The gate through which she had often pa.s.sed outward into the high road-- often, of late, with a heart trembling in sweet antic.i.p.ation--was the one towards which she directed her steps.

How different was now her prospect--how dissimilar her purpose! She went not forth to meet one, who, though still undeclared, she instinctively believed to be her lover--loyal and true. Her errand was no more of this joyous nature, but the sad reverse. It was to make inquiries as to that lover's loyalty, or seek confirmation of his falsehood!

Who could give the wished-for information? From whom were the inquiries to be made?

She could think of no one save Holtspur himself; and the white paper-- clutched in a hand almost as white--concealed under her cloak, gave a clue to her design. It was an epistle that had been penned by the light of the midnight lamp, and sealed under a flood of scorching tears.

There was no direction upon it--only the name _Henry Holtspur_. She knew not his address. She was taking it to a place where she had hopes of seeing some one, who might be able to forward it to its destination.

The path she was following pointed to this place. It was the road leading to Stone Dean. It was not the first time she had thought of thus communicating with her absent lover. She had forborne, partly through fear of being betrayed by those to whom her letter might be entrusted--partly by the feminine reflection, that _he_, not _she_, should be the first to write--and partly by the hope, deferred from day to day, that he _would_ write. These hindrances she regarded no longer.

An epistle was now addressed to him--far different from that hitherto intended. It was no longer a letter of love, but one filled with reproaches and regrets.

Marion Wade was not the only one under her father's roof, who at that same hour had been employing the pen. Another had been similarly occupied.

As a soldier, Scarthe was accustomed to keep early hours. It was a rare circ.u.mstance for him to be a-bed after six o'clock in the morning. In those times of political agitation, the military man often took part in state intrigues; and in this craft the cuira.s.sier captain, under the guidance of his royal patroness, had inextricably engaged himself.

This double duty entailed upon him an extensive correspondence; to which his morning hours were chiefly devoted. Although essentially a man of pleasure, he did not surrender himself to idleness. He was too ambitious, to be inactive; and both his military and political duties were attended to with system and energy.

On the day of the hawking party, his correspondence had fallen behind; and, to clear off the arrears, he was astir at a very early hour next morning, and busy before his writing table.

His military and political despatches were not the only matters that called for the use of his pen on this particular morning. Upon the table before him lay a sealed packet, that might have contained a letter, but evidently something more--something of a different character, as indicated by its shape and size.

But there was no letter inside; and the object within the envelope might be guessed at, by the soliloquy that fell from the lips of Captain Scarthe, as he sate regarding it. It was a glove--the _white gauntlet_, once worn upon the hand of Marion Wade--once worn upon the hat of Henry Holtspur, and thence surrept.i.tiously abstracted. _It was once more to be restored to its original owner_, in a secret and mysterious manner; and to that end had it been enclosed in a wrapping of spotless paper, and sealed with a blank seal stamp.

As yet there was no superscription upon the parcel; and he who had made it up, sate contemplating it--pen in hand--as if uncertain as to how he should address it. It was not this, however, about which he was pausing. He knew the address well enough. It was the mode of writing it--the chirography--that was occupying his thoughts.

"Ha!" he exclaimed at length, "an excellent idea! It must be like _his_ handwriting; which in all probability, she is acquainted with. I can easily imitate it. Thank fortune I've got copies enough--in this traitorous correspondence."

As he said this, he drew towards him a number of papers, consisting of letters and other doc.u.ments. They were those he had taken from Stone Dean, on the morning of Holtspur's arrest.

After regarding them for some seconds--with the attention of an expert, in the act of deciphering some difficult ma.n.u.script--he took his pen, and wrote upon the parcel the words, "_Mistress Marion Wade_."

"That will be enough," reflected he. "The address is superfluous. It would never do for it to be delivered at the house. It must be put into her hands secretly, and as if sent by a trusty messenger. There's no reason why she should mistrust the woodman Walford. She may know him to have been in Holtspur's service, and can scarce have heard of his defection. He'll do. He must watch for an opportunity, when she goes out. I wonder what delays the knave. He should have been here by this time. I told him to come before daylight. Ha! speak of the fiend!

That must be his shadow pa.s.sing the window?"

As Scarthe said this, he hastily rose to his feet; scattered some drying sand over the wet superscription; and, taking the packet from the table, walked towards the door to meet his messenger.

It was the traitor Walford, whose shadow had been seen pa.s.sing the window. His patron found him standing on the step.

He was not admitted inside the house. The business, for the execution of which he was required, had been already arranged; and a few words of instruction, spoken in a low tone, sufficed to impart to him a full comprehension of its native.

