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The White Gauntlet
“Oh! as to my approval, it don’t need that. It’s not a military matter. You may propose to every woman in the county for aught I care; twenty times to each, if you think fit.”
“But I want your advice, captain. Suppose she should refuse me a second time?”
“Why that would be awkward – especially as you’re sleeping under the same roof, and eating at the same table with her. The more awkward, since you say you’ve had a refusal already.”
“It wasn’t a regular offer. Besides I was too quick with it. There’s been a good deal since, that gives me hope. She’ll think better of it now – if I don’t mistake her.”
“You are not quite sure of her, then?”
“Well – not exactly.”
“Don’t you think you had better postpone your proposal, till you’re more certain of its being favourably received?”
“But there’s a way to make certain. It’s about that, I want you to advise me.”
“Let me hear your ‘way’?”
“Well; you see, captain, though the girl’s only the niece of Sir Marmaduke, she loves him quite as much as his own daughter does. I don’t think she cares about that stripling – farther than as a cousin. What’s between them is just like sister and brother: since she’s got no brother of her own. They’ve been brought up together – that’s all.”
“I can’t help admiring your perspicuity, Cornet Stubbs.”
Perspicuity was just that quality with which the cornet was not gifted; else he could hardly have failed to notice the tone of irony, in which the compliment was uttered.
“Oh! I ain’t afraid of him at all events!”
“What then are you afraid of? Is there any other rival, you think, she’s likely to prefer to you? May be young Dayrell; or that rather good-looking son of Sir Roger Hammersley? Either of them, eh?”
“No – nor any one else.”
“In that case, why are you in doubt? You think the girl likes you?”
“Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don’t. She appears to change every day. But I’ve reason to believe, she likes me now; or did yesterday.”
“How do you know that? Has she told you so?”
“No – not in words; but I think so from her way. I hinted to her, that I intended to have a private talk with her upon an important matter, when we should be out on this hawking party. She appeared delighted at the idea – did, by Ged! Besides; she was in tip-top spirits all the evening after; and several times spoke of the pleasure she expected from to-morrow’s sport – that is to-day. Now, what could that mean, unless – ”
“Unless the pleasure she anticipated from your proposing to her. But if her liking be only on alternate days – as you say – and she was so fond of you yesterday, she might be in the contrary mood to-day? For that reason I’d advise you to suspend proceedings till to-morrow.”
“But, captain; you forget that I’ve got a way that will insure her consent – whether it be to-day or to-morrow.”
“Disclose it, my sagacious cornet.”
“If I should only give her a hint – ”
“Of what?”
“You know how Sir Marmaduke is in your power.”
“I do.”
“Well; if I only were to slip in a word about her uncle being in danger; not only of his liberty but his life – ”
“Stubbs!” cried the cuirassier captain, springing forward fiercely, and shaking his clenched fist before the face of his subaltern; “if you slip in a word about that – or dare to whisper the slightest hint of such a thing – your own life will be in greater danger, than that of Sir Marmaduke Wade. I’ve commanded you already to keep your tongue to yourself on that theme; and now, more emphatically do I repeat the command.”
“Oh! captain,” stammered out the terrified Stubbs, in an apologetic whine; “if you don’t approve, of course I won’t say a word about it. I won’t, by Ged!”
“No; you had better not. Win the consent of your sweetheart, after your own way; but don’t try to take advantage of a power, that does not appertain to you. A contingency may arise, for disclosing that secret; but it is for me, not you, to judge of the crisis.”
The further protestations of the scared cornet were cut short by the entrance of a messenger; who came to announce that the party, about to proceed on the hawking excursion, was ready to start, and only waited the company of Captain Scarthe and Cornet Stubbs.
Five minutes later, a cavalcade of splendid appearance might have been seen passing through Bulstrode Park, towards one of the side gates that opened out to the eastward.
It consisted of Sir Marmaduke Wade, his son, daughter and niece – the two officers, his guests – with a large following of grooms, falconers, and other attendants; a number of them on horseback, with hawks perched upon their shoulders; a still larger number afoot – conducting the retrievers, others chiens de chasse, employed in the venerie of the time.
On clearing the enclosure of the park, the gay procession turned in a southerly direction – towards the beautiful lake of Fulmere; which, fed by the Alder “burn,” lay embosomed between two parallel spurs of the beech-embowered Chilterns.
