Volume Three—Chapter One.
It has been deemed strange that two individuals should conceive the same thought, at the same instant of time. Those who are skilled in psychology, will not be surprised by such coincidence. Like circumstances produce like results, in the world of mind, as in that of matter; and an instance may be found in the similar idea conceived at the same time by Marion Wade and Elizabeth Dancey—a lady of high rank, and a lass of low degree.
Both were in love with the same man—Henry Holtspur, the prisoner. Both had bethought them of a plan for delivering him from his prison; and if there was anything singular, it was, that their schemes were in almost exact correspondence.
The velvet-hooded cloak under which was concealed the face and form of Marion Wade, had been put on with the same design, as that garment, of somewhat similar make, but coarser material, that shrouded the shapes of Dick Dancey’s daughter.
Both were bent upon one and the same errand.
There may have been some difference as to the means and hopes directed towards its accomplishment; but none as to the motive—none as to the time intended for its trial. Both had chosen the hour of midnight.
Neither was this an accidental coincidence. No more than Bet Dancey, had Marion Wade trusted to chance as to the hour for making the attempt. During the day she had made her inquiries, and resolved upon her measures. Through the medium of a confidential maid—also an old acquaintance of the soldier Withers—she had ascertained that the latter would be on post over the prisoner from twelve till two at night. She had learnt, moreover, some things about the character and disposition of this trustworthy sentinel—leading her to believe that he would not prove an exception to the general rule of mankind; and that gold would overcome his scruples—if administered in sufficient quantity. For this sufficiency had she provided.
Even without regard to these considerations, the hour of midnight was one that might have been chosen on its own account. All the dwellers within the mansion—as well as its stranger guests—would be then a-bed; and there would be less chance of her design being frustrated by discovery.
It was a mere accident that caused a difference of some ten minutes of time, between the arrival of his two deliverers at the door of Holtspur’s prison; and in this the lass had gained the advantage over the lady.
At the moment when Bet Dancey was standing before the wicket, Marion Wade was stealing softly from her chamber to make her way through darkness down the great staircase, and along the silent halls and corridors of the paternal mansion.