The White Gauntlet

Then, as if fearing that she had surrendered too freely, she added in a tone of naïveté, – “It would be no longer of any use to me – since I have lost the other – its fellow.”

This last announcement counteracted the pleasant impression which her consent had produced; and once more precipitated Henry Holtspur into the sea of uncertainty.

“No longer of any use to her,” thought he, repeating her words. “If that be her only motive for bestowing it, then will it be no longer of any value to me.”

He felt something like chagrin. He was almost on the point of returning the doubtful token.

“Perhaps,” said he, hesitatingly, “I have offended, by keeping it so long without your consent – and more by displaying it as I have done. For the former I might claim excuse: on the plea that I had no opportunity of restoring it. But for the latter I fear I can offer no justification. I can only plead the promptings of a vain hope – of a passion, that I now believe to be hopeless, as it will be deemed presumptive.”

The tone of despondency in which this speech was delivered, struck sweetly on the ear of Marion Wade. It had the true ring of love’s utterance; and she intuitively recognised it. She could scarce conceal her joy as she made rejoinder: —

“Why should I be offended, either at your detaining the glove, or wearing it?” As she said this she regarded the cavalier with a forgiving smile. “The first was unavoidable; the other I ought to esteem an honour. Setting store by a lady’s favour is not the way, sir, to offend her.”

“Favour! Then she has meant it as such!”

Along with the unspoken thought, a gleam of returning confidence shot over the cavalier’s countenance.

“I can no longer endure the doubt,” muttered he: “I shall speak to her more plainly. Marion Wade!”

Her name was uttered aloud, and in a tone of appeal that caused her to glance up with some surprise. In her look there was no trace of displeasure at the familiar mode of address.

“Speak, sir!” she said, encouragingly. “You have something to say?”

“A question to ask – only one; and oh! Marion Wade, answer it with candour! You promise?”

“I promise.”

“You say you have lost the other glove?”

Marion nodded an affirmative.

“Tell me then, and truly: did you lose this one?”

“The cavalier, as he spoke, pointed to the white gauntlet.”

“Your meaning, sir?”

“Ah! Marion Wade, you are evading the answer. Tell me if it fell from your fair hand unknown – unnoticed – or was it dropped by design? Tell me – oh, tell me truly!”

He could not read the answer in her eyes: for the long lashes had fallen over them, hiding the blue orbs beneath. The red blood mantling upon her cheeks, and mounting up to her forehead, should have aided him to it, had he been closely observing. Her silence, too, might have served to enlighten him, as to the reply she would have made, had her modesty permitted speech.

“I have been candid with you,” he continued, urging his appeal by argument; “I have thrown myself upon your mercy. If you care not for the happiness of one who would risk his life for yours, then do I adjure you, as you care for truth, to speak the truth! Dropped you this glove by accident, or design?”

With the silence of one who awaits to hear the pronouncing of his sentence, Henry Holtspur sat listening for her answer.

It came like an echo to his speech; but an echo that only repeated the final word.

“Design!” murmured Marion Wade, in a low soft voice, whose very trembling betokened its truth.

The abyss of ceremony no longer lay between them. That one word had bridged it.

Henry Holtspur sprang from his saddle, and glided in among the trees.

In another instant their arms were entwined; their lips in mutual contact; and their hearts pressed close together, beating responses, sweet as the pulsations of celestial life.

“Adieu! sweet Marion, adieu!” cried the lover, as she glided from his arms – reluctant to let her leave.

“She will be the last love of my life!” he muttered, as he leaped into his saddle almost without touching stirrup.

The trained steed stood at rest, till his rider was fairly fixed in the seat. He had remained silent and motionless throughout that sweet interview of the lovers – its sole witness. Proudly champing his bit, he seemed exulting in the fair conquest his master had made – as he had shown himself after the triumph of yesterday. Perhaps Hubert had some share in achieving the victory of love, as of war?

The steed stirred not till he felt the spur; and even then, as if participating in the reluctance of his rider, he moved but slowly from the spot.

