Volume 3 Chapter 5 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
Bet Dancey it was, whose presence revealed by that ghastly gleam, moving like an ill-omened shadow among the shrubbery, had caused the lovers to bring their interview to such a sudden ending.
On his second supplicant gliding silently past him, the facile sentry had followed with equal alertness—this time not with any intention to plead for a promised kiss; but simply to show his respect to the lady by gallantly conducting her beyond the bounds of his jurisdiction.
He had already satisfied himself how profuse had been her gratitude—prepaid as it was.
On reaching the wicket, he was once more doomed to disappointment. Like the first, his second visitor had also disappeared. He remained some moments, gazing after; but, soon feeling disconsolate in the darkness, he determined on returning to the store-room for his lamp.
Amidst the many surprises of the night he was now to experience the greatest of all.
On entering within the apartment, and raising the lanthorn to the level of his eyes—in order to assure himself of his prisoner’s safety—his astonishment scarce equalled his consternation; when, instead of the cavalier lying bound along the bench, Bet Dancey stood boldly before him! He no longer thought of claiming that promised kiss. A sudden perception of his own stupidity had driven all amorous inclinations out of his mind.
His first impulse was to rush out, and give the alarm to his comrades of the guard. In obedience to this impulse he hurried off into the yard; but, in the confusion of ideas caused by his surprise, he neglected to close the store-room door; and, while he was absent upon his errand, the substitute for the patriot prisoner quietly slipped out; and gliding along the dark archway, emerged through the wicket without let or interruption.
She had faced towards the rear of the house, with the intention of taking her departure; when an unlucky idea prompted her to turn in the opposite direction. She remembered Marion’s visit to the prison. Had her lady rival yet gone to rest? Might they by some chance—perhaps by design—might they have come together?
Under the influence of this suspicion the girl glided along the wall towards the western front of the mansion.
A low murmur of voices guided her to the verandah—a few stealthy steps brought her within sight of two figures in juxtaposition—a flash of lightning revealed who they were—at the same time disclosing a sight that scorched her heart to its very core.
Her first thought was to spring forward and interrupt the interview—to revile—upbraid—anything for the satisfaction of her jealous vengeance.
She was on the eve of thus acting, when a noise heard from behind caused her to stay her intent. It was the murmur of men’s voices, mingled with the clanking of steel scabbards. It was the cuirassier guard issuing forth in pursuit.
This suggested to Bet Dancey a better mode of redressing her fancied wrong. She could restore Holtspur to the same prison from which she had set him free! She cared not for the pain it might cause to herself, so that it should wring the heart of her rival.
It was but to return to the gateway; communicate with the guard; and conduct them to the verandah.
All this was done in the shortest space of time; but, short as it was, during the interval, the lovers had spoken their parting word, and hastily separated.
Just as Holtspur leaped down into the ditch, half-a-dozen cuirassiers, headed by a woman, were seen hurrying around the angle of the building towards its western façade.
As they spoke only in low mutterings, and advanced with stealthy steps, it was evident they expected to surprise the lovers, on the spot they had so recently quitted. The woman, keeping in the lead, appeared to direct their movements.
The rain, which had now ceased to fall, had been succeeded by a clearing of the sky, and the interior of the verandah could be viewed from end to end. There was no one inside it!
The cuirassiers scanned the gallery with looks of disappointment.
“He’s not here! not a sign of him,” said one whose voice, from its altered and lugubrious tones, could with difficulty be recognised as that of the outwitted sentinel. “Oh Lord! what’ll become of me, if he’s got off.”
Turning to the woman, he appeared to make some appeal to her in an undertone.
“If he’s gone from here,” answered she, speaking in a voice that betrayed deep emotion, “it isn’t a minute ago. Oh! I wish you had found him, and her too—how glad I’d be to have her exposed—the proud—saucy dame?”
“Who are you speakin’ about? Is it the lady in velvet?”
“No matter who. Go after him. You can’t fail to overtake him yet. Oh! bring him back, and then we’ll see whether she—”
“We may go twenty ways, and not the right one,” said the corporal of the guard, coming up and taking part in this hurried dialogue.
“No, no!” cried the woman, “you can’t go the wrong one. Pass out by the back of the park. Take the road for Hedgerley; only don’t turn that way. Keep the back path straight on by Wapsey’s Wood. That’s the way they’re to take: it was all arranged. Come! I’ll go along with you—Come! come!”
