The White Gauntlet

“Captain Scarthe,” pursued he, “some time ago you were good enough to bring me a despatch from the king. It is my fortune to be able to reciprocate the compliment – and in kind. I am the bearer of one for you – also from his Majesty, as you may see by the seal.”

Sir Marmaduke, as he spoke, exhibited a parchment bearing the stamp of the royal signet.

“On that occasion,” continued he, “you were good enough to have it read aloud – so that the bystanders should have the benefit of its contents. In this, also shall I follow your example.”

On saying this the knightly bearer of the despatch broke open the seal, and read: —

“To ye Captain Scarthe, commanding ye King’s cuirassiers at Bulstrode Park.

“His Majestie doth hereby command ye Captain Scarthe to withdraw his troops from ye mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, and transfer ye same to quarters in our Royal Palace at Windsor; and His Majestie doth further enjoin on his faithful officer, ye said Captain Scarthe, to obey this order on ye instant of receipt thereof.

“Carolus Rex.

“Whitehall.”

The despatch of his “Majestie” was received with a vociferous cheer; though there was not a voice in the crowd to cry “Long live the King!” They knew that the amende, thus made to Sir Marmaduke Wade, was not a voluntary act on the part of the Royal cuckold, but had been wrung from his fears. It was the Parliament who had obtained that measure of justice; and once more rang out the cry: —

“Long live the Parliament!”

Scarthe’s chagrin had culminated to its climax. He was black in the face, as he strode off to make preparations for his departure; and the words “coward” and “poltroon,” muttered hissingly through his closed teeth, were not intended for the citizens who were jeering, but the sovereign who had exposed him to such overwhelming humiliation.

In less than ten minutes after, he was seen at the head of his troop galloping outward through the gates of Bulstrode Park, having left a few stragglers to look after the impedimenta.

He was not likely ever to forget the loud huzza, that rose ironically from the crowd, as his discomfited cuirassiers swept past on their departure.

At the moment of his dismounting, Marion had rushed into the arms of Sir Marmaduke.

“Father!” exclaimed she, joyfully, trembling in his embrace. “Saved! you are safe!”

“Safe, my child! Sure with such a brave following, I may feel safe enough!”

“And I am spared. Oh! to come at such a crisis! Just as I was on the eve of consenting to a sacrifice – painful as death itself.”

“What sacrifice, my daughter?”

“Myself – to him yonder. He promised to obtain your pardon; but only on the condition, I should become – ”

Marion hesitated to pronounce the terms that Scarthe had proposed to her.

“I know them,” interposed Sir Marmaduke. “And you would have accepted them, noble girl! I know that too. Thank heaven! my pardon has been obtained, not through the favour of an enemy, but by friends – foremost among whom is this gallant gentleman by my side. But for him, the King’s grace might have come too late.”

Marion looked up. Holtspur, still seated in his saddle, was tenderly gazing upon her.

It was at this moment, that Sir Marmaduke was called upon to interfere between the cuirassiers of Scarthe, and his own enthusiastic escort. For an instant Marion and Holtspur were left alone.

“I thank you, sir,” said she, her voice trembling from a conflict of emotions – “I thank you for my father’s life. The happiness arising from that is some recompense – for – for the misery you have caused me.”

“Misery, Marion? I – I – ”

“Oh, sir, let it pass. ’Tis better without explanation. You know what is meant – too well you know it. O Henry! Henry! I could not have believed you capable of such a deception – such cruelty.”

“Cruelty?”

“No more – go – go! Leave me to my sorrow – leave me to a life-long repentance!”

“I obey your commands,” said Holtspur, taking up his bridle-reins, as if with the intention of riding away. “Alas!” he added, in an accent of bitterness, “whither am I to go? For me there is no life – no happiness – where thou art not O God! whither am I to go?”

“To your wife,” muttered Marion, in a low reproachful tone, and with faltering accent.

“Ha! ’tis that! You have heard then?”

“All – all.”

“No – not all – I have no wife.”

“O sir! Henry! Why try to deceive me any longer? You have a wife! I have been told it, by those who know. It is true!”

“I have deceived you. That is true, that only. I had a wife. She is dead!”

“Dead!”

“Ay, dead.”

“I acknowledge my crime,” continued he, after a solemn pause. “I should have told you all. For my justification I can plead only my own wrongs, and your beauty. I loved you, while she was still living.”

“O, mercy! what is this? She is dead; and you love me no more?”

“No more? What mean you, Marion? Heart and hand, soul and body, I am yours. I swore it at our last interview. It cost no sacrifice to keep the oath: I could not break it if I would.”

“O Henry! This is cruel. ’Tis insulting! Have you not kept that promise? How, then, can you be true to your troth?”

“What promise?”

“Cruel – cruel! You are trifling with my misery; but you cannot make it more. Ah! the white gauntlet! When it was brought back – with your message that accompanied it – my dream of happiness came to an end. My heart was broken!”

“Brought back – the white gauntlet – message!”

“Marion!” cried Sir Marmaduke, who had by this time disposed of the pretty quarrel between Scarthe and his own following; “Indoors, my daughter! and see that your father’s house does not forfeit its character for hospitality. There’s dust upon the king’s highway; which somehow or other has got into the throats of our worthy friends from Uxbridge, Denham, and Iver. Surely there’s an antidote in the cellars of Bulstrode? Go find it, my girl!”

Promptly did Marion obey the commands of her father; the more promptly, from having been admonished, by the surprise exhibited in Holtspur’s countenance, that the return of her token would admit of a different interpretation, from that she had hitherto put upon it.

Time permitting, it would be a pleasant task to depict the many joyous scenes that took place in the precincts of Bulstrode Park, subsequent to the departure of Scarthe and his cuirassiers.

Lora, no longer subject to the tiresome importunities of Stubbs, found little else to do than listen to Walter’s pretty love prattlings – excepting to respond to them.

Near at hand were two hearts equally en rapport with one another – equally brimful of beatitude – trembling under a passion still more intense – the one paramount passion of a life, destined to endure to its ending.

It was no young love’s dream, – no fickle fondness – that filled the bosoms of Henry Holtspur and Marion Wade; but a love that burned with a bold, blazing flame – like a torch that no time could extinguish – such a love as may exist between the eagle and his majestic mate.