The White Gauntlet

“Not a pin, nor ribbon, except what’s necessary to hold up my troublesome horse-load of hair. I’ve a good mind to cut it short. Sooth! I feel like pulling some of it out through sheer vexation!”

“Vexation – with what?”

“What – what – why being bored with these blustering fellows – especially when one wants to be alone.”

“But, cousin; these gentlemen cannot help their being here. They have to obey the commands of the king. They are behaving very civilly? Walter has told me so. Besides, uncle has enjoined upon us to treat them with courtesy.”

“Aha! they’ll have scant courtesy from me. All they’ll get will be a yes and a no; and that not very civilly, unless they deserve it.”

“But if they deserve it?”

“If they do – ”

“Walter says they have offered profuse apologies, and regrets.”

“For what?”

“For the necessity they are under of becoming uncle’s guests.”

“I don’t believe so – no, not a bit. Look at their rude behaviour at the very beginning – kissing that bold girl Bet Dancey, in the presence of a thousand spectators! Ha! well punished was captain Scarthe for his presumption. He feel regret! I don’t believe it, Lora. That man’s a hypocrite. There’s falsehood written in his face, along with a large quantity of conceit; and as for the cornet – the only thing discernible in his countenance is – stupidity.”

As Marion pronounced the last word, she had completed her toilette – all that she had promised or intended to make. She was one who needed not to take much trouble before the mirror. Dressed or in déshabille she was the same – ever beautiful. Nature had made her in its fairest mould, and Art could not alter the design.

Her preparations for the dinner table consisted simply in replacing her morning boddice by one without sleeves – which displayed her snow-white arms nearly to the shoulders. Having adjusted this, she inserted one hand under her wavy golden hair; and, adroitly turning its profuse tresses round her wrist, she rolled them into a spiral coil, which by means of a pair of large hair pins she confined at the back of her head. Then, dipping her hands into a basin of water, she shook off the crystal drops from the tips of her roseate fingers; wiped them on a white napkin; flung the towel upon the table; and cried “Come on!”

Followed by the light-hearted Lora, she descended to the dining hall, where the two officers were already awaiting their presence.

A dinner-party under such circumstances as that which assembled around the table of Sir Marmaduke Wade – small in numbers though it was – could not be otherwise than coldly formal.

The host himself was polite to his uninvited guests – studiously so; but not all his habitual practice of courtly manners could conceal a certain embarrassment, that now and then exhibited itself in incidents of a trivial character.

On his part the cuirassier captain used every effort to thaw the ice that surrounded him. He lost no opportunity of expressing his regret: at being the recipient of such a peculiar hospitality; nor was he at all backward in censuring his royal master for making him so.

But for an occasional distrustful glance visible under the shaggy eyebrows of the knight – visible only at intervals, and to one closely watching him – it might have been supposed that Sir Marmaduke was warming to the words of his wily guest. That glance, however, told of a distrust, not to be removed by the softest and most courteous of speeches.

Marion adhered to her promise, and spoke only in monosyllables; though her fine open countenance expressed neither distrust nor dislike. The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was too proud to appear otherwise than indifferent. If she felt contempt, there was no evidence of it – neither in the curling of her lip, nor the cast of her eye.

Equally in vain did Scarthe scrutinise her countenance for a sign of admiration. His most gallant speeches were received with an air of frigid indifference – his wittiest sallies elicited only such smiles as courtesy could not refuse.

If Marion at any time showed sign of emotion, it was when her glance was turned towards the window: apparently in quest of some object that should be visible outside. Then her bosom might be seen swelling with a suppressed sigh – as if her thoughts were dwelling on one who was absent.

Slight as were these manifestations, they did not escape the observation of the experienced Scarthe. He saw, and half interpreted, their meaning – his brow blackening under bitter fancies thus conjured up.

Though seated with his back to the window, more than once he turned half round: to see if there was any one in sight.

When the wine had been passed several times, making him less cautious, his glances of admiration became bolder, his speeches less courteous, and reserved.

The cornet talked little. It was enough for him to endorse the sentiments of his superior officer by an occasional monosyllable.

Though silent, Stubbs was not altogether satisfied with what was passing. The by-play between Walter and Lora, who were seated together, was far from pleasing to him. He had not been many minutes at the table, before discovering that the cousins had an amiable inclination towards each other; which carried him to the conclusion, that, in the son of Sir Marmaduke he would find a formidable rival.

