The White Gauntlet

After going several times to and fro, she had at length stationed herself by the casement; and there crouching in its embayment – her form shrouded by the silken tapestry – had she remained for hours, eagerly listening to every sound – listening to the rain, as it plashed heavily on roof, terrace, and trees – watching the lightning’s flash – straining her eyes, while it glared, adown that long arcade between the chestnuts, that bordered the path by which the nocturnal excursionists might be expected to reappear.

Her vigil was not unrewarded. They came back at length – as they had gone – Scarthe and Stubbs, together and by themselves.

“Thank Heaven!” muttered Marion, as she caught sight of the two forms returning up the avenue, and saw that they were alone. “Thank Heaven! Their errand, whatever it may have been, is ended. I hope it had no reference to him!”

Holding the curtain, so as to screen her form, she stayed in the window until the two horsemen had ridden up to the walls. But the darkness outside – still impenetrable except when the lightning played – prevented observation; and she only knew by the sound of their horses’ hooves, that they had passed under her window towards the rear of the mansion, and entered the courtyard – whose heavy gate she could hear closing behind them.

Then, and not till then, did she consent to surrender herself to that god, puissant as love itself; and, gently extending her white limbs alongside those of Lora, she entered upon the enjoyment of a slumber – perhaps not so innocent, as that of her unconscious cousin – but equally profound.

Little did Scarthe suspect, that the snow-white vision, so suddenly fading from his view, was the real form of that splendid woman, now weirdly woven around his heart. Had he suspected it, he would scarce have retired to his couch; which he did with embittered spirit, and a vile vow, instead of a prayer, passing from his lips. It was but the repetition of that vow, long since conceived to win Marion Wade – to win and wed her, by fair means or by foul.

He besought his couch, but not with the intention of going to sleep.

With a brain, so fearfully excited, he could not hope to procure repose.

Neither did he wish it. He had not even undressed himself; and his object in stretching his limbs upon a bed, was that he might the more effectually concentrate his thoughts upon his scheme of villainy.

In his homeward ride he had already traced out his course of immediate action; which, in its main features, comprehended the arrest of Henry Holtspur, and sending him under guard to the Tower of London. It was only the minor details of this preliminary design that now occupied his mind.

Before parting with his subaltern, he had given orders for thirty of his troopers to be ready to take saddle a little before daybreak; the order being accompanied by cautionary injunctions – that the men were to be aroused from their slumbers without any noise to disturb the tranquillity of the mansion – that they were to “boot and saddle” without the usual signal of the bugle; in short, that they were to get ready for the route with as much secrecy and silence as possible.

There would be just time for the cornet to have these commands executed; and, knowing the necessity of obedience to his superior, Stubbs had promptly proceeded to enforce them.

One by one, the men were awakened with all the secrecy enjoined in the order; the horses were saddled in silence; and a troop of thirty cuirassiers, armed cap-à-pied, ready to mount, stood in the courtyard, just as the first streak of grey light – denoting the approach of dawn – became visible above the eastern horizon.

Meanwhile, Scarthe, stretched along his couch, had been maturing his plan. He had but little apprehension of failure. It was scarce probable that his enemy could escape capture. So adroitly had he managed the matter of the espionage, that Henry Holtspur could have no suspicion of what had occurred.

Scarthe had become sufficiently familiar with Walford and his ways, to know that this traitor would be true to the instincts of jealousy and vengeance. There was no fear that Holtspur would receive warning from the woodman; and from whom else could he have it? No one.

The arrest would be simple and easy. It would be only necessary to surround the house, cut off every loophole of escape, and capture the conspirator – in all probability in his bed. After that the Tower – then the Star Chamber; and Scarthe knew enough of this iniquitous tribunal, to feel sure that the sentence it would pass would for ever rid not only Walford, but himself, of a hated rival. It would also disembarrass the king of a dangerous enemy; though of all the motives, inspiring Scarthe to the act, this was perhaps the weakest.

