The White Gauntlet

“Then it han’t been sot there yet. We must keep a sharp look out for’t. ’Twon’t do to lose a preecious minnit. Thee be sure he sayed, he’d let thee speak wi’ Master Henry?”

“He did; he promised me faithfully – I had to give him a promise.”

“What did thee promise him, my gull?” demanded Dancey, in a serious tone.

“Oh, nothing much, father,” replied Bet, “nothing much; considering what I did it for.”

“Never mind your daughter, Dancey. She be old enough to take care o’ herself. The gurl ’ll do what’s right, I warrant her.”

“Ay, and that wouldn’t have been any good,” pursued Bet, “he’d never have consented to let me in, but that he believes I’m sent by a great lady. I had to tell him that story, God forgive me!”

“It be only a white lie, gurl,” said Garth, in a tone of encouragement. “If every lie as be told war in as good a cause, they’d all be forgiven up yonder, I dar say.”

As Garth said this, he turned his eyes reverently upward. “Ho!” cried he, lowering them suddenly; and directing his glance towards the gateway, “Yonner it be! The lamp’s in the cat-hole!”

Under one of the folds of the great oaken door – conspicuous through the aperture already spoken of – a disc of dull yellowish light was now visible; which on scrutiny could be seen to be burning inside a lamp of not very translucent glass. It was one of the common stable lanthorns of the establishment – now doing guard duty in the quarters of the cuirassier troop.

The signal was too marked to be mistaken.

The girl, on perceiving it, only waited for some farther instructions – given in a hurried manner by her two companions; and which were but the impressive repetition of those already imparted, previous to sallying forth from the cottage.

As soon as she had received them, she drew her cloak closely round her; and, gliding across the stretch of open pasture, arrived in front of the great gateway – inside of which was imprisoned the man, for whose sake she was about to risk moral shame, and perhaps personal punishment!

In front of the wicket, she paused for some minutes – partly to recover her breath lost, in the hurried traverse across the pasture – and partly to strengthen her resolution of carrying through the task she had undertaken.

Bold as was the heart of the deer-stealer’s daughter, it was not without misgivings at that moment. Might not the soldier have summoned her thither to betray her? Might he not have contrived some design to get her within his power? Perhaps accuse her of treason to the king; or, by the threat of such accusation, endeavour to procure her compliance with some love proposals he had already half-hinted to her?

On the other hand, these proposals were not exactly of an insulting nature. There had been a certain degree of soldierly honour in the intercourse that had passed between herself and Withers – for Withers it was who had invited her to share his hours of guard.

She had slightly known the young man, previous to his enlistment into the corps of cuirassiers; and although he had since passed through a malignant school, she could scarcely believe him so bad as those with whom he was associating.

At that crisis, however, it mattered little how bad he might be. She had gone too far to think of withdrawing from the danger. She was too near the man she loved – with the full, fierce ardour of her outcast heart – too near to go back, without making an effort to see, and, if possible, save him. As the thought of his danger came once more before her mind, she threw aside all regard for consequences; and, advancing with fearless step, she knocked gently, but resolutely, against the door.

Close succeeding this preconcerted signal, the tread of a trooper’s boot was heard on the pavement inside, and with a subdued sound that denoted caution. Some one was approaching the wicket.

On reaching the door, the footfall ceased to be heard; and the wicket was opened with a silence, that bespoke expectancy, on the part of him who drew back the bolt.

Very different from the salutation of a sentry – the bold brusque “Who goes there?” – was the soft whisper that fell upon the ears of the person claiming admission.

“Is it you, sweet Betsey?” asked the soldier; and then, without waiting for a verbal answer to his interrogatory, he continued: “Come in, dear girl! I have been so longing for twelve o’clock, I thought it would never strike up there. I believe the old timepiece be out o’ tune. It an’t often I’m so weary for my turn o’ the night guard. Come in!”

The girl having got over the slight shiver of timidity – that had temporarily possessed her – accepted the invitation; and, stepping over the threshold of the wicket, stood inside the arched entrance which formed a covered passage between the gate and the courtyard beyond.

This passage was only illuminated by the lanthorn; which, from its position at the bottom of the door – where it had been placed to effect the signal – gave out but a feeble light. As Withers, at that moment, had no wish for a better, the lamp was allowed to remain where he had placed it.

There was enough light proceeding from it to show the side door conducting into the storeroom – the improvised prison of Henry Holtspur – which was the chief point the sentry had been instructed to guard. Upon this door the eyes of his visitor became directed, as soon as she had entered under the archway; and to it her glance kept constantly returning – despite the efforts of Withers to fix it upon himself.

