is: that I _could not live, and be jealous_. The torture I have endured for the last twelve hours has told me that. You will laugh at me, Henry; but I cannot help it. No. Let me be happy, or let me die!"

"Sweet life! why should you think of such a thing as jealousy? You need not fear that. If it should ever spring up between us, it will be my misfortune, not yours--all mine."

"You jest, Henry! You know not the heart you have conquered. Its firstlings were yours. Though often solicited--pardon me for being so plain--_it was never before surrendered to living man_. O, Henry! you know not how I love you! Do not think it is the fleeting fancy of a romantic girl--that may change under the influence of a more matured age. I am a woman, with my girlhood gone by. Holtspur!--you have won me--you have _won a woman's love_!"

Ecstasy to the soul of him thus addressed.

"Tell me sweet Marion!" cried he. "Forgive me the selfish question; but I cannot help asking it. Tell me why I am thus beloved? I do not deserve it. I am twice your age. I have lost those looks that once, perhaps, may have attracted the romantic fancy. O, Marion Wade! I am unworthy of a love like yours. 'Tis my consciousness of this that constrains me to make the enquiry: _why do you love me_?"

Marion remained silent--as if she hesitated to give the answer. No wonder. The question is one often asked, but to which it is most difficult to obtain a truthful reply.

There are reasons for this reticence--psychological reasons, which men cannot easily understand. A woman's citadel is her heart; and its strength lies in keeping secret its conceptions. Of all its secrets the most sacred--the last to be divulged--is that constituting an answer to the question--"Why do you love me?"

No wonder that Henry Holtspur received not an immediate answer. Ardour--more than sincerity led him to press for it:--

"I am a stranger to your circle--if not to your class. The world will tell you, that I am an _adventurer_. I accept the appellation-- qualified by the clause: that I adventure not for myself, but for my fellow-men--for the poor taxed slaves who surround me. Marion Wade, I weary you. Give answer to my question: Why do you love me?"

"Henry! I know not. A thousand thoughts crowd upon me. I could give you a thousand reasons, all comprised in one--_I love you, because_ I _love you_!"

"Enough, dear Marion! I believe it. Do you need me to declare again? Can I plight my troth more truly?"

"No--no--Henry! I know that you love me _now_."

"Now! now and for ever!"

"You promise it, Henry?"

"I promise it, Marion."

"O, Henry! you will promise me something more. You have said you would."

"What more, Marion?"

"I have told you that I would prefer death to jealousy. I only spoke the truth, Henry. I've heard say, that the heart sometimes changes, in spite of itself. I don't believe it. I am sure mine can never change. Could yours, Henry?"

"Never! what do you wish me to promise? What is it you would bind me to?"

"I've now but one thing worth living for," responded the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade, "and that is your love, Holtspur. Promise me that when you love me no more, you will tell me you do not, truly and without fear. Promise that, Henry: for then I shall be happier to die."

"Nonsense, Marion! Why should I enter into such an idle condition? You know I shall love you, as long as I live."

"Henry! Henry! Do not deny me what I have asked? What is there unreasonable in my request?"

"Nothing, dearest Marion. If you insist upon it, you shall have my promise--more than that, my oath. I swear I shall be candid and declare the truth. If ever my heart cease to love you, I shall tell you of its treason. How easily can I promise, what can never come to pass!"

"But you may be far away, Henry? Enemies may be between us? You may not be able to see me? Then--"

"Then, what would you have me do, dear Marion?"

"Return the token I have given you. Send me back my glove--the _White Gauntlet_. When I see that, 'twill tell me that he to whom I had given it--and along with it my heart--that he who once prized the gift, esteems it no more. That would be a gentler way than words--for your words telling me that bitter truth, might be the last to which I should ever listen."

"If it please you, dearest, I promise to comply with you conditions-- however idle I may deem them. Ah Marion! you shall never get that glove again--never from me. I prize the _white gauntlet_ too much, ever to part with it; more than aught else in the world--excepting the white hand which it once shielded, and which, God willing, shall yet be mine!"