His hostility for Holtspur – though of quick and recent growth – was as deeply rooted, as if it had existed for years. To be defeated in the eyes of a multitude – struck down from his horse – compelled to cry “quarter” – he, Richard Scarthe, captain of the King’s cuirassiers – a preux chevalier– a noted champion of the duello – this circumstance was of itself sufficient to inspire him with an implacable hostility towards his successful antagonist. But to suffer this humiliation in the presence of high-born women – under the eye of one whom he now loved with a fierce, lustful passion – worse still; one whom he had reason to believe was lovingly inclined towards his adversary – all this had embittered his heart with more than a common hatred, and filled his bosom with a wild yearning for more than a common vengeance.

It was in planning this, that he passed the interval upon his couch; and his actions, at the end of the time, along with his muttered words, proved that he had succeeded in devising a sure scheme of retaliation.

“By heavens!” he exclaimed aloud, springing to his feet, and measuring the floor of his chamber with quick, nervous strides; “it will be a sweet revenge! She shall look upon him in his hour of humiliation. Stripped of his fine feathers, shall he appear under her window, under her aristocratic eyes – a prisoner – helpless, bayed, and brow-beaten. Ha! ha! ha!”

The exulting laugh told how pleasant was his anticipation of the spectacle his fancy had conjured up.

“Shall he wear the white gauntlet in his beaver?” he continued, pondering over new modes of humiliating his adversary. “There would be something sweet in such a sublime mockery? No: better not – he will appear more ridiculous with his head bare – bound like a felon! Ha! ha! ha!”

Again he gave way, unchecked, to his exultant laugh, till the room rang with his fierce cachinnations.

“Zounds!” exclaimed he, after an interval, during which the shadow of some doubt had stolen over his face. “If she should smile upon him in that hour, then my triumph would be changed to chagrin! Oh! under her smile he would be happier than I!”

“Aha!” he ejaculated, after another pause, in which he appeared to have conceived a thought that chased away the shadow. “Aha! I have it now. She shall not smile. I shall take precautions against it. Phoebus! what a splendid conception! He shall appear before her, not bareheaded, but with beaver on – bedecked with a bunch of flowers!”

“Let me see! What sort were those the girl gave him? Red, if I remember aright, – ragged robin, corn poppies, or something of the kind. No matter about that, so long as the colour be in correspondence. In the distance, Marion could scarce have distinguished the species. A little faded, too, they must be: as if kept since the day of the fête. She will never suspect the ruse. If she smile, after beholding the flowers, then shall I know that there is nothing between them. A world to see her smile? To see her do the very thing, which but an instant ago, I fancied would have filled me with chagrin!”

“Ho!” he again ejaculated, in a tone of increasing triumph. “Another splendid conception! My brain, so damnably dull all through the night, brightens with the coming day. As our French queen is accustomed to exclaim, ‘une pensée magnifique!’ ’Twill be a home thrust for Holtspur. If he love her– and who can doubt it – then shall his heart be wrung, as he has wrung mine. Ha! ha! The right hand glove shall triumph over the left!”

As Scarthe said this, he strode towards the table on which lay his helmet; and, taking from the breast of his doublet the gauntlet of Marion Wade – the one she had really lost – he tied it with a piece of ribbon to the crest; – just under the panache of plumes.

“Something for him to speculate upon, while inside the walls of his prison! Something to kill time, when he is awake, and dream of, when asleep! Ha! ha! A sweet revenge ’twill be – one worthy the craft of an inquisitor!”

A footstep coming along the corridor put a period to his changing soliloquy.

It was the footstep of Stubbs; and in the next instant the flat face of the cornet presented itself in the half-opened door.

“Thirty in armour, captain – ready for the road,” was the announcement of the subaltern.

