On perceiving his mistake, the surprised sentry gave way to a series of
very natural reflections. "It be the one as sent Betsey? Sure it be!
She's growed impatient, and come herself. I suppose _she'll_ want to go
in, and see him too. Well, for a kiss, I don't mind lettin' _her_;
though I'd rather a had that buss from Betsey."
"Good-night, sir!" said the lady, speaking in a tone that courted
conciliation, though indicative of some surprise at the style of the
sentry's first salutation.
"The same to yourself, mistress!" rejoined the soldier, putting on his
most courteous air; "May I be so bold as to ask your errand? It be a
dark night for a fine lady to be abroad; and late too!"
"If I mistake not," said she, without heeding the interrogatory, "you
are Withers?"
On putting this question, she approached a little nearer to the sentry--
as she did so, drawing her jewelled hand within the cloak, and letting
the hood fall back from her head. Her beautiful face would have been
visible, but for the absence of light; and trusting to this, she had no
fear of being recognised.
"Withers, madame! William Withers; that be my name, at your service."
"Thanks, Master Withers, for saying so: since in truth I want you to do
me a service."
"Name it, fair lady!" gallantly challenged the young cuirassier.
"You are on guard over a prisoner. I need not say who that prisoner is:
since I believe there is but one. I want to see him. 'Tis on very
important business."
"Oh! I understand," said Withers, looking superlatively wise.
"I want only a word with him. You can give me the opportunity?"
"Certain I can," replied the sentry, "if you think it be necessary for
you to see him _yourself_."
"Oh! sir--it is necessary!"
"Well, I didn't know that. I thought the message you sent by the girl
would be sufficient. _She's_ been, and seen him, and gone again. You
han't met her, then, I suppose?"
"Met her! Whom?"
"Why the young girl you sent to speak with him inside."
"I--I--sent no one."
These monosyllabic words were pronounced with a choking utterance, that
betrayed something more than surprise.
"O-ah!" muttered the sentry to himself, "there's another, then, as has
private business with my prisoner. Hang this Holtspur! All the fine
ladies in the land appear to be runnin' after him. Well; I won't make
fish o' one and flesh o' 'tother. This un shall have her chance as well
as the one that sent Betsey; and since she's come herself, instead of
doing the thing by deputy, she desarves to have at least as good an
opportunity as the tother. Fair play in love as well as in war--that be
Will Withers' way o' thinking."
"I say Mistress," continued he, once more addressing himself to the
lady. "I have no objection to your going inside a minute--if ye promise
me not to make it long."
"Oh! I promise it good Withers! You shall not go unrewarded. Take
this in return for your generous kindness."
At these words, the jewelled hand reappeared outside the foldings of the
velvet--this time with its palm held upward. Another gleam just then
illuminated the atmosphere--enabling the sentry to perceive the
bounteous bribe that was offered to him. The outspread palm was covered
with coins--as many as could lie upon it. Surely it was not the
electric light that had given to them their yellow tint? No. Withers
could not be mistaken. The coins were gold!
Without saying a word, he stretched out his own large paw till it
touched the delicate fingers of the lady; and then, permitting the
pieces of gold to slip into his palm, he quickly transferred them to his
pocket.
"Your hand, Mistress, for another purpose," said he, holding out his own
to take it; and as the trembling fingers were deposited within his, he
stepped sideways inside the wicket, leading the lady after him.
In this fashion, they traversed the dark archway--until they had reached
the entrance to the store-room.
There stopping, the sentry once more turned the key in the lock; and, as
before, pushed the door partially open.
"Ho! master!" said he, again directing his voice into the room, but
without going in himself; "here's another feminine come to speak with
you; and I beg you won't be so long about it, as you were before. Now,
Mistress; go in! You'll find the gentleman inside."
So saying he handed the lady over the threshold; closed and locked the
door behind her; and walked back towards the wicket--partly to see
whether Bet Dancey might not still be lingering outside; but also with
the idea of submitting his treasure to the test of another flash of the
lightning: in order to assure himself that the coins were gold!
It is scarce necessary to say, that the second visitor to the cell of
the imprisoned patriot, was Marion Wade. That will have been guessed
already.
Had the lamp remained, where the sentry had first set it, the daughter
of Sir Marmaduke could not have been two seconds within the store-room,
without discovering who was its occupant. As it was, a short interval
elapsed before she became aware of the strange transformation that had
taken place in the _personnel_ of the prison.