As Holtspur uttered this impassioned speech, he raised the "white hand" to his lips; and imprinted upon it a fond, fervent kiss.

It was the parting salute--though not intended as such. The lightning flashed at that moment, displaying two forms in an attitude that proclaimed them lovers who had made mutual surrender of their souls.

A third form might have been seen by the same light, standing outside the verandah, scarce ten paces distant. It was a female figure, with the face of a young girl--uncoifed, uncloaked, despite the pelting of the pitiless storm.

The lovers, absorbed in their own sweet thoughts, might not have noticed this intruder, but for a slight scream that escaping from her lips, attracted their attention to her. When the lightning blazed forth again, she was gone!

"Oh!" cried Marion, "it was like the shadow of some evil thing. Away, Henry! there is danger! Away! away!"

Without resistance Holtspur yielded to the solicitation. Rapidly recrossing through the shrubbery, he sprang down into the moated ditch, and glided on towards the rear of the dwelling.

Volume Three, Chapter V.

Bet Dancey it was, whose presence revealed by that ghastly gleam, moving like an ill-omened shadow among the shrubbery, had caused the lovers to bring their interview to such a sudden ending.

On his second supplicant gliding silently past him, the facile sentry had followed with equal alertness--this time not with any intention to plead for a promised kiss; but simply to show his respect to the lady by gallantly conducting her beyond the bounds of his jurisdiction.

He had already satisfied himself how profuse had been her gratitude-- prepaid as it was.

On reaching the wicket, he was once more doomed to disappointment. Like the first, his second visitor had also disappeared. He remained some moments, gazing after; but, soon feeling disconsolate in the darkness, he determined on returning to the store-room for his lamp.

Amidst the many surprises of the night he was now to experience the greatest of all.

On entering within the apartment, and raising the lanthorn to the level of his eyes--in order to assure himself of his prisoner's safety--his astonishment scarce equalled his consternation; when, instead of the cavalier lying bound along the bench, Bet Dancey stood boldly before him! He no longer thought of claiming that promised kiss. A sudden perception of his own stupidity had driven all amorous inclinations out of his mind.

His first impulse was to rush out, and give the alarm to his comrades of the guard. In obedience to this impulse he hurried off into the yard; but, in the confusion of ideas caused by his surprise, he neglected to close the store-room door; and, while he was absent upon his errand, the substitute for the patriot prisoner quietly slipped out; and gliding along the dark archway, emerged through the wicket without let or interruption.

She had faced towards the rear of the house, with the intention of taking her departure; when an unlucky idea prompted her to turn in the opposite direction. She remembered Marion's visit to the prison. Had her lady rival yet gone to rest? Might they by some chance--perhaps by design--might they have come together?

Under the influence of this suspicion the girl glided along the wall towards the western front of the mansion.

A low murmur of voices guided her to the verandah--a few stealthy steps brought her within sight of two figures in juxtaposition--a flash of lightning revealed who they were--at the same time disclosing a sight that scorched her heart to its very core.

Her first thought was to spring forward and interrupt the interview--to revile--upbraid--anything for the satisfaction of her jealous vengeance.

She was on the eve of thus acting, when a noise heard from behind caused her to stay her intent. It was the murmur of men's voices, mingled with the clanking of steel scabbards. It was the cuirassier guard issuing forth in pursuit.

This suggested to Bet Dancey a better mode of redressing her fancied wrong. She could restore Holtspur to the same prison from which she had set him free! She cared not for the pain it might cause to herself, so that it should wring the heart of her rival.

It was but to return to the gateway; communicate with the guard; and conduct them to the verandah.

All this was done in the shortest space of time; but, short as it was, during the interval, the lovers had spoken their parting word, and hastily separated.

Just as Holtspur leaped down into the ditch, half-a-dozen cuirassiers, headed by a woman, were seen hurrying around the angle of the building towards its western facade.

As they spoke only in low mutterings, and advanced with stealthy steps, it was evident they expected to surprise the lovers, on the spot they had so recently quitted. The woman, keeping in the lead, appeared to direct their movements.