“And I am ready to head them,” answered his superior officer – setting his helmet firmly upon his head, and striding towards the door, “Thirty will be more than we need. After all, ’tis best to make sure. We don’t want the fox to steal away from his cover; and he might do so, if the earths be not properly stopped. We’re pretty sure to find him in his swaddling clothes at this hour. Ha! ha! ha! What a ludicrous figure our fine cavalier will cut in his nightcap! Won’t he, Stubbs?”

“Ought to, by Ged!”

And, with this gleeful anticipation, Scarthe, followed by his subaltern, stepped lightly along the passage leading towards the courtyard – where thirty troopers, armed cap-à-pied– each standing on the near side of his steed – awaited the order to spring into their saddles.

In two seconds’ time the “Mount and forward!” was given – not by signal-call of the bugle, but by word of command, somewhat quietly pronounced. Then, with captain and cornet at its head, the troop by twos, filed out through the arched entrance – directing their march towards the gateway that opened upon the Oxford Road, treading in the direction of Beaconsfield.

It was by this same entrance the two officers had come in only a short while before. They saw the hoof-prints of their horses in the dust – still saturated with the rain that had fallen. They saw also the track of a third steed, that had been travelling the same direction: towards the house.

They found the gate closed. They had left it open. Some less negligent person had entered the park after them!

“Our host has got safe home!” whispered Scarthe to his subaltern.

“So much the better,” he – added with a significant smile, “I don’t want to capture him– at least, not now; and if I can make a captive of his daughter – not at all. If I succeed not in that, why then – then – I fear Sir Marmaduke will have to accept the hospitality of his Majesty, and abide some time under the roof of that royal mansion that lies eastward of Cheap – erst honoured by the residence of so many distinguished gentlemen. Ha! ha! ha!”

Having delivered himself of this jocular allusion to the Tower, he passed through the park gate; and at the head of his troopers continued briskly, but silently, along the king’s highway.

On went the glittering phalanx – winding up the road like some destroying serpent on its way to wickedness – the pattering of their horses’ feet, and the occasional clink of steel scabbards, striking against stirrups and çuisses, were the only sounds that broke upon the still air of the morning – to proclaim the passage of armed and mounted men.

Volume Two – Chapter Twelve

Shortly after the spies had taken their departure from Stone Dean, the conspirators might have been seen, emerging from the house, mounting their horses, and riding off. They went, much after the fashion in which they had come – in silence, alone, or in small groups; and, after clearing the gate entrance, along different roads. Some half dozen stayed later than the rest; but before the daylight could have disclosed their identity, these had also bidden adieu to Stone Dean; and were journeying far beyond the precincts of its secluded park.

When the last guest had gone, two of Holtspur’s improvised grooms – for whose services there was no further occasion – also took their departure from the place. There remained only three individuals in the old mansion – its owner, his Indian attendant, and Gregory Garth.

Of these, the last mentioned, and only he, had yielded his spirit to the embrace of the drowsy god.

On perceiving that his services as stable-helper were no longer in requisition, the ex-footpad, – having no other lodging to which he might betake himself, – had stretched his tired limbs along the beechwood bench; which, as on a former occasion, he had drawn up close to the kitchen fire. In five minutes after, not only the ample kitchen itself, but the contiguous apartments of pantry and wash-house, – with the various passages between, – were resonant of his snores.

Holtspur was still in the apartment in which the meeting had been held – the library it was – where, seated in front of a writing table, with pen in hand, he appeared to busy himself in the composition of some document of more than ordinary importance.

Oriole was the only one of the household who seemed to have no occupation: since he was neither sleeping, nor acting.

He was not inside the house, nor yet outside, but part of both: since he stood in the doorway, on the top step of the front entrance, – the door being still open.

He was in his habitual attitude of perfect repose, – silent and statuesque. This he had maintained for some length of time – having lingered, vaguely gazing after the last guest who had gone away – or, rather, the two woodmen, Walford and Dancey: for they had been the latest to take their departure.