Volume 3 Chapter 3 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
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.