The rain, which had now ceased to fall, had been succeeded by a clearing of the sky, and the interior of the verandah could be viewed from end to end. There was no one inside it!

The cuirassiers scanned the gallery with looks of disappointment.

"He's not here! not a sign of him," said one whose voice, from its altered and lugubrious tones, could with difficulty be recognised as that of the outwitted sentinel. "Oh Lord! what'll become of me, if he's got off."

Turning to the woman, he appeared to make some appeal to her in an undertone.

"If he's gone from here," answered she, speaking in a voice that betrayed deep emotion, "it isn't a minute ago. Oh! I wish you had found him, and her too--how glad I'd be to have her exposed--the proud-- saucy dame?"

"Who are you speakin' about? Is it the lady in velvet?"

"No matter who. Go after him. You can't fail to overtake him yet. Oh! bring him back, and then we'll see whether she--"

"We may go twenty ways, and not the right one," said the corporal of the guard, coming up and taking part in this hurried dialogue.

"No, no!" cried the woman, "you can't go the wrong one. Pass out by the back of the park. Take the road for Hedgerley; only don't turn that way. Keep the back path straight on by Wapsey's Wood. That's the way they're to take: it was all arranged. Come! I'll go along with you-- Come! come!"

In the voice thus earnestly directing the pursuit of the escaped prisoner, could be recognised that, which, scarce twenty minutes before, had been so earnestly urging him to escape--the voice of Bet Dancey!

Was it a _ruse_ to mislead the guard, or send them on a wrong track? No: it was her design to cause his recapture.

In the short period of ten minutes a change had passed over Betsey's proud spirit--transforming her from a self-sacrificing friend, to an enemy equally devoting herself to Holtspur's destruction.

In her outraged bosom a revulsion had arisen that stirred her soul to its profoundest depths, and filled her heart with eager longings of revenge. She had seen the man she madly loved--for whom she had risked, if not life, at least liberty and reputation--in the arms of another; a bright and beautiful rival; his own arms fondly entwining that other's form; his lips fervently pressing hers. No wonder the heart of the passionate peasant, distraught by such a spectacle, had yielded to the promptings of revenge!

"Come on!" she cried, gesticulating to the cuirassiers to follow her, "on to the Hedgerley road!"

"Our horses?" suggested the guard corporal.

"No, no!" responded the girl. "By the time you could get them, he will have gone where I don't know to find him. Come as you are; and I'll answer for overtaking them now. _They_ won't have any horses till they get beyond Wapsey's Wood. Come then, if you want to retake your prisoner."

The others were disposed to set forth at once, and afoot. Withers, although for special reasons the most eager of any, appeared to hesitate.

"Your sure you don't want to mislead us, Betsey? You've fooled me once this night; and hang me if I let _you_ go, till I've laid hands on him!"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the girl, "havn't I told you why I helped to let him out? The lady that sent _me_, would have given her eyes to see him; but since he's taken to the other, I know she'll be only too glad to hear that he's brought back to his prison. Much as she'd a thanked me for getting him out, when I tell her, what I've seen, she'll give double to have him retook. Don't be silly then. You'll suffer if he escapes. Come on with me, and I'll promise he shan't."

The prospect of his prisoner getting clear off and its consequences to himself, thus forcibly brought before the mind of the negligent sentinel, at once put a period to his indecision; and without further opposition he threw himself along with the others; who, yielding to the guidance of the girl, hurried off upon the pursuit.

Instead of going to the point of rendezvous, which she had given to Holtspur himself, Bet conducted the cuirassiers out of the park by a path altogether different. She knew that the fugitive must by that time have found those to whom she had directed him. He would be no longer within the limits of the park; but on his way up the back road to Beaconsfield. To intercept him was her design; and this might still be done, by hastening along a bye-path well-known to her, which by a shorter route debouched upon the road he should have to take. By this path, therefore, did she conduct his pursuers.

