The White Gauntlet

“Your substitute, sir. It is not singular you should be anxious on account of one, who has done you such signal service. I can report, that she is in the best of spirits – proud of her achievement – only a little anxious, perhaps, to participate in your sight. Do not be uneasy on her account. She will not keep you long waiting. One gifted with so much ingenuity will find little obstacle in a score of sentries.”

“Marion!”

“A pity it is not ‘Betsey’ to whom you are addressing yourself! A pity she should keep you waiting – especially in such weather. For myself, I must get out of it. Good-night, sir; or, good-morning – which you will it.”

“Marion – Marion Wade! do not go! Do not leave me thus! One word – hear me!”

Holtspur could well afford to place himself in the attitude of a petitioner. That visit to his prison, with its conjectured design, had reassured him of Marion’s love lately doubted.

She paused at the appeal. It was too earnest to be resisted.

“It was not her, for whom I was waiting,” continued Holtspur, now more clearly comprehending the conduct that had surprised him. “It was for you, Marion – for you.”

“This shallow pretence is unworthy of you, sir; unworthy of a gentleman. How could you have expected to see me? Oh! weak that I have been to trust my reputation, to one who – ”

“One who will lay down his life to guard it against being sullied by the slightest stain. Believe me, Marion Wade, it was to speak with you, I have stayed. I saw you as I was hastening away. Little had I been hoping for such a heaven-sent chance! I saw you approach the gate and go in. Need I declare to you the hope that thrilled through my heart, when I fancied your mission might be to myself? I cannot – words will not express what I felt – what I feel!”

Yieldingly did the proud maiden turn towards him – as the flower turns to its natural deity, the sun, from whom it derives all its delight.

Just as its petals are unclosed by his kissing rays after the long night of damp and darkness, so was the bosom of Marion Wade revivified with fresh life, and hope, and joy, while she stood listening to those earnest asseverations.

As yet she had not put her threat into execution. The shelter was near, but she had not availed herself of it; and, at the close of her lover’s speech, she seemed no longer to care for it.

Her hood was still hanging over her shoulders – her head uncovered to the storm. The raindrops sparkled upon her golden hair, losing themselves amid its profuse masses. They chased one another over her warm, flushed cheeks, as if in very delight. They streamed down the furrows of her rich robe, freely entering at its foldings – and still she regarded them not.

If misery, but the moment before, had rendered her insensible to the storm, happiness was now producing the like effect.

Holtspur’s appeal was no more rejected – his approach no longer repelled. He was left free to manifest the lover’s care; and, gently engaging the hand of his beloved, he conducted her within the verandah.

The storm raged on, but neither regarded it. They had escaped from a storm – far more to be dreaded than the conflict of the elements – that of the two most powerful passions of the human heart – jealousy and love. The struggle was over. The former had fled from the field – leaving the latter triumphant in the bosoms of both.

Volume Three – Chapter Four

The calm after the tempest – the day after the night – sunshine succeeding shadow – any of these physical transformations may symbolise the change from the passion of jealousy to that of love. At best they are but faint emblems; and we must seek in the soul itself for truer representatives of those its extremest contrasting emotions; or find it in our promised future of eternal torture and eternal bliss.

It is in the crisis of transformation – or, rather, in the moment succeeding it – that the true agony is endured; whether it be an agony of pain, or one of pleasure.

The latter was the lot of Henry Holtspur and Marion Wade, as they rested under the sheltering toile of the verandah. To both, it was a moment of unalloyed happiness; such as they had experienced only on one other occasion; – when, entwined in each other’s arms, under the verdant canopy of the chestnut trees, they had, with lips that lied not, made reciprocal surrender of their hearts.

One listening to those mutual vows – poured forth with the tender and emphatic eloquence which love alone can impart – could scarce have believed that mistrust should ever again spring up between them!

