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The White Gauntlet

Volume Three – Chapter Three

Holtspur’s presence at this point requires explanation. Why did he linger upon a spot to him fraught with extreme peril – when almost certain death would be the consequence of his recapture?

’Tis said, that the fox and hare delight to roam around the precincts of the kennel – as if fascinated with the danger!

The conduct of Scarthe’s prisoner, in thus keeping to the proximity of his prison, though seeming to resemble the folly of the fox, and the phrenzy of the hare, admits of an easy explanation.

On getting outside the wicket-gate – which he had taken the precaution to shut behind him – Holtspur had gone off in a line at right angles to the western façade of the mansion. He had some remembrance of the moated ditch that surrounded the shrubbery. He had observed that it was waterless; and could be easily reached from the glacis. Once in its bottom, he would be safe from observation; and, standing erect, he could see over the parapet, and ascertain whether he was pursued. If not, he could go at his leisure along its dry hollow; and get round to the rear of the dwelling, without setting foot upon the open pasture ground. If pursued at once, the ditch would still be his best place of concealment.

On reaching its edge, he had leaped into it.

It was no fancy of the sentinel, that a cloaked figure had disappeared in that direction – in a somewhat mysterious manner.

After making his descent into the ditch, Holtspur came to a halt – to disembarrass himself of the unbecoming garments that impeded the action of his arms and limbs. Both the skirt and cloak were cast off.

His next action was to elevate his eyes above the parapet; and, if possible, ascertain whether his escape had become known to the guards. This action took place, just as the sentry had stepped outside the wicket, and was calling upon his Betsey to come back. It was so dark, Holtspur could not see the man; but he had noted the lifting of the latch, and could hear his mutterings.

Next moment the lightning flashed – revealing to the astonished eyes of the sentry a lady robed in rich velvet.

Holtspur saw the lady by the same light – deriving from the sight a very different impression.

His first feeling was one of surprise – quickly succeeded by a vague sense of pain.

The first arose from seeing Marion Wade abroad at that hour of the night; for, despite the cloak and close-drawn hood, he had recognised the daughter of Sir Marmaduke. Her bounding step and tall symmetrical form were not to be mistaken by any one who had ever observed them; and upon the mind of Henry Holtspur they were indelibly impressed.

His second emotion was the result of a series of interrogative conjectures. For what purpose was she abroad? Was it to meet some one? An appointment? Scarthe?

For some seconds the lover’s heart was on fire – or felt as if it was.

Fortunately, the dread sensation was short-lived.

It was replaced by a feeling of supreme pleasure. The soul of Henry Holtspur trembled with triumphant joy, as he saw the lady moving forward to the courtyard gate, and seeking admission from the sentry. He could hear part of the conversation passing between them. The lightning’s flash showed him her hand extended, with the yellow gold glittering between her fingers. There was no difficulty in divining her intention. She was bribing the guard. For what? For the privilege of passing inside?

“I’ve been wronging her!” exclaimed Holtspur, conjecturally, shaping her purpose to his wishes. “If so, I shall make full atonement. The glove worn by Scarthe may have been stolen – must have been. If ’tis for me her visit is intended, then I shall know to a certainty. Such a sacrifice as this could not come from a coquette? Ah! she is risking every thing. I shall risk my liberty – my life – to make sure that it is for me. ’Tis bliss to fancy that it is so.”

As he said this, he stepped eagerly up to the moated wall – with the intention of scaling it, and returning to the gateway.

He did not succeed in the attempt. The parapet was high above his head. He had been able to see over it, only by standing back upon the sloping acclivity of the counterscarp. He could not reach it with his hands – though springing several feet upward from the bottom of the fosse.

After several times repeating the attempt, he desisted.

“The footbridge!” muttered he, remembering the latter. “I can go round by it.”

