Volume 3 Chapter 4 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
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.