Volume Three—Chapter Three.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 westernfaçadeof 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 thattrustysentinel?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—itsgaucherie—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 nother, for whom I was waiting,” continued Holtspur, now more clearly comprehending the conduct that had surprised him. “It was for you, Marion—foryou.”“This shallow pretence is unworthy of you, sir; unworthy of a gentleman. How could you have expected to seeme? 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.
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 westernfaçadeof 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 thattrustysentinel?
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—itsgaucherie—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 nother, for whom I was waiting,” continued Holtspur, now more clearly comprehending the conduct that had surprised him. “It was for you, Marion—foryou.”
“This shallow pretence is unworthy of you, sir; unworthy of a gentleman. How could you have expected to seeme? 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 Four.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 thatsinistergauntlet.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—thewhite 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—somethingreticent.“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 Icould 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 havewon 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 anadventurer. 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, becauseIlove 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 menow.”“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—theWhite 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 thewhite gauntlettoo 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.
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 thatsinistergauntlet.
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—thewhite 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—somethingreticent.
“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 Icould 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 havewon 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 anadventurer. 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, becauseIlove 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 menow.”
“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—theWhite 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 thewhite gauntlettoo 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 Five.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 façade.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 aruseto 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.Theywon’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 letyougo, 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 sentme, 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 bethem! 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.
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 façade.
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 aruseto 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.Theywon’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 letyougo, 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 sentme, 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 bethem! 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 Six.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 shouldhebe 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 fearfulfracasmore 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—notbehindbutbeforehim—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.Holtspur was altogether unarmed. Resistance could only end in his being thrust through by their swords, or impaled upon their halberts; and once more the gallant cavalier, who could not have been vanquished by a single antagonist, was forced to yield to that fate which may befall the bravest. He had to succumb to the strength of superior numbers.Marched afoot between a double file of his captors, he was conducted back along the road, towards the prison from which he had so recently escaped.The mingled groans and laughter, still continued to wake up the echoes of Wapsey’s Wood.To Holtspur they were only intelligible, so far as that the laughing part in the duet was being performed by the ex-footpad—Gregory Garth. The soldiers, intent upon retaining their prisoner, gave no further heed to them, than to remark upon their strangeness. But for the merry peals at intervals interrupting the more lugubrious utterance, they might have supposed that a foul murder was being committed. But the laughter forbade this supposition; and Holtspur’s guard passed out of hearing of the strange noises, under the impression that they came from a camp of gipsies, who, in their nocturnal orgies, were celebrating some ceremony of their vagrant ritual.She who had been the instrument of Holtspur’s delivery, had also played the chief part in his recapture. Following his captors under the shadow of the trees, unseen by him and them, she had continued a spectator to all that passed; for a time giving way to the joy of her jealous vengeance.Soon, however, on seeing the rude treatment to which her victim was subjected—when she witnessed the jostling, and heard the jeers of his triumphant captors, her spirit recoiled from the act she had committed; and, when, at length, the courtyard gate was closed upon the betrayed patriot, the daughter of Dick Dancey fell prostrate upon the sward, and bedewed the grass with tears of bitter repentance!
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 shouldhebe 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 fearfulfracasmore 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—notbehindbutbeforehim—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.
Holtspur was altogether unarmed. Resistance could only end in his being thrust through by their swords, or impaled upon their halberts; and once more the gallant cavalier, who could not have been vanquished by a single antagonist, was forced to yield to that fate which may befall the bravest. He had to succumb to the strength of superior numbers.
Marched afoot between a double file of his captors, he was conducted back along the road, towards the prison from which he had so recently escaped.
The mingled groans and laughter, still continued to wake up the echoes of Wapsey’s Wood.
To Holtspur they were only intelligible, so far as that the laughing part in the duet was being performed by the ex-footpad—Gregory Garth. The soldiers, intent upon retaining their prisoner, gave no further heed to them, than to remark upon their strangeness. But for the merry peals at intervals interrupting the more lugubrious utterance, they might have supposed that a foul murder was being committed. But the laughter forbade this supposition; and Holtspur’s guard passed out of hearing of the strange noises, under the impression that they came from a camp of gipsies, who, in their nocturnal orgies, were celebrating some ceremony of their vagrant ritual.