He turned along the outside edge of the moat – in his anxious haste no longer taking precaution to keep concealed. The darkness favoured him. The night was now further obscured by the thick rain, that had suddenly commenced descending. This, however, hindered him from making rapid progress: for the sloping sward of the counterscarp had at once become slippery, and it was with difficulty he could keep his footing upon it.

On reaching the bridge, another obstacle presented itself. The gate that crossed it at midway was shut and locked – as was customary at night – and it was a somewhat perilous feat to climb over it.

It was performed, however; and Holtspur stood once more within the enclosed grounds of the shrubbery.

The delay of gaining access to them had been fatal to his original design. As he faced towards the gate entrance, he heard the wicket once more turning upon its hinges; and saw a woman’s figure outlined in the opening. In another instant it had moved around the angle of the building, and was advancing in the direction of the verandah.

Holtspur paused; and for a moment hesitated to present himself. Could he have been mistaken as to the purpose of that nocturnal visit to the courtyard? What would he not have given for the secret, that had been confided to that trusty sentinel?

If in error, how awkward would be an interview! Not that he feared betrayal. Such a thought did not enter his mind. But the oddness of such an encounter – its gaucherie– would be all upon his side?

His indecision was but for a moment. It might be the last time he should have an opportunity of speaking with Marion Wade?

This thought – along with a fond belief that he had rightly-construed the errand on which she had come forth – once more emboldened him; and, gliding on through the shrubbery, he placed himself by her side – at the same time pronouncing her name.

It was his voice – heard above the rushing of the storm – that had fallen so unexpectedly upon her ear.

“’Tis you, Henry!” she said, yielding to her first instinct of pleasure at seeing him free and unfettered.

Then, as if remembering how he had come by that freedom – with the wild words of his deliverer still ringing in her ears – her demeanour suddenly changed to that haughty reserve, which the proud daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade had the right to assume.

“Sir!” continued she, with an effort at indifference; “I am surprised to see you here. I presumed that by this time you would have been far from this place.”

“I should have been; but – ”

“You need not hesitate to tell the reason. I know it. It is easy to guess that.”

“Marion!”

“No doubt your deliverer will soon find the opportunity of rejoining you?”

“You know how I escaped, then?” cried Holtspur, who in the delight of discovering that Marion had been to his prison, paid no heed to her scornful insinuation. “You have been inside? You saw – ”

“Your substitute, sir. It is not singular you should be anxious on account of one, who has done you such signal service. I can report, that she is in the best of spirits – proud of her achievement – only a little anxious, perhaps, to participate in your sight. Do not be uneasy on her account. She will not keep you long waiting. One gifted with so much ingenuity will find little obstacle in a score of sentries.”

“Marion!”

“A pity it is not ‘Betsey’ to whom you are addressing yourself! A pity she should keep you waiting – especially in such weather. For myself, I must get out of it. Good-night, sir; or, good-morning – which you will it.”

“Marion – Marion Wade! do not go! Do not leave me thus! One word – hear me!”

Holtspur could well afford to place himself in the attitude of a petitioner. That visit to his prison, with its conjectured design, had reassured him of Marion’s love lately doubted.

She paused at the appeal. It was too earnest to be resisted.

“It was not her, for whom I was waiting,” continued Holtspur, now more clearly comprehending the conduct that had surprised him. “It was for you, Marion – for you.”

“This shallow pretence is unworthy of you, sir; unworthy of a gentleman. How could you have expected to see me? Oh! weak that I have been to trust my reputation, to one who – ”

“One who will lay down his life to guard it against being sullied by the slightest stain. Believe me, Marion Wade, it was to speak with you, I have stayed. I saw you as I was hastening away. Little had I been hoping for such a heaven-sent chance! I saw you approach the gate and go in. Need I declare to you the hope that thrilled through my heart, when I fancied your mission might be to myself? I cannot – words will not express what I felt – what I feel!”

Yieldingly did the proud maiden turn towards him – as the flower turns to its natural deity, the sun, from whom it derives all its delight.