Even on the blank page of his stolid countenance soon became discernible the lines that indicate jealousy; while in his white skewbald eyes could be detected a glance not a whit more amiable, than that which flashed more determinedly from the dark orbs of the cuirassier captain.

The dinner passed without any unpleasant contretemps. The party separated after a reasonable time – Sir Marmaduke excusing himself upon some matter of business – the ladies having already made their curtsey to their stranger guests.

Walter, rather from politeness than any inclination, remained a while longer in the company of the two officers; but, as the companionship was kept up under a certain feeling of restraint, he was only too well pleased to join them in toasting The king! – which, like our modern lay of royalty, was regarded as the finale to every species of entertainment.

Walter strayed off in search of his sister and cousin – most likely only the latter; while the officers, not yet invited into the sanctuary of the family circle, retired to their room – to talk over the incidents of the dinner, or plot some scheme for securing the indulgence of those amorous inclinations, with which both were now thoroughly imbued.

Volume Two – Chapter Two

Marion Wade was alone – as before, standing in her window under the arcade of parted tapestry – as before, with eyes bent on the iron gate and ivy-wreathed portals that supported it.

Everything was as before: the spotted kine lounging slowly over the lea; the fallow deer browsing upon the sward; and the birds singing their sweet songs, or winging their way from copse to copse.

The sun only had changed position. Lower down in the sky, he was sinking still lower – softly and slowly, upon a couch of purple coloured clouds. The crests of the Chilterns were tinted with a roseate hue; and the summit of the Beacon-hill appeared in a blaze, as when by night its red fires had been wont to give warning of the approach of a hostile fleet by the channels of the Severn.

Brilliant and lovely as was the sunset, Marion Wade saw it not; or, if seeing, it was with an eye that stayed not to admire.

That little space of rust-coloured iron and grey stonework – just visible under the hanging branches of the trees – had an attraction for her far outstripping the gaudy changes of the sunset.

Thus ran her reflections: – “Walter said he would come – perhaps not before evening. ’Tis a visit to papa – only him! What can be its purpose? Maybe something relating to the trouble that has fallen upon us? Us said he is against the king, and for the people. ’Twas on that account Dorothy Dayrell spoke slightingly of him. For that shall not I. No – never – never! She said he must be peasant born. ’Tis a false slander. He is gentle, or I know not a gentleman.

“What am I to think of yesterday – that girl and her flowers? I wish there had not been a fête. I shall never go to another!

“I was so happy when I saw my glove upon his beaver. If ’tis gone, and those flowers have replaced it, I shall not care to live longer – not a day – not an hour!”

A sudden change came over both the attitude and reflections of Marion Wade.

Some one had opened the gate! It was a man – a rider – bestriding a black horse!

An instinct stronger than ordinary aided in the identification of this approaching horseman. The eyes of love need not the aid of a glass; and Marion saw him with such.

“It is he!” she repeated in full confidence, as the cavalier, emerging from the shadow of the trees commenced ascending the slope of the hill.

Marion kept her eyes bent upon the advancing horseman, in straining gaze; and thus continued until he had arrived within a hundred yards of the moat that surrounded the mansion. One might have supposed that she was still uncertain as to his identity.

But her glance was directed neither upon his face nor form, but towards a point higher than either – towards the brow of his beaver – where something white appeared to have fixed her regard. This soon assumed the form and dimensions of a lady’s gauntlet – its slender fingers tapering towards the crown of the hat, and outlined conspicuously against the darker background.

“It is the glove —my glove!” said she, gasping out the words, as if the recognition had relieved her from some terrible suspense. “Yes, it is still there. O joy!”

All at once the thrill of triumph became checked, by a contrary emotion. Something red was seen protruding from under the rim of the beaver, and close to the glove. Was it a flower?

The flowers given by Maid Marian were of that colour! Was it one of them?

Quick as the suspicion had arisen did it pass away. The red object sparkled in the sun. It was not a flower; but the garnet clasp that held the gauntlet in its place. Marion remembered the clasp. She had noticed it the day before.

She breathed freely again. Her heart was happier than ever. She was too happy to gaze longer on that which was giving her content. She dreaded to exhibit her blushing cheek to the eyes of the man, whose presence caused it to blush; and she retired behind the curtain, to enjoy unobserved a moment of delicious emotion.