The White Gauntlet

“’Tis she!” muttered Scarthe to himself, as his followers retired. “Even if he has been with her, ’twould be of little use going after him now. He would scarce be such a fool as to remain upon the ground. ’Tis impossible she can have seen any one, since Walford left her? There has not been time for an interview such as that. She may have been with him before? If so, the sham message will result in my own discomfiture. Or she may have been expecting him, and he has not come? If so, the parcel would be just in time. I can scarce look for such a lucky combination of circumstances!”

“What shall I do?” he continued, after a pause. “If she has not met him, it is a splendid opportunity for my proposal! The events are ominous of success. Shall I make it now – this moment?”

“There is danger in delay,” he muttered, as the old adage came into his mind. “She may have some means of communicating with him; and the glove trick may be discovered? I shall trust no longer to chance. This uncertainty is insufferable. Within the hour I shall put an end to it, and find out my fate, one way or the other. If accepted, then shall Richard Scarthe play traitor to his king, and the good knight Sir Marmaduke may conspire to his heart’s content. If rejected, then – in that contingency – ah – then – the old rebel will risk the losing of his head.”

“Now, Mistress Marion Wade,” apostrophised he, as he watched the advancing figure. “On thine answer there is much depending: your father’s head and my happiness. I hope you will be gracious, and give security to both. If you refuse me, then must I make use of that power, with which a lucky chance has provided me. Surely thy father’s danger will undo your objections? If you resist, let the ruin fall – let him suffer his doom!”

“I must dismount and meet her,” he continued, as he saw Marion coming on with slow steps. “A declaration in the saddle would never do. It must be made on foot – or still more humbly on bended knee; and so shall it, if that be necessary to secure success. Ha! ha! what would they say at Court? The invincible Scarthe, who has made conquest of a queen, kneeling in humble suit at the feet of a country maiden – the daughter of a rank rebel – begging for her heart, and worse still, bargaining for her hand! Ha! ha! ha!”

While uttering this laugh, he flung himself from his horse; and, tossing the rein of his bridle over the branch of a tree, he commenced descending the hill.

Although advancing towards the interview, with all the nonchalance he was capable of assuming, he was at the same time trembling with apprehension as to the result.

He met the maiden at the bottom of the hill – under the sombre shadow of the chestnuts.

He encountered a look of cold surprise, accompanied by a simple nod of recognition.

Such a reception might have turned him from his purpose; but it did not. He had made up his mind to propose; and, without much circumlocution, he proceeded to carry out the intention.

“Mistress Marion Wade!” said he, approaching her with an air of profound respect, and bowing low as he drew near, “if you be not offended by my intruding upon you at this early hour, I shall thank the fate that has favoured me.”

“Captain Scarthe, this interview is unexpected.”

“By me it has been sought. I have been for some time desirous of an opportunity to speak with you alone.”

“To speak with me alone? I am at a loss to know, sir, what you can have to say that requires such a condition.”

“You shall know, Mistress Wade; if, indeed, you have not divined my purpose already. Need I tell you that I am in love?”

“And why, Sir, have you chosen me for this confidence? I should think that was a secret to be communicated only to her whom it concerns?”

“And to her alone has it been communicated. Surely I need not name the object of my love. You cannot have been blind to emotions – to sufferings – I have been unable to conceal. I can be silent no longer. O Marion Wade! I love you with all the fondness of a true affection – all the fervour of an admiration that knows no limits. Do not be angry at me for thus declaring myself. Do not frown upon my suit. O, beautiful Marion! say that I may hope?”

Scarthe had dashed his helmet to the ground, and flung himself on his knees in the attitude of an humble suppliant. With eyes upturned to her face, he tremblingly awaited the reply.

She was silent. Her features betrayed no sign of gladness, as she listened to that earnest declaration. Scarce, even, did they show surprise. Whatever of this she may have felt was concealed under the cloud of chagrin, that, springing from a very different cause, still overspread her countenance.

The kneeling suitor waited some moments for a response; but none was given. She to whom he was making suit remained proudly silent.

Becoming sensible of a certain ludicrousness in the situation, Scarthe impatiently continued: – “Oh! do not deny me! At least, vouchsafe an answer. If it be favourable, I promise – I swear – that my heart – my hand – my soul – my sword – my life – all will be yours – yours for any sacrifice you may summon me to make. O Marion! – beautiful Marion Wade! – I know I am not worthy of you now. Think not of me as I am; but rather what I shall be. I may one day be more deserving of your esteem – perhaps your love. I have hopes of preferment – high hopes. I may be excused for saying, they are founded on the patronage of a queen. With one like you for my bride – my wife – highborn, gifted, lovelier than all others, these hopes would soon be realised. To be worthy of loving you – to have the pleasure of illustrating you – of making you happy by the highest fame – I could accomplish anything. Fear not, Marion Wade! He who sues to you, if now humble, may hope for higher rank. Ere long shall I obtain the much-coveted title of Lord. It matters little to me. Only for your sake should I prize it. But oh! hapless lord should I be, if not the lord of your heart! A word, Marion Wade! – one word! Tell me I may hope?”

Marion turned her eyes upon the eloquent suppliant. His attitude, the expression of his countenance, and the fervent tone in which he had declared himself, were evidence that he was in earnest. She could not fail to perceive that he loved her. Whatever may have been the deceit of his nature, in other respects, there could be no doubt that he was honest in his admiration for herself.

Perhaps it was this thought that restrained her from making an indignant reply. Why should she be offended at one thus humbly suing – one who was willing to become her slave?

The expression in her eye, called up by the attitude of the suitor, seemed to speak of pity, rather than indignation.

It soon passed away; and was succeeded by the same calm look of indifference – with which she had hitherto regarded him.

