"'Twoan't do to ha' tuk the trouble o' comin' here for nothin'--beside
the cuttin' o' this cudgel. If I lay it into him now, he woan't feel
it, till after he gets sober. That an't the satisfaction I want. _I
want to see him feel it_."
Again the speaker paused to consider.
After a moment or two his eyes began to wander around the walls--as if
some design had suggested itself, and he was searching for the means to
carry it into execution.
Presently an object came under his gaze that appeared to fix it.
It was a coil of rope, or thick cord--that had been thrown over one of
the couplings of the roof, and was hanging within reach of his hand.
"That be the best way, I take it," said he, resuming his soliloquy, "an'
I dar say this'll do. It appear a stoutish piece, o' string," he
continued, dragging the cord from off the coupling, and trying its
strength between hand and heel. "Yes; it be strong enough to hold a
bull on his back--let alone a pig like him; and just long enough to make
four ties o't. It's the very identical."
Once more taking out his knife, he cut the cord into four nearly equal
pieces. He then proceeded to carry out the design that had shaped
itself in his mind; and which, judging by his satisfied air as he set
about it, appeared as if it promised to extricate him from his dilemma.
This was simply to strap the drunken man to his truckle; and leave him
there--until his restoration to a state of sobriety should render him
sensible of the chastisement which he, Garth, intended to return and
administer!
As the woodchopper lay with arms and limbs stretched out to their full
length, his inviting attitude appeared to have suggested to Garth this
mode of dealing with him.
Chuckling over his work, with the quickness of an expert in the handling
of ropes, the footpad now proceeded to the accomplishment of his task.
In a few minutes' time, he had fastened the wrists and ankles of the
sleeper to the trestles of his couch. This done, he stepped back to
take a survey; and as he stood over the unconscious captive, with
arms-a-kimbo, he broke forth into a fit of uproarious laughter.
"An't he a beauty, as he lays theer?" said he, as if interrogating some
unseen individual. "A reglar babe o' the woods! Only wants the
Robin-redbreasts to kiver him wi' a scattering o' beech leaves! Now,"
added he, apostrophising the fast-bound sleeper, "you stay theer till I
coom back! I don't say it 'll be inside the twenty-four hours; but if
'tan't, don't be impatient, an' fret yourself 'bout my absence. I've
promised I'll coom; an' you may be sure o't. For the present, Master
Wull Walford, I'll bid you a good mornin'!"
Saying this, and placing his cudgel in a corner--where he might readily
lay hands upon it again--Garth stepped forth from the hut; carefully
closed the door behind him; and took the back track towards the cottage
in which he had left the other inebriate Dancey. Him he now hoped to
find in a more fit state, for acting as his co-partner in a scheme, he
had partially conceived for the rescue of his imprisoned patron.
Volume Two, Chapter XVI.
It yet wanted some minutes of midnight, on that same day, when three
individuals were seen issuing out through the narrow doorway of Dick
Dancey's cottage, and starting off along the path towards Bulstrode
Park.
They were two men and a woman--the last so shrouded in cloak and hood,
that her age could not be guessed at, except from her lithe form and
agile step--both proclaiming her to be young.
The cloak, of a deep crimson colour, was the property of Bet Dancey; and
it was Bet's bold figure it enveloped.
Her companions were her own father, and Gregory Garth.
As the narrow path prevented them from walking side by side, they
proceeded in single file--the ex-footpad in the lead, Dancey close
following upon his heels, and Bet bringing up the rear.
This arrangement was not favourable to conversation in a low tone of
voice; and, as the errand, on which they were going abroad at that late
hour of night, might be supposed to require secrecy, by a tacit
understanding between them, all three preserved silence, throughout the
whole time they were travelling along the forest path.
Wapsey's Wood was separated from the park by a tract of pasture--
interspersed with patches of gorse and heather. Through this the path
ran direct to a rustic stile--which permitted a passage over, the
palings. Inside the enclosure was a broad belt of heavy timber--oak,
elm, and chestnut--through which the track continued on towards the
dwelling.
