Captain Mayne Reid (continued 7)

“A gentleman—a real gentleman. You ought to know who I mean?”

“I ought to know! How sir?”

“You han’t heerd, then, what hae’ happened at Stone Dean, this mornin’?”

Bet made no answer. Her look, while proclaiming a negative, told the presentiment with which the question had inspired her.

“You han’t heerd as how Master Holtspur ha’ been tuk a prisoner, and carried away by the kewreseers o’ Captain Scarthe? You han’t heerd that, eh?”

“Oh!” cried Bet, adding a somewhat more emphatic form of ejaculation. “That then is what he meant. I might have known it. O God—it was that!”

“Who meant? What?”

“Walford, Will Walford, oh!—the villain!”

“Thee callest him a villain. Do thy father think him one?”

“When he hears this, he will. Oh! Master Holtspur a prisoner! and to that man who is his deadly enemy! ’Tis Will Walford’s doings—I am sure it is.”

“What makes thee think that, gurl?”

“He said he had done something—this very hour—something to bring it about.”

“Did he say so to thy father?”

“No; only out of spite to me—just as he was going off. My father heard him, but he was too—too sleepy to understand him. If he had—”

“He would ha’ been angry wi’ him—as thou art?”

“I’m sure he would.”

“All right. I thought as much.”

“A prisoner! Oh, sir! where have they taken him to? What will they do to him? Tell me—tell me!”

“I’ll tell thee, when I know myself; and that, gurl, be just the errand ha’ brought me over here. I see it be no use wakin’ up the old ’un just now. Them Hollands’ll keep him a prisoner, till well-nigh sundown. I’ the meanwhile, somethin’ must be done ’ithout him. Maybe you can sarve my purpose, as well, or better’n him—if thee be that way disposed.”

“What purpose? If it be anything I can do for—for—Master Holtspur! Oh, I shall be only too glad.”

“That be just what I want. Thee must know I’m a friend o’ Master Holtspur—an old retainer o’ his family; and I’ll lay down my life, or a’most that, to get him out o’ the clutches o’ these kewreseers. I know theer captain’ll try to get him beheaded. Ah! an’ he’ll get it done too; if we can’t find some way o’ escape for him. It’s to find that, I wants thy help, Mistress Betsey.”

“Tell me how I can help thee—I am ready for anything?” responded the girl.

As she said this, both her air and attitude betokened the truthfulness of her words.

“There be no time to lose, then; else I mout ha’ waited for yer father to go snacks wi’ us. No matter. We can take the first steps without him. It will be for you to go up to Bulstrode—that’s where they’ve taken Master Henry just now; an’ get inside the house. You be known there, beant ye?”

“Oh, yes; I can go in or out when I like. They won’t suspect anything in that.”

“It be more than I could do, wi’ that an’ a good many other houses,” said Garth, smiling significantly, “else I mout ha’ gone myself. But you’ll do better than me—better than anybody, mayhap. Find out, if ye can, first—whether the prisoner be goin’ to be taken up to London; then, what time they’re goin’ to take him; then, what part o’ the house they’ve put him in: for he’s sure to be shut up somewhere. Find out that; an’ as much more as you can; and fetch the whole story back here to me. Maybe by the time you gets back, the old un’ll be awake, an’ ha’ his noddle clear enough to help us think o’ something.”

“I shall go at once,” said Bet, moving in the direction of the door.

“Ay, start right off. The minutes be preecious for Master Henry. Stay! I’ll go with thee a bit. I’ve got another errand out this direction, that’ll just about take up my time, till ye get back. We may as well go thegither—so far as our roads agree. Good-bye, Dick Dancey! Snore on, old un; an’ sleep it off as quick’s ye can: we may want ye badly bye-an’-bye.”

And with this jocular leave-taking, the retired footpad stepped out of the house, and followed the girl—who, eager upon the errand that had summoned her forth, had already advanced some distance along the path.

Their routes did not correspond for any great length. At a distance of two or three hundred yards from the cottage, the path parted into two; one, the plainer one, running towards the rearward of Bulstrode Park; the other—which appeared as if used by only a few individuals—trending in the direction of Will Walford’s domicile.

The daughter of Dick Dancey faced into the former; and, stepping out nimbly, soon disappeared behind the hanging boughs of the beeches.

The ex-footpad, lingering a little to look after her, as soon as she was out of sight, turned into the other path; which would conduct him to the hut of the woodman.

Before going far in this new direction, he once more came to a stop, alongside a big bush of holly, that grew near the path. Drawing a clasp knife from his pocket, he proceeded to cut off one of its largest branches.

Having severed the sapling from its parent stem, he continued to ply his blade upon it, until it had assumed the shape and dimensions of a stout cudgel. The purpose for which this weapon was designed may already have been guessed at. If not, the mutterings which escaped from the lips of Gregory Garth will make clear his intent.

“I don’t want,” said he, paring off some of the more prominent knots with his knife. “I don’t want to kill the brute outright—though he desarve that much, an’ more too. I’ll gie ’im a dose, howsomever, as ’ll keep ’im in-doors, an’ out o’ further mischief—as long as I’m likely to stay in this sogerin’ neighbourhood. He han’t got much o’ a picter to spoil no how; or I’d make his ugly mug that his own mother if he ha’ one, wouldn’t like to swear to it. Next time he goo to play spy, or help others to do’t eyther, he’ll be apt to remember Gregory Garth. Won’t he?