Misinterpreting that momentary glance of kindness, Scarthe for an instant fancied himself successful.

Only for an instant. His heart fell as he noted the change of countenance that succeeded; and it needed not for Marion to signify her refusal in speech. Words could not have more plainly told him, that his suit was rejected.

In words, however, he was told it; and with a laconism that left him no alternative, but to rise from his kneeling attitude, place his helmet once more upon his head, and bid Marion Wade good-morning.

Alone the lady pursued her homeward way – Scarthe standing silent and statue-like, till she had passed out of sight. Then his features suddenly changed expression; his true temper, for the time restrained, escaped from the control in which he had been keeping it; and both voice and gesture testified to the terrible conflict of emotions that convulsed his soul.

“I shall seek no more to sue her,” muttered he, as he detached his bridle from the branch. “’Tis not the mode to deal with this proud damsel. Force, not favour, is the way to win her – at least her hand – ah! and maybe her heart? I’ve known such as she before. Are there not hundreds in history? Did the Sabine women continue to despise their bold abductors? No; they became loving wives: loving them for the very act, that, in the fancy of fools, should have excited their hatred! By Heaven! I shall imitate those Roman ravishers – if driven to the dernier resort. Thank fortune! there’s another arrow in my quiver. And now to place it to the string. By this time Sir Marmaduke should be stirring; though it seems he keeps not so early hours as his charming child! Curses! what can have carried her abroad? No doubt, I shall discover in time; and if it be, that – ”

He interrupted himself, as if some conception, painful beyond common, had caused a sudden suspension of his breath.

“If it be that —a mistress, instead of a wife, shall I make of Marion Wade!”

With this vile threat, he sprang nervously to the back of his horse; and, deeply driving in the spurs, forced the animal into a rapid gallop, homeward against the hill.

Volume Three – Chapter Fifteen

Sir Marmaduke was in his library – not busied with his books, but his thoughts.

It is unnecessary to say that these were of a serious nature. They were more than serious – they were melancholy. The cause has been already, or may be easily, guessed.

In the circumstances that surrounded him, the noble knight had more than one source of anxiety. But there was one now paramount – an apprehension for his own personal safety – which of course, included the welfare of those dear to him.

He had reason to be thus apprehensive. He knew that he had committed himself – not only by his presence among the conspirators of Stone Dean, but by various other acts that would not bear the scrutiny of the Star Chamber.

Conjectures, referring to the midnight meeting at Holtspur’s house, were at that moment more particularly before his mind. The arrest of Holtspur himself upon the following morning – so close on the breaking up of the assemblage – had an ominous significance. It suggested – in fact, almost proclaimed – the presence of a spy.

If such had been among them – and Sir Marmaduke could come to no other conclusion – then would his life be worth no more, than that of a man already attainted, tried, condemned, and standing by the side of the block!

If there had been a spy, it must either have been Scarthe himself, or one who had communicated with him: else why the arrest of Holtspur?

Sir Marmaduke believed the captain of the King’s cuirassiers quite capable of the infamous act. His apparent friendship and courtesy – his professions of regret for the part he was compelled to play – had not deceived his host. Sir Marmaduke had no difficulty in detecting the spurious pretences of his guest.

As yet Scarthe had given him no hint of the knowledge he possessed. For his own reasons, he had carefully abstained from this. Nevertheless, Sir Marmaduke had his suspicions.

Unfortunately, he had no means of satisfying them, one way or the other. Scarthe had carefully scrutinised his correspondence – under the pretence that he did so by orders from the King – and such of the members of that meeting, as Sir Marmaduke had been able to see personally, were, like himself, only suspicious. No one in the neighbourhood knew of the doings of that night, except Dancey, Walford, and Gregory Garth. Dancey and his daughter had both been absent for weeks – it was not known where; Walford had no dealings with Sir Marmaduke Wade; and Garth was utterly unknown to him.

The knight knew that his liberty – his life – were in the scales. A feather – a breath – and the beam might be kicked against him. No wonder he was apprehensive – even to wretchedness.

There was but one clear spot in the sky – one beacon on which to fix his hopes – the Parliament.

This Parliament – afterwards distinguished as the “Long” – perhaps the most patriotic assembly that ever met amongst men – was about to commence its sittings, as well as its struggles with the hoary hydra of royal prerogative. To the oppressed it promised relief – to the condemned a respite – to the imprisoned a restoration of their liberty.

But the royal reptile, though cowering, and partially crushed, had not yet been deprived of his fangs. There were places throughout the realm where his power was rampant as ever – where he could still seize, confiscate, and behead. With reason, therefore, might Sir Marmaduke feel dread of his vengeance. And no wonder: with Sir John Elliot pining away his life in a prison; with the wrongs of Lenthall, and Lilburne, and Prynne unavenged; with men walking the streets deprived of their ears, and outraged by other mutilations; with Holtspur himself, whom Sir Marmaduke now knew to be the noble patriot Henry – , an outlawed fugitive, hiding himself from the sleuth-hounds of a spited queen!

The good knight resembled the mariner in the midst of a tempest. The re-summoned Parliament was the life-boat struggling across the surge – surrounded by angry breakers. Would it live to reach, and relieve him? Or was he destined to see it strike upon a rock, and its gallant crew washed away amidst the waste of waters?

In truth, a gallant crew, as ever carried ship of state through the storm – as ever landed one in a haven of safety. Hark to their names – every one of them a household word! Pym, Hampden, Hollis, and Hazlerig; the Lords Kimbolton, Essex, and Fairfax; and last and greatest, the immortal Oliver Cromwell! It was a glorious galaxy of names – enough to inspire even the timid with confidence; and by such were the timid sustained.