Volume 1 Chapter 2 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
If tumultuous were the emotions of Marion Wade, as she let fall that significant token, not less so were those of Henry Holtspur as he took it up.
Had the lady remained a moment longer looking back, she would have seen her glove taken gently from the point of the cavalier’s sword, pressed with a wild fervour to his lips, and proudly placed alongside the plume in the frontlet of his beaver.
She only saw that her challenge had been accepted; and, with a thrill of sweet satisfaction, contending against a sense of shame, she had ridden rapidly away.
The cavalier, equally gratified, appeared also perplexed: as if hesitating whether he should follow. But the abrupt departure of the lady seemed to say that pursuit was prohibited; and, checking his ardour, along with his steed, he remained by the tree, under the shadow of which he had halted.
For some minutes he sate in his saddle, apparently absorbed in reflections. That they were not all of one character was evinced by the expression upon his countenance, which kept continually changing. Now it betokened triumph, with its concomitant pleasure; anon could be traced the lines that indicated doubt, accompanied by pain; and, once or twice, an expression that told of regret, or remorse, was visible. These facial changes will be better understood by giving in detail the thoughts that were causing them.
Was it intended for a challenge? Can I doubt it? Had the incident been alone, I might have deemed it accidental. But the many times we have met—and upon this lone road! Why should she come this way, unless—? And her looks? On each occasion bolder, and lovelier! Oh! how sweet to be thus favoured! How different from that other love, that has had such unhappy ending! Then I was prized but for my position, my prospects, and my fortune. When these fell from me, only to be forsaken!
“If she love me, her love cannot rest on circumstances like these. She knows me not—not even my name! That she may have heard, can suggest neither rank, nor fortune. If she love me, it must be for myself? ’Tis a thrilling thought—thus to believe!”
The eye of the cavalier lighted up with an expression of triumph; and he sate proudly erect in his saddle.
Only for a short time did he preserve this high attitude. Reflections of a far different character succeeded, dissipating the happiness he had for the moment experienced.
“She will know in time? She must know? Even I, myself, must tell her the terrible secret. And then what is to become of this sweet, but transient, dream? It will be all over; and instead of her love, I shall become the object of her hatred—her scorn? O God! To think it must end thus! To think that I have won, and yet can never wear!”
The features of the speaker became overspread with a deep gloom.
“Why did I enter upon this intrigue? Why have I permitted it to proceed? Why do I desire its continuance? To all these questions the answer is the same. Who could have resisted? Who could resist? It is not in man’s nature to behold such beauty, without yearning to possess it. As Heaven is my witness, I have struggled to subdue this unholy passion—to destroy it—to pluck it forth from my bosom. I have tried to shun the presence of her who inspires it. Perhaps I might have succeeded, had not she. Alas! I have no longer the power to retreat. That is gone, and the will as well. I must on—on—like the insect lured by some fatal light, to a self-sought and certain destruction!”
It was then that remorse became plainly depicted upon the countenance of the cavalier. What could be causing it? That was a secret he scarcely dared declare to himself.
“After all,” he continued, a new train of thought seeming to suggest itself, “what if it be an accident—this, that has made me at once so happy, and yet so wretched? Her looks, too—those glances that have gladdened my heart, at the same time awaking within me a consciousness of wrongdoing, as, too ardently, I gave them back—may I not have misinterpreted them? If she intended that I should take up this glove—that I should restore it to her—why did she not stay to receive it? Perhaps I have been misconceiving her motives? After all, am I the victim of an illusion—following but an ignis fatuus kindled by my own vanity?”
At the moment the look of remorse gave place to one of chagrin. The cavalier appeared no longer to regret being too much loved; but rather that he might not be loved at all—a reflection far more painful.
“Surely! I cannot be mistaken. I saw it on her hand but the instant before—with the hawk perched upon it. I saw her suddenly fling the bird to the neck of the horse, and draw off the gauntlet, which the next moment fell from her fingers! Surely it was design?”
He raised his hand to his hat; took the glove from its place; and once more pressed it to his lips.
“Oh, that her hand were in it!” he enthusiastically exclaimed, yielding to a sweet fancy. “If it were her fingers I held thus to my lips—thus unresisting—then might I believe there was bliss upon earth!”
A footstep, falling upon his ear, interrupted the enraptured speech. It was light, betokening the proximity of a woman, or rather the presence of one: for, on turning, his eye rested upon a female figure, standing by the side of his horse.