She who had been the instrument of Holtspur’s delivery, had also played the chief part in his recapture. Following his captors under the shadow of the trees, unseen by him and them, she had continued a spectator to all that passed; for a time giving way to the joy of her jealous vengeance.
Soon, however, on seeing the rude treatment to which her victim was subjected—when she witnessed the jostling, and heard the jeers of his triumphant captors, her spirit recoiled from the act she had committed; and, when, at length, the courtyard gate was closed upon the betrayed patriot, the daughter of Dick Dancey fell prostrate upon the sward, and bedewed the grass with tears of bitter repentance!
Volume Three—Chapter Seven.About an hour after the recapture of Henry Holtspur, two men might have been seen descending the long slope of Red Hill, in the direction of Uxbridge.They were both men of large stature—one of them almost gigantic. They were on horseback: the younger of the two bestriding a good steed, while his older and more colossal companion was mounted upon as sorry a jade as ever set hoof upon a road.The first, booted and spurred, with a plumed hat upon his head, and gauntlets upon his wrists, in the obscure light might have been mistaken for a cavalier. When the moon made its appearance from behind the clouds—which happened at intervals—a certainbizarrerieabout his costume forbade the supposition; and the stalwart form and swarth visage of Gregory Garth were then too conspicuous to escape recognition, by any acquaintance he might have encountered upon the road.The more rustic garb of his travelling companion—as well as the figure it enveloped—could with equal facility be identified as belonging to Dick Dancey, the deer-stealer.The presence of these two worthies on horseback, and riding towards Uxbridge, was not without a purpose, presently to be explained.The cuirassiers had been astray in conjecturing that the noises heard in Wapsey’s Wood proceeded from a gang of gipsies. It was nothing of the kind. What they heard was simply Gregory Garth engaged in the performance of that promise he had made in the morning. Although he did not carry out his threat to the exact letter, he executed it in the spirit; taking his departure from the bedside of Will Walford, only after every bone in the woodman’s body had been made to taste the quality of the cudgel expressly cut for the occasion.It is possible that Will Walford’s punishment might have been still more severe, but that his castigator was pressed for time—so much so, that he left the wretch without releasing him, with a set of suffering bones, and a skin that exhibited all the colours of the rainbow.After thus settling accounts with the “tree-tur,” as he called him, Garth had thrown away his holly stick, and hastened back to the road.Under the supposition that Holtspur was by that time advanced some distance towards Beaconsfield, he hurried on to overtake him.The moon was shining full upon the track; and in the dust, which the rain had recently converted into mud, the ex-footpad did not fail to perceive a number of footprints. In the exercise of his peculiar calling, he had been accustomed to note such signs, and had acquired a skill in their interpretation equal to that of a backwoods hunter.Instantly he stopped, and commenced scrutinising the sign.He was upon the spot where the capture had been accomplished. The footmarks of six or seven men—who had been springing violently from side to side—had left long slides and scratches in the damp dust. The tracks of the troopers were easily distinguished; and in their midst the more elegant imprint of a cavalier’s boot.Garth needed no further evidence of the misfortune that had befallen. Beyond doubt his master had been once more made prisoner; and, cursing himself for being the cause, he mechanically traced the backward tracks—his despondent air proclaiming that he had but little hope of being able to effect a rescue.Returning upon the traces of the cuirassier guards, he re-entered the park, and advanced towards the mansion—which the darkness enabled him to do with safety. There he had discovered Bet Dancey—a sorrowing penitent—prostrate upon the ground—where, in her distraction, she had thrown herself.From the girl he had obtained confirmation of the recapture—though not the true cause either of that, or her own grief.Her statement was simple. The guards had followed Master Holtspur; they had overtaken, overpowered, and brought him back; he was once more locked up within the store-room.The hope, of again delivering him out of the hands of his enemies, might have appeared too slender to be entertained by any one; and for a time it did so—even to the unflinching spirit of his old retainer.But the ex-footpad, when contemplating the chances of getting out of a prison, was not the man to remain the slave of despair—at least for any great length of time; and no sooner had he satisfied himself, that his master was once more encaged, than he set his wits freshly to work, to contrive some new scheme for his deliverance.From the store-room, in which Holtspur was again confined, it would be no longer possible to extricate him. The trick, already tried, could not succeed a second time. Withers was the