The White Gauntlet

Of the sentence he had been already advised – in fact, knew it before leaving London. Twenty-four hours sooner he could have communicated the intelligence to those whom it most concerned; but, for reasons of his own, he had preferred leaving it to reach them through the natural channel – by the return of Walter from that short sad interview, the last he had been permitted to hold with his unfortunate father.

It was late in the evening when Walter arrived to tell the melancholy tale. Perhaps, had the hour been earlier, Scarthe would have intruded upon the scene of sorrow – to speak his sham sympathy, and mingle hypocritical tears with those that were real. As it was, he only expressed himself thus by deputy – sending one of the domestics with a message of condolence, and reserving his interview with Marion for the morrow.

It was his design to see her, just at that hour when it might be supposed, the first fresh throes of her sorrow had subsided, and his proffer of assistance might stand a better chance of being appreciated.

Ever since the departure of the prisoner he had been cunningly preparing his plans. He had lost no opportunity of letting it be understood – or at all events surmised – that he possessed the power to save. He had hinted at great sacrifices that would accrue to himself in the exertion of this power – at the same time, making certain innuendos, that left the conditions to be guessed at.

His scheme had become matured. To-morrow would see it carried into effect, either for failure or success, and that morrow had now arrived.

On the eve of action he was far from being either confident, or tranquil. As he paced the large drawing-room of the mansion, previous to asking an interview with its young mistress, his steps betrayed agitation. His glances told of mingled emotions – hope, fear, and shame: for, hardened as he was, he could not contemplate his sinister intent without some slight sense of abasement. Several times had he laid his hand upon the bell, to summon some one, as the bearer of his request; but as often had his resolution failed him.

“By Phoebus! I’m a fool,” he exclaimed at length, as if to fortify his courage by the self-accusation: “and a coward, too! What have I to fear? She cannot refuse me – with her father’s life as the forfeit? She would be false to filial duty – affection – nature – everything. Bah! I’ll dally with doubt no longer. I’ll bring it to a crisis at once! Now is the time or never!”

He strode back to the table on which stood the bell. He took it up, with the intention of ringing it. The sound of an opening door, accompanied by the rustling of silken robes, caused him to turn round. She, from whom he was about to ask an interview, stood before him.

Scarthe was surprised – disconcerted – as one detected in a guilty action. He fancied that his visitor had divined his intent. On glancing at her countenance, his momentary abashment became suddenly changed to a feeling of triumph. He fancied that he divined hers.

She must have known he was in the room: else why did she not pause, or retire? On the contrary, she was approaching him – she had never done so before – evidently with a purpose! There could be but one —to ask his intercession.

This forestalling was in his favour. It gave him strength and confidence. It gave him a cue, for the disclosure he meditated making.

“Mistress Marion!” said he, bowing low, “you have saved me the chagrin of intruding upon your grief: for, in truth, I had intended soliciting an interview, to offer my poor mite of consolation.”

“By your own showing, sir,” rejoined she, placing herself in a firm yet humble attitude, “you can do more. If I mistake not, you have spoken of your influence with the king?”

“Perhaps it is greater with the king’s wife,” replied the soldier with a smile, evidently intended to make a peculiar impression on his petitioner. “True, fair Marion; I own to some little influence in that quarter. ’Tis not much; but such as it be, ’tis at your service.”

“O sir! thank you for these words. Say you will exert it, to save the life of my father! Say that; and you shall win the gratitude of – of – ”

“Marion Wade?”

“More than mine – my father – my brother – our kindred – perhaps our country – will all be grateful; will bless you for the act.”

“And of all these gratitudes, the only one I should in the least esteem is your own, beautiful Marion. That will be sufficient recompense for me.”

“Sir, you shall have it – to the very depth of my soul.”

“Say rather to the depth of your heart.”

“I have said it. You shall have my heart’s gratitude, now and for ever.”

“Ah! gratitude is but a cold word. Exchange it for another.”

“Another! What mean you, Sir?”

“Say your love. Give me but that, and I promise – I swear, by my hopes of happiness here and hereafter – that I shall not rest, till your father’s pardon be obtained; or till I, by my unwelcome interference in his behalf, be sentenced to partake of his prison and punishment! O Marion Wade! have mercy upon me! I, not you, am the suppliant in this cause. Give me what I have asked; and command me as your slave!”

For some seconds Marion stood without making reply.