On reaching the road the party moved more slowly. The rain had ceased falling, and the moon had suddenly made its appearance in a cloudless sky. The corporal of the guard, who chanced to be an experienced scout, here commanded a halt.

"We needn't go any further this way," said he, glancing towards the ground. "No one has passed up this road before us. You see, my pretty guide, there's not a track?"

"Then we must be ahead o' them," replied the individual thus addressed. "I know they were to come this way--I am sure of it."

"In that case we had best wait here," muttered the corporal to his men. "It's a capital spot for an ambuscade. These bushes will conceal us from the eyes of any one coming along the road. Hush! surely I heard a voice?"

The guard, hitherto addressing each other only in whispers, obeyed the command of the corporal; and stood silently listening.

Sure enough there was a voice--a human voice. It sounded like the moaning of some one who lay upon a bed of sickness! It was low, and apparently distant.

"It's like as if some poor devil was giving his last kick?" muttered one of the cuirassiers.

"It's only the owls hooting among the trees," suggested another.

"Hush!" again exclaimed the corporal. "There are other voices--nearer. Hush!"

"Good!" he ejaculated, after listening a while. "There are men coming along the road behind us! It must be _them_! Here! three of you on this side; the others across the road. Lie quiet till they come close up. When I give the word, spring out upon them. Quick, comrades! Not a movement till you hear my signal!"

Promptly obedient to these instructions, the soldiers drew themselves into the thicket--some dropping upon their knees among the bushes-- others standing erect, but screening their bodies behind the trunks of the beeches.

The corporal disposed of himself in a similar fashion; while the guide, having glided off to a greater distance, stood trembling among the trees--like some guilty denouncer--dreading to look upon the spectacle of that capture she had conducted to the probability of a too certain success.

Volume Three, Chapter VI.

On arriving at the rear of the garden, Holtspur had emerged out of the moat, and struck across the open pasture in a direct line for the timber. The darkness was still sufficiently obscure to hinder his being seen--at least, from any great distance; though there were those standing within the shadow of the trees who had marked his approach.

A low whistle--peculiarly intoned--told him that he was observed, and by friends: for in that whistle he recognised an old hunting signal of his ancient henchman--Gregory Garth.

There was no need to make reply. In an instant after, Garth was by his side--accompanied by the deer-stealer.

The plan of further proceedings took not much time to concert.

The programme had been already traced out, subject to such contingencies as might unexpectedly arise.

Dancey was to hurry back to his cottage, where Oriole had been left in charge of Garth's horse--that steed of the royal stables--which, along with Dancey's nag, was the only mount that could be provided for the occasion. But as Dancey himself was to stay behind--there being no call for his expatriation just at that crisis--and as the Indian could track it afoot almost as fast as on horseback, the two horses had been deemed sufficient for the necessity.

The woodman's dwelling lay near the Oxford highway; and as it would waste some time to bring the horses across to the back road, running past Hedgerley, it had been decided that they should be taken along a private path through Wapsey's Wood, by Dancey and the Indian--there to be met by Holtspur and Garth going afoot along the parallel, but less frequented, road.

This arrangement, cunningly schemed by Garth, had in view the possibility of a pursuit, with the probability, in such case, that the pursuers would naturally keep along the high road.

The rendezvous having been arranged, the deer-stalker took his way back towards his own domicile; while Garth, conducting Holtspur, through the tract of timber, with which he had already made himself acquainted, climbed out over the palings of the park; and turned along the bridle road running towards Hedgerley.

Half a mile brought them to a point where Wapsey's Wood skirted the road--separated from it by a rude fence.

Garth was going in the advance, and for a time keeping silence--as if busied with some abstruse calculation.

"There be a tidyish bit o' night left yet," he at length remarked, glancing up to the sky, "I shed think I've time enough for that business."

The remark was made to himself, rather than to his companion, and as if to satisfy his mind, about some doubt he had been indulging in.

"Time enough for what?" asked Holtspur, who had overheard the muttered observation.