It had done so – perhaps not to be regretted. It had vanished; and the reaction had introduced them to an agony of pleasure – if possible more piquant than even that which had accompanied the first surrender of their souls. Both now experienced the pleasure of surrendering them again. No more might jealousy intrude itself upon their enjoyment; and, for a while, they even forgot those trifling signs that had led to it – she the faded flowers – he that sinister gauntlet.

It was only natural, however, that the causes of their late mistrust should become the subject of conversation; which they did.

Mutual surprise was the result of a mutual interrogation; though neither could give to the other the explanation asked for.

The flowers in Holtspur’s hat, and the glove in Scarthe’s helmet, were enigmas equally inexplicable.

As to the latter, Marion only knew that she had lost it – that she had looked for it – she did not say why – and without success.

Holtspur still wore his beaver. Indeed, he had not till that hour found the chance of taking it off. Only within the last ten minutes had his hands been free to remove it.

He had not the slightest suspicion of the manner in which it was bedecked – not until he learnt it from the lips of her, upon whom the faded flowers had produced such a painful impression.

Marion could not misinterpret his surprise – mingled with indignation – as he lifted the hat from his head; wrenched the flowers from their fastening; and flung them scornfully upon the sward.

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, as she witnessed the act. It was the kind of homage a woman’s heart could comprehend and appreciate; and hers trembled with a triumphant joy.

Only for a short moment could this sweet contentment continue. Nature is niggardly of such supreme pleasure. It was succeeded by a sombre thought – some dark presentiment pointing to the distant future. It found expression in speech.

“O Henry!” she said, laying hold of his arm – at the same time fixing her earnest blue eyes upon his, “sometime – I fear to think it, much more to speak it – sometime might you not do the same with – ”

“With what, Marion?”

“Sweet love! you know what I mean! Or shall I tell it you? ’Tis a shame for you not to understand me – you, who are so clever, as I’ve heard say, ah! as I, myself, have reason to know.”

“Dearest! I fear I am not very clever at comprehending the ways of your sex. Perhaps if I had – ”

Holtspur interrupted himself, as if he had arrived on the verge of some disclosure he did not desire to make.

“If you had,” inquired Marion, in a tone that told of an altered interest. “What if you had, Henry?”

“If I had,” replied her lover, escaping from his embarrassment by a happy subterfuge, “I should not have been so dilatory in declaring my love to you.”

The speech was pretty; but alas! ambiguous. It gave Marion pleasure, to think he had long loved her; and yet it stirred within her a painful emotion – by recalling the bold challenge by which she had lured him to the avowal of it.

He, too, as soon as he had spoken, appeared to perceive the danger of such an interpretation; and in order to avert it, hurriedly had recourse to his former interrogatory.

“Do the same, you said, as I have done with the flowers. And with what?”

“The token I gave you, Henry – the white gauntlet.”

“When I fling it to the earth, as I have done these withered blossoms, it will be to defy him who may question my right to wear it. When that time comes, Marion Wade – ”

“Oh! never!” cried she – in the enthusiasm of her admiration fervently pressing his arm, and looking fondly in his face. “None but you, Henry, shall ever have that right. To no other could I concede it. Believe me – believe me!”

Why was it that Holtspur received this earnest declaration with a sigh? Why did he respond to it with a look of sadness?

Upon his arm was hanging the fairest form in the county of Buckinghamshire – perhaps in all England; upon his shoulder rested the loveliest cheek; against his bosom throbbed a heart responsive to his own – a heart that princes would have been proud to possess. Why that sigh, on listening to the earnest speeches that assured him of its possession?

But for the darkness that obscured the expression of his face – but for the beatings of her own heart, that hindered her from hearing the sigh that escaped his – Marion Wade might have asked this question with fearful interest in the answer.

She saw not the look – she heard not the sigh; and yet she was troubled with some vague suspicion. The reply had something in it that did not satisfy her – something reticent.

“O Henry!” she said, “you are going from me now. I know we must part. When shall I see you again? It may be long – long?”

“No longer than I can help, love!”