The White Gauntlet

“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.