Just as its petals are unclosed by his kissing rays after the long night of damp and darkness, so was the bosom of Marion Wade revivified with fresh life, and hope, and joy, while she stood listening to those earnest asseverations.

As yet she had not put her threat into execution. The shelter was near, but she had not availed herself of it; and, at the close of her lover’s speech, she seemed no longer to care for it.

Her hood was still hanging over her shoulders – her head uncovered to the storm. The raindrops sparkled upon her golden hair, losing themselves amid its profuse masses. They chased one another over her warm, flushed cheeks, as if in very delight. They streamed down the furrows of her rich robe, freely entering at its foldings – and still she regarded them not.

If misery, but the moment before, had rendered her insensible to the storm, happiness was now producing the like effect.

Holtspur’s appeal was no more rejected – his approach no longer repelled. He was left free to manifest the lover’s care; and, gently engaging the hand of his beloved, he conducted her within the verandah.

The storm raged on, but neither regarded it. They had escaped from a storm – far more to be dreaded than the conflict of the elements – that of the two most powerful passions of the human heart – jealousy and love. The struggle was over. The former had fled from the field – leaving the latter triumphant in the bosoms of both.

Volume Three – Chapter Four

The calm after the tempest – the day after the night – sunshine succeeding shadow – any of these physical transformations may symbolise the change from the passion of jealousy to that of love. At best they are but faint emblems; and we must seek in the soul itself for truer representatives of those its extremest contrasting emotions; or find it in our promised future of eternal torture and eternal bliss.

It is in the crisis of transformation – or, rather, in the moment succeeding it – that the true agony is endured; whether it be an agony of pain, or one of pleasure.

The latter was the lot of Henry Holtspur and Marion Wade, as they rested under the sheltering toile of the verandah. To both, it was a moment of unalloyed happiness; such as they had experienced only on one other occasion; – when, entwined in each other’s arms, under the verdant canopy of the chestnut trees, they had, with lips that lied not, made reciprocal surrender of their hearts.

One listening to those mutual vows – poured forth with the tender and emphatic eloquence which love alone can impart – could scarce have believed that mistrust should ever again spring up between them!

It had done so – perhaps not to be regretted. It had vanished; and the reaction had introduced them to an agony of pleasure – if possible more piquant than even that which had accompanied the first surrender of their souls. Both now experienced the pleasure of surrendering them again. No more might jealousy intrude itself upon their enjoyment; and, for a while, they even forgot those trifling signs that had led to it – she the faded flowers – he that sinister gauntlet.

It was only natural, however, that the causes of their late mistrust should become the subject of conversation; which they did.

Mutual surprise was the result of a mutual interrogation; though neither could give to the other the explanation asked for.

The flowers in Holtspur’s hat, and the glove in Scarthe’s helmet, were enigmas equally inexplicable.

As to the latter, Marion only knew that she had lost it – that she had looked for it – she did not say why – and without success.

Holtspur still wore his beaver. Indeed, he had not till that hour found the chance of taking it off. Only within the last ten minutes had his hands been free to remove it.

He had not the slightest suspicion of the manner in which it was bedecked – not until he learnt it from the lips of her, upon whom the faded flowers had produced such a painful impression.

Marion could not misinterpret his surprise – mingled with indignation – as he lifted the hat from his head; wrenched the flowers from their fastening; and flung them scornfully upon the sward.

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, as she witnessed the act. It was the kind of homage a woman’s heart could comprehend and appreciate; and hers trembled with a triumphant joy.

Only for a short moment could this sweet contentment continue. Nature is niggardly of such supreme pleasure. It was succeeded by a sombre thought – some dark presentiment pointing to the distant future. It found expression in speech.

“O Henry!” she said, laying hold of his arm – at the same time fixing her earnest blue eyes upon his, “sometime – I fear to think it, much more to speak it – sometime might you not do the same with – ”

“With what, Marion?”

