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The White Gauntlet

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!