It was the south-western wing of Sir Marmaduke's mansion that was thus
approached; and, the timber once traversed, a portion of the building
might be seen--with the walls enclosing the courtyard at the back. The
garden, with its fruit trees and ornamental shrubbery, extended in this
direction--with its encircling fence; but this being constructed in the
style of a moat, and, of course, sunk below the surface of the general
level, was not visible from a distance.
After passing silently over the stile, the trio of night promenaders
forsook the ordinary path; and kept on towards the house in a circuitous
direction.
Having traversed the belt of timber--with the same cautious silence as
they had hitherto observed--they arrived upon its edge, opposite the
rear of the mansion, and at a point some hundred yards distant from the
moated wall. There, as if by mutual agreement, they came to a stop--
still keeping under the shadow of the trees.
If this precaution was for the purpose of concealment, it was
superfluous: for the night was pitch dark--like that which had preceded
it--and in the sky above there were similar indications of a storm. It
was in effect a repetition of that electric congestion, that had
disturbed the atmosphere on the previous night--to be in like manner
dispersed by a deluge of rain.
Between the timber and the shrubbery that surrounded the dwelling, lay a
piece of open pasture--with tall trees standing over it, at wide
intervals apart. Had it been daylight, or even moonlight, from the
point where they had paused, a view of the dwelling-house--comprising
the buildings at the back, and a portion of its western facade--could
have been distinctly obtained. As it was, they could only make out a
sombre pile, dimly outlined against the dark leaden canopy of heaven;
though at intervals, as the lightning shot across the sky, the walls and
windows, glancing under its momentary glare, could be traced as
distinctly as by day.
After arriving at their post of observation, the three individuals, who
had come from Dancey's cottage, continued for a time to preserve a
silence that spoke of some important design. The eyes of all three were
turned towards the dwelling; and, as the electric blaze illumined their
faces, it disclosed the features of all set in a serious expression.
No light could be seen in any of the windows looking westward; and, at
that hour, it might have been supposed that the inmates of the mansion
had all retired to rest. But there were also windows in the
outbuildings; and a faint gleam flickering from one or two of these
told, that, either some of the domestics of the establishment, or the
troopers quartered upon it, were still burning the midnight oil.
The great gateway, that gave entrance into the courtyard, was visible
from this point. When the lightning flashed, they could distinguish the
huge oaken folding doors, and see that they were shut; but, while
darkness was on, a tiny stream of yellowish light projecting through an
aperture underneath, told, that a lamp was burning behind it, inside the
archway.
There was no sound to indicate that any one was stirring within the
establishment. Occasionally a horse could be heard neighing in the
stables, in answer to one that wandered over the pastures of the park--
and a dog or two, taking their cue from the king of the domestic
quadrupeds, would for some seconds keep awake the hollow echoes of the
courtyard with their resonant baying.
While Garth and his two coadjutors were still listening, the great
clock--from the tower that overtopped the mansion--tolled the hour of
twelve.
"Thee be quite sure, gurl," said the former, breaking silence, for the
first time since leaving the domicile of Dancey, "thee be quite sure
about the hour?"
"Quite sure," replied Bet, repeating the words of her interrogator. "He
said twelve. He said he would be on guard all the night; but from
twelve till two would be his turn as sentry over the prisoner. The room
is just yonder, inside the archway--where you see the light coming
through."
"The old storeroom it be," put in Dancey. "I know it well. Many's the
fat buck I hae carried in theer, afore Sir Marmaduke took a notion I
stealed his deer, an' gied me the sack from lookin' after them. Gad!
them were better times for Dick Dancey!"
"Did he say you was to come exact at twelve?" pursued Garth, without
heeding the interpolation of the discharged keeper.
"No," replied Bet, "not exact at twelve, but soon after. He told me not
to come near, until the guard had been changed awhile, and the men
relieved--I think he called it--should go back into the courtyard."
