Volume 2 Chapter 3 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
If do eye beheld the meeting between Marion Wade and Henry Holtspur, there was one that witnessed their parting with a glance that betokened pain. It was the eye of Richard Scarthe.
On leaving the dinner table, some details of military duty had occupied the cuirassier captain for an hour or two; after which, having no further occupation for the evening, he resolved to seek an interview with the ladies of the house—more especially with her who, in the short space of a single day, had kindled within him a passion that, honourable or not, was at least ardent.
He was already as much in love with the lady, as it was possible for such a nature to be. A month in her company could not have more completely enamoured him. Her cold reception of his complimentary phrases—as yet only offered to her with the insinuating delicacy of an experienced seducer—instead of chilling his incipient desires, had only served to add fuel to the flame. He was too well exercised in conquering the scruples of maiden modesty, to feel despair at such primary repulses.
“I shall win her!” in spite of this monosyllabic indifference! muttered he to Stubbs, as they returned to their sitting-room. “Pshaw! ’tis only pretence before strangers! By my troth, I like this sort of a beginning. I’m fashed of facile conquests. This promises to be a little difficult; and will enable me to kill the ennui, which otherwise might have killed me in these rural quarters. I shall win her, as I have won others—as I should Lucretia herself, had she lived in our time.”
To this triumphant boast, his satellite spoke assent, in his characteristic fashion.
“Safe to do it, by Ged!” said he, as if convinced of the invincibility of one, who more than once had spoiled his own chances in the game of love-making.
Scarthe was determined to let but little time elapse before entering upon his amour. His passion prompted him to immediate action; and the first step was to seek an interview with the woman he had resolved upon winning.
It was one thing, however, to desire an interview with the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade—another to obtain it. The cuirassier captain was not in the position to demand, or even seek it by request. Any attempt on his part to force such an event might end in discomfiture: for although he could compel Sir Marmaduke to find bed, board, and forage for himself and his troopers, the tyranny of the King did not—or rather dared not—extend so far as to violate the sanctity of a gentleman’s family. That of his household had been sufficiently outraged by the act of benevolence itself.
These circumstances considered, it was clear to Scarthe, that the desired interview must be brought about by stratagem, and appear the result of simple accident.
In pursuance of this idea, about half-an-hour before sunset, he sallied forth from his room, and commenced strolling through the grounds; here stopping to examine a flower; there standing to scrutinise a statue—as if the science of botany, and the art of sculpture, were the only subjects in which, at that particular moment, he felt any interest.
One near enough to note the expression upon his features, might easily have told that neither a love of art, nor an admiration of nature, was there indicated. On the contrary, while apparently occupied with the flower or the statue, his eyes were turned towards the house, wandering in furtive glance from window to window.
In order not to compromise his character for good breeding, he kept at some distance from the walls, along the outer edge of the shrubbery. In this way he proceeded past the front of the mansion, until he had reached that side, facing to the west.
Here his stealthy reconnoissance was carried on with increased earnestness; for, although not certain what part of the house was occupied by the female members of the family, he had surmised that it was the western wing. The pleasant exposure on this side—with the more careful cultivation of the flower beds and turf sward—plainly proclaimed it to be the sacred precinct.
One by one he examined the windows—endeavouring to pierce the interior of the apartments into which they opened; but after spending a full quarter of an hour in this fantastic scrutiny, he discovered nothing to repay him for his pains—not the face of a living creature.
Once only he caught sight of a figure inside one of the rooms upon the ground-floor; but the dress was dark, and the glimpse he had of it told it to be that of a man. Sir Marmaduke it was, moving about in his library.
“The women don’t appear to be inside at all,” muttered he, with an air of discontent. “By Phoebus! what if they should have gone for a stroll through the park? Fine evening—charming sunset. I’faith, I shouldn’t wonder but that they’re out enjoying it. If I could only find her outside that would be just the thing. I’ll try a stroll myself. Perhaps I may meet her? ’Tis possible?”
So saying, he turned away from the statue—which he had been so long criticising—and faced to the footbridge that spanned the fosse.
As he laid his hand upon the wicket gate—with the intention of opening it—an object came under his eyes—that caused the blood to leap into his cheeks, and mantle upward upon his pale forehead.
The elevated causeway of the bridge had placed him in a position, from which he could view the long avenue leading down to the road. Far down it, near the gateway, a steed, saddled and bridled—as if ready for a rider to mount—was standing on the path.
There was no one holding the animal—no one looking after him—no one near!
It was not the circumstance of seeing a horse thus caparisoned, and uncared for—though this was odd enough—that flushed the face of the cuirassier captain, and caused his fingers to tremble on the uplifted latch. It was the sight of that particular horse which produced such effect: for the curving neck and sable coat of the animal—visible even through the grey gloaming of the twilight—enabled Scarthe to recognise the steed, that had played so conspicuous a part in his own humiliation!
“Holtspur’s horse, by Heaven!” were the words that fell mechanically from his lips. “The man must be there himself—behind the trees? There, and what doing there?”
“I shall go down, and see,” he muttered, after a moment of indecision.
Opening the wicket he passed through; quickly traversed the remaining portion of the causeway; and continued on towards the spot where the steed was standing.
He did not go in a direct path towards the object that had thus interested him—which would have been the avenue itself—but proceeded in a circuitous direction, through some copsewood that skirted the slope of the hill.
He had his reasons for thus deviating.
“Holtspur in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade!” muttered he, as he crept through the thicket with the cautious tread of a deer-stalker. “Where is Sir Marmaduke’s daughter?”
