Майн Рид
The White Gauntlet

Volume Two – Chapter One

The warm golden light of an autumn sun was struggling through the half-closed curtains of a window, in the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade.

It was still early in the afternoon; and the window in question, opening from an upper storey, and facing westward, commanded one of the finest views of the park of Bulstrode. The sunbeams slanting through the parted tapestry lit up an apartment, which by its light luxurious style of furniture, and costly decoration, proclaimed itself to be a boudoir, or room exclusively appropriated to the use of a lady.

At that hour there was other and better evidence of such appropriation: since the lady herself was seen standing in the embayment of its window, under the arcade formed by the drooping folds of the curtains.

The sunbeams glittered upon tresses of a kindred colour – among which they seemed delighted to linger. They flashed into eyes as blue as the canopy whence they came; and the rose-coloured clouds, they had themselves created in the western sky, were not of fairer effulgence than the cheeks they appeared so fondly to kiss.

These were not in their brightest bloom. Though slightly blanched, neither were they pale. The strongest emotion could not produce absolute pallor on the cheeks of Marion Wade – where the rose never altogether gave place to the lily.

The young lady stood in the window, looking outward upon the park. With inquiring glance she swept its undulating outlines; traced the softly-rounded tops of the chestnut trees; scrutinised the curving lines of the copses; saw the spotted kine roaming slowly o’er the lea, and the deer darting swiftly across the sward; but none of these sights were the theme of her thoughts, or fixed her attention for more than a passing moment.

There was but one object within that field of vision, upon which her eyes rested for any length of time; not constantly, but with glances straying from it only to return. This was a gate between two massive piers of mason-work, grey and ivy-grown. It was not the principal entrance to the park; but one of occasional use, which opened near the western extremity of the enclosure into the main road. It was the nearest way for any one going in the direction of Stone Dean, or coming thither.

There was nothing in the architecture of those ivy-covered piers to account for the almost continuous scrutiny given to it by Mistress Marion Wade; nor yet in the old gate itself – a mass of red-coloured rusty iron. Neither was new to her. She had looked upon that entrance – which opened directly in front of her chamber window every day – almost every hour of her life. Why, then, was she now so assiduously gazing upon it?

Her soliloquy will furnish the explanation.

“He promised he would come to-day. He told Walter so before leaving the camp – the scene of his conquest over one who appears to hate him – far more over one who loves him No. The last triumph came not then. Long before was it obtained. Ah me! it must be love, or why should I so long to see him?”

“Dear cousin, how is this? Not dressed for dinner? ’Tis within five minutes of the hour!”

It was the pretty Lora Lovelace who, tripping into the room, asked these questions – Lora fresh from her toilette, and radiant with smiles.

There was no heaviness on her heart – no shadow on her countenance. Walter and she had spent the morning together; and, whatever may have passed between them, it had left behind no trace of a cloud.

“I do not intend dressing,” rejoined Marion. “I shall dine as you see me.”

“What, Marion! and these strange gentlemen to be at the table!”

“A fig for the strange gentlemen! It’s just for that I won’t dress. Nay, had my father not made a special request of it, I should not go to the table at all. I’m rather surprised, cousin, at your taking such pains to be agreeable to guests thus forced upon us. For which of the two are you setting your snare, little Lora – the conceited captain, or his stupid subaltern?”

“Oh!” said Lora, with a reproachful pouting of her pretty lips; “you do me wrong, Marion. I have not taken pains on their account. There are to be others at the table besides the strangers.”

“Who?” demanded Marion.

“Who – why,” – stammered Lora, slightly blushing as she made answer, “why, of course there is uncle Sir Marmaduke.”

“That all?”

“And – and – Cousin Walter as well.”

“Ha! ha! Lora; it’s an original idea of yours, to be dressing with such studied care for father and Walter. Well, here goes to get ready. I don’t intend to make any farther sacrifice to the rigour of fashion than just pull off these sleeves, dip my fingers into a basin of water, and tuck up my tresses a little.”

“O Marion!”

“Not a pin, nor ribbon, except what’s necessary to hold up my troublesome horse-load of hair. I’ve a good mind to cut it short. Sooth! I feel like pulling some of it out through sheer vexation!”

“Vexation – with what?”

