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The White Gauntlet
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The White Gauntlet

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.

Volume Three – Chapter Thirteen

Of all who enjoyed the sports of the hawking party, no one left it with a heavier heart than Marion Wade. The shadows of night descending over the lake – as the company took their departure from its shores – might well symbolise the shadow that had fallen upon her heart. Throughout the afternoon, it had been a hard struggle with her to conceal her chagrin from curious eyes; to appear joyous, amid so many happy faces; to wear pretended smiles, while those around were laughing gaily.

All this, however, her strength of character had enabled her to accomplish; though it was like removing a load from off her breast, when the falling shades of twilight summoned the party to a separation.

That night no sleep for Marion Wade – not enough to give her a moment’s relief from the thoughts that tortured her. Her pillow was pressed, but with a pale and sleepless cheek; and often, during the night, had she risen from her couch, and paced the floor of her apartment, like one under the influence of a delirious dream.

The bosom that has been betrayed can alone understand the nature of her sufferings. Perhaps only a woman’s heart can fully appreciate the pain she was enduring? Hers had received into its inmost recesses – into the very citadel itself – the image of the heroic Holtspur. It was still there; but all around it was rankling as with poison.

The arrow had entered. Its distilled venom permeated the bosom it had pierced. There was no balsam to subdue the pain – no hope to afford the slightest solace – only regret for the past, and despair for the future.

Until that day Marion Wade had never known what it was to be truly unhappy. Her pangs of jealousy hitherto experienced, had been slight, compared with those which were now wringing her breast. Even her apprehensions for the fate of her lover had been endurable: since hope for his safety had never wholly forsaken her. During the interval that had lapsed since his escape, she had not been altogether unhappy. Her heart had been fortified by hope; and still farther supported by the remembrance of that last sweet interview. So long as Holtspur lived, and loved her, she felt that she could be happy – even under those circumstances hypothetically foreshadowed in his parting speeches.

There were times when she pondered on their mysterious import; when she wondered what they could have meant – and not without a sense of dissatisfaction.

But she had not allowed this to intrude itself either often or long. Her love was too loyal, too trusting, to be shaken by suspicions. She remembered how unjust had been those formerly indulged in; and, influenced by this memory, she had resolved never again to give way to doubt, without some certain sign – such as the return of the love-token, as arranged between them. She might have had cause to wonder, why she had not heard from him – if only a word to ensure her of his safety. But she was not chagrined by his silence. The risk of communicating with her might account for it. Under an hypocritical pretence of duty – of obedience to orders he dared not depart from – the cuirassier captain permitted nothing – not even an epistle – to enter the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, without being first submitted to his own scrutiny.

Since the hour of his escape, the only intimation she had had of her lost lover – almost the first time she had heard his name pronounced – was when coupled with those two words, that were now filling her with woe – “His wife!”

Marion had heard no more. She had stayed for no farther torture from those scandal-loving lips. She had heard that her lover – the man to whom she had surrendered the reins of her heart – was the husband of another! That was knowledge enough for one hour of wretchedness – ay, for a whole lifetime of sadness and chagrin.

Though in the midst of that gay assemblage, she had not essayed to seek an explanation; she was now desirous of having it. So long as the slightest remnant of either hope or doubt remains within the mind of one who suspected an unrequited passion, that mind cannot feel satisfaction. It will seek the truth – although the search may conduct to eternal ruin.

So determined the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade, during the mid hours of that sleepless night; and, long before the great bell of Bulstrode summoned its retainers to their daily toil, the young mistress of this lordly mansion might have been seen – closely wrapped in cloak and hood – issuing forth from one of its portals; and, under the grey light of dawn, with quick but stealthy step, making her way over the dew-bespangled pastures of its park.

The gate through which she had often passed outward into the high road – often, of late, with a heart trembling in sweet anticipation – was the one towards which she directed her steps.

How different was now her prospect – how dissimilar her purpose! She went not forth to meet one, who, though still undeclared, she instinctively believed to be her lover – loyal and true. Her errand was no more of this joyous nature, but the sad reverse. It was to make inquiries as to that lover’s loyalty, or seek confirmation of his falsehood!

Who could give the wished-for information? From whom were the inquiries to be made?

She could think of no one save Holtspur himself; and the white paper – clutched in a hand almost as white – concealed under her cloak, gave a clue to her design. It was an epistle that had been penned by the light of the midnight lamp, and sealed under a flood of scorching tears. There was no direction upon it – only the name Henry Holtspur. She knew not his address. She was taking it to a place where she had hopes of seeing some one, who might be able to forward it to its destination.

The path she was following pointed to this place. It was the road leading to Stone Dean. It was not the first time she had thought of thus communicating with her absent lover. She had forborne, partly through fear of being betrayed by those to whom her letter might be entrusted – partly by the feminine reflection, that he, not she, should be the first to write – and partly by the hope, deferred from day to day, that he would write. These hindrances she regarded no longer. An epistle was now addressed to him – far different from that hitherto intended. It was no longer a letter of love, but one filled with reproaches and regrets.

Marion Wade was not the only one under her father’s roof, who at that same hour had been employing the pen. Another had been similarly occupied.

As a soldier, Scarthe was accustomed to keep early hours. It was a rare circumstance for him to be a-bed after six o’clock in the morning. In those times of political agitation, the military man often took part in state intrigues; and in this craft the cuirassier captain, under the guidance of his royal patroness, had inextricably engaged himself.

This double duty entailed upon him an extensive correspondence; to which his morning hours were chiefly devoted. Although essentially a man of pleasure, he did not surrender himself to idleness. He was too ambitious, to be inactive; and both his military and political duties were attended to with system and energy.

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.

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