He was told that the packet then placed in his hands, was for Mistress Marion Wade; that he was to watch for an opportunity when she should be out of doors; and deliver it to her--if possible, unseen by any third party. He was instructed to a.s.sume an air of secrecy; to announce himself as a messenger from Henry Holtspur; and, after delivering a verbal message--supposed to proceed from the cavalier, but carefully concocted by Scarthe--he was to hasten out of the lady's presence, and avoid the danger of a cross-questioning.

"Now, begone!" commanded his employer, when he had completed his chapter of instructions. "Get away from the house--if you can, without being observed. It won't do for you to be seen here at this early hour--least of all on a visit to me. Let me know when you have succeeded; and if you do the business adroitly, I shall double this _douceur_."

As Scarthe said this, he slipped a gold coin into the hand of the pseudo-messenger; and, turning upon his heel, walked back towards his apartment.

The woodman, after grinning gleefully at the gold that lay glistening in his palm, thrust the piece into his pocket; and, gliding down from the steps, commenced making a stealthy departure through the shrubbery.

He little thought how near he was to the opportunity he desired--of earning the duplicate of that _douceur_.

But fate, or the fiend, was propitious to him. On clearing the moated enclosure, he saw before him the form of a woman, closely wrapped in cloak and hood.

She, too, seemed hastening onward with stealthy step; but the tall, symmetrical figure, and the rich robes that enveloped it, left no doubt upon the mind of Walford as to the person who was preceding him down the sloping avenue of Bulstrode Park. It was the young mistress of the mansion--she for whom his message was intended--she who would be made wretched by its delivery.

The emissary of Scarthe neither knew, nor would have cared, for this.

His only thought was to earn the promised perquisite; and, with this object in view, he followed the female figure fast flitting toward the gate of the park.

Quickly and silently did Marion glide upon her errand. Absorbed by its painful nature, she fancied herself un.o.bserved. She saw not that dark form skulking but a short distance behind her, like an evil shadow, ill defined, under the dim light of the dawn--and keeping pace with her as she advanced.

Unconscious of the proximity of her suspicious follower, she pa.s.sed out through the park gates, and on along the forest road--a path well known to her. Never before had she trodden it with a heavier heart. Never before had she stood under the shadow of the trysting tree--to her now sadly sacred--influenced by such painful emotion.

She paused beneath its spreading branches. She could not resist the mystic spell, which the place seemed to cast around her. There was something, even in the sadness of its souvenirs, that had a soothing effect upon her spirits, that could scarce have been more embittered.

Whether soothing, or saddening, she was permitted to indulge only a short time in silent reflection. A heavy footfall--evidently that of a man--was heard approaching along the path, and shuffling among the crisp leaves with which it was bestrewed.

The sounds grew louder and drew nearer; until he who was causing them came in sight--a rustic making his way through the wood.

Marion knew the man--the woodman Walford.

She knew him only by sight, and but slightly. She had no words for such as he--especially in an hour like that.

She moved not. Her eyes were averted. The intruder might have pa.s.sed on, without receiving from her even a nod of recognition, had such been his wish.

It was only on hearing her own name p.r.o.nounced, and seeing the man advance towards her, that the young lady took note of his presence.

"Mistress Wade!" muttered he, awkwardly uncovering his head, and making a bow of doubtful politeness.

"What want you with me, sir?" asked Marion, in a tone that betrayed both annoyance and astonishment.

"I've been follerin' thee, mistress, all the way frae the big house. I wanted to see thee alone."

"Alone! And for what purpose, sirrah?"

The interrogatory was uttered in a voice that betokened indignation not unmingled with alarm. No wonder. He to whom it was addressed was not the man, with whom a timid woman would elect to hold an interview, alone, and in the heart of a wood.

Was the rustic intruding himself with an evil intention?

The apprehensions, thus quickly conceived were as speedily dissipated by the woodman declaring himself to have come in the capacity of a messenger.

"I ha' brought thee a package, Mistress Wade," said he, drawing something from under the skirt of his doublet. "It be a small 'un, I trow; but for all that I darn't gie it ye afore company--for I had orders not to, by him as sent me."

"Who sent you?" hastily inquired the lady, at the same time taking the packet from the hand of the cautious carrier.

"Master Holtspur," bluntly replied the man.

"I darn't stay here aside ye," continued he. "Some of them may come this way, an' see us thegither. I've only to tell you that Master Holtspur be safe; an' that it be all right _atween him an his wife_.