The White Gauntlet

On the day of the hawking party, his correspondence had fallen behind; and, to clear off the arrears, he was astir at a very early hour next morning, and busy before his writing table.

His military and political despatches were not the only matters that called for the use of his pen on this particular morning. Upon the table before him lay a sealed packet, that might have contained a letter, but evidently something more – something of a different character, as indicated by its shape and size.

But there was no letter inside; and the object within the envelope might be guessed at, by the soliloquy that fell from the lips of Captain Scarthe, as he sate regarding it. It was a glove – the white gauntlet, once worn upon the hand of Marion Wade – once worn upon the hat of Henry Holtspur, and thence surreptitiously abstracted. It was once more to be restored to its original owner, in a secret and mysterious manner; and to that end had it been enclosed in a wrapping of spotless paper, and sealed with a blank seal stamp.

As yet there was no superscription upon the parcel; and he who had made it up, sate contemplating it – pen in hand – as if uncertain as to how he should address it. It was not this, however, about which he was pausing. He knew the address well enough. It was the mode of writing it – the chirography – that was occupying his thoughts.

“Ha!” he exclaimed at length, “an excellent idea! It must be like his handwriting; which in all probability, she is acquainted with. I can easily imitate it. Thank fortune I’ve got copies enough – in this traitorous correspondence.”

As he said this, he drew towards him a number of papers, consisting of letters and other documents. They were those he had taken from Stone Dean, on the morning of Holtspur’s arrest.

After regarding them for some seconds – with the attention of an expert, in the act of deciphering some difficult manuscript – he took his pen, and wrote upon the parcel the words, “Mistress Marion Wade.”

“That will be enough,” reflected he. “The address is superfluous. It would never do for it to be delivered at the house. It must be put into her hands secretly, and as if sent by a trusty messenger. There’s no reason why she should mistrust the woodman Walford. She may know him to have been in Holtspur’s service, and can scarce have heard of his defection. He’ll do. He must watch for an opportunity, when she goes out. I wonder what delays the knave. He should have been here by this time. I told him to come before daylight. Ha! speak of the fiend! That must be his shadow passing the window?”

As Scarthe said this, he hastily rose to his feet; scattered some drying sand over the wet superscription; and, taking the packet from the table, walked towards the door to meet his messenger.

It was the traitor Walford, whose shadow had been seen passing the window. His patron found him standing on the step.

He was not admitted inside the house. The business, for the execution of which he was required, had been already arranged; and a few words of instruction, spoken in a low tone, sufficed to impart to him a full comprehension of its native.

He was told that the packet then placed in his hands, was for Mistress Marion Wade; that he was to watch for an opportunity when she should be out of doors; and deliver it to her – if possible, unseen by any third party. He was instructed to assume an air of secrecy; to announce himself as a messenger from Henry Holtspur; and, after delivering a verbal message – supposed to proceed from the cavalier, but carefully concocted by Scarthe – he was to hasten out of the lady’s presence, and avoid the danger of a cross-questioning.

“Now, begone!” commanded his employer, when he had completed his chapter of instructions. “Get away from the house – if you can, without being observed. It won’t do for you to be seen here at this early hour – least of all on a visit to me. Let me know when you have succeeded; and if you do the business adroitly, I shall double this douceur.”

As Scarthe said this, he slipped a gold coin into the hand of the pseudo-messenger; and, turning upon his heel, walked back towards his apartment.

The woodman, after grinning gleefully at the gold that lay glistening in his palm, thrust the piece into his pocket; and, gliding down from the steps, commenced making a stealthy departure through the shrubbery.

He little thought how near he was to the opportunity he desired – of earning the duplicate of that douceur.

But fate, or the fiend, was propitious to him. On clearing the moated enclosure, he saw before him the form of a woman, closely wrapped in cloak and hood.

She, too, seemed hastening onward with stealthy step; but the tall, symmetrical figure, and the rich robes that enveloped it, left no doubt upon the mind of Walford as to the person who was preceding him down the sloping avenue of Bulstrode Park. It was the young mistress of the mansion – she for whom his message was intended – she who would be made wretched by its delivery.

The emissary of Scarthe neither knew, nor would have cared, for this. His only thought was to earn the promised perquisite; and, with this object in view, he followed the female figure fast flitting toward the gate of the park.

Quickly and silently did Marion glide upon her errand. Absorbed by its painful nature, she fancied herself unobserved. She saw not that dark form skulking but a short distance behind her, like an evil shadow, ill defined, under the dim light of the dawn – and keeping pace with her as she advanced.

Unconscious of the proximity of her suspicious follower, she passed out through the park gates, and on along the forest road – a path well known to her. Never before had she trodden it with a heavier heart. Never before had she stood under the shadow of the trysting tree – to her now sadly sacred – influenced by such painful emotion.