“What – what – why being bored with these blustering fellows – especially when one wants to be alone.”

“But, cousin; these gentlemen cannot help their being here. They have to obey the commands of the king. They are behaving very civilly? Walter has told me so. Besides, uncle has enjoined upon us to treat them with courtesy.”

“Aha! they’ll have scant courtesy from me. All they’ll get will be a yes and a no; and that not very civilly, unless they deserve it.”

“But if they deserve it?”

“If they do – ”

“Walter says they have offered profuse apologies, and regrets.”

“For what?”

“For the necessity they are under of becoming uncle’s guests.”

“I don’t believe so – no, not a bit. Look at their rude behaviour at the very beginning – kissing that bold girl Bet Dancey, in the presence of a thousand spectators! Ha! well punished was captain Scarthe for his presumption. He feel regret! I don’t believe it, Lora. That man’s a hypocrite. There’s falsehood written in his face, along with a large quantity of conceit; and as for the cornet – the only thing discernible in his countenance is – stupidity.”

As Marion pronounced the last word, she had completed her toilette – all that she had promised or intended to make. She was one who needed not to take much trouble before the mirror. Dressed or in déshabille she was the same – ever beautiful. Nature had made her in its fairest mould, and Art could not alter the design.

Her preparations for the dinner table consisted simply in replacing her morning boddice by one without sleeves – which displayed her snow-white arms nearly to the shoulders. Having adjusted this, she inserted one hand under her wavy golden hair; and, adroitly turning its profuse tresses round her wrist, she rolled them into a spiral coil, which by means of a pair of large hair pins she confined at the back of her head. Then, dipping her hands into a basin of water, she shook off the crystal drops from the tips of her roseate fingers; wiped them on a white napkin; flung the towel upon the table; and cried “Come on!”

Followed by the light-hearted Lora, she descended to the dining hall, where the two officers were already awaiting their presence.

A dinner-party under such circumstances as that which assembled around the table of Sir Marmaduke Wade – small in numbers though it was – could not be otherwise than coldly formal.

The host himself was polite to his uninvited guests – studiously so; but not all his habitual practice of courtly manners could conceal a certain embarrassment, that now and then exhibited itself in incidents of a trivial character.

On his part the cuirassier captain used every effort to thaw the ice that surrounded him. He lost no opportunity of expressing his regret: at being the recipient of such a peculiar hospitality; nor was he at all backward in censuring his royal master for making him so.

But for an occasional distrustful glance visible under the shaggy eyebrows of the knight – visible only at intervals, and to one closely watching him – it might have been supposed that Sir Marmaduke was warming to the words of his wily guest. That glance, however, told of a distrust, not to be removed by the softest and most courteous of speeches.

Marion adhered to her promise, and spoke only in monosyllables; though her fine open countenance expressed neither distrust nor dislike. The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was too proud to appear otherwise than indifferent. If she felt contempt, there was no evidence of it – neither in the curling of her lip, nor the cast of her eye.

Equally in vain did Scarthe scrutinise her countenance for a sign of admiration. His most gallant speeches were received with an air of frigid indifference – his wittiest sallies elicited only such smiles as courtesy could not refuse.

If Marion at any time showed sign of emotion, it was when her glance was turned towards the window: apparently in quest of some object that should be visible outside. Then her bosom might be seen swelling with a suppressed sigh – as if her thoughts were dwelling on one who was absent.

Slight as were these manifestations, they did not escape the observation of the experienced Scarthe. He saw, and half interpreted, their meaning – his brow blackening under bitter fancies thus conjured up.

Though seated with his back to the window, more than once he turned half round: to see if there was any one in sight.

When the wine had been passed several times, making him less cautious, his glances of admiration became bolder, his speeches less courteous, and reserved.

The cornet talked little. It was enough for him to endorse the sentiments of his superior officer by an occasional monosyllable.

Though silent, Stubbs was not altogether satisfied with what was passing. The by-play between Walter and Lora, who were seated together, was far from pleasing to him. He had not been many minutes at the table, before discovering that the cousins had an amiable inclination towards each other; which carried him to the conclusion, that, in the son of Sir Marmaduke he would find a formidable rival.