He could not help observing the air of abstraction with which his supposed sweetheart listened to his protestations of love. He noticed her glance repeatedly directed towards the door of the storeroom, with an eagerness that caused him some chagrin; though he was only annoyed, that so little attention was being paid to his own blandishments.

Had he suspected the true cause of Bet Dancey’s indifference, the door of Holtspur’s prison would not have turned upon its hinges that night – at least not during Withers’ tour of guard.

“Come, Mistress Betsey!” said he, in his endeavours to secure a greater share of the girl’s attention. “Don’t talk about that affair just yet. You can deliver your message to the gentleman bye-and-bye. ’Twon’t take long, I suppose?”

“Only a minute,” replied Bet, “and that’s just why I want to have it over.”

“Ah! that,” said Withers, beginning to flatter himself that his sweetheart was impatient to get through with the more disagreeable part of her errand, so as to have it off her hands. “Ah! well; of course. Mistress Betsey – ”

“You know,” interrupted the girl, “one should always do their business first? Business first, and pleasure afterwards.”

“Bah!” muttered Withers, “that an’t always the best way; leastwise, not to you or me. Let the business stand over a bit.”

“Oh! no, no!” answered Betsey with increasing impatience. “If the lady who sent me only knew that I was trifling in this way, there would be a trouble. I’d not get the reward she has promised me. You can’t believe how impatient she’ll be, till she hears the answer I’m to take back to her!”

“Oh! bother her impatience! Let her wait, charming Betsey!”

“Nay, Master Withers; listen to reason. Suppose it was you who were in prison; and some one wanted to hear from you: myself for instance. Would you say, ‘let her wait,’ then? I pray you, don’t detain me now: you can see me to-morrow. Come to the cottage; and stay as long as you like. Father will be from home; and you may talk as much nonsense as you have a mind to.”

“What a seducing Syren!” said her suitor, evidently gratified at the pretty programme thus sketched out for him, “Well! I agree to it. But you must give me a kiss before you go in; and promise me another on, you’re coming out.”

“With all my heart!” readily responded the representative of Maid Marian, “You’re welcome to a kiss. Take it.”

And, without waiting for Withers to fling his arms around her, or even meet her half-way, she craned her neck forward, and pressed her protruded lips against the rough cheek of the trooper!

“There now!” was the ejaculation that accompanied the loud smacking noise caused by the contact, “will that satisfy you?”

“No, dear Betsey; nor a hundred thousand of the same. With such sweetness a man would never be satisfied; but always awantin’ more. Ah! they may talk about them girls in Flanders. Gi’ me the kiss o’ an English lass. It’s got the jiniwine flavour about it.”

“All flattery! Come now! keep your promise – if you expect me to keep mine, when I come out again.”

“I’ll do it, sweet. But hark’ee! Don’t make no noise inside. If the guard corporal should come round and find what’s goin’ on, he’d change me from a sentry to a prisoner – in less time than it ’ud take to tell what’s o’clock. Ah! now; one more afore you go in?”

The girl, without hesitation, a second time delivered her cheek to be kissed by the ready lips of her soldier lover; and then, muttering something like a promise – to permit more than one repetition of the dose when she should come out again – the storeroom door was opened to her; and, without further interruption, she was admitted within the precinct of Holtspur’s prison.

Volume Two – Chapter Seventeen

During all that day had the imprisoned patriot been chafing under his confinement. Since his capture he had been treated like a criminal – housed and fed, as if he were a criminal already convicted.

There was no furniture in the small apartment in which he had been locked up. Only some articles of storage and lumber; but neither chair, table, nor bed. A rough bench was the substitute for all these. On this he sate, sometimes reclined; though he did not often change from one attitude to the other – on account of the difficulty attending the operation: for like a criminal was he also bound. His wrists were crossed behind his back, and there tightly tied; while as an additional security against any attempt to escape, his ankles were lashed together by a piece of splicing rope.

He had made no effort to free himself. The thing appeared hopeless. Even could he have got rid of his rope fastenings, there was a locked door, with a sentry all the time standing, or pacing, outside.

Though keenly feeling the indignity thus put upon him – and sensible of the great danger in which his life was now placed – he had other thoughts that were still more bitter to bear.

Marion Wade was the object of these reflections – she, and her white gauntlet. Not that one, he had himself so proudly worn; but its fellow, which he had seen so tauntingly set on the helmet of the cuirassier captain.

All day long – and it had appeared of endless length – as well as during the hours of the night already passed, scarce for a moment had his mind been able to escape from that harassing thought.

Notwithstanding his efforts to repudiate the suspicion – despite that reckless disavowal of it before Scarthe himself – he could not hinder its recurrence. A hundred times did he ask himself the questions: whether Scarthe had come surreptitiously by the glove, or whether it had been given him as a love-token, like his own?