There were times when she pondered on their mysterious import; when she wondered what they could have meant—and not without a sense of dissatisfaction.
But she had not allowed this to intrude itself either often or long. Her love was too loyal, too trusting, to be shaken by suspicions. She remembered how unjust had been those formerly indulged in; and, influenced by this memory, she had resolved never again to give way to doubt, without some certain sign—such as the return of the love-token, as arranged between them. She might have had cause to wonder, why she had not heard from him—if only a word to ensure her of his safety. But she was not chagrined by his silence. The risk of communicating with her might account for it. Under an hypocritical pretence of duty—of obedience to orders he dared not depart from—the cuirassier captain permitted nothing—not even an epistle—to enter the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, without being first submitted to his own scrutiny.
Since the hour of his escape, the only intimation she had had of her lost lover—almost the first time she had heard his name pronounced—was when coupled with those two words, that were now filling her with woe—“His wife!”
Marion had heard no more. She had stayed for no farther torture from those scandal-loving lips. She had heard that her lover—the man to whom she had surrendered the reins of her heart—was the husband of another! That was knowledge enough for one hour of wretchedness—ay, for a whole lifetime of sadness and chagrin.
Though in the midst of that gay assemblage, she had not essayed to seek an explanation; she was now desirous of having it. So long as the slightest remnant of either hope or doubt remains within the mind of one who suspected an unrequited passion, that mind cannot feel satisfaction. It will seek the truth—although the search may conduct to eternal ruin.
So determined the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade, during the mid hours of that sleepless night; and, long before the great bell of Bulstrode summoned its retainers to their daily toil, the young mistress of this lordly mansion might have been seen—closely wrapped in cloak and hood—issuing forth from one of its portals; and, under the grey light of dawn, with quick but stealthy step, making her way over the dew-bespangled pastures of its park.
The gate through which she had often passed outward into the high road—often, of late, with a heart trembling in sweet anticipation—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.