From the fervour of his appeal, and the silence with which it had been received, Scarthe was beginning to conceive a hope; and kept his eyes keenly bent upon the countenance of his suitor.

He could read nothing there. Not a thought was betrayed by those beautiful features – immovable as though chiselled out of stone.

When she at length spoke, her answer told him, that he had misinterpreted her silence.

“Captain Scarthe,” said she, “you are a man of the world – one, as I have heard, skilled in the thoughts of our sex – ”

“You flatter me,” interrupted he, making an effort to recover his customary coolness. “May I know why I am thus complimented?”

“I did not mean it in that sense. Only to say, that, knowing our nature as you do, you must be aware that what you ask is impossible? O, Sir! woman cannot give her heart. That must be taken from her.”

“And yours, Marion Wade?”

“Is not in my power to give. It has been surrendered already.”

“Surrendered!” cried Scarthe, with an angry emphasis on the word: for this was his first assurance of a fact that had long formed the theme of his conjectures. “Surrendered, you say?”

“’Tis too true. Stolen, if you will, but still surrendered! ’Tis broken now, and cannot be restored. O sir! you would not value it, if offered to you. Do not make that a condition. Accept instead what is still in my power to give – a gratitude that shall know no end!”

For some seconds the discomfited sooer neither spoke nor moved. What he had heard appeared to have paralysed him. His lips were white, and drawn tightly over his teeth, with an expression of half-indignation – half-chagrin.

Skilled as he certainly was in woman’s heart, he had heard enough to convince him, that he could never win that of Marion Wade. Her declaration had been made in a tone too serious – too sober in its style – to leave him the vestige of a hope. Her heart had been surely surrendered. Strange she should say stolen! Stranger still she should declare it to be broken!

Both were points that might have suggested curious speculations; but at that moment Scarthe was not in the vein for indulging in idle hypotheses. He had formed the resolution to possess the hand, and the fortune, of Marion Wade. If she could not give her heart, she could give these – as compensation for the saving of her father’s life.

“Your gratitude,” said he, no longer speaking in a strain of fervour, but with an air of piqued formality, “your gratitude, beautiful Marion, would go far with me. I would make much sacrifice to obtain it; but there is something you can bestow, which I should prize more.”

Marion looked – “What is it?”

“Your hand.”

“That then is the price of my father’s life?”

“It is.”

“Captain Scarthe! what can my hand be worth to you, without – ”

“Your heart, you would say? I must live in hopes to win that. Fair Marion, reflect! A woman’s heart may be won more than once.”

“Only once can it be lost.”

“Be it so. I must bear the chagrin. I shall bear it all the better, by having your hand. Marion Wade! I scorn further circumlocution. Give me what I have asked, and your father lives. Refuse it, and he must forfeit his head.”

“Oh, sir, have pity! Have you a father? Ah! could you but feel the anguish of one about to be made fatherless. Mercy, Captain Scarthe! On my knees I ask it. O sir! you can save him – you will?”

While speaking, the proud beautiful woman had dropped down upon her knees. Her rich golden hair, escaping from its silken coif, swept the floor at her feet. Her tear-drops sparkled, like pearls, among its profusion of tresses.

For a second Scarthe remained silent, gazing upon the lovely suppliant – a Venus dissolved in tears. He gazed not coldly; though his cruel thoughts glowed only with exultation. Marion Wade was at his feet!

“I can save him —I will!” he answered emphatically, echoing her last words.

Marion looked up – hope beaming in her tear-bedewed eyes. The sweet thought was stifled on the instant. The cynical glance, meeting hers, told her that Scarthe had not finished his speech.

“Yes,” he triumphantly continued, “I have said that I can, and will. It needs but one word from you. Promise that you will be mine?”

“O God! has this man no mercy?” muttered the maiden, as she rose despairingly to her feet.

The speech was not intended to be heard; but it was. Involuntarily had it been uttered aloud. It elicited an instant reply.

“There is no mercy in love – when scorned, as you have scorned mine.”

“I have not scorned it. You ask what is impossible.”

“No,” suddenly rejoined Scarthe, conceiving a hope from the gentle character of the reply. “’Tis not impossible. I expect not the firstlings of your heart. Alas! for me, they are gone. I can scarce hope for even a second love; though I should do everything within the power of man to deserve it. All I ask for is the opportunity to win you, by making you my wife. O, Marion Wade!” he continued, adopting a more fervent form of speech, “you have met with a man – never before gainsayed – one who has never wooed woman in vain – even when wearing a crown upon her brow. One, too, who will not be thwarted. Heaven and earth shall not turn me from my intent. Say you will be mine, and all will be well. Reflect upon the fearful issue that must follow your refusal. I await your answer. Is it yes, or no?”