She paused beneath its spreading branches. She could not resist the mystic spell, which the place seemed to cast around her. There was something, even in the sadness of its souvenirs, that had a soothing effect upon her spirits, that could scarce have been more embittered.

Whether soothing, or saddening, she was permitted to indulge only a short time in silent reflection. A heavy footfall – evidently that of a man – was heard approaching along the path, and shuffling among the crisp leaves with which it was bestrewed.

The sounds grew louder and drew nearer; until he who was causing them came in sight – a rustic making his way through the wood.

Marion knew the man – the woodman Walford.

She knew him only by sight, and but slightly. She had no words for such as he – especially in an hour like that.

She moved not. Her eyes were averted. The intruder might have passed on, without receiving from her even a nod of recognition, had such been his wish.

It was only on hearing her own name pronounced, and seeing the man advance towards her, that the young lady took note of his presence.

“Mistress Wade!” muttered he, awkwardly uncovering his head, and making a bow of doubtful politeness.

“What want you with me, sir?” asked Marion, in a tone that betrayed both annoyance and astonishment.

“I’ve been follerin’ thee, mistress, all the way frae the big house. I wanted to see thee alone.”

“Alone! And for what purpose, sirrah?”

The interrogatory was uttered in a voice that betokened indignation not unmingled with alarm. No wonder. He to whom it was addressed was not the man, with whom a timid woman would elect to hold an interview, alone, and in the heart of a wood.

Was the rustic intruding himself with an evil intention?

The apprehensions, thus quickly conceived were as speedily dissipated by the woodman declaring himself to have come in the capacity of a messenger.

“I ha’ brought thee a package, Mistress Wade,” said he, drawing something from under the skirt of his doublet. “It be a small ’un, I trow; but for all that I darn’t gie it ye afore company – for I had orders not to, by him as sent me.”

“Who sent you?” hastily inquired the lady, at the same time taking the packet from the hand of the cautious carrier.

“Master Holtspur,” bluntly replied the man.

“I darn’t stay here aside ye,” continued he. “Some of them may come this way, an’ see us thegither. I’ve only to tell you that Master Holtspur be safe; an’ that it be all right atween him an his wife. They be reconciled agin. But I needn’t be tellin’ ye that: I s’pose it’s all wrote inside the package. Now, mistress, I must away, an’ get back to him as sent me. Good mornin’.”

With another grotesque attempt at polite salutation, the deliverer of the message walked hurriedly away; and was soon lost to the sight of its trembling recipient.

Marion had listened to his words without knowing their wicked design – without even suspecting that they were false. But, false or true, she did not imagine there could be a new pang conveyed in their meaning. She had already felt the sting, as she supposed, – in all its black bitterness! She did not believe that in the same quiver, there was another arrow, bearing upon its point a still more potent poison.

She felt it, as with trembling fingers she broke the seal, and tore open the envelope of that tiny parcel. To her heart’s core she felt it, as her eyes rested upon the contents. Her token returned to her – that fatal gift —the White Gauntlet! The glove dropped to the ground; and, with a suppressed scream – that sounded like the knell of a shattered heart – sank Marion Wade beside it! For some moments she lay along the grass, like some beautiful statue struck down from its pedestal.

She was not unconscious – only unnerved, and rendered powerless by a strong, quick spasm of despair.

Beyond the stifled scream, that escaped her as she fell, no sound passed from her lips. Hers was a despair that speech was incapable of relieving. There was nothing on which hope could hinge itself. The restored token told the tale in all its sad reality. A letter – a volume could not have conveyed the information more fully. Holtspur no longer loved her!

There was even a more fell reflection. He had never loved her: else how could he have changed so soon?

The paroxysm at length passed; and the prostrate form once more stood erect. Erect, but not triumphant. Sad and subdued was the spirit that animated it – almost shivered by that fearful shock.

In silent agony she turned to go homeward. She no more remembered the errand that had summoned her forth. It was no longer of any importance. The information she would have sought had met her on the way – had been communicated, with a fullness and surety that left nothing to be added. Holtspur loved her no more. With that thought in her mind, what mattered it whether he were married or no? But the words of the messenger had equally ended all doubt of this. If there might be any lingering uncertainty, as to what she had heard, there could be none as to what she saw. There lay the White Gauntlet under her eyes – down among the weeds. It lay neglected as if without an owner – no more to be regarded by Marion Wade; or only as the cause of a life-long anguish.

Slowly and sadly she retraced the forest path; slowly and sadly she re-entered the gateway of the park; slowly and sadly walked back along that avenue, once trodden by her with a bosom filled with supremest joy.

Volume Three – Chapter Fourteen

The course which Scarthe was pursuing may seem strange. He now knew that for the hand of Marion Wade, Holtspur could not be his rival. What then could be his motive for sending back the glove: for motive there must have been?