"How war ye to know that?"
"He said he would set the lamp down upon the pavement, close to the big
door. When I should see the light shining out at the bottom, I was to
tap at the wicket, and he'd open it."
"Well, it be shinin' out at the bottom now, and has been for some time--
before the clock struck. Is that the way he meant it?"
"No. There's a hole--where the cats go out and in. He's to put the
lamp there."
"Then it han't been sot there yet. We must keep a sharp look out for't.
'Twon't do to lose a preecious minnit. Thee be sure he sayed, he'd let
thee speak wi' Master Henry?"
"He did; he promised me faithfully--I had to give _him_ a promise."
"What did thee promise him, my gull?" demanded Dancey, in a serious
tone.
"Oh, nothing much, father," replied Bet, "nothing much; considering what
I did it for."
"Never mind your daughter, Dancey. She be old enough to take care o'
herself. The gurl 'll do what's right, I warrant her."
"Ay, and that wouldn't have been any good," pursued Bet, "he'd never
have consented to let me in, but that he believes I'm sent by a great
lady. I had to tell him that story, God forgive me!"
"It be only a white lie, gurl," said Garth, in a tone of encouragement.
"If every lie as be told war in as good a cause, they'd all be forgiven
up yonder, I dar say."
As Garth said this, he turned his eyes reverently upward. "Ho!" cried
he, lowering them suddenly; and directing his glance towards the
gateway, "Yonner it be! The lamp's in the cat-hole!"
Under one of the folds of the great oaken door--conspicuous through the
aperture already spoken of--a disc of dull yellowish light was now
visible; which on scrutiny could be seen to be burning inside a lamp of
not very translucent glass. It was one of the common stable lanthorns
of the establishment--now doing guard duty in the quarters of the
cuirassier troop.
The signal was too marked to be mistaken.
The girl, on perceiving it, only waited for some farther instructions--
given in a hurried manner by her two companions; and which were but the
impressive repetition of those already imparted, previous to sallying
forth from the cottage.
As soon as she had received them, she drew her cloak closely round her;
and, gliding across the stretch of open pasture, arrived in front of the
great gateway--inside of which was imprisoned the man, for whose sake
she was about to risk moral shame, and perhaps personal punishment!
In front of the wicket, she paused for some minutes--partly to recover
her breath lost, in the hurried traverse across the pasture--and partly
to strengthen her resolution of carrying through the task she had
undertaken.
Bold as was the heart of the deer-stealer's daughter, it was not without
misgivings at that moment. Might not the soldier have summoned her
thither to betray her? Might he not have contrived some design to get
her within his power? Perhaps accuse her of treason to the king; or, by
the threat of such accusation, endeavour to procure her compliance with
some love proposals he had already half-hinted to her?
On the other hand, these proposals were not exactly of an insulting
nature. There had been a certain degree of soldierly honour in the
intercourse that had passed between herself and Withers--for Withers it
was who had invited her to share his hours of guard.
She had slightly known the young man, previous to his enlistment into
the corps of cuirassiers; and although he had since passed through a
_malignant_ school, she could scarcely believe him so bad as those with
whom he was associating.
At that crisis, however, it mattered little how bad he might be. She
had gone too far to think of withdrawing from the danger. She was too
near the man she loved--with the full, fierce ardour of her outcast
heart--too near to go back, without making an effort to see, and, if
possible, save him. As the thought of _his_ danger came once more
before her mind, she threw aside all regard for consequences; and,
advancing with fearless step, she knocked gently, but resolutely,
against the door.
Close succeeding this preconcerted signal, the tread of a trooper's boot
was heard on the pavement inside, and with a subdued sound that denoted
caution. Some one was approaching the wicket.
On reaching the door, the footfall ceased to be heard; and the wicket
was opened with a silence, that bespoke expectancy, on the part of him
who drew back the bolt.