Even on the blank page of his stolid countenance soon became discernible the lines that indicate jealousy; while in his white skewbald eyes could be detected a glance not a whit more amiable, than that which flashed more determinedly from the dark orbs of the cuirassier captain.

The dinner passed without any unpleasant contretemps. The party separated after a reasonable time – Sir Marmaduke excusing himself upon some matter of business – the ladies having already made their curtsey to their stranger guests.

Walter, rather from politeness than any inclination, remained a while longer in the company of the two officers; but, as the companionship was kept up under a certain feeling of restraint, he was only too well pleased to join them in toasting The king! – which, like our modern lay of royalty, was regarded as the finale to every species of entertainment.

Walter strayed off in search of his sister and cousin – most likely only the latter; while the officers, not yet invited into the sanctuary of the family circle, retired to their room – to talk over the incidents of the dinner, or plot some scheme for securing the indulgence of those amorous inclinations, with which both were now thoroughly imbued.

Volume Two – Chapter Two

Marion Wade was alone – as before, standing in her window under the arcade of parted tapestry – as before, with eyes bent on the iron gate and ivy-wreathed portals that supported it.

Everything was as before: the spotted kine lounging slowly over the lea; the fallow deer browsing upon the sward; and the birds singing their sweet songs, or winging their way from copse to copse.

The sun only had changed position. Lower down in the sky, he was sinking still lower – softly and slowly, upon a couch of purple coloured clouds. The crests of the Chilterns were tinted with a roseate hue; and the summit of the Beacon-hill appeared in a blaze, as when by night its red fires had been wont to give warning of the approach of a hostile fleet by the channels of the Severn.

Brilliant and lovely as was the sunset, Marion Wade saw it not; or, if seeing, it was with an eye that stayed not to admire.

That little space of rust-coloured iron and grey stonework – just visible under the hanging branches of the trees – had an attraction for her far outstripping the gaudy changes of the sunset.

Thus ran her reflections: – “Walter said he would come – perhaps not before evening. ’Tis a visit to papa – only him! What can be its purpose? Maybe something relating to the trouble that has fallen upon us? Us said he is against the king, and for the people. ’Twas on that account Dorothy Dayrell spoke slightingly of him. For that shall not I. No – never – never! She said he must be peasant born. ’Tis a false slander. He is gentle, or I know not a gentleman.

“What am I to think of yesterday – that girl and her flowers? I wish there had not been a fête. I shall never go to another!

“I was so happy when I saw my glove upon his beaver. If ’tis gone, and those flowers have replaced it, I shall not care to live longer – not a day – not an hour!”

A sudden change came over both the attitude and reflections of Marion Wade.

Some one had opened the gate! It was a man – a rider – bestriding a black horse!

An instinct stronger than ordinary aided in the identification of this approaching horseman. The eyes of love need not the aid of a glass; and Marion saw him with such.

“It is he!” she repeated in full confidence, as the cavalier, emerging from the shadow of the trees commenced ascending the slope of the hill.

Marion kept her eyes bent upon the advancing horseman, in straining gaze; and thus continued until he had arrived within a hundred yards of the moat that surrounded the mansion. One might have supposed that she was still uncertain as to his identity.

But her glance was directed neither upon his face nor form, but towards a point higher than either – towards the brow of his beaver – where something white appeared to have fixed her regard. This soon assumed the form and dimensions of a lady’s gauntlet – its slender fingers tapering towards the crown of the hat, and outlined conspicuously against the darker background.

“It is the glove —my glove!” said she, gasping out the words, as if the recognition had relieved her from some terrible suspense. “Yes, it is still there. O joy!”

All at once the thrill of triumph became checked, by a contrary emotion. Something red was seen protruding from under the rim of the beaver, and close to the glove. Was it a flower?

The flowers given by Maid Marian were of that colour! Was it one of them?

Quick as the suspicion had arisen did it pass away. The red object sparkled in the sun. It was not a flower; but the garnet clasp that held the gauntlet in its place. Marion remembered the clasp. She had noticed it the day before.

She breathed freely again. Her heart was happier than ever. She was too happy to gaze longer on that which was giving her content. She dreaded to exhibit her blushing cheek to the eyes of the man, whose presence caused it to blush; and she retired behind the curtain, to enjoy unobserved a moment of delicious emotion.