Volume Three – Chapter Twelve
The Lake “Fulmere” is no longer in existence; though a village – so picturesque, as to appear the creation of a painter’s fancy – still retains the name. The “mere” itself – yielding to the all-absorbing spirit of utilitarianism – has disappeared from the landscape – drained off by the brook “Alderburne,” and the rivers Colne, and Thames, to mingle its waters with the ocean. Its bed has become a meadow – the residue of its waters being retained in sundry stagnant pools, which serve to supply the neighbouring markets with cress, and the pharmacopoeia of the village apothecaries with “calamus root.”
Once a broad sheet of crystal water covered the cress-beds of Fulmere – a sheet with sedgy shores, in which sheltered the bittern, and blue heron, the bald coot, the water-hen, and the gold-crested widgeon.
It was so on that day, when Dorothy Dayrell – the daughter of Sir Frederick, Lord of the Manor of Fulmere – invited her friends to be present at a grand entertainment – including falconry – the spectacle to be exhibited upon the shores of the lake.
Dorothy Dayrell was something more than pretty. She was what might be termed a “dashing creature,” – a little devilish, it is true – but this, in the eyes of her male acquaintances, only rendered her prettiness more piquant. Following the fashion of her father, she was of the true Tory type – devotedly attached to King and State – and blindly believing in that theory – worthy the conception of a community of apes – the “right divine.”
Silly as is the belief, it was then entertained, as, now. At that time, human bipeds of both sexes were just as parasitical, as they are at the present hour; and as loudly proclaimed their ignoble longings for King Stork, or King Log. Not, however, quite so unanimously. The word “republic” was beginning to be heard, issuing from the lips of great statesmen, and true patriots. It was beginning to find an echo in remote villages, and cottage homes, throughout all England.
Not that such sentiments had ever been spoken in the village of Fulmere. To have pronounced them there, would have been deemed rank treason; and the rustic giving utterance to them, would have found himself in the pillory, almost before the speech could have passed from his lips.
Dorothy hated the idea of a republic; as small-souled people do now, and have done in all ages. We regret having to place the fair Dayrell in this category; but we must succumb to the requirements of truth; and this compels us to say that Mistress Dorothy, physically, petite, was morally little-minded. Her pretty face, however, concealed the defects of her selfish soul; and, aided by many wiles and winning ways, rendered her sufficiently popular in that large social circle, of which she was, or wished to be, both the star and the centre.
Some proof of her popularity was the crowd that responded to her call, and was present at her hawking party. Scores of people of “first quality” – dames of high degree, and cavaliers appropriate to such companionship – collected upon the shores of Fulmere Lake; cast resplendent shadows upon its smooth surface; and caused its enclosing hills to resound with the echoes of their merry voices.
It is not our purpose to detail the various incidents of the day’s sport: how the party, having met at an appointed place, proceeded around the shores of the lake; how the herons rose screaming from the sedge, and the hawks shot like winged arrows after them; how the owners of the predatory birds bantered one another, and wagers were laid and lost by betters of both sexes; and how – when the circuit of the lake had been accomplished, and the adjacent reedy marshes quartered by the spaniels, until cleared of their feathered game – the gay company wended their way to the summit of the adjoining hill; and there, under the shadows of the greenwood trees, partook of an al fresco banquet, which their knightly entertainer had provided for them.
Nor need we describe the conversation – varied of course – always lively under such circumstances; often witty – after the wine has flowed freely.
One topic alone claims our attention – as it did that of the company. It was introduced by Mistress Dorothy herself – to whom of course every one obsequiously listened.
“I regret,” said this charming creature, addressing herself to her splendid surrounding, “that I’ve not been able to provide you with a more spirited entertainment. After that, we witnessed the other day in Bulstrode Park, our fête will appear tame, I know. Ah! if we only had the black horseman here. How cruel of you, Captain Scarthe, to have deprived us of that pleasure?”
“Mistress Dayrell,” replied the officer, on whom the speech had made anything but a pleasant impression, “I regret exceedingly that in the performance of my duty – in dealing with a rebel – I should – ”
“No apologies, Captain Scarthe!” interposed Sir Frederick, coming to the rescue of the embarrassed cuirassier. “We all know that you acted, as becomes a loyal servant of his Majesty. It would be well if others, in these doubtful times, would display a like energy.” Here Sir Frederick glanced sarcastically towards his neighbour knight – between whom and himself there was not the most cordial friendship. “The only regret is, that the fellow – whoever he may be – was permitted to escape; but, I dare say, he will soon be retaken, and meet with his deserts.”
“And what would you deem his deserts, Dayrell?” quietly asked Sir Marmaduke Wade.
“The block!” replied the fiery Sir Frederick, who had been partaking rather freely of his own wine. “What else for an adventurer like him, who conspires against his king? I’d chop off his head like a cabbage.”