Very different from the salutation of a sentry--the bold _brusque_ "Who
goes there?"--was the soft whisper that fell upon the ears of the person
claiming admission.
"Is it you, sweet Betsey?" asked the soldier; and then, without waiting
for a verbal answer to his interrogatory, he continued: "Come in, dear
girl! I have been so longing for twelve o'clock, I thought it would
never strike up there. I believe the old timepiece be out o' tune. It
an't often I'm so weary for my turn o' the night guard. Come in!"
The girl having got over the slight shiver of timidity--that had
temporarily possessed her--accepted the invitation; and, stepping over
the threshold of the wicket, stood inside the arched entrance which
formed a covered passage between the gate and the courtyard beyond.
This passage was only illuminated by the lanthorn; which, from its
position at the bottom of the door--where it had been placed to effect
the signal--gave out but a feeble light. As Withers, at that moment,
had no wish for a better, the lamp was allowed to remain where he had
placed it.
There was enough light proceeding from it to show the side door
conducting into the storeroom--the improvised prison of Henry Holtspur--
which was the chief point the sentry had been instructed to guard. Upon
this door the eyes of his visitor became directed, as soon as she had
entered under the archway; and to it her glance kept constantly
returning--despite the efforts of Withers to fix it upon himself.
He could not help observing the air of abstraction with which his
supposed sweetheart listened to his protestations of love. He noticed
her glance repeatedly directed towards the door of the storeroom, with
an eagerness that caused him some chagrin; though he was only annoyed,
that so little attention was being paid to his own blandishments.
Had he suspected the true cause of Bet Dancey's indifference, the door
of Holtspur's prison would not have turned upon its hinges that night--
at least not during Withers' tour of guard.
"Come, Mistress Betsey!" said he, in his endeavours to secure a greater
share of the girl's attention. "Don't talk about that affair just yet.
You can deliver your message to the gentleman bye-and-bye. 'Twon't take
long, I suppose?"
"Only a minute," replied Bet, "and that's just why I want to have it
over."
"Ah! that," said Withers, beginning to flatter himself that his
sweetheart was impatient to get through with the more disagreeable part
of her errand, so as to have it off her hands. "Ah! well; of course.
Mistress Betsey--"
"You know," interrupted the girl, "one should always do their business
first? Business first, and pleasure afterwards."
"Bah!" muttered Withers, "_that_ an't always the best way; leastwise,
not to you or me. Let the business stand over a bit."
"Oh! no, no!" answered Betsey with increasing impatience. "If the lady
who sent me only knew that I was trifling in this way, there _would_ be
a trouble. I'd not get the reward she has promised me. You can't
believe how impatient _she'll_ be, till she hears the answer I'm to take
back to her!"
"Oh! bother _her_ impatience! Let her wait, charming Betsey!"
"Nay, Master Withers; listen to reason. Suppose it was you who were in
prison; and some one wanted to hear from you: myself for instance.
Would you say, `let her wait,' then? I pray you, don't detain me now:
you can see me to-morrow. Come to the cottage; and stay as long as you
like. Father will be from home; and you may talk as much nonsense as
you have a mind to."
"What a seducing Syren!" said her suitor, evidently gratified at the
pretty programme thus sketched out for him, "Well! I agree to it. But
you must give me a kiss before you go in; and promise me another on,
you're coming out."
"With all my heart!" readily responded the representative of Maid
Marian, "You're welcome to a kiss. Take it."
And, without waiting for Withers to fling his arms around her, or even
meet her half-way, she craned her neck forward, and pressed her
protruded lips against the rough cheek of the trooper!
"There now!" was the ejaculation that accompanied the loud smacking
noise caused by the contact, "will that satisfy you?"
"No, dear Betsey; nor a hundred thousand of the same. With such
sweetness a man would never be satisfied; but always awantin' more. Ah!
they may talk about them girls in Flanders. Gi' me the kiss o' an
English lass. It's got the jiniwine flavour about it."