“Sweet love! you know what I mean! Or shall I tell it you? ’Tis a shame for you not to understand me – you, who are so clever, as I’ve heard say, ah! as I, myself, have reason to know.”

“Dearest! I fear I am not very clever at comprehending the ways of your sex. Perhaps if I had – ”

Holtspur interrupted himself, as if he had arrived on the verge of some disclosure he did not desire to make.

“If you had,” inquired Marion, in a tone that told of an altered interest. “What if you had, Henry?”

“If I had,” replied her lover, escaping from his embarrassment by a happy subterfuge, “I should not have been so dilatory in declaring my love to you.”

The speech was pretty; but alas! ambiguous. It gave Marion pleasure, to think he had long loved her; and yet it stirred within her a painful emotion – by recalling the bold challenge by which she had lured him to the avowal of it.

He, too, as soon as he had spoken, appeared to perceive the danger of such an interpretation; and in order to avert it, hurriedly had recourse to his former interrogatory.

“Do the same, you said, as I have done with the flowers. And with what?”

“The token I gave you, Henry – the white gauntlet.”

“When I fling it to the earth, as I have done these withered blossoms, it will be to defy him who may question my right to wear it. When that time comes, Marion Wade – ”

“Oh! never!” cried she – in the enthusiasm of her admiration fervently pressing his arm, and looking fondly in his face. “None but you, Henry, shall ever have that right. To no other could I concede it. Believe me – believe me!”

Why was it that Holtspur received this earnest declaration with a sigh? Why did he respond to it with a look of sadness?

Upon his arm was hanging the fairest form in the county of Buckinghamshire – perhaps in all England; upon his shoulder rested the loveliest cheek; against his bosom throbbed a heart responsive to his own – a heart that princes would have been proud to possess. Why that sigh, on listening to the earnest speeches that assured him of its possession?

But for the darkness that obscured the expression of his face – but for the beatings of her own heart, that hindered her from hearing the sigh that escaped his – Marion Wade might have asked this question with fearful interest in the answer.

She saw not the look – she heard not the sigh; and yet she was troubled with some vague suspicion. The reply had something in it that did not satisfy her – something reticent.

“O Henry!” she said, “you are going from me now. I know we must part. When shall I see you again? It may be long – long?”

“No longer than I can help, love!”

“You will give me a promise, Henry?”

“Yes, Marion; any promise you may dictate to me.”

“Thanks! thanks! I know you will keep it. Come nearer, Henry! look into my eyes! ’Tis a poor light; but I need not much to see that yours are true. I know they are beautiful, Henry.”

Holtspur’s frame quivered under the searching scrutiny.

“What am I to promise?” he asked, in the hope of hiding his embarrassment.

“Do not be afraid, Henry! ’Tis not much I am going to ask of you. Not much to you; but all the world to me. Listen, and I will tell you. Since we met – I mean since I knew that you loved me – I have learnt one thing. It is: that I could not live, and be jealous. The torture I have endured for the last twelve hours has told me that. You will laugh at me, Henry; but I cannot help it. No. Let me be happy, or let me die!”

“Sweet life! why should you think of such a thing as jealousy? You need not fear that. If it should ever spring up between us, it will be my misfortune, not yours – all mine.”

“You jest, Henry! You know not the heart you have conquered. Its firstlings were yours. Though often solicited – pardon me for being so plain —it was never before surrendered to living man. O, Henry! you know not how I love you! Do not think it is the fleeting fancy of a romantic girl – that may change under the influence of a more matured age. I am a woman, with my girlhood gone by. Holtspur! – you have won me – you have won a woman’s love!”

Ecstasy to the soul of him thus addressed.

“Tell me sweet Marion!” cried he. “Forgive me the selfish question; but I cannot help asking it. Tell me why I am thus beloved? I do not deserve it. I am twice your age. I have lost those looks that once, perhaps, may have attracted the romantic fancy. O, Marion Wade! I am unworthy of a love like yours. ’Tis my consciousness of this that constrains me to make the enquiry: why do you love me?”