The cavalier saw before him a comely face—and something more. He might have deemed it beautiful; but for that other still present to his intellectual eye, and altogether engrossing his thoughts.
It was a young girl who had thus silently intruded: and one worthy of a gracious reception, despite the peasant garb in which she had presented herself.
Both face and figure were such as could not be regarded with indifference, nor dismissed without reflection. Neither owed aught to the adornment of art; but to both had nature been liberal, even to profuseness.
A girl, closely approximating to womanhood, largely framed, and finely developed—in arms, limbs, bust, and body, exhibiting those oval outlines that indicate the possession of strong passions and powers.
Such was the creature who stood by the horse of Henry Holtspur.
But for their blackness, her eyes might have been likened to those of an eagle; but for its softness, her hair resembled the tail of his own steed—equally long and luxuriant; and her teeth—there could have been nothing whiter, even among the chalk of the Chilterns—her native hills.
Robed in silk, satin, or velvet, it was a form that would have done no discredit to a queen. Encircled with pearls or precious diamonds, it was a face of which a princess might have been proud. Even under the ordinary homespun of a rustic gown, that form looked queenly—beneath those glossy plaits of crow-black hair—bedecked with some freshly-plucked flowers—that face might have inspired envy in a princess.
In the glance bestowed upon her by the cavalier there was no sign—either of surprise or admiration. It was simply a look of recognition, accompanied by a nod, acknowledging her presence.
In the eye of the maiden there was no such indifference. The most careless observer could have told, that she was in love with the man upon whom she was now gazing.
The horseman took no heed of her admiring glances. Perhaps he noticed them not. His attention was altogether given to an object, which the girl held in her outstretched hand, and which was instantly transferred to his. It was a letter, sealed and directed to himself.
“Thanks!” said he, breaking open the seal. “Your father has brought this from Uxbridge, I suppose?”
“He has, sir. He sent me with it; and bid me ask you if there be an answer to go back. As you were not at the house, I brought it here. I hope I have done right, sir?”
“Oh, certainly! But how did you know where to find me? My tongueless attendant, Oriole, could not have told you?”
“He made sign, sir, that you had taken this road. I thought I should meet you here; and father said it might be important for you to have the letter at once.”
The red blood mantled higher upon the girl’s cheeks, as she offered this explanation. She knew she had exceeded her father’s instructions; which had been, simply, to leave the letter at “Stone Dean,” the residence of Henry Holtspur.
The cavalier, occupied with the epistle, noticed neither her blushes nor embarrassment.
“’Tis very considerate of you,” said he, turning gratefully towards the girl, as he finished reading the letter. “Your father has guessed correctly. It is of the greatest importance that I should have had this letter in good time. You may tell him that it needs no reply. I must answer it in person, and at once. But say, Mistress Betsey; what return can I make you for this kind service? You want a ribbon for your beautiful black hair? What colour is it to be? I think blue—such as those flowers are—does not so well become you. Shall it be a red one?”
The words, though courteously intended, fell with an unpleasant effect upon the ear of her to whom they were addressed. They were not the speeches to which she would fain have listened.
“Thanks, sir,” said she, in a tone that betrayed pique, or some other unlooked-for emotion. “A fine ribbon would scarce suit my coarse common hair. These flowers are good enough for it!”
“Ah! Mistress Betsey! Your beautiful tresses can bear this disparagement: you know they are neither coarse nor common. Nay; if you refuse the ribbon, you must accept the price of one. I cannot allow, that the essential service you have done me should go unrewarded. Take this piece of gold; and make purchase with it to suit yourself—scarf, gown, or gloves—whichever you please.”
Somewhat to the cavalier’s surprise, his liberal largess was rejected—not with scorn, but rather with an air of sadness—sufficiently marked to have been noticed by him, had he not been altogether unsuspicious of the cause.
“Well—well,” said he, putting back the coin into his purse, “I am sorry you will not permit me to make some amends for your kindness. Perhaps I may find an opportunity on some future occasion? Meanwhile I must be gone. The letter you have delivered summons me hence,—without delay. Many thanks, Mistress Betsey, and a fair good morning to you!”
A touch of the spur caused his chafing steed to spring out into the middle of the road; and the rider, heading him for the highway that conducted towards Uxbridge, soon swept round the corner—at the same instant, becoming lost to the sight of the dark-eyed damsel—whose glance, full of passion and disappointment, had followed him to the point of his disappearance.