"All flattery! Come now! keep your promise--if you expect me to keep
mine, when I come out again."
"I'll do it, sweet. But hark'ee! Don't make no noise inside. If the
guard corporal should come round and find what's goin' on, he'd change
me from a sentry to a prisoner--in less time than it 'ud take to tell
what's o'clock. Ah! now; one more afore you go in?"
The girl, without hesitation, a second time delivered her cheek to be
kissed by the ready lips of her soldier lover; and then, muttering
something like a promise--to permit more than one repetition of the dose
when she should come out again--the storeroom door was opened to her;
and, without further interruption, she was admitted within the precinct
of Holtspur's prison.
Volume Two, Chapter XVII.
During all that day had the imprisoned patriot been chafing under his
confinement. Since his capture he had been treated like a criminal--
housed and fed, as if he were a criminal already convicted.
There was no furniture in the small apartment in which he had been
locked up. Only some articles of storage and lumber; but neither chair,
table, nor bed. A rough bench was the substitute for all these. On
this he sate, sometimes reclined; though he did not often change from
one attitude to the other--on account of the difficulty attending the
operation: for like a criminal was he also bound. His wrists were
crossed behind his back, and there tightly tied; while as an additional
security against any attempt to escape, his ankles were lashed together
by a piece of splicing rope.
He had made no effort to free himself. The thing appeared hopeless.
Even could he have got rid of his rope fastenings, there was a locked
door, with a sentry all the time standing, or pacing, outside.
Though keenly feeling the indignity thus put upon him--and sensible of
the great danger in which his life was now placed--he had other thoughts
that were still more bitter to bear.
Marion Wade was the object of these reflections--she, and her white
gauntlet. Not that one, he had himself so proudly worn; but its fellow,
which he had seen so tauntingly set on the helmet of the cuirassier
captain.
All day long--and it had appeared of endless length--as well as during
the hours of the night already passed, scarce for a moment had his mind
been able to escape from that harassing thought.
Notwithstanding his efforts to repudiate the suspicion--despite that
reckless disavowal of it before Scarthe himself--he could not hinder its
recurrence. A hundred times did he ask himself the questions: whether
Scarthe had come surreptitiously by the glove, or whether it had been
given him as a love-token, like his own?
Over and over did he review the various circumstances, that had
transpired between himself and Marion Wade; from the hour when riding
listlessly along the forest road, he had been startled into a quick
surprise at the sight of her peerless beauty--a surprise as rapidly
changing into admiration. Then the after encounters upon the same
road--which might have appeared accidental to any other mind than one
quickened with love; the dropping of the gauntlet, that might have been
deemed a thing of chance, but for the after interview, and confession
that it was _design_; and those fervent speeches, that had passed
between them--were they not vows, springing from the profoundest depths
of her soul? And had she not, on that same occasion, made to him a
complete surrender of her heart--as he to her? If words were to be
believed, he had won the heart of Marion Wade. How could he doubt it?
He could, and _did_ doubt; not that she had spoken love-words to him,
and listened to his, with apparent complaisance. He could not doubt
that--unless under the belief that he had been dreaming. His
uncertainty was of a different character--far more unpleasant. It was
the suspicion that Marion Wade could give love-looks, speak love-words,
and drop love-tokens at pleasure! That which she had done to him, she
might do to another. In short he had given way to the belief _that she
had been coquetting with him_.
Of all the pangs that passion may inflict upon the heart of man, this is
the most poignant. Love, unrequited, stings sharply enough; but when it
has been promised requital--caressed to full fervour, and deluded by a
pseudo-reciprocation--afterwards to have its dust-bedimmed eyes opened
to the delusion--then indeed does jealousy become what it has been the
fashion to call it--_a monster_.
There is no cruelty to be compared with that of the coquette.
Was Marion Wade one of this class?
A hundred times did Holtspur ask the question. A hundred times did he
repudiate the suspicion; but alas! as often did a voice speaking harshly
within his soul give forth the response:--
"It is possible."