“A tydish bit o’ stick,” he continued, holding up the piece of trimmed holly, and surveying it with an air of satisfaction, “and if I’d let them knots stay on, I shouldn’t like to ha’ answered for the skull case o’ Mister Wull Walford, thick as that be. I dare say it’ll do now, and I maun keep on to his house. Ha! theers his paltry stye, I suppose? I hope the pig’s in o’ it.”

Saying this, he advanced stealthily a few paces, and then stopped to listen.

“Good!” he exclaimed, “the brute be inside: I hear his gruntin’. Dang seize it, it’s a snore! They be all a-sleepin’ this Wapsey’s Wood! Well, I’ll wake him out o’ that, wi’ a heigh an’ a ho; and here goo to begin it!”

On giving utterance to this threat, he started forward at a quick pace. He was soon inside the hut, and standing over the prostrate form of the slumbering woodchopper.

The latter was lying upon a low bed—the true truckle of the peasant’s cottage—a stout structure of beechen timber, with short legs raising it about a foot from the floor.

The occupant of this coarse couch was upon his back, with arms and legs extended to their full length—as if he had been spread out on purpose to dry. But the liquid that had placed him in that attitude was not water. It was a fluid that had been administered internally: as could be told by the stone jar of hollands that stood upon the floor, within reach of his hand; and which his uninvited visitor upon examination found to be empty.

“He’s stolen it from the cellar o’ Stone Dean,” remarked the latter, after smelling the jar, and otherwise scrutinising it. “I know by the sniff o’ the liquor it’s that same; an’ I could sweer to them Dutch bottles afore a full quorum o’ justices. Poor Master Henry! He’s not only been betrayed, but robbed by this ugly rascal. Well, here goo to gie him his reward!”

As Garth uttered the words, he seized his fresh-cut cudgel; and was about to come down with it upon the carcase of the slumbering woodman, when some thought suddenly stayed his hand.

“No!” he exclaimed; “I’ll wake him first, and gie him a bit o’ my mind. If he ha’ the feeling o’ a human creeture, I’ll first punish him i’ the moral way—as the Vicar o’ Giles’s Chaffont ’ud call it.”

“Hee up!” he shouted aloud, poking the sleeper with the point of his stick. “Roust thee, thou sluggart, and see what’s time o’ day! Twelve by the sun, if it’s an hour. Hee up, I say!”

Another poke of the stick, administered still more sharply than before, like its predecessor, produced no effect—or only the slightest. The inebriate rustic continued to snore; and only a low grunt declared his consciousness of having been disturbed; though it seemed more the mechanical action of the cudgel, that had been pushed rather forcibly into the pit of his stomach.

“Hee up!” cried Garth, once more giving him a taste of the holly stick. “Rouse thyself, I say! If ye don’t, I’ll wallop ye in your sleep. Roust! roust!”

At each summons the poke was repeated; but with no better success than before. The deeper gave forth a series of spasmodic grunts; but still continued to snore on.

“But for his snorin’, I’d think he wur gone dead,” said Garth, desisting from his attempts to awake him. “If not dead, however, he be dead drunk. That’s clear enough!”

“It be no use trying to bring him to his senses?” continued he, after appearing to reflect. “And what’s worse, ’twill be no use beatin’ him in that state. The unfeelin’ brute as I may well call him wouldn’t feel it no how. I mout as well strike my stick against that theer bundle o’ faggots. It’s danged disappointin’! What be the best thing to do wi’ him?”

The puzzled footpad stood for a while reflecting; then continued:—

“’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 Sixteen.

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 façade—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 Seventeen.

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.

End of Volume Two.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

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 Two.

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.

Without doubt some grand dame—a “lady of the land.”

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!

Once more heard she the voice—once more pronouncing: “Marion!”

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

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

Volume Three—Chapter 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 western façade of the mansion. He had some remembrance of the moated ditch that surrounded the shrubbery. He had observed that it was waterless; and could be easily reached from the glacis. Once in its bottom, he would be safe from observation; and, standing erect, he could see over the parapet, and ascertain whether he was pursued. If not, he could go at his leisure along its dry hollow; and get round to the rear of the dwelling, without setting foot upon the open pasture ground. If pursued at once, the ditch would still be his best place of concealment.

On reaching its edge, he had leaped into it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fortunately, the dread sensation was short-lived.

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

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

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

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

After several times repeating the attempt, he desisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should have been; but—”

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

“Marion!”

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

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

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

“Marion!”

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

“Marion—Marion Wade! do not go! Do not leave me thus! One word—hear me!”

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

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

“It was not her, for whom I was waiting,” continued Holtspur, now more clearly comprehending the conduct that had surprised him. “It was for you, Marion—for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Volume Three—Chapter 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 that sinister gauntlet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With what, Marion?”

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

“Dearest! I fear I am not very clever at comprehending the ways of your sex. Perhaps if I had—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The token I gave you, Henry—the white gauntlet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No longer than I can help, love!”

“You will give me a promise, Henry?”

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

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