Volume Three, Chapter I.
It has been deemed strange that two individuals should conceive the same
thought, at the same instant of time. Those who are skilled in
psychology, will not be surprised by such coincidence. Like
circumstances produce like results, in the world of mind, as in that of
matter; and an instance may be found in the similar idea conceived at
the same time by Marion Wade and Elizabeth Dancey--a lady of high rank,
and a lass of low degree.
Both were in love with the same man--Henry Holtspur, the prisoner. Both
had bethought them of a plan for delivering him from his prison; and if
there was anything singular, it was, that their schemes were in almost
exact correspondence.
The velvet-hooded cloak under which was concealed the face and form of
Marion Wade, had been put on with the same design, as that garment, of
somewhat similar make, but coarser material, that shrouded the shapes of
Dick Dancey's daughter.
Both were bent upon one and the same errand.
There may have been some difference as to the means and hopes directed
towards its accomplishment; but none as to the motive--none as to the
time intended for its trial. Both had chosen the hour of midnight.
Neither was this an accidental coincidence. No more than Bet Dancey,
had Marion Wade trusted to chance as to the hour for making the attempt.
During the day she had made her inquiries, and resolved upon her
measures. Through the medium of a confidential maid--also an old
acquaintance of the soldier Withers--she had ascertained that the latter
would be on post over the prisoner from twelve till two at night. She
had learnt, moreover, some things about the character and disposition of
this trustworthy sentinel--leading her to believe that he would not
prove an exception to the general rule of mankind; and that gold would
overcome his scruples--if administered in sufficient quantity. For this
sufficiency had she provided.
Even without regard to these considerations, the hour of midnight was
one that might have been chosen on its own account. All the dwellers
within the mansion--as well as its stranger guests--would be then a-bed;
and there would be less chance of her design being frustrated by
discovery.
It was a mere accident that caused a difference of some ten minutes of
time, between the arrival of his two deliverers at the door of
Holtspur's prison; and in this the lass had gained the advantage over
the lady.
At the moment when Bet Dancey was standing before the wicket, Marion
Wade was stealing softly from her chamber to make her way through
darkness down the great staircase, and along the silent halls and
corridors of the paternal mansion.
Inside his silent cell, Holtspur had heard the clock striking the hour
of twelve, in solemn lugubrious tones--too consonant with his thoughts.
It was the twelve of midnight.
"I wish it were twelve of to-morrow's noon," soliloquised he, when the
tolling had ceased. "If I have correctly interpreted the conversation I
overheard this morning, ere that hour I shall be far from this place.
So--the Tower is my destination. After that--ay, what after that?
Perhaps--the block? Why fear I to pronounce the word? I may as well
look it boldly in the face: for I know that the vengeance of that vile
woman--that has pursued me all through life, since she could not have my
heart, will be satisfied with nothing less than my head. It is _her_
hand I recognise in this--her hand that penned the postscript to that
despatch; or, at all events, was it she who dictated it.
"I wish it were the hour to depart hence. There can be no dungeon in
the Tower so terrible as this--on one side of the wall Hell, on the
other Paradise. I can think only of Paradise, where Marion is present.
She so dear to me--so near to me--almost breathing the same atmosphere;
and yet oblivious of my existence! Perhaps--
"Ha! footsteps stirring outside? The sentry talking to some one! 'Tis
the voice of a woman!
"One of the domestics of the mansion, I suppose, who has stolen forth to
exchange the day's gossip with the guard? 'Tis a late hour for the girl
to be gadding; but perhaps 'tis the hour of her choice? I can envy this
wench and her soldier sweetheart their easy opportunities. Perhaps
equally to be envied is the free and easy fashion, with which they enter
upon a love affair, and escape out of it? With them there is no such
terrible contingency as a broken heart. To-morrow he may be gone; and
the day after she will be as gay as ever!