"Oh! nothin' muchish, Master Henry--only a little bit o' business I've got to attend to over in the wood there. 'Twon't take ten minutes; and, as time's preecious, I can tell ye about it when I gets back. Ah! theear's the gap I war lookin' for. If ye'll just keep on at yer leisure, I'll overtake you afore you can get to t'other side o' the wood. If I doan't, pleeze wait a bit. I'll be up in three kicks o' an old cow."

Saying this, the ex-footpad glided through the gap; and, striking off among the trees, soon disappeared behind their close standing trunks.

Holtspur, slackening his pace, moved on along the road--not without wondering what could be the motive that had carried his eccentric conductor so suddenly away from him.

Soon, however, his thoughts reverted to her from whom he had so late separated; and, as he walked under the silent shadows of the trees, his spirit gave way to indulgence in a retrospect of that sweet scene, with which his memory was still warmly glowing.

From the rain that had fallen, the flowers, copiously bedewed, were giving out their incense on the soft air of the autumn night. The moon had suddenly made her appearance, amid banks of fleecy clouds, that were fantastically flitting across the face of the azure heaven.

Under her cheering light Holtspur sauntered leisurely along, reviewing over and over again the immediate and pleasant past; which, notwithstanding the clouds that lowered over his future, had the effect of tingeing it with a roseate effulgence.

There were perils before, as well as behind him. His liberty, as his life, was still in danger. He knew all this; but in the revel of that fond retrospect--with the soft voice of Marion Wade yet ringing in his ears--her kisses still clinging to his lips--how could he be otherwise than oblivious of danger?

Alas! for his safely he was so--recklessly oblivious of it--forgetful of all but the interview just ended, and which seemed rather a delicious dream than an experience of sober real life.

Thus sweetly absorbed, he had advanced along the road to the distance of some two or three hundred yards, from the place where Garth had left him. He was still continuing to advance, when a sound, heard far off in the wood, interrupted his reflections--at the same time causing him to stop and listen.

It was a human voice; and resembled the moaning of a man in pain; but at intervals it was raised to a higher pitch, as though uttered in angry ejaculation!

At that hour of the night, and in such a lonely neighbourhood--for Holtspur knew it was a thinly-peopled district--these sounds seemed all the stranger; and, as they appeared to proceed from the exact direction in which Garth had gone, Holtspur could not do otherwise than connect them with his companion.

Gregory must be making the noises, in some way or other? But how? What should _he_ be groaning about? Or for what were those exclamations of anger?

Holtspur had barely time to shape these interrogatories, before the sound became changed--not so much in tone as in intensity. It was still uttered in moanings and angry ejaculations; but the former, instead of appearing distant and long-drawn as before, were now heard more distinctly; while the latter, becoming sharper and of more angry intonation, were not pronounced as before in monologue, but in two distinct voices--as if at least two individuals were taking part in the indignant duetto!

What it was that was thus waking up the nocturnal echoes of Wapsey's Wood was a puzzle to Henry Holtspur; nor did it assist him in the elucidation, to hear one of the voices--that which gave out the melancholy moanings--at intervals interrupted by the other in peals of loud laughter! On the contrary it only rendered the fearful _fracas_ more difficult of explanation.

Holtspur now recognised the laughing voice to be that of Gregory Garth; though why the ex-footpad was giving utterance to such jovial cachinnations, he could not even conjecture.

Lonely as was the road, on which he had been so unceremoniously forsaken, he was not the only one traversing it at that hour. His pursuers were also upon it--not _behind_ but _before_ him--like himself listening with mystified understandings to those strange sounds. Absorbed in seeking a solution of them, Holtspur failed to perceive the half-dozen figures that, disengaging themselves from the tree-trunks, behind which they had been concealed, were closing stealthily and silently around him.

It was too late when he did perceive them--too late, either for flight or defence.

He sprang to one side; but only to be caught in the grasp of the stalwart corporal of the guard.

The latter might have been shaken off; but the sentry Withers-- compromised by the prisoner's escape, and therefore deeply interested in his detention--had closed upon him from the opposite side; and in quick succession, the others of the cuirassier guard had flung themselves around him.