In the voice thus earnestly directing the pursuit of the escaped prisoner, could be recognised that, which, scarce twenty minutes before, had been so earnestly urging him to escape—the voice of Bet Dancey!
Was it a ruse to mislead the guard, or send them on a wrong track? No: it was her design to cause his recapture.
In the short period of ten minutes a change had passed over Betsey’s proud spirit—transforming her from a self-sacrificing friend, to an enemy equally devoting herself to Holtspur’s destruction.
In her outraged bosom a revulsion had arisen that stirred her soul to its profoundest depths, and filled her heart with eager longings of revenge. She had seen the man she madly loved—for whom she had risked, if not life, at least liberty and reputation—in the arms of another; a bright and beautiful rival; his own arms fondly entwining that other’s form; his lips fervently pressing hers. No wonder the heart of the passionate peasant, distraught by such a spectacle, had yielded to the promptings of revenge!
“Come on!” she cried, gesticulating to the cuirassiers to follow her, “on to the Hedgerley road!”
“Our horses?” suggested the guard corporal.
“No, no!” responded the girl. “By the time you could get them, he will have gone where I don’t know to find him. Come as you are; and I’ll answer for overtaking them now. They won’t have any horses till they get beyond Wapsey’s Wood. Come then, if you want to retake your prisoner.”
The others were disposed to set forth at once, and afoot. Withers, although for special reasons the most eager of any, appeared to hesitate.
“Your sure you don’t want to mislead us, Betsey? You’ve fooled me once this night; and hang me if I let you go, till I’ve laid hands on him!”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the girl, “havn’t I told you why I helped to let him out? The lady that sent me, would have given her eyes to see him; but since he’s taken to the other, I know she’ll be only too glad to hear that he’s brought back to his prison. Much as she’d a thanked me for getting him out, when I tell her, what I’ve seen, she’ll give double to have him retook. Don’t be silly then. You’ll suffer if he escapes. Come on with me, and I’ll promise he shan’t.”
The prospect of his prisoner getting clear off and its consequences to himself, thus forcibly brought before the mind of the negligent sentinel, at once put a period to his indecision; and without further opposition he threw himself along with the others; who, yielding to the guidance of the girl, hurried off upon the pursuit.
Instead of going to the point of rendezvous, which she had given to Holtspur himself, Bet conducted the cuirassiers out of the park by a path altogether different. She knew that the fugitive must by that time have found those to whom she had directed him. He would be no longer within the limits of the park; but on his way up the back road to Beaconsfield. To intercept him was her design; and this might still be done, by hastening along a bye-path well-known to her, which by a shorter route debouched upon the road he should have to take. By this path, therefore, did she conduct his pursuers.
On reaching the road the party moved more slowly. The rain had ceased falling, and the moon had suddenly made its appearance in a cloudless sky. The corporal of the guard, who chanced to be an experienced scout, here commanded a halt.
“We needn’t go any further this way,” said he, glancing towards the ground. “No one has passed up this road before us. You see, my pretty guide, there’s not a track?”
“Then we must be ahead o’ them,” replied the individual thus addressed. “I know they were to come this way—I am sure of it.”
“In that case we had best wait here,” muttered the corporal to his men. “It’s a capital spot for an ambuscade. These bushes will conceal us from the eyes of any one coming along the road. Hush! surely I heard a voice?”
The guard, hitherto addressing each other only in whispers, obeyed the command of the corporal; and stood silently listening.
Sure enough there was a voice—a human voice. It sounded like the moaning of some one who lay upon a bed of sickness! It was low, and apparently distant.
“It’s like as if some poor devil was giving his last kick?” muttered one of the cuirassiers.
“It’s only the owls hooting among the trees,” suggested another.
“Hush!” again exclaimed the corporal. “There are other voices—nearer. Hush!”
“Good!” he ejaculated, after listening a while. “There are men coming along the road behind us! It must be them! Here! three of you on this side; the others across the road. Lie quiet till they come close up. When I give the word, spring out upon them. Quick, comrades! Not a movement till you hear my signal!”
Promptly obedient to these instructions, the soldiers drew themselves into the thicket—some dropping upon their knees among the bushes—others standing erect, but screening their bodies behind the trunks of the beeches.
The corporal disposed of himself in a similar fashion; while the guide, having glided off to a greater distance, stood trembling among the trees—like some guilty denouncer—dreading to look upon the spectacle of that capture she had conducted to the probability of a too certain success.