“By so doing,” rejoined Sir Marmaduke, in a tone of satirical significancy, “you would only cause a score of like heads to sprout up in its place.”
“Let them sprout up! We’ll serve them the same way. We shall still have the power to do so – in spite of this parliament of traitors, which the king has been so foolish as to think of recalling around him.”
“Oh, dear father!” interrupted the pretty Dorothy, in a tone of pseudo-sentimentality.
“Don’t talk of chopping off heads. What a pity it would be if Captain Scarthe’s late prisoner were to lose his! I’m so glad he escaped from you, captain.”
“Why is this, girl?” asked Sir Frederick, turning rather sharply upon his daughter. “Why would it be a pity? I’ve heard you this very morning express the opposite opinion!”
“But I did not know then – that – that – ”
“Know what?” interrogated several of the party, who encompassed the fair speaker.
“That there were others interested in the fate of the unfortunate man. Ah! deeply so!” A malicious glance towards Marion Wade did not escape the attention of the latter; and it was also noticed by Scarthe.
“Others interested in his fate. Who, pray?” demanded Sir Frederick, looking inquiringly towards his daughter.
“His wife, for one,” replied Dorothy, laying a peculiar emphasis on the words.
“His wife!” simultaneously echoed a score of voices. “The black horseman a Benedict! Holtspur married! We never knew that.”
“Nor I,” continued the pretty imparter of the startling intelligence – “not till an hour ago. I’ve just heard it from cousin Wayland here; who came this morning from court – where, it seems, Master Holtspur is well-known; though not by the name he has chosen to make celebrated among us simple rustics of Buckinghamshire.”
“’Tis quite true,” said a youth in courtier costume, who stood close to her who had thus appealed to him. “The gentleman my cousin speaks of is married. I thought it was known to everybody.”
“How could it, dear Wayland?” asked Dorothy, with an air of charming simplicity. “Master Holtspur was not known to any one here – except, I believe, to Sir Marmaduke Wade and his family; and, if I mistake not, only very slightly to them?”
A significant curling of the speaker’s pretty nostril accompanied this final remark – which was intended as an interrogative.
“That is true,” answered Sir Marmaduke. “My acquaintance, with the gentleman you speak of, is but slight. I was not aware of his being a married man; but what has that to do – ”
“O, ladies and gentlemen!” interrupted the freshly arrived courtier, “perhaps you are not aware of the real name of this cavalier who has been calling himself Holtspur. He has been of some notoriety at court; though that was before my time; and I’ve only heard of it from others. There was a scandal, I believe – ”
“Come, come, Wayland!” cried his fair cousin, interrupting him. “No scandals here. Keep it, whatever it be, to yourself.”
“His name! his name!” shouted a score of voices; while twice that number of ears – piqued by the word “scandal” – were eagerly bent to listen to the threatened disclosure.
The courtier gave utterance to a name, known to most of the company; and which ten years before had been oftener pronounced in connexion with that of England’s queen. Only in whispers, it is true, and less discreditable to Henry than Henrietta.
The announcement produced an effect upon the auditory of a very peculiar character. It was certainly not so damaging to him, who was the subject of their criticisms: for in the minds of many there present, the man of bonnes fortunes was a character to be envied rather than despised; and the favourite page – whose mysterious disappearance from court, some ten years before, had given rise to a “royal scandal” – could not be otherwise than interesting.
The knowledge that Henry Holtspur, the black horseman – the mysterious – the unknown – was identical with Henry – , once a queen’s page – the recipient of royal smiles – perhaps, in that assemblage gained him more friends than enemies. Such as were still disposed to be hostile to him, could no longer avail themselves of that mode of reviling – still so customary among the “elite” – by calling him an “adventurer.” This had he been in the true sense of the term – an adventurer, but one to be envied by his enemies.
Even the heart of the dashing Dorothy, became suddenly softened towards him, on hearing the new revelation made by her cousin Wayland. That expression of sympathy for him – supposed by her auditory to have been ironical – was a more sincere sentiment, than usually fell from her lips.
The scandal was not discussed among Sir Frederick’s guests – at least not in open assembly. The whisperings of side groups may have referred to it; but it was too old to be interesting – even to the most industrious dealers in crim. con. gossip.
The general conversation became changed to a theme more appropriate to the occasion; though a small congenial group, who had gathered around the young Wayland, were treated to some further details – relating to the matrimonial affairs of the patriot conspirator.