Her happiness did not hinder her from once more returning to the window; but too late to see the cavalier as he passed across the parterre. She knew, however, that he had entered the house, and was at that moment below in the library – holding with her father the promised interview.

She knew not the purpose of his visit. It could not have reference to herself. She could only conjecture its connection with the political incidents of the time; which were talked of in every house – even to dividing the sentiments of the family circle, and disturbing the tranquillity of more than one erst happy home.

She was aware that the visit of Henry Holtspur was only to her father. He had come, and might go as he had come, without the chance of her exchanging speech with him; and as this thought came into her mind, she half regretted having retired from the window. By so doing, she had lost the very opportunity long desired – often wished for in vain.

Only a word or two had been spoken between them on the day before, – the stiff ceremonial phrases of introduction – after which the incident of the duel had abruptly parted them.

Now that Holtspur had been presented by a brother – and with the sanction of a father – what reason was there for reserve? Even prudery could not show excuse for keeping aloof. She should have spoken to him from the balcony. She should have welcomed him to the house. He must have seen her at the window? What reflection might he have, about her retiring – as if to hide herself from his gaze? He would scarce consider it courtesy? He might fancy he had given her some offence – perhaps in that very act which had produced such an opposite impression – the triumphant exposure of her glove?

Perhaps he might take offence at her coy conduct, and pluck the token from its place? How could she convey to him the knowledge, of her happiness at beholding it there? How tell him that he was but too welcome to wear it?

“If I could find the other,” she soliloquised in low murmuring, “I should carry it in some conspicuous place, where he might see it – on my hand – my breast – in the frontlet of my coif, as he wears its fellow in his beaver. If only for a moment, it would tell him what I wish, without words. Alas! I’ve lost the other. Too surely have I lost it. Everywhere have I searched in vain. What can I have done with it? Bad omen, I fear, to miss it at such a time!”

“If he go forth as he has come,” continued she, resuming her mental soliloquy, “I shall not have the opportunity to speak to him at all – perhaps not even to exchange salutation. He will scarce ask to see me. He may not look back. I cannot call after him. What is to be done?”

There was a pause, as if her thoughts were silently occupied in forming some plan.

“Ha!” she exclaimed at length, pretending to look inquiringly out of the window. “Lora and Walter are wandering somewhere through the park? I shall go in search of them.”

The motive thus disclosed was but a mere pretence – put forth to satisfy the natural instincts of a maiden’s modesty. It ended the struggle between this, and the powerful passion that was warring against it.

Marion flung the coifed hood over her head; drew the coverchief forward to shade the sun from her face – perchance also to hide the virgin blush which her thoughts had called forth; and, gliding down stairs, passed out on her pretended errand.

If she had either desire, or design, to find those she went forth to seek, she was destined to disappointment. Indeed her search was not likely to have been successful: for, on issuing from the house, she went only in one particular direction – the most unlikely one for Walter and Lora Lovelace to have taken at that hour: since it was a path that led directly to the western entrance of the park.

Had she sought the old Saxon camp, it is probable she would have found the missing pair, though more than probable, that neither would have thanked her for her pains.

As it was, she took the opposite way; and, after traversing a long stretch of avenue with slow lingering steps, she found herself near that old ivy-grown gateway that opened upon the Oxford high-road.

Apparently terrified at having strayed so far, at such a late hour – for the sun was now hidden behind the trees – she faced round, and commenced retracing her steps towards the mansion.

True, there was an expression upon her face resembling fear; but it was not that of alarm at the late hour, nor the distance that lay between her and the dwelling. Rather was it the fear one feels in doing some act that may expose to censure or shame.

Marion Wade was upon the eve of committing such an act. She had long since abandoned the idea of that self-deception – with which upon starting forth she had tried to still the scruples of her conscience. She was no longer looking for Lora Lovelace or Walter Wade; but for one who was now dearer to her than either cousin or brother. She was waiting for Henry Holtspur – that noble cavalier, whose graceful image had taken complete possession of her heart – waiting and watching for him, with all the eagerness that a powerful passion can inspire.