"How different with a passion like mine! Absence can have no effect
upon it. Not even the terrors of the Tower can bring it to a
termination. It will end only under the axe of the executioner--if that
is to be my fate.
"These gossips are getting nearer the door. Though they are talking in
a low tone, I might hear what they say, by placing my ear to the
keyhole. I have no inclination to make myself the depository of their
coarse love secrets; but perhaps I may hear something of myself, or of
_her_! That may make it worth my while to play eavesdropper."
The prisoner rose from his seat; and succeeded in getting himself into
an erect attitude. But all at once he sank back upon the bench; and
only by adroitly balancing his body did he save himself from falling
upon the floor.
"By the good Saint Vitus!" he exclaimed, rather amused at his
misadventure, "I had forgotten that my feet were not free. After all,
what I should hear might not be worth the effort. I'll leave them to
keep their secrets--whatever they be--to themselves."
So resolving, he resumed his sedentary attitude upon the bench, and
remained silent, but as before, listening.
By this, the speakers had approached nearer to the door; and their words
could now be distinctly heard inside the store-room.
"So!" resumed Holtspur, after listening for a short while; "lovers, as I
suspected. He talks of kissing her! I can hear that word above all the
others. Ho! they are pressing against the door! What! Surely the key
turns in the lock? Can they be coming in?"
The question was answered by the unlocking of the door; which upon the
next instant swung silently upon its hinges, until it stood half open.
Against the glimmer of the lamp outside, Holtspur could dimly
distinguish two forms--one of them a woman.
The male figure was the nearer one; though the woman was close behind.
On opening the door, the sentry had thrust his head inside the room--but
evidently without any design of introducing his body.
"Are you sleepin', Master?" interrogated he, speaking in a tone that did
not seem unkindly, and only a little louder than a whisper.
"No," replied the prisoner, answering the man frankly, while imitating
his cautious tone.
"All right, then!" said the sentry: "for there be a lady here as wants
to have a word with ye; and as I suppose ye don't care to do your
talkin' i' the dark, I'll lend you my lamp for a bit. But don't make
your dialogue a long 'un: there be danger in what I'm doin'."
So saying, the trooper walked back into the archway, for the purpose of
fetching his lamp; while the woman, pushing past him, stepped inside the
room.
As the phrase, "there be a lady," fell from the lips of the sentinel,
the heart of Henry Holtspur, throbbed quick within his bosom. Sweet
thoughts welled up at the words.
Could he have been mistaken in believing his midnight visitor a domestic
of the mansion? _Might it not be its mistress_?
In the dim light he saw a female form closely wrapped in hood and cloak.
In that guise, she might be either a peasant or a princess. The figure
was tall, upright, commanding. Such was that of Marion Wade!
Holtspur's fond fancy was destined to a short indulgence. The lamp was
passed through the half-opened door; and placed upon a stool that stood
near. Its glare fell upon the form of his visitor--lighting up a
crimson cloak--lighting up features of a gipsy type, with dark, flashing
eyes--beautiful features, it is true, but altogether unlike the angelic
countenance he had been conjuring up--the countenance of Marion Wade.
"It is not she--only Maid Marian!"
Holtspur's hopeful glance suddenly changed to one of disappointment, as
he identified the daughter of the deer-stealer. Perhaps it was well for
him--for both--that Betsey did not observe the transformation. The
obscure light of the lamp hindered the girl from having a chagrin,
equal, if not greater, than his.
"Mistress Betsey!" he exclaimed, on recovering from the first flutter of
his surprise. "You here! What has brought you to my prison?"
"Hush!" ejaculated the girl, moving rapidly forward from the door--which
the sentry had taken the precaution to shut behind him--"Speak only in
whispers! I've come to save you--to get you out of this ugly place."
"But how? 'Tis not possible, I fear? The door is guarded--the sentry
is outside? I could not go forth without being seen?"
"You _will_ be seen--that's true. But it won't matter a bit. If you'll
follow my directions, you'll get out without being hindered. That's
sufficient. Father and Master Garth planned it all, before we left
home. They are waiting for you on the edge of the wood--up the hill,
just behind the house."
