Volume 3 Chapter 8 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
At that early hour all the world appeared to be asleep—silence and slumber having been seemingly restored to the lately disturbed inmates of Bulstrode mansion; though not all of these had been disturbed, by the occurrences we have described.
Happy in the thought of having humiliated his rival, and the hope of eventually crushing him altogether, Captain Scarthe had slept soundly throughout the whole night—little suspecting the series of incidents that were transpiring, some scarce a score of yards from his couch, and all within a mile’s circuit of the mansion.
Even after awaking, he was not informed of the various love interviews, hairbreadth escapes, and captures, that, during the after-hours of that eventful night had been following each other in such quick succession. The whole affair had been managed so silently that, beyond the six men comprising the guard, with the corporal himself, not another cuirassier knew of what had happened. Withers had taken care that the tongues of his comrades should be tied—a purpose he might not have succeeded in effecting, but for those golden pieces which the lady had so profusely poured into his palm, and of which he was now compelled to make a generous, though somewhat reluctant disbursement.
The result was, that at the changing of the guard, the prisoner was handed over to the relief, bound as before; and no one in the troop was made acquainted with the facts, either of his escape or recapture. The new guard entered upon its tour, undo the full belief, that their charge had spent the whole of the night within the precincts of his prison.
Of the several individuals who had been privy to his escape, there was only one who by daybreak still remained ignorant that he had been retaken. Marion slumbered till the morning, unconscious of the re-arrest of her lover, as Scarthe of his temporary deliverance. On parting with him, she had gone to her couch, though not directly. The noises heard without had made her uneasy; and, standing by a window on the stairway she had listened. She had heard voices of men—a woman’s as well—uttered in low tones; but soon after they had ceased. She knew it must be some of the guard, and the woman’s voice she could guess at; but, as so little disturbance had been made, she did not suspect that it was an alarm, or that they had yet discovered the absence of the prisoner from his place of confinement.
She listened for a long time. She even returned to the verandah door, opened it, looked out, and listened again. But all was quiet, outside as within; and supposing that the soldiers had returned into the courtyard, she at length re-entered her chamber, and sought repose upon her couch.
Her prolonged vigil, and its happy termination, favoured sleep; and at that moment, when Henry Holtspur was struggling in the grasp of the cuirassier guards, Marion Wade was dreaming a delightful dream of his delivery—in which she fancied herself enjoying over and over again that ecstatic interview that had succeeded it!
Her slumber, with its concomitant dream, was protracted far into the hours of daylight. Long as they had continued, both were destined to a rude interruption.
She was awakened by sounds without, betokening the presence of men under the window of her chamber. Horses, too—as could be told by the stamping of hooves upon the gravelled esplanade. Several distinct voices reached her ear—one louder than the rest—which was occasionally raised in abrupt accents of command; and once or twice in a tone altogether different—in laughter! Whichever way uttered, it sounded harsh in the hearing of Marion Wade: she knew it was Scarthe’s.
For what was the cuirassier captain abroad at so early an hour? Was it so early?
Her arm was extended from under the coverlet, white as the counterpane itself. Her jewelled watch was taken up from the tripod table on which it lay. Its dial was consulted: ten of the clock!
At the same instant, the hour was proclaimed in sonorous cadence from the tower o’ertopping the mansion.
It was not to assist her in conjecturing the purpose of that matutinal commotion that Marion had so eagerly glanced to the dial of her watch. After the events of the night, she could have had but one surmise: that Holtspur’s escape had been discovered; and the noises outside were made by those preparing to go off in pursuit of him. She had looked at her watch, to ascertain the time that had elapsed since Holtspur’s departure. She was gratified at perceiving the lateness of the hour.
But why did Scarthe appear to be so happy? Those peals of laughter were inappropriate to the occasion—proceeding from one who should have been suffering chagrin?
At the thought, Marion sprang from her couch, and glided towards the window. From that window, but the morning before, she had witnessed the most painful spectacle of her life. Very similar, and scarce less painful, was that which now greeted her glance: Henry Holtspur, bound upon the back of a horse, and encompassed by a troop of cuirassiers, who, in full armour, were keeping close guard upon him!
They were all mounted, with accoutrements and valises strapped to their saddles—as if ready for a journey. Scarthe himself a journey, pacing back and forth upon the gravelled walk; but in a costume that showed he had no intention to accompany the party, on whatever expedition it was bent. Cornet Stubbs was to be its leader. Mounted upon Holtspur’s steed, he was at that moment placing himself at the head of the troop, preliminary to commencing the march.
Marion had scarce time to take in the details of this tableau—equally unexpected and sad—when a bugle brayed out the signal, “Forward.” Its notes drowned the scream that escaped from her quivering lips, as the form of her beloved was ruthlessly borne away out of sight.
Nearly half an hour had elapsed before the confusion of ideas—consequent on such a painful scene—permitted on the part of Marion Wade, a return to anything like calm reflection. Even then her mind was still wandering amidst a maze of unavailing thoughts, when voices, again heard below, recalled her to the window.
She looked out as before. The tableau was changed from that she had already contemplated.
Only two individuals composed it—Scarthe and a stranger.
The latter was a man in civilian costume; but of a certain guise that betokened him to be in the service of the king. He was on horseback—his horse frothing, smoking, and panting, as if after a long gallop at top speed.
Scarthe was standing by the stirrup, listening to some communication which the rider appeared to impart—in a haste that proclaimed its importance.
Despite his earnestness, the stranger spoke in a low tone; but his voice ascending to the window of Marion’s chamber, was sufficiently loud for her to catch the significant words—
“Prisoner—rescue—Uxbridge!”
On hearing them, Scarthe was seen to spring back from the side of the horseman, with as much alertness as if the latter had aimed a blow at him!
Next moment, and, without even staying to make reply to the communication which the messenger had made, he rushed on towards the gate of the courtyard, loudly vociferating, “To horse—every man to horse!”
With that promptitude to which he had trained his troop, the cuirassiers were almost instantly in their saddles; and before Marion Wade could recover from the shock of this new surprise—more gratifying than that which had preceded it—she beheld Scarthe himself—enveloped in his steel armour—ride forth at the head of his troop; and go off at a gallop along the avenue leading out towards Uxbridge.
“A rescue—Uxbridge!” were the words that continued to echo in her ears, long after the trampling of the troopers’ horses had died away upon the distant road.
“God grant it may be true!” was her murmured response to that echo.
The excited suppliant did not content herself with this simple formulary of speech. Nudely kneeling upon the floor, her white arms crossed over her bosom, she breathed forth a prayer—a fervent, passionate prayer—invoking the protection of the God she loved, for the man she adored!