Of these not much knew the courtier; nor indeed any one else upon the ground. He could only inform his auditory – what some of them already knew: that Henry – had been secretly married to one of the noble ladies of Queen Henrietta’s court – that the marriage ceremony, had been followed by an affair, in which the Queen herself had taken an unusual interest – in short, by a separation between man and wife – by the loss of the greater part of the young husband’s fortune – and finally by his disappearance, both from the court and the country. Among other adventurous spirits of the time, he had emigrated to the colonies of Virginia.
To do Master Wayland justice, he evinced no particular hostility towards the man, whose history he was narrating; though, on the other hand, he said nothing in his defence. It was not his province to make known the nature of that conjugal quarrel; or say who was in fault. In truth, the stripling but ill understood it. He did not know that royal jealousy had been the cause of that sudden separation between Henry – and his bride-wife; and that it was an act of royal revenge, that had transformed the courtier into a colonist.
The subject, after a time, losing interest, was permitted to drop – the conversation changing to other themes.
There was one whose thoughts could not be distracted from it. Need I say it was Marion Wade?
Amidst the gay company, her gaiety was gone. The roses upon which the mid-day son was but the moment before brightly beaming, had forsaken her cheeks – on that instant when the word “wife” fell from the lips of Dorothy Dayrell.
To her the hawking party was no longer a party of pleasure. The sociality that surrounded her was only irksome and to withdraw from it had been her first thought. To escape observation as well: for she knew that the dire cloud, that had settled over her heart, could not fail to be reflected in her face.
On recovering from the shock caused by the unexpected announcement, she had turned her back upon the company, and stolen silently away.
The trees standing closely around the spot – with the underwood still in foliage – favoured her withdrawal – as also the peculiar topic of conversation which at the moment was absorbing the attention of all.
She had not stayed to listen to the further revelations made by the courtier Wayland – the one word spoken by his cousin had been the cue for her silent exit from the circle of conversation.
She needed no confirmation of what she had heard. A vague suspicion already conceived, springing out of the ambiguity of some stray speeches let fall by Holtspur himself – not only at their first interview, but while arranging the terms of that parting promise – had the foundation for an easy faith in the statement of Dorothy Dayrell.
Painful as was the conviction, Marion could not resist it. She thought not of calling it in question.
Once among the trees she glided rapidly on – knowing not whether; nor caring: so long as her steps carried her far from the companionship of her own kind.
After wandering awhile, she came to a stop; and now, for the first time, did her countenance betray, in all its palpable reality, the bitterness that was burning within her.
Her heart felt, as if parting in twain. A sigh – a half-suppressed scream – escaped from her bosom; and, but that she had seized upon a sapling to support herself, she would have fallen to the earth.
No pen could paint her emotions at that moment. They were too painful to permit of speech. Only one word fell from her lips – low-murmured and in accents of extremest sadness – the black word “Betrayed!”
Though silent in speech, her thoughts flowed fast and freely.
This, then, is the barrier that might come between us. Might come! Oh! the falsehood! And such a promise as I have given! Despite every obstacle, to love him! I thought not of this – how could I? No promise can bridge over such a chasm. I may not – I dare not keep it. ’Tis no sin to break it now. Mother of God! give me the strength!
“Ah! ’tis easy to talk of breaking it. Merciful Heaven! the power has passed from me!
“’Tis sinful on either side. Perjury the one, a worse crime the other. I feel powerless to choose between them. Alas! – alas! Despite his betrayal, I love him, I love him!
“Am I not wronging him? Was not I the wooer – I, Marion Wade? Was it not I who gave the first sign – the challenge – everything?
“What meant he to have said at that moment, when our last interview was interrupted? What was it, he was about to declare – and yet hesitated? Perhaps he intended to have made this very disclosure – to tell me all? Oh I could have forgiven him; but now I may not – I dare not – ”
She paused, as if conscious how idle it was, to give thought to a resolve she had not the power to keep.
“Married! Holtspur married! Alas! my love dream is ended! No – not ended! ’tis only changed from sweet to sad; and this will never change till my unhappy heart be stilled in the sleep of death!”
The despairing maiden stood with her white fingers still clasped around the stem of the sapling – her eyes bent upon the ground in vacant gaze, as if all thought had forsaken her.
For some minutes she remained in this attitude – motionless as the tree that supported her.
The sound of an approaching footstep failed to startle her. She heard, without heeding it. Her sorrow had rendered her insensible even to shame. She cared little now, who might behold her emotion.
The footstep was too light to be mistaken for that of a man. Marion had no time for conjecture: for almost on the instant, she heard the voice of her cousin Lora calling her by name.
“Marion! where are you? – I want you, cousin.”
“Here, Lora!” replied the latter, in a feeble voice, at the same time making an effort to appear calm.