Marion remained silent – as if she hesitated to give the answer. No wonder. The question is one often asked, but to which it is most difficult to obtain a truthful reply.

There are reasons for this reticence – psychological reasons, which men cannot easily understand. A woman’s citadel is her heart; and its strength lies in keeping secret its conceptions. Of all its secrets the most sacred – the last to be divulged – is that constituting an answer to the question – “Why do you love me?”

No wonder that Henry Holtspur received not an immediate answer. Ardour – more than sincerity led him to press for it: —

“I am a stranger to your circle – if not to your class. The world will tell you, that I am an adventurer. I accept the appellation – qualified by the clause: that I adventure not for myself, but for my fellow-men – for the poor taxed slaves who surround me. Marion Wade, I weary you. Give answer to my question: Why do you love me?”

“Henry! I know not. A thousand thoughts crowd upon me. I could give you a thousand reasons, all comprised in one —I love you, because I love you!”

“Enough, dear Marion! I believe it. Do you need me to declare again? Can I plight my troth more truly?”

“No – no – Henry! I know that you love me now.”

“Now! now and for ever!”

“You promise it, Henry?”

“I promise it, Marion.”

“O, Henry! you will promise me something more. You have said you would.”

“What more, Marion?”

“I have told you that I would prefer death to jealousy. I only spoke the truth, Henry. I’ve heard say, that the heart sometimes changes, in spite of itself. I don’t believe it. I am sure mine can never change. Could yours, Henry?”

“Never! what do you wish me to promise? What is it you would bind me to?”

“I’ve now but one thing worth living for,” responded the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade, “and that is your love, Holtspur. Promise me that when you love me no more, you will tell me you do not, truly and without fear. Promise that, Henry: for then I shall be happier to die.”

“Nonsense, Marion! Why should I enter into such an idle condition? You know I shall love you, as long as I live.”

“Henry! Henry! Do not deny me what I have asked? What is there unreasonable in my request?”

“Nothing, dearest Marion. If you insist upon it, you shall have my promise – more than that, my oath. I swear I shall be candid and declare the truth. If ever my heart cease to love you, I shall tell you of its treason. How easily can I promise, what can never come to pass!”

“But you may be far away, Henry? Enemies may be between us? You may not be able to see me? Then – ”

“Then, what would you have me do, dear Marion?”

“Return the token I have given you. Send me back my glove – the White Gauntlet. When I see that, ’twill tell me that he to whom I had given it – and along with it my heart – that he who once prized the gift, esteems it no more. That would be a gentler way than words – for your words telling me that bitter truth, might be the last to which I should ever listen.”

“If it please you, dearest, I promise to comply with you conditions – however idle I may deem them. Ah Marion! you shall never get that glove again – never from me. I prize the white gauntlet too much, ever to part with it; more than aught else in the world – excepting the white hand which it once shielded, and which, God willing, shall yet be mine!”

As Holtspur uttered this impassioned speech, he raised the “white hand” to his lips; and imprinted upon it a fond, fervent kiss.

It was the parting salute – though not intended as such. The lightning flashed at that moment, displaying two forms in an attitude that proclaimed them lovers who had made mutual surrender of their souls.

A third form might have been seen by the same light, standing outside the verandah, scarce ten paces distant. It was a female figure, with the face of a young girl – uncoifed, uncloaked, despite the pelting of the pitiless storm.

The lovers, absorbed in their own sweet thoughts, might not have noticed this intruder, but for a slight scream that escaping from her lips, attracted their attention to her. When the lightning blazed forth again, she was gone!

“Oh!” cried Marion, “it was like the shadow of some evil thing. Away, Henry! there is danger! Away! away!”

Without resistance Holtspur yielded to the solicitation. Rapidly recrossing through the shrubbery, he sprang down into the moated ditch, and glided on towards the rear of the dwelling.