Volume 3 Chapter 11 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
The beautiful park of Bulstrode was radiant with the earliest rays of the sun. The dew still glittered upon the grass; and the massive chestnuts threw elongated shadows far down the sloping declivities. The stag, that had been slumbering undisturbed during the night, springing from his soft couch of moss, strode forth to make his morning meal upon the tempting sward. The birds had already chaunted their orison to the opening day; and, forsaking their several perches, were fluttering merrily from tree to tree. All nature was awake.
Though the hour was an early one, the inmates of the mansion seemed not to be asleep. Half-a-dozen saddled horses, under the conduct of as many grooms, had been led forth from the courtyard; and were standing in front of the house, held in hand, as if awaiting their riders.
Two were caparisoned differently from the rest. By the peculiar configuration of their saddles, it was evident, they were intended to be mounted by ladies.
In addition to the grooms in charge of the horses there were other attendants standing or moving about. There were falconers, with blinded hawks borne upon their wrists and shoulders; and finders, with dogs held in leash—each clad in the costume of his craft.
In the boudoir of Marion Wade were two beautiful women. Marion herself was one; Lora Lovelace the other.
The high-crowned beaver hats; the close-fitting habits of green velvet; the gauntlets upon their hands; and the whips in them, proclaimed the two ladies to be those, for whom the sidesaddle horses had been caparisoned.
Both had given the finishing touch to their toilettes, before forsaking their separate chambers. They had met in Marion’s sitting-room—there to hold a moment’s converse, and be ready when summoned to the saddle.
“Walter promises we’ll have fine sport,” said the little Lora, tripping across the chamber, light as a fawn, and gay as a lark. “He says the mere has not been disturbed for long—ever so long—and there have been several broods of herons this season—besides sedge-hens, snipe, and woodcock. We shall find game for goshawks, kestrels, jer-falcons, merlins, and every sort. Won’t it be delightful?”
“Pleasant enough, I dare say—for those who can enjoy it.”
“What, Marion! and will not you—you so fond of falconry, as often to go hawking alone?”
“Ah, Lora! this sport, like many others, may be pleasanter alone, than in company—that is, company one don’t care for.”
“Dear me cousin! you’d make believe, that there isn’t one, among the grand people we are going to meet to-day, worth caring for?”
“Not one—of my knowing.”
“What! our very gallant guest, who is to be our escort—not Captain Scarthe?”
“I should have expected you to say Cornet Stubbs, instead.”
“Ha, ha, ha! No, no! He’s too stupid to be a pleasant companion for me.”
“And Captain Scarthe is too much the opposite to be a pleasant companion for me. In truth, of the two I like Stubbs best—spite of his vulgar patronymic.”
“You are jesting, Marion? Stubbs, Stubbs,—Cornet Stubbs! How would it sound as Colonel Stubbs? Not a whit better. No: not if he were General Stubbs. Mistress Stubbs? I wouldn’t be called so for the world! Lady Stubbs? No, not for a coronet!”
“Between Stubbs, and Scarthe, I see not much to choose.”
“Marion, you mistake. There’s a warlike sound about Scarthe. I could imagine a man of that name to be a hero.”
“And I could imagine a man of that name to be a poltroon—I do.”
“What! not our Captain Scarthe? Why everybody calls him a most accomplished cavalier. Certes, he appears so. A little rude at first, I acknowledge; but since then, who could have acted more cavalierly? And to you, cousin, surely he has been sufficiently attentive, to have won your profound esteem?”
“Say rather my profound detestation. Then you would come nearer speaking the truth: he has won that.”
“You don’t show it, I’m sure. I’ve seen you and Captain Scarthe very happy together—very happy indeed—if one may judge from appearances.”
“Wheels within wheels, coz. A smiling cheek don’t always prove a contented heart; nor is a smooth tongue the truest indication of courtesy. You have seen me polite to Captain Scarthe—nothing more; and for that, I have my reasons.”
“Reasons!”
“Yes; good reasons, dear Lora. But for them, I shouldn’t go hawking to-day—least of all, with him as my companion. Captain Scarthe may be a hero in your eyes, my gay cousin; but he is not the one that’s enthroned within my heart; and you know that.”
“I do—I do, dear Marion. I was only jesting. I know Captain Scarthe is not your hero; and can tell who is. His name begins with Henry, and ends with Holtspur.”
“Ah, there you have named a true hero! But hark you, my little parrot! Don’t be prattling these confidences. If you do, I’ll tell Walter how much you admire Captain Scarthe, or Cornet Stubbs. Of which do you wish him to be jealous?”
“Oh, Marion! not a word to Walter about Stubbs. Do you know I believe, that he’s a little jealous of him already. He don’t like his attentions to me—not a bit, Walter don’t. I’m sure neither do I; but I can’t help them, you know—so long as we must meet three or four times a day. I think the refusal I gave might have been sufficient. It was flat enough. But it hasn’t; and would you believe it, he still continues his attentions, as if nothing had happened between us? Pray don’t make Walter worse; else there might be a fight between them; and then—”
“The valiant cornet might crack Walter’s crown?”
“No! that he couldn’t; though he is bigger than Walter. He’s not braver, I’m sure. That he isn’t, the ugly impertinent.”
“What! has he been impertinent to you?”
“Not exactly that; but he don’t seem to know much about politeness. How different with Captain Scarthe. He is polite.”
“I suppose—after a fashion.”
“Dorothy Dayrell thinks him perfection. I’m sure that girl’s in love with him. Why is she always riding up to Bulstrode, if it isn’t to have an opportunity of seeing him? I’m sure, it’s neither of us she comes to visit.”
“She’s quite welcome to come—if it be for the purpose you suppose.”
“Ay! and it’s for nothing else than to get into his company, that she gives the hawking party to-day. She’s a dangerous designing creature—that’s what she is.”
“If her design be to catch Captain Scarthe, I hope she may succeed in it. I’m sure I shan’t be the one to stand in her way.”
“Well!” rejoined Lora, “I’m determined to keep my eyes on her this very day; and see how she behaves. Oh! you don’t know how I detest that girl; and why, do you think?”
“Really, I cannot tell.”
“Well! it is because I know that she is your enemy!”
“I never gave her cause!”
“I know that.”
“Perhaps you know why it is so?”
“I do!”
“Tell me?”
“Because you are beautiful.”
“If that be her reason, she should be your enemy as much as mine?”
“Oh, no! I have not the vanity to think so. My beauty is only prettiness; while yours—ah! cousin Marion, you are beautiful in my eyes—a woman! What must you be in the eyes of a man?”
“You’re a simpleton, Little Lora. You are much prettier than I; and as for Dorothy Dayrell—don’t every one call her the belle of the county? I’ve heard it a score of times.”
“And so have I. But what signifies that? Though you’re my senior, Marion, I think I have as much wisdom as you in matters of this kind. Besides I’m only a spectator, and can judge between you. I believe that the ‘belle of the county,’ and the ‘belle of the ball-room,’ are never the most beautiful of those, with whom they are compared. Very often such reputation is obtained, not from beauty, but behaviour; and from behaviour not always the best.”
“Go on in that way, Lora; and we shall esteem you as the Solon of our