Ay, and probable too! So ran his imaginings.
Perhaps its probability was more conceivable to the mind of Henry
Holtspur, from a sad experience of woman's deceitfulness, that had
clouded the sky of his early life--just at that period when the sun of
his fortune was ascending towards its zenith.
"Surely," said he--for the twentieth time indulging in the conjecture,
"she must know that I am here? She cannot help knowing it. And yet, no
message from her--not one word of inquiry! I could not be more
neglected in a dungeon of the Inquisition. Is it that they are
hindered--forbidden communication with me? I would fain believe it so.
They cannot have so suddenly abandoned a friendship commencing so
cordially, and which, though only of yesterday, promising to be
permanent? Why do they, all at once, thus coldly turn from me?
"Ah! what have men not done--what will they not do, to stand clear of
the ruin that threatens to fall? It may be that one and all of them
have repudiated me--she, too, disclaiming a connexion that could but
disgrace her?
"Perhaps at this hour--on the other side of those massive walls--there
is a scene of gaiety in which all are taking part--both the family and
its guests? Perhaps at this moment she may be the gayest and happiest
of all? Her new fancy seated by her side, or hovering around her,
whispering honeyed speeches into her ear--beguiling her with those words
of wickedness, whose usage he well understands? And she, all the while,
smiling and listening? Oh!"
The final exclamation was uttered in a groan--betraying how painful was
the picture which his jealous fancy had conjured up.
And a fancy it was. Could his eye at that moment have pierced the
massive walls, mentioned in his soliloquy, he might have discovered how
unjust--how groundless--were his hypothetical accusations. He would
have seen Marion Wade a sufferer like himself--suffering from almost a
similar cause.
She was in her sleeping chamber, and alone. She had been there for
hours; but still her couch remained unpressed. The silken coverlet lay
smoothly over the pillow of down, without any sign of having been
upturned. Nor was there in her attitude aught that would indicate an
intention of retiring to that luxurious place of repose.
On the night before, in the same chamber, had she been equally the
victim of unrest--though not to the same degree. Then had she been only
apprehensive of danger to her lover, but still undisturbed by a doubt of
his fidelity. Now the danger had descended--the doubt had arisen. Then
her apprehensions had been relieved; and she had fallen into a slumber--
so profound, that the hoof-strokes of a single horse--heard, half an
hour afterwards, passing over the same path traversed by Scarthe and his
subaltern--did not awake her. Neither had the trampling of thirty
steeds, ridden by the same number of steel-clad cuirassiers--with
tinkling spurs and clinking sabres--as several hours after they filed
under the casement of her chamber, taking their departure from the park.
It was after daybreak on that morning when Marion Wade awoke from a
prolonged slumber. Then only on hearing noises without, that might have
aroused even the heaviest sleeper: the braying of a bugle--the quick
word of command loudly pronounced--the shrill neighing of horses--in
short, all those sounds that indicate the proximity of a cohort of
cavalry.
Marion sprang from her couch--her cousin close following her example.
They stood trembling in the middle of the room. Modesty forbade a
nearer approach to the window; while curiosity--and in the mind of
Marion a far stronger sentiment--urged them towards it.
Only for an instant had she hesitated. The _presentiment_ was upon
her--then more impressive than ever. She could not resist it; and,
snatching the first garment that came within reach--a scarf it chanced
to be--she threw it over her shoulders, already enrobed in her ample
chevelure of golden hair; and silently glided into the embayment of the
window.
Not long stayed she there. The terrible tableau, that came under her
eyes, prevented her from protracting that daring reconnoissance.
A squadron of cuirassiers, formed in line, with the heads of their
horses turned towards the window--on the right flank, their captain,
Richard Scarthe--on the left, his subaltern, Stubbs--this was the
spectacle presented to her view.