"Ah! a plan for me to escape? What is it, my brave Betsey?"
"You're to take my cloak. It's a long one; and will reach nigh down to
your feet. But, for fear it wouldn't, I brought an extra skirt along
with me. Here it is."
Saying this, the girl whipped the cloak from her shoulders--disclosing
at the same time a skirt of some kind of coarse stuff, which she had
been carrying under her arm.
"Now, sir!" she continued, in a tone of urgency, "on with them as quick
as you can: for _he_ may get impatient, and want to come in."
"What!" exclaimed Holtspur, whose surprise at the proposal was only
equalled by admiration of her who had made it. "And do you mean that I
am to pass out--disguised in your garments--and leave you here?"
"Of course I do. What other way is there? We can't both go out. He'd
stop you for a certainty; and me too, may be, for trying to get you
away. You must go out _alone_."
"And leave you behind--to be punished for aiding me to escape? No,
generous girl! I had rather die, than do that."
"Oh, sir! don't talk in that foolish way. Pray go as I tell you to.
Have no fear for me! They can't do much to a girl that's got nothing to
lose. Besides, I don't feel much afeerd of getting him to pass me out
afterwards. It'll be no good his keeping me in. That won't save him,
from whatever they may do to him."
The _him_ thus pointedly alluded to, was the amorous sentry; who was
just then heard passing to and fro upon his round, with a step that
denoted impatience.
"O, sir, go! I beg of you go--or--I--we may never see you again."
There was a tone of sadness in the entreaty, which Holtspur could hardly
have failed to notice. But the appeal had shaken his resolution to
remain. From what she had said, he saw that in all probability the girl
would get clear, or with some slight punishment. Perhaps she might
succeed in deceiving the sentry still further, and escape without
difficulty. Holtspur knew she was clever and quick-witted.
"Never fear for me, sir!" said she, as if interpreting his thoughts. "I
can manage _him_. He'll do what I want him to; I know he will."
"If I thought that--"
"You _may_ think it," responded she, at the same time cutting the cords
that bound the prisoner, "you may be sure of it. Leave him to me. Now,
sir, the cloak. No, the skirt first. That's the way to fix it. Now
the cloak. Here! put your head into the hood--draw it well over your
face. That'll do. When you go out, don't stop to speak to him. He'll
want to kiss you--I know that. You mustn't let him, but keep quick on
to the door. The wicket is on the latch. When you get outside you can
run as fast as you like. Make for the trees at the top of the hill.
There you will find father along with your own man, Master Garth. It's
dark as pitch outside. I'll keep the lamp here till you get through the
passage. I defy him to tell it isn't _me_, if you don't let him kiss
you. Don't do that; but pass him as rapidly as you can. Now you're
ready? Go!"
This long chapter of directions was spoken more quickly than it can be
read. Before the final word was uttered, Bet Dancey had succeeded in
disguising the prisoner.
She herself retained her complete dress--the only part of her left
uncovered being her head and shoulders.
Holtspur gazed for a moment upon the generous boldly beautiful girl; and
with a glance that told of tenderness. She might have mistaken it for a
look of love. Alas!--for her sake, alas!--it was only the gaze of
gratitude.
At that moment the sentry struck his halbert against the stoup--as if
summoning them to a separation.
"Coming, Master Withers! I'm coming," cried the girl in an under tone,
at the same time placing her lips close to the keyhole, "open, and let
me out!"
The bolt was turned briskly at the words. Withers was longing for that
promised kiss. The door was reopened; and the cloaked figure glided
forth into the darkness.
Withers closed the door behind it--without going inside for his
lanthorn. He did not desire light just then, nor the delay of getting
one. He could return for the lamp at any time--after that pleasant
occupation in which he anticipated engaging himself.
He only waited to secure the bolt against any chance of the prisoner's
attempting to come forth.