only one of the guards who might have been tempted; but after his affright, it was not likely that either the promise of kisses, or the proffer of gold pieces, would again seduce the sentry from the strict line of his duty.But Garth did not contemplate any such repetition. An idea that promised a better chance of success had offered itself to his mind. To set free his master bystrategywas henceforth plainly impracticable. Perhaps it might be done bystrength?Not in Bulstrode mansion—where the prisoner was surrounded by fourscore cuirassiers? No—clearly not. There could be no possibility of accomplishing a rescue there; nor did Gregory Garth give it a moment’s thought. His ideas became directed to the road that lay between the two prisons—the store-room and the Tower. He already knew that Holtspur was to be transferred from one to the other, and on the following day. During the transit, might there not be some chance of effecting a rescue?Garth knew the London Road—every inch of it—and, in one way or other, was acquainted with most of the people who dwelt near it. Although upon an odd individual, here and there, he had practised his peculiar vocation, there were few with whom he was upon hostile terms. With many he held relations of friendship; and with a goodly number certain other relations, that should entitle him to an act of service at their hands.With a plan—but still only half developed—he had once more hurried back along the Hedgerley Road, towards the rendezvous, where Dancey and the Indian had already arrived with the horses.He found them waiting, and apprehensive;—almost expecting the sad tidings he had to communicate—the failure of their enterprise.As Garth, during the backward tramp, had more definitely arranged his programme of action, there was no time wasted in consultation. Dancey readily consented to the proposal, to become his confederate in the scheme he had so promptly conceived.Oriole having been directed to return to Stone Dean, the ex-footpad sprang upon his stolen steed; and, followed by the deer-stealer on his scraggy cob, at once started off along upon a bridle path, which winding around the southern boundary of Bulstrode Park, would bring them to the king’s highway, where the latter crossed over the elevated plain of Jarret’s Heath.It is in pursuance of the scheme conceived by Garth, that he and his companion were descending Red Hill at that early hour of the morning.Whithersoever bent, they were evidently in haste to reach their destination—more especially Garth, who was constantly urging his companion to keep up with him. The quadruped bestridden by the deer-stealer was the chief obstruction to their speed; and despite the frequent application of a stout stick, which his rider carried in hand, and the pricking of a rusty spur fastened upon his heel, the sorry hack could not be urged beyond a slow shuffling trot—discontinued the instant the stimulus of stick and spur were suspended.“The devil burn your beest, Dancey!” cried the ex-footpad, losing all patience at the slow pace of the animal. “We’ll not ha’ nigh time enough to see them all. From what your daughter learnt yesterday, the sogers ’ll bring their prisoner down the road, the first thing in the mornin’. They’ll do that, so’s to make the journey to Lonnon afore night. No doubt about their gettin’ to Uxbridge by ten o’ the clock; an’ just see what we’ve got to do afore then. Stick the spur into him—up to the shank, Dancey! The lazy brute! I’d make ’im go, if I war astride o’ him.”“The poor creetur!” compassionately rejoined Dancey, by way of an apology for his nag, “he han’t had a bite o’ any thin’ to eat for a week—’ceptin’ what he ha’ grubbed off o’ the roadside. No wonder he bean’t much for a fast journey.”“Lucky it isn’t a longish one. If we had Lonnon afore us we’d niver get there! As it is—ha! now I think on’t, I’ve got a idea as’ll save time. There be no use for us to keep thegither. You go round Denham way, an’ warn your friends there. You can cross the Colne higher up, an’ scud on to the Harefield fellows. I’ll take Uxbridge an’ Hillindon, and along in the Drayton direction. That’ll be our best plan. We can meet at the Rose and Crown, as soon as we’ve got through. I’ll go there first, so as to gi’e old Brownie a hint ’bout gettin’ his tap ready. Lucky I ha’ been able to borrow some money upon a watch I chanced upon—a tydish bit—else we mightn’t find these patriots so free to lend us a hand. I shall spend it all—every stiver o’t—for the rescue o’ Master Henry.”“I han’t got nothin’ to spend, or I’d do the same for him,” returned the deer-stealer. “He be the best an’ liberallest gentleman ever coom about these parts—that be he.”“You’re not far wrong about that, Master Dancey. Too good a gentleman to have his head chopped off for speakin’ no more than’s the truth; an’ we must do our best to help ’im keep it on his shoulders. There’s your road to Denham. Stick the spur into your blessed beast, an’ make him do his damnest. Be sure you meet me at the bridge—afore ten.”And with these injunctions the ex-footpad separated from the deer-stealer—the latter turning off upon the lane which led to the village of Denham; while the former continued along the direct road towards the town of Uxbridge.