It was still only twilight; and any one, coming down the avenue, might have noticed a white object, appearing at intervals round the stems of the trees that skirted the path. This object would remain stationary for a moment, and be then withdrawn – to appear again at another point, a little nearer to the house. A good eye might have told it to be the head of a woman, wearing a white hood – the graceful coif or coverchief of the time.

Henry Holtspur observed it as he rode down the slope of the hill – after having taken leave of Sir Marmaduke Wade. He simply supposed it to be some peasant girl coming up the path – for in such a light, and at such distance, who could tell the difference between a cottager and a queen?

Had he known who it was – had he suspected the bright object moving like a meteor from tree to tree was the beautiful Marion Wade, it would have sent the blood tingling from the stirrups under his feet to the crown of his head.

No such suspicion was in his mind. He was too busy chafing at the disappointment of having left the house, without seeing her, to imagine for a moment that such a splendid fortune was still in store for him.

And the blood did tingle from the stirrups beneath his feet to the crown of his head – thrilled through every vein of his body – as, arriving opposite to the advancing form, he perceived it to be no peasant, but the peerless Marion Wade – she so exclusively occupying his thoughts.

To check his steed to a stand, as if threatened by some sudden danger – to raise the beaver from his head, and bow to the peak of his saddle – were acts that proceeded rather from instinct than any reasoned design.

At the same instant escaped from his lips, partially in salute, and partially as if elicited by surprise, the words —

“Mistress Marion Wade!” There was an interval of embarrassment; how could it be otherwise?

It was brief. Henry Holtspur was over thirty years of age, and Marion Wade had escaped from her teens. The passion that had sprung up between them was not the fond fancy of boyhood or girlhood. On his side it was the love of manhood; on hers an affection with a man for its object – a man mature, with a past to be proud of – one in whose face and features could be traced the souvenirs of gallant deeds – whose romantic mien betrayed a type of heroism not to be mistaken.

With Marion it was her first affection – the first that could be called real. With Holtspur perhaps, it was to be the last love of his life – ever the strongest: since the heart then can hope for no other.

It was not the place of the maiden to speak first; and, though scarce knowing what to say, Holtspur made an effort to break the spell of that hesitating silence.

“Pardon me, for interrupting your walk!” said he, seeing that she had stopped, and stood facing him; “It is but fair to confess that I have been wishing for an opportunity of speaking with you. The unlucky incident of yesterday – of which I believe you were a spectator – hindered me from meeting you again; and I was just reflecting upon having experienced a similar misfortune to-day, when you appeared. I hope, Mistress Wade you will not be offended at being thus waylaid?”

“Oh! certainly not,” answered she, slightly surprised, if not piqued, by the somewhat business-like candour of his speeches. “You have been on a visit to my father, I believe?”

“I have,” replied the cavalier, equally chilled by the indifferent character of the question.

“I hope, sir,” said Marion, throwing a little more warmth into her manner, “you received no hurt from your encounter of yesterday?”

“Thanks, Mistress Marion! not the slightest; except, indeed – ”

“Except what, sir?” inquired the lady, with a look of alarm.

“Only that I looked for fair eyes to smile upon my poor victory.”

“If mine deceived me not, you were not disappointed. There was one who not only smiled upon it, but seemed desirous to crown it with flowers! It was but natural: since it was in her defence you drew your sword, brave sir.”

“Ah!” responded the cavalier, appearing for the first time to remember the incident of the flower presentation. “You speak of the peasant girl who represented Maid Marian? I believe she did force some flowers into my hand; though she owed me less gratitude than she thinks for. It was not to champion her that I took up the quarrel; but rather to punish a swaggerer. In truth I had quite forgotten the episode of the flowers.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Marion, a flush of joy suffusing her face, which she seemed endeavouring to conceal. “Is it thus you reward gratitude? Methinks, Sir, you should value it at a higher price!”

“It depends,” said the cavalier, rather puzzled for a reply, “on whether gratitude has been deserved. For my part I consider myself as altogether without any claim to the gratitude of the girl. The conduct of the cuirassier captain was a slight to all on the ground. But now, since I have come to confession, I should say that it was in the interest of others I took up the gauntlet against him.”

Marion glanced at the little glove set coquettishly in the crown of the cavalier’s hat. She fancied that he laid a significant emphasis on the figurative phrase, “took up the gauntlet.” Her glance, however, was quick and furtive – as if fearful of betraying the sweet thoughts his words had suggested.