This occupied him scarce ten seconds of time; but short as was the
delay, it lost him his expected pleasure.
As he turned round after locking the door, he heard the click of the
wicket latch; and the moment after saw the cloaked form of his supposed
sweetheart outlined in the opening. In another instant she had passed
through slamming the wicket behind her!
Thinking there might still be a chance of securing the kiss, Withers ran
to the front entrance; and, re-opening the wicket, stepped briskly
outside.
"Confound the vixen!" he muttered, as he stood peering into the
darkness; "I believe she be clear gone away! Mistress Betsey! Mistress
Betsey! where are you, girl? Won't you come back and keep your
promise?"
As he made this appeal he fancied he saw her figure some score of yards
out in front of the gateway; where the next moment it mysteriously
disappeared, as if sinking into the earth!
Neither of his interrogatories met with a response. From the low tone
in which he spoke, it was scarce likely he had been heard. He dared not
call aloud--lest his voice might summon the guard from the inner court.
"Confound the vixen!" he once more muttered; "she be gone for certain,
and's tricked me out o' that kiss."
"It an't so much matter, after all," continued he, making a feint at
self-consolation, "I can make up for it the morrow, by taking as many as
I want. She's afeerd to keep the lady waiting--whoever _she_ be--and
not getting the shiners that's been promised her. She's right, maybe.
She knows she'll see me again; so let her go."
And with this consolatory reflection, he turned back into the arched
entrance--with the intention of recovering the lamp, left in the
apartment of the prisoner.
Volume Three, Chapter II.
While proceeding along the passage, it occurred to Withers that he had
left the wicket on the latch. With this unlocked, and the door of the
store-room open at the same time, there might be danger of the prisoner
making his escape. He knew that the latter was fast bound, both hand
and foot; but, in his soldiering experience, he had known more than one
captive get free from such fastenings.
To make safe, therefore, he turned back towards the outer gate--with the
intention of securing it.
As he stood holding the wicket in his hand, a thought influenced him to
look once more into the darkness. Perhaps, after all, Betsey might come
back? Her running away might have been only a frolic on her part--meant
merely to tease him? He would take another look out at any rate. There
could be no harm in that.
With this resolve he remained--holding the door half open, and peering
out into the darkness.
He had been thus occupied, scarce ten seconds of time, when an object
appeared before his eyes that elicited from him a series of joyful
ejaculations. It was the figure of a woman wrapped in hood and cloak,
coming round an angle of the wall, and evidently advancing towards the
spot where he stood. Who could it be but Betsey?
"Good!" cried Withers. "She has not gone after all. That be she comin'
back round the corner o' the house. 'Tan't the way I thought she went
off; but I must ha' been mistaken. Yes; she it be--cloak, hood, and
all! I might ha' knowed she wouldn't go without gettin' the kiss. I'm
glad on't hows'soever. A bird in the hand's worth two in the bush."
As the soldier thus congratulated himself on the re-appearance of his
sweetheart, and was chuckling over the near prospect of that promised
"smack," the cloaked figure arrived in front of the gateway, and stopped
within a few paces of him.
"I thought ye were gone, an' hed gi'en me the slip, Mistress Betsey,"
said he, stepping a pace or two outward to get nearer to her. "It's
very kind o' ye to come back. Why, ye look as if ye were frightened?
Don't be scared to come near me. Come up, now, an' gie me the kiss ye
promised. Come, that be a good lass!"
He was about opening his arms to offer what he supposed would be a
welcome embrace, when at that moment the lightning gave forth a vivid
flash, disclosing in the figure before him not the crimson-cloaked
peasant girl, from whom he had so lately parted, but a lady richly
enrobed in silk, satin, and velvet!
On the slender white fingers, that protruding from her cloak held its
hood closed over her chin, he had seen, under the electric light, the
sheen of sparkling jewels.
There was no mistaking the style of the personage that had thus
presented herself.