About an hour after the recapture of Henry Holtspur, two men might have been seen descending the long slope of Red Hill, in the direction of Uxbridge.
They were both men of large stature—one of them almost gigantic. They were on horseback: the younger of the two bestriding a good steed, while his older and more colossal companion was mounted upon as sorry a jade as ever set hoof upon a road.
The first, booted and spurred, with a plumed hat upon his head, and gauntlets upon his wrists, in the obscure light might have been mistaken for a cavalier. When the moon made its appearance from behind the clouds—which happened at intervals—a certainbizarrerieabout his costume forbade the supposition; and the stalwart form and swarth visage of Gregory Garth were then too conspicuous to escape recognition, by any acquaintance he might have encountered upon the road.
The more rustic garb of his travelling companion—as well as the figure it enveloped—could with equal facility be identified as belonging to Dick Dancey, the deer-stealer.
The presence of these two worthies on horseback, and riding towards Uxbridge, was not without a purpose, presently to be explained.
The cuirassiers had been astray in conjecturing that the noises heard in Wapsey’s Wood proceeded from a gang of gipsies. It was nothing of the kind. What they heard was simply Gregory Garth engaged in the performance of that promise he had made in the morning. Although he did not carry out his threat to the exact letter, he executed it in the spirit; taking his departure from the bedside of Will Walford, only after every bone in the woodman’s body had been made to taste the quality of the cudgel expressly cut for the occasion.
It is possible that Will Walford’s punishment might have been still more severe, but that his castigator was pressed for time—so much so, that he left the wretch without releasing him, with a set of suffering bones, and a skin that exhibited all the colours of the rainbow.
After thus settling accounts with the “tree-tur,” as he called him, Garth had thrown away his holly stick, and hastened back to the road.
Under the supposition that Holtspur was by that time advanced some distance towards Beaconsfield, he hurried on to overtake him.
The moon was shining full upon the track; and in the dust, which the rain had recently converted into mud, the ex-footpad did not fail to perceive a number of footprints. In the exercise of his peculiar calling, he had been accustomed to note such signs, and had acquired a skill in their interpretation equal to that of a backwoods hunter.
Instantly he stopped, and commenced scrutinising the sign.
He was upon the spot where the capture had been accomplished. The footmarks of six or seven men—who had been springing violently from side to side—had left long slides and scratches in the damp dust. The tracks of the troopers were easily distinguished; and in their midst the more elegant imprint of a cavalier’s boot.
Garth needed no further evidence of the misfortune that had befallen. Beyond doubt his master had been once more made prisoner; and, cursing himself for being the cause, he mechanically traced the backward tracks—his despondent air proclaiming that he had but little hope of being able to effect a rescue.
Returning upon the traces of the cuirassier guards, he re-entered the park, and advanced towards the mansion—which the darkness enabled him to do with safety. There he had discovered Bet Dancey—a sorrowing penitent—prostrate upon the ground—where, in her distraction, she had thrown herself.
From the girl he had obtained confirmation of the recapture—though not the true cause either of that, or her own grief.
Her statement was simple. The guards had followed Master Holtspur; they had overtaken, overpowered, and brought him back; he was once more locked up within the store-room.
The hope, of again delivering him out of the hands of his enemies, might have appeared too slender to be entertained by any one; and for a time it did so—even to the unflinching spirit of his old retainer.
But the ex-footpad, when contemplating the chances of getting out of a prison, was not the man to remain the slave of despair—at least for any great length of time; and no sooner had he satisfied himself, that his master was once more encaged, than he set his wits freshly to work, to contrive some new scheme for his deliverance.
From the store-room, in which Holtspur was again confined, it would be no longer possible to extricate him. The trick, already tried, could not succeed a second time. Withers was the only one of the guards who might have been tempted; but after his affright, it was not likely that either the promise of kisses, or the proffer of gold pieces, would again seduce the sentry from the strict line of his duty.
But Garth did not contemplate any such repetition. An idea that promised a better chance of success had offered itself to his mind. To set free his master bystrategywas henceforth plainly impracticable. Perhaps it might be done bystrength?