Volume Two – Chapter Three

If do eye beheld the meeting between Marion Wade and Henry Holtspur, there was one that witnessed their parting with a glance that betokened pain. It was the eye of Richard Scarthe.

On leaving the dinner table, some details of military duty had occupied the cuirassier captain for an hour or two; after which, having no further occupation for the evening, he resolved to seek an interview with the ladies of the house – more especially with her who, in the short space of a single day, had kindled within him a passion that, honourable or not, was at least ardent.

He was already as much in love with the lady, as it was possible for such a nature to be. A month in her company could not have more completely enamoured him. Her cold reception of his complimentary phrases – as yet only offered to her with the insinuating delicacy of an experienced seducer – instead of chilling his incipient desires, had only served to add fuel to the flame. He was too well exercised in conquering the scruples of maiden modesty, to feel despair at such primary repulses.

“I shall win her!” in spite of this monosyllabic indifference! muttered he to Stubbs, as they returned to their sitting-room. “Pshaw! ’tis only pretence before strangers! By my troth, I like this sort of a beginning. I’m fashed of facile conquests. This promises to be a little difficult; and will enable me to kill the ennui, which otherwise might have killed me in these rural quarters. I shall win her, as I have won others – as I should Lucretia herself, had she lived in our time.”

To this triumphant boast, his satellite spoke assent, in his characteristic fashion.

“Safe to do it, by Ged!” said he, as if convinced of the invincibility of one, who more than once had spoiled his own chances in the game of love-making.

Scarthe was determined to let but little time elapse before entering upon his amour. His passion prompted him to immediate action; and the first step was to seek an interview with the woman he had resolved upon winning.

It was one thing, however, to desire an interview with the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade – another to obtain it. The cuirassier captain was not in the position to demand, or even seek it by request. Any attempt on his part to force such an event might end in discomfiture: for although he could compel Sir Marmaduke to find bed, board, and forage for himself and his troopers, the tyranny of the King did not – or rather dared not – extend so far as to violate the sanctity of a gentleman’s family. That of his household had been sufficiently outraged by the act of benevolence itself.

These circumstances considered, it was clear to Scarthe, that the desired interview must be brought about by stratagem, and appear the result of simple accident.

In pursuance of this idea, about half-an-hour before sunset, he sallied forth from his room, and commenced strolling through the grounds; here stopping to examine a flower; there standing to scrutinise a statue – as if the science of botany, and the art of sculpture, were the only subjects in which, at that particular moment, he felt any interest.

One near enough to note the expression upon his features, might easily have told that neither a love of art, nor an admiration of nature, was there indicated. On the contrary, while apparently occupied with the flower or the statue, his eyes were turned towards the house, wandering in furtive glance from window to window.

In order not to compromise his character for good breeding, he kept at some distance from the walls, along the outer edge of the shrubbery. In this way he proceeded past the front of the mansion, until he had reached that side, facing to the west.

Here his stealthy reconnoissance was carried on with increased earnestness; for, although not certain what part of the house was occupied by the female members of the family, he had surmised that it was the western wing. The pleasant exposure on this side – with the more careful cultivation of the flower beds and turf sward – plainly proclaimed it to be the sacred precinct.

One by one he examined the windows – endeavouring to pierce the interior of the apartments into which they opened; but after spending a full quarter of an hour in this fantastic scrutiny, he discovered nothing to repay him for his pains – not the face of a living creature.

Once only he caught sight of a figure inside one of the rooms upon the ground-floor; but the dress was dark, and the glimpse he had of it told it to be that of a man. Sir Marmaduke it was, moving about in his library.

“The women don’t appear to be inside at all,” muttered he, with an air of discontent. “By Phoebus! what if they should have gone for a stroll through the park? Fine evening – charming sunset. I’faith, I shouldn’t wonder but that they’re out enjoying it. If I could only find her outside that would be just the thing. I’ll try a stroll myself. Perhaps I may meet her? ’Tis possible?”

So saying, he turned away from the statue – which he had been so long criticising – and faced to the footbridge that spanned the fosse.