On hearing the key grating in the lock, the substitute of Henry
Holtspur--believing it to be a visit of inspection on the part of the
guard corporal--or some similar intrusion--had suddenly snatched the
lamp from off the stool, and placed it in a less conspicuous position--
behind some lumber in a corner of the room.
The result was to make that portion occupied by herself, almost as
obscure as if no light was in the place; and, the girl, who had glided
back to the bench, and taken her seat upon it, might without close
scrutiny have been taken for a man--for Henry Holtspur.
And for him was she for a time mistaken. It was under this belief, that
Marion made that timid and trembling approach; and this it was that
caused her voice to quiver, as she faltered forth his name.
The voice that spoke in response, at once dispelled the illusion. It
was not that of Henry Holtspur--which would have been known to Marion
Wade, despite the obscurity that surrounded her. It was not the voice
of any man. It was a woman's!
Before the lady could recover from her surprise, the form of a woman--
tall as her own--was seen rising erect from the bench; then stepping
forth from the shadowed side of the room until the face was
conspicuously displayed under the light of the lamp.
Marion Wade recognised that countenance, as one that had often--too
often--disturbed her dreams. It was Bet Dancey who was thus
unexpectedly confronting her!
The short, sharp scream that escaped from the lips of the lady,
expressed an emotion stronger than surprise. It comprehended that, and
far more. She who had uttered it, comprehended all!
This was the girl who had been sent to speak with the prisoner! Who
sent her? No one. She had come on her own errand. _She_ had come, and
_he_ was gone! She had rescued him, by remaining in his place!
These thoughts followed one another so rapidly, as to be almost
simultaneous. They had all passed through the mind of Marion Wade,
before a word was exchanged between herself and the individual who stood
before her.
The latter, with equally quick comprehension, interpreted the presence
of the lady in that apartment. She had come in the same cause as
herself; though too late for a like success. Not a doubt had Bet Dancey
that she in the dark velvet cloak had entered that room with the design
of releasing the prisoner--in the same manner as she had herself done
scarce five minutes before.
She well knew who was her competitor in this self-sacrificing game. If
the black hair and dark flashing orbs of Dick Dancey's daughter had
disturbed the dreams of Marion Wade, so too had the golden tresses and
blue beaming eyes of Sir Marmaduke's, more than once, rendered uneasy
the slumbers of the forest maiden. The understanding was mutual. In
her own thoughts each found a key to the actions of the other.
The rivals stood face to face--Marion shrinking, chagrined--Betsy
unabashed, triumphant.
There was an interval of embarrassing silence. It was brought to an end
by the girl; otherwise it might have remained unbroken, as the lady was
turning to leave the room in silence.
"You've named the name of Henry Holtspur? He's not here, Mistress
Marion Wade."
"I can perceive that without your assistance," answered the proud
daughter of Sir Marmaduke--who perhaps would not have deigned a reply,
had she not been piqued by the tone of the interrogator.
"You expected to find him, didn't you?"
Marion hesitated to make reply.
"Of course you did; else why should you have come here? You intended to
set him free; but you're too late Mistress Wade. Master Holtspur has
friends who think as much of him as you--perhaps more. One of them, you
see, has been before you?"
"You mean yourself?"
Marion was constrained to put this question, by a thought that had
suddenly occurred to her. She remembered the words of the sentry, who
had spoken of "a girl having been _sent_ by a lady."
After all, was Bet Dancey only a messenger? And was there a real
rival--one of her own rank--in the back ground?
Such a belief would to some extent have been consolatory to the heart of
the questioner. But even this slight hope was crushed, by the reply to
her interrogatory.
"A strange question that, Mistress Marion Wade? You see me here? You
see I have risked my life to save _his_? Do you think I would do that
for another? No--not for the queen herself--who I've heard likes him as
much, as either you or me?"
"There's not much risk," replied Marion becoming irritated in spite of
herself, at the insolent tone of her rustic rival. "To you I should
think, not much risk of anything."
"Indeed! And to you--had you been in time to set him free? How then?"
Marion had turned her back upon her taunting interrogator, and was
moving towards the door--to avoid the unpleasantness of any further
parley with one whose words, as well as actions, had already given her
so much pain.