Not in Bulstrode mansion—where the prisoner was surrounded by fourscore cuirassiers? No—clearly not. There could be no possibility of accomplishing a rescue there; nor did Gregory Garth give it a moment’s thought. His ideas became directed to the road that lay between the two prisons—the store-room and the Tower. He already knew that Holtspur was to be transferred from one to the other, and on the following day. During the transit, might there not be some chance of effecting a rescue?
Garth knew the London Road—every inch of it—and, in one way or other, was acquainted with most of the people who dwelt near it. Although upon an odd individual, here and there, he had practised his peculiar vocation, there were few with whom he was upon hostile terms. With many he held relations of friendship; and with a goodly number certain other relations, that should entitle him to an act of service at their hands.
With a plan—but still only half developed—he had once more hurried back along the Hedgerley Road, towards the rendezvous, where Dancey and the Indian had already arrived with the horses.
He found them waiting, and apprehensive;—almost expecting the sad tidings he had to communicate—the failure of their enterprise.
As Garth, during the backward tramp, had more definitely arranged his programme of action, there was no time wasted in consultation. Dancey readily consented to the proposal, to become his confederate in the scheme he had so promptly conceived.
Oriole having been directed to return to Stone Dean, the ex-footpad sprang upon his stolen steed; and, followed by the deer-stealer on his scraggy cob, at once started off along upon a bridle path, which winding around the southern boundary of Bulstrode Park, would bring them to the king’s highway, where the latter crossed over the elevated plain of Jarret’s Heath.
It is in pursuance of the scheme conceived by Garth, that he and his companion were descending Red Hill at that early hour of the morning.
Whithersoever bent, they were evidently in haste to reach their destination—more especially Garth, who was constantly urging his companion to keep up with him. The quadruped bestridden by the deer-stealer was the chief obstruction to their speed; and despite the frequent application of a stout stick, which his rider carried in hand, and the pricking of a rusty spur fastened upon his heel, the sorry hack could not be urged beyond a slow shuffling trot—discontinued the instant the stimulus of stick and spur were suspended.
“The devil burn your beest, Dancey!” cried the ex-footpad, losing all patience at the slow pace of the animal. “We’ll not ha’ nigh time enough to see them all. From what your daughter learnt yesterday, the sogers ’ll bring their prisoner down the road, the first thing in the mornin’. They’ll do that, so’s to make the journey to Lonnon afore night. No doubt about their gettin’ to Uxbridge by ten o’ the clock; an’ just see what we’ve got to do afore then. Stick the spur into him—up to the shank, Dancey! The lazy brute! I’d make ’im go, if I war astride o’ him.”
“The poor creetur!” compassionately rejoined Dancey, by way of an apology for his nag, “he han’t had a bite o’ any thin’ to eat for a week—’ceptin’ what he ha’ grubbed off o’ the roadside. No wonder he bean’t much for a fast journey.”
“Lucky it isn’t a longish one. If we had Lonnon afore us we’d niver get there! As it is—ha! now I think on’t, I’ve got a idea as’ll save time. There be no use for us to keep thegither. You go round Denham way, an’ warn your friends there. You can cross the Colne higher up, an’ scud on to the Harefield fellows. I’ll take Uxbridge an’ Hillindon, and along in the Drayton direction. That’ll be our best plan. We can meet at the Rose and Crown, as soon as we’ve got through. I’ll go there first, so as to gi’e old Brownie a hint ’bout gettin’ his tap ready. Lucky I ha’ been able to borrow some money upon a watch I chanced upon—a tydish bit—else we mightn’t find these patriots so free to lend us a hand. I shall spend it all—every stiver o’t—for the rescue o’ Master Henry.”
“I han’t got nothin’ to spend, or I’d do the same for him,” returned the deer-stealer. “He be the best an’ liberallest gentleman ever coom about these parts—that be he.”
“You’re not far wrong about that, Master Dancey. Too good a gentleman to have his head chopped off for speakin’ no more than’s the truth; an’ we must do our best to help ’im keep it on his shoulders. There’s your road to Denham. Stick the spur into your blessed beast, an’ make him do his damnest. Be sure you meet me at the bridge—afore ten.”
And with these injunctions the ex-footpad separated from the deer-stealer—the latter turning off upon the lane which led to the village of Denham; while the former continued along the direct road towards the town of Uxbridge.