As the suspicion swept across his brain, it brought the blood scorching like fire through his veins. His limbs felt weak under him. He almost tottered, as he trod the sward!
His jealous agony was scarce more acute, when, on reaching the row of chestnuts that bordered the avenue, and craning his neck outward to get a view, he saw a man come out from among the trees, and step up to the side of the steed; while at the same instant a white object, like a lady’s coverchief or scarf, fluttered amid the foliage that overhung the path.
The man he recognised: Henry Holtspur! The woman, though seen less distinctly, could be only the one occupying his thoughts—only Marion Wade!
Though not a coward—and accustomed to encounters abrupt and dangerous—Scarthe was at that crisis the victim of both fear and indecision. In his chagrin, he could have rushed down the slope, and stabbed Holtspur to the heart, without mercy or remorse. But he had no intention of acting in this off-hand way. The encounter of the day before—of which the torture of his wounded arm emphatically reminded him—had robbed him of all zest for a renewal of the black horseman’s acquaintance. He only hesitated as to whether he should screen himself behind the trees, and permit the lady to pass on to the house, or remain in ambush till she came up, and then join company with her.
He was no longer uncertain as to who it was. The white-robed figure, that now stood out in the open avenue, was Marion Wade. No other could have shown that imposing outline under the doubtful shadow of the twilight.
It was not till the horseman had sprung into the saddle, turned his back upon the mansion, and was riding away, that Scarthe recovered from his irresolution.
He felt sensible of being in a state of mind to make himself ridiculous; and that the more prudent plan would be to remain out of sight. But the bitter sting was rankling in his breast—all the more bitter that he suspected an intrigue. This fell fancy torturing him to the heart’s core, stifled all thoughts of either policy or prudence; and impelled him to present himself.
With an effort such as his cunning, and the control which experience had given him over his passions, enabled him to make—he succeeded in calming himself—sufficiently for a pretence at courteous conversation.
At this moment, Marion came up.
She started on seeing Scarthe glide out from among the trees. The wild passion gleaming in his eyes was enough to cause her alarm though she made but slight exhibition of it. She was too highly bred to show emotion, even under such suspicious circumstances. Her heart, at that moment thrilling with supreme happiness, was too strong to feel fear.
“Good even, sir,” she simply said, in return to the salute, which Scarthe had made as he approached.
“Pardon my question, Mistress Wade,” said he, joining her, and walking by her side, “Are you not afraid to be out alone at this late hour—especially as the neighbourhood is infested with such ferocious footpads as your brother has been telling me of? Ha! ha! ha!”
“Oh!” said Marion—answering the interrogatory in the same spirit in which it appeared to have been put—“that was before Captain Scarthe and his redoubtable cuirassiers came to reside with us. Under their protection I presume there will no longer be anything to fear from footpads, or even highwaymen!”
“Thanks for your compliment, lady! If I could only flatter myself that our presence here would be considered a protection by Mistress Marion Wade, it would be some compensation for the unpleasantness of being forced as a guest upon her father.”
“You are gracious, sir,” said she, bowing slightly in return to the implied apology.
Then, casting a quick but scrutinising glance at the countenance of the speaker, she continued in thought—“If this man be honest, the devil’s a witch. If he be, I never saw look that so belies the heart.”
“Believe me, Mistress Wade,” proceeded the hypocrite, “I keenly feel my position here. I know that I cannot be regarded in any other light than that of an intruder. Notwithstanding the pleasure it may be, to partake of the hospitality of your noble house, I would gladly forego that happiness, were it in consonance with my duty to the King—which of course is paramount to everything else.”
“Indeed!”
“To an officer of his Majesty’s cuirassiers it should be.”
“In France, perhaps—or in Flanders, where I understand you’ve been campaigning. In England, sir, and in the eyes of an Englishwoman, there are higher duties than those owing to a king. Did it never occur to you that you owe a duty to the people; or, if you prefer the expression, to the State.”
“L’état est roi. L’état est moi! That is the creed of Richard Scarthe!”
“Even if your king be a tyrant?”
“I am but a soldier. It is not mine to question the prerogatives of royalty—only to obey its edicts.”
“A noble creed! Noble sentiments for a soldier! Hear mine, sir!”
“With pleasure, Mistress Wade!” replied Scarthe, cowering under her scornful glance.
“Were I a man,” she continued, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, “rather would I shave my crown, and cover it with the cowl of a friar, than wear a sword to be drawn in no better cause than that of an unscrupulous king! Ha! There are men rising in this land, whose fame shall outlive the petty notoriety of its princes. When these have become obscured behind the oblivion of ages, the names of Vane and Pym, and Cromwell, and Hampden and Holt”—she but half pronounced the one she held highest—“shall be household words!”
“These are wild words, Mistress Wade!” rejoined Scarthe, his loyalty—along with a slight inclination towards anger—struggling against the admiration which he could not help feeling for the beautiful enthusiast; “I fear you are a rebel; and were I as true to the interests of my king as I should be, it would be my duty to make you a captive. Ah!” he continued, bending towards the proud maiden, and speaking in a tone of ambiguous appeal, “to make you a captive—my captive—that would indeed be a pleasant duty for a soldier—the recompense of a whole life.”
“Ho!” exclaimed Marion, pretending not to understand the innuendo, “since you talk of making me a captive, I must endeavour to escape from you. Good evening, sir.”
Flinging a triumphant smile towards the disappointed wooer, she glided rapidly beyond his reach; and, nimbly tripping over the footbridge, disappeared from his sight amid the shrubbery surrounding the mansion.