"Stay!" cried her tormentor, as if delighted to continue the
persecution. "You appear disappointed, at not having an opportunity to
show your friendship for Master Holtspur. You may do something yet, if
you have a mind. I dare ye to take my place, and let _me_ go out. If
you do, I'll let _him_ know of it the first time I see him. I know that
that would be doing _him_ a service. Now?"
"Away, rude girl! I decline your absurd proposition. I shall hold no
further speech with you."
As the lady said this, she stretched forth her hand, and rapped against
the door--making as much noise as her trembling fingers were capable of,
and without any regard to the precautions with which she had been
charged by the sentry.
Withers was waiting outside. The key turned quickly in the lock; and
the door was once more held open.
The lady glided silently out, and on through the wicket, without staying
to speak a word of thanks.
But she had thanked the sentry in advance, and was thinking no more of
his services.
As she looked forth from the wicket, the storm, for some hours
threatening, had burst; and the rain was descending like a deluge upon
the earth.
She stayed not under the shelter of the arched entrance--she did not
think of staying; but stepped fearlessly over the threshold, and out
into the open way--reckless of the rain, and daring the darkness.
There was a storm in her own bosom; in violence equalling that of the
elements--in blackness eclipsing them!
There was not a gleam of light in the cloudy canopy of the heavens.
So, on the horoscope of her own future, there was not a ray of hope.
To her Henry Holtspur was no more--at least, no more to make her happy.
She scarce felt gladness at his escape; though it would have been
supreme joy, had she herself been the instrument that had secured it.
After all her fond imaginings--after a sacrifice that brought shame, and
a confession that made known to him the complete surrender of her
heart--to be thus crossed in the full career of her passion--abandoned--
slighted, she might almost say--and for a rival who was only a rustic!
Oh! it was the very _acme_ of bitterness--the fellest shape that
jealousy could have assumed!
It was not merely the last incident that was leading her into the depth
of despair. It only overflowed the cup already at its full. Too many
signs had appeared before her eyes--the report of too many circumstances
had reached her ears--to leave her in doubt, about the relationship that
existed between Henry Holtspur and his late deliverer. How cordial must
it be, on the part of the latter, to stimulate her to such an act as
that just performed; and how confident must she have been of being
rewarded for her self-sacrifice!
A woman would not do such a thing for one likely to treat her with
indifference?
So reasoned Marion Wade; though she reasoned wrongly.
It might be a _liaison_, and not an honest love? Considering the
relative position of the parties, this was probable enough; but to the
mind of Marion it mended not the matter to think so. On the contrary,
it only made the ruin appear more complete! Both men and women are more
painfully affected by a jealousy of the former, than of the latter!
Alas! that the statement should be true; but it is so. He who denies it
knows not human nature--knows not human love!
It would not be true to say, that Marion Wade reflected after this
philosophic fashion; and yet it would be equally untrue, to allege that
her mind was altogether free from such a reflection. Though beautiful
as an angel, she was but a woman--imbued with all a woman's
sensibilities--her sensualities too, though divinely adorned!
With the reckless air of one crossed in love, she strode forth into the
darkness--taking no heed of the direction.
She walked with hasty steps; though not to avoid the pelting of the
rain, or shun exposure to the storm.
On the contrary, she seemed to court these assaults: for, having arrived
at the end of the verandah--whither she had strayed by chance--instead
of seeking shelter under its roof, she stayed outside upon the open
sward.
Although within a very short distance of the door--by which she might
have found easy ingress to the mansion--she refrained from entering.
Flinging the hood back upon her shoulders, she turned her face upward to
the sky, and seemed as if seeking solace from, the cold deluge that
poured down from the clouds--the big drops dancing upon her golden
tresses, and leaving them as if with reluctance to saturate the silken
foldings that draped her majestic form.
"Oh! that I could weep like you, ye skies!" she exclaimed, "and, like
you, cast the cloud that is over me! Alas! 'tis too dense to be
dissolved in tears. To-morrow ye will be bright again, and gay as ever!
To-morrow! Ah! 'twill be the same to me--to-morrow and for ever!"
"Marion!"
The voice pronouncing her name came not from the sky she was
apostrophising; though it was one that sounded in her ear sweet as any
music of heaven!
Were her senses deceiving her? Was it the distant thunder that muttered
"Marion?"
No thunder could have spoken so pleasantly: it was the voice of a lover,
uttering the accents of love!