“Oh!” exclaimed the pretty blonde, hurriedly making her way through the underwood, and stopping before her cousin with blushing cheeks and palpitating bosom. “Lord a mercy, coz! – I’ve got such a story to tell you. What do you think it is? Guess!”
“You know, I’m not good at guessing, Lora. I hope you havn’t lost your favourite merlin?”
“No – not so bad as that; though I’ve lost something.”
“What, pray?”
“A lover!”
“Ah!” exclaimed Marion with a sad emphasis. Then, making an effort to conceal her emotion, she added in another strain, “I hope Walter hasn’t been flirting with Dorothy Dayrell?”
“Bother Dorothy Dayrell!”
“Well – perhaps with one you might have more reason to be afraid of – Miss Winifred Wayland?”
“Not so bad as that neither. It’s another lover I’ve lost!”
“Oh! you confess to having had another. Have you told Walter so?”
“Bother about Walter! Who do you think I’m speaking of?”
“Captain Scarthe perhaps – whom you admire so much. Is he the lover you have lost?”
“Not so bad as that neither. Guess again?”
“A third there is, or has been! You wicked coquette?”
“Not I. I never gave him the slightest encouragement. I am sure, never. Did you ever see me, coz?”
“When you tell me who this lost lover is, I shall be the better able to answer you.”
“Who he is! Cornet Stubbs, of course.”
“Oh! he. And how have you come to lose him? Has he made away with himself? He hasn’t drowned himself in the mere, I hope?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t like to swear he hasn’t. When I last looked upon his ugly face, I fancied there was drowning in it. Ha! ha! ha!”
“Well, my light-hearted coz; your loss seems to sit easily upon you. Pray explain yourself.”
“Marion!” said Lora, catching hold of her cousin’s arm; and speaking in a tone of greater solemnity. “Would you believe it – that impertinent has again proposed to me?”
“What! a second declaration! That looks more like finding a lover, than losing one?”
“Ay, a second declaration; and this time far more determined than before. Why, he would take no denial!”
“And what answer did you make him?”
“Well, the first time, as I told you, I gave him a flat refusal. This time it wasn’t so very flat. It was both pointed and indignant. I talked to him sharp enough: no mincing of words I assure you. And yet, for all that, the pig persisted in his proposal, as if he had the power to force me to say, yes! I couldn’t get rid of him, until I threatened him with a box on the ear. Ay, and I’d have given it him, if some of the company hadn’t come up at the time, and relieved me of his importunities. I shouldn’t have cared if I had ever given him cause – the impudent pleb! I wonder that keeping the company of his more accomplished captain don’t have the effect of refining him a little – the impertinent upstart!”
“Have you told Walter?”
“No – that I haven’t; and don’t you, dear Marion. You know Walter has been jealous of Stubbs – without the slightest cause – and might want to challenge him. I shouldn’t that, for the world; though I’d like some one – not Walter – to teach him a lesson, such as your brave Henry Holtspur taught —
“Ah!” exclaimed the speaker, suddenly interrupting herself, as she saw the painful impression which the mention of that name had produced. “Pardon me, cousin! I had quite forgotten. This scene with Stubbs has driven everything out of my mind. O, dear Marion! may be it is not true? There may be some mistake? Dorothy Dayrell is wicked enough to invent anything; and as for that foppish brother of Miss Winifred Wayland, he is as full of conceit as his own sister; and as full of falsehood as his cousin. Dear Marion! don’t take it for truth! It may be all a misconception. Holtspur may not be married after all; and if he be, then the base villain – ”
“Lora!” interrupted Marion, in a firm tone of voice, “I command – I intreat you – to say nothing of what you know – not even to Walter – and above all, speak not of him, as you have done just now. Even if he be, what you have said, it would not be pleasant for me to hear it repeated.”
“But, surely, if it be true, you would not continue to love him!”
“I could not help it. I am lost. I must love him!”
“Dear, dear Marion!” cried Lora, as she felt the arms of her cousin entwined around her neck, and saw the tears streaming down her cheek, “I pity you – poor Marion, from my heart I pity you! Do not weep, dearest. It will pass. In time you will cease to think of him!”
There was but one word of reply to these affectionate efforts at consolation.
It came amid tears and choking sobs – but with an emphasis, and an accent, that admitted of no rejoinder.
“Never!” was that word pronounced in a firm unfaltering tone.
Then, tossing her head backward, and, by a vigorous effort of her proud spirit, assuming an air of indifference, the speaker clasped the hand of her cousin; and walked resolutely back towards the assemblage, from which she had so furtively separated.