There was a pause in the conversation – another interval of hesitating silence, when neither knew what to say – each fearing to risk the compromise of a trivial remark.

Marion had recalled the introductory speech of the cavalier. She had it upon her tongue to demand from him its meaning; when the latter relieved her by resuming the discourse.

“Yes,” he said, “there are occasions when one does not deserve gratitude, even for what may appear an honest act; as, for instance, one who has found something that has been lost, and returns it to the owner, only after long delay, and with great reluctance.”

As Holtspur spoke, he pointed to the glove in his hat. Marion’s face betrayed a strange mixture of emotion – half distressed, half triumphant.

She was too much embarrassed to make answer.

The cavalier continued his figurative discourse.

“The finder having no right to the thing found, it should be given up. That is but simple honesty, and scarce deserving of thanks. For example, I have picked up this pretty gauntlet; and, however much I might wish to keep it – as a souvenir of one of the happiest moments of my existence – I feel constrained, by all the rules of honour and honesty, to restore it to its rightful owner – unless that owner, knowing how much I prize it, will consent to my keeping it.”

Holtspur bent low in his saddle, and listened attentively for the rejoinder.

“Keep it!” said Marion, abandoning all affectation of ignorance as to his meaning, and accompanying the assent with a gracious smile. “Keep it, sir, if it so please you.”

Then, as if fearing that she had surrendered too freely, she added in a tone of naïveté, – “It would be no longer of any use to me – since I have lost the other – its fellow.”

This last announcement counteracted the pleasant impression which her consent had produced; and once more precipitated Henry Holtspur into the sea of uncertainty.

“No longer of any use to her,” thought he, repeating her words. “If that be her only motive for bestowing it, then will it be no longer of any value to me.”

He felt something like chagrin. He was almost on the point of returning the doubtful token.

“Perhaps,” said he, hesitatingly, “I have offended, by keeping it so long without your consent – and more by displaying it as I have done. For the former I might claim excuse: on the plea that I had no opportunity of restoring it. But for the latter I fear I can offer no justification. I can only plead the promptings of a vain hope – of a passion, that I now believe to be hopeless, as it will be deemed presumptive.”

The tone of despondency in which this speech was delivered, struck sweetly on the ear of Marion Wade. It had the true ring of love’s utterance; and she intuitively recognised it. She could scarce conceal her joy as she made rejoinder: —

“Why should I be offended, either at your detaining the glove, or wearing it?” As she said this she regarded the cavalier with a forgiving smile. “The first was unavoidable; the other I ought to esteem an honour. Setting store by a lady’s favour is not the way, sir, to offend her.”

“Favour! Then she has meant it as such!”

Along with the unspoken thought, a gleam of returning confidence shot over the cavalier’s countenance.

“I can no longer endure the doubt,” muttered he: “I shall speak to her more plainly. Marion Wade!”

Her name was uttered aloud, and in a tone of appeal that caused her to glance up with some surprise. In her look there was no trace of displeasure at the familiar mode of address.

“Speak, sir!” she said, encouragingly. “You have something to say?”

“A question to ask – only one; and oh! Marion Wade, answer it with candour! You promise?”

“I promise.”

“You say you have lost the other glove?”

Marion nodded an affirmative.

“Tell me then, and truly: did you lose this one?”

“The cavalier, as he spoke, pointed to the white gauntlet.”

“Your meaning, sir?”

“Ah! Marion Wade, you are evading the answer. Tell me if it fell from your fair hand unknown – unnoticed – or was it dropped by design? Tell me – oh, tell me truly!”

He could not read the answer in her eyes: for the long lashes had fallen over them, hiding the blue orbs beneath. The red blood mantling upon her cheeks, and mounting up to her forehead, should have aided him to it, had he been closely observing. Her silence, too, might have served to enlighten him, as to the reply she would have made, had her modesty permitted speech.

“I have been candid with you,” he continued, urging his appeal by argument; “I have thrown myself upon your mercy. If you care not for the happiness of one who would risk his life for yours, then do I adjure you, as you care for truth, to speak the truth! Dropped you this glove by accident, or design?”