Having thus delivered himself, the impetuous lover commenced pacing to and fro – as if to allow time for the reply.

Marion, on rising from her supplicating attitude, had withdrawn to the window. She stood within its embayment – her back turned towards that dark type of humanity – her eyes upon the blue heaven: as if there seeking inspiration.

Was she hesitating as to her answer? Was she wavering between her father’s life, and her own happiness – or rather, might it be said, her life-long misery? Did the thought cross her mind, that her unhappiness, springing from the defection – the deception – of her lost lover – could scarce be increased either in amount or intensity; and that the sacrifice she was now called upon to make could add but little to a misery already at its maximum?

Whether or no, may never be revealed. Marion Wade can alone disclose the thoughts that struggled within her soul at that critical moment.

Scarthe continued to pace the floor, impatiently awaiting her decision. Not that he wished it to be given on the instant: for he believed that delay would favour him. A sudden answer might be a negative, springing from passion; while fear for her father’s fate – strengthened by reflection – might influence her to agree to his proposal.

At length came the answer, or what Scarthe was compelled to accept as one. It came not in words; but in a cry – at once joyous and triumphant!

Simultaneous with its utterance, Marion Wade extended her arms; and, flinging open the casement, rushed out into the verandah!

Volume Three – Chapter Eighteen

Scarthe stood for a time astounded – stupefied. Had Marion Wade gone mad? Her singular behaviour seemed to say so.

But no. There appeared to be method in the movement she had made. As she glided through the open casement, he had observed, that her eye was fixed upon something outside – something that must have influenced her to the making of that unexpected exit.

On recovering from his surprise, the cuirassier captain hastened towards the window; but, before reaching it, he heard sounds without, conducting him to alarming conjectures. They might have been unintelligible, but for the sight that came under his eyes as he looked forth.

A crowd was coming up the main avenue of the park – a crowd of men. They were not marching in order, and might have been called a “mob;” although it consisted of right merry fellows – neither disorderly nor dangerous. The individuals who composed it appeared to be of every condition in life, and equally varied as to their costumes. But the greater number of them could be identified as men of the farmer and mechanic class – the “bone and sinew” of the country.

The miller under his hoary hat; the butcher in his blood-stained boots; the blacksmith in grimy sheepskin; the small shopkeeper, and pale-faced artisan; the grazier and agriculturist of ruddy hue – alongside the tavern-keeper and tapster of equally florid complexion – could be distinguished in that crowd coming on towards the walls of Bulstrode mansion.

The cuirassier captain had seen such an assemblage before. It might have been the same, that saluted him with jeers – as he crossed the Colne bridge, returning from his unsuccessful pursuit of the black horseman. With slight exceptions, it was the same.

One of these exceptions was an individual, who, mounted on horseback, was riding conspicuously in front; and who appeared to occupy a large share of the attention of those who followed him. He was a man of mature age, dressed in dark velvet tunic, and with trunk-hose of a corresponding colour. A man with an aspect to inspire regard – even from a crowd to which he might have been a stranger.

But he was evidently no stranger to the men who surrounded him: for at every step of their progress, they could be heard vociferating in hearty hurrah, “Long live Sir Marmaduke Wade!”

It was the Knight of Bulstrode who headed that cheerful procession.

Though much-loved, Sir Marmaduke did not monopolise the enthusiasm of the assemblage. Mounted upon a magnificent horse – black as a coal fresh hoisted upon the windlass – rode by his side a cavalier of more youthful, but equally noble, aspect.

It did not need the cry, “Hurrah for the black horseman!” at intervals reaching his ears, to apprise Captain Scarthe, who was the second cavalier at the head of the approaching cortege. The images of both horse and rider were engraven upon his memory – in lines too deep ever to be effaced.

What the devil did it mean?

This was the thought in Scarthe’s mind – the identical expression that rose to his lips – as he looked forth from the opened casement.

Sir Marmaduke Wade, on horseback – unguarded – followed by a host of sympathising friends! The rebel Henry Holtspur riding by his side! Marion with her yellow tresses afloat behind her – like a snow-white avalanche under the full flood of a golden sunlight – gliding forward to meet them!

“What the devil can it mean?” was the interrogatory of Captain Scarthe repeatedly put to himself, as the procession drew near.