In the centre--and there alone had dwelt the glance of Marion Wade--was
a man mounted upon a coal-black horse--conspicuous above all the rest
for noble mien, and proud bearing--but, alas! conspicuous also as _a
prisoner_.
It required no scrutiny to tell who he was--at least on the part of
Marion Wade. A single glance had been sufficient for the recognition of
Henry Holtspur.
The long look she gave was scarce one of inquiry. Its object was not to
identify the prisoner. It was not directed either upon his figure, or
his face; but upon a spray of withered red blossoms that hung drooping
over the brim of his beaver.
The look of chagrin with which this token was regarded by Marion Wade,
changed to one of absolute anguish--as her eye fell upon the brown but
beautiful face of a young girl, seen standing in the background, and
whose crimson cloak, and gipsy features, proclaimed her the daughter of
Dancey, the deer-stealer!
Marion Wade receded from the window with as much suddenness, as when,
some hours before, her modesty had taken alarm at the exposing flash of
the electric light.
Far different, however, was the fashion of her retreat. She fell
fainting upon the floor!
With such a shaft rankling in her bosom, no wonder that Marion Wade had
now no inclination for sleep, and showed no signs of an intention to
retire to her couch.
On the contrary, she was equipped as for a journey--at all events, as if
she intended going forth into the open air. A dark velvet cloak of
large dimensions completely shrouded her figure; while her head was
enveloped in a hood, which, by means of its draw-string, almost
concealed her face--at the same time covering those luxuriant locks,
like streams of molten gold, that gave a sort of divine character to her
countenance.
Had her face been seen at that moment, it would have appeared pale--that
is, paler than its wont: for the cheeks of Marion Wade could never have
shown colourless. Even in death one might have fancied they would
preserve that luminous roseate hue; which, like a halo, seemed
constantly suspended over her countenance.
Her eyes more truthfully told the tale. They were swollen, and scarce
dried of recent tears. Only one had seen them fall. Only one--her
cousin Lora--knew why Marion Wade had been weeping. She had kept her
chamber all the day, with Lora as her companion; but long before
midnight, the latter had been desired to withdraw, and leave her alone.
Lora had not been made the confidant of all her secrets. There was one
she had reserved.
All day had she been thinking over the spectacle of the morning. The
man she loved--worshipped with all the warm wild fervour of her maiden
heart--that man a prisoner in the power of a cruel and vindictive enemy;
paraded before all the world--before herself--as a criminal; rudely
dragged along by a guard of ruffianly soldiers; disgraced--no, not
disgraced, for such treatment could not bring disgrace upon a noble
patriot; but in danger of his life!
And yet it was not this that had drawn from the eyes of Marion Wade
those hot scalding tears! It was not this which had caused her to fall
fainting upon the floor. Alas! no. Both the tears and the syncope had
a different origin than the beholding Henry Holtspur in bonds. They
were not tears of sympathy; but of bitterness--springing from the
fountain of Love, that had become defiled with Jealousy. They could be
traced to those flowers, borne upon the beaver of the black horseman.
The faded blossoms had been seen; and, in Marion's beguiled imagination,
had been recognised.
To think he should be wearing them, and at such a time! In the hour of
his adversity: as if to sanctify them by a greater regard!
It was this thought that had momentarily deprived Marion Wade of her
senses.
She had recovered them; but not along with them her tranquillity of
spirit. To her that day had been one of fearful reflections. Every
hour had its chapter of stinging thoughts--every minute its miserable
emotion. Love and jealousy--sympathy and spite--had alternated all day
long; each in turn holding possession of her tortured soul.
It was now the hour of midnight, and the wicked passions had succumbed;
the virtuous emotions had triumphed. Love and sympathy were in the
ascendant! Marion Wade was upon the eve of attempting the
accomplishment of a purpose that would prove, not only the depth of her
love, but its noble unselfishness.
Could Holtspur have beheld her at this moment--could he have guessed her
design--he would have withheld that recrimination, which in the
bitterness of spirit he had permitted to pass from his lips.
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