The White Gauntlet

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!

Volume Three – Chapter Three

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 – ”