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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sing 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 p.r.o.nouncing 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 a.s.sume.

"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 subst.i.tute, 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 partic.i.p.ate 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 att.i.tude of a pet.i.tioner. That visit to his prison, with its conjectured design, had rea.s.sured 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 a.s.severations.

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 ma.s.ses. 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 pa.s.sions 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.

Volume Three, Chapter IV.

The calm after the tempest--the day after the night--sunshine succeeding shadow--any of these physical transformations may symbolise the change from the pa.s.sion of jealousy to that of love. At best they are but faint emblems; and we must seek in the soul itself for truer representatives of those its extremest contrasting emotions; or find it in our promised future of eternal torture and eternal bliss.

It is in the crisis of transformation--or, rather, in the moment succeeding it--that the true agony is endured; whether it be an agony of pain, or one of pleasure.

The latter was the lot of Henry Holtspur and Marion Wade, as they rested under the sheltering toile of the verandah. To both, it was a moment of unalloyed happiness; such as they had experienced only on one other occasion;--when, entwined in each other's arms, under the verdant canopy of the chestnut trees, they had, with lips that lied not, made reciprocal surrender of their hearts.

One listening to those mutual vows--poured forth with the tender and emphatic eloquence which love alone can impart--could scarce have believed that mistrust should ever again spring up between them!

It had done so--perhaps not to be regretted. It had vanished; and the reaction had introduced them to an agony of pleasure--if possible more piquant than even that which had accompanied the first surrender of their souls. Both now experienced the pleasure of surrendering them again. No more might jealousy intrude itself upon their enjoyment; and, for a while, they even forgot those trifling signs that had led to it-- she the faded flowers--he that _sinister_ gauntlet.