He was not allowed much time to speculate on a reply to his self-asked question. Before he had quite recovered from the surprise caused by the unexpected sight, the crowd had closed in to the walls; where they once more raised their voices in shouts of congratulation.

“Three cheers for John Hampden!” “Three more for Pym!” were proposed, and unanimously responded to. With equal unanimity were accepted two cries, of far more significance in the ear of the royalist officer: “Long live the Parliament!” “Death to the traitor Strafford!”

Though still unable to account for what appeared to him some strange travestie, Scarthe could endure it no longer. Strafford was his peculiar patron; and, on bearing him thus denounced, he sprang forth from the casement; and ran with all speed in the direction of the crowd.

The cuirassier captain was followed by a score of his troopers, who chanced to be standing near – like himself at a loss to make out the meaning of that unlooked-for invasion.

“Disloyal knaves!” shouted he, confronting the crowd, with his sword raised in a threatening manner, “Who is he that has dared to insult the noble Strafford? Let me hear that traitorous phrase once more; and I shall split the tongue that repeats it!”

“Not so fastish, Master!” cried a stalwart individual, stepping to the front, and whose black bushy whiskers, and fantastic fashion of dress, proclaimed him to be the ex-footpad, Gregory Garth – “doan’t a be so fastish wi’ your threets – you mayen’t be able to carry ’em out so easyish as you suppose. Ye can have a try, though. I’m one o’ them as cried: ‘Death to the treetur Strafford!’”

As he pronounced the challenging speech, Garth drew from its scabbard a huge broadsword – at the same time placing himself in an attitude of defence.

“Goo it, Gregory!” cried another colossal individual, recognisable as Dick Dancey, the deer-stealer. “Gooit like bleezes! I’ll stan’ to yer back.”

“And we!” simultaneously shouted a score of butchers, bakers, and blacksmiths, ranging themselves by the side of Garth, and severally confronting the cuirassiers – who had formed a phalanx in rear of their chief.

Scarthe hesitated in the execution of his threat. He saw that his adversaries, one and all of them, wielded ugly weapons; while his own men had only their light side-arms – some even without arms of any kind. The attitude of the opposing party – their looks, words, and gestures – told that they were in earnest in their resolution to resist. Moreover, it was stronger than his own; and constantly gaining accessions from the crowd in the rear.

With the quick perception of a skilled strategist, Scarthe saw that in a hand-to-hand fight with such redoubtable antagonists, his men would have the worst of it. This influenced him to pause in his purpose.

The unexpected opposition caused him to change his design. He suddenly resolved to retire from the contest; arm and mount his whole troop; sally forth again; and rout the rabble who had so flagrantly defied him.

Such was the project that had presented itself to his brain; but before he could make any movement, Sir Marmaduke had dismounted from his horse, and placed himself between the opposing parties.

“Captain Scarthe!” said he, addressing himself to the officer, and speaking in a calm tone – in which a touch of irony was perceptible; “In this matter, it appears to me, you overstep the limits of your duty. Men may differ in opinion about the merits of the ‘noble Strafford,’ as you have designated Thomas Wentworth. He is now in the hands of his judges; who will no doubt deal with him according to his deserts.”

“Judges!” exclaimed Scarthe, turning pale as he spoke; “Earl Strafford in the hand of judges?”

“It is as I have said. Thomas Wentworth as this moment occupies the same domicile which has been my dwelling for some days past; and from which I am not sorry to have been ejected. I know, Captain Scarthe, you could not have been aware of this change in the fortunes of your friend: since it was only yesterday he made his entrance into the Tower!”

“Strafford in the Tower!” gasped out the cuirassier captain, utterly astounded at the intelligence.

“Yes,” continued the knight; “and soon to stand, not before the Star Chamber – which was yesterday abolished – but a court that will deal more honestly with his derelictions – the High Court of Parliament. Thomas Wentworth appears in its presence – an attainted traitor to his country.”

“Long live the Parliament! Death to the traitor Strafford!” were the cries that responded to the speech of Sir Marmaduke – though from none to whom the announcement was new. The men, who accompanied the knight to his home, had already learnt the news of Strafford’s attainder; which, like a blaze of cheerful light, was fast spreading over the land.

For some seconds Scarthe seemed like a man bereft of reason. He was about to retire from the spot, when Sir Marmaduke again addressed him – speaking in the same calm voice, but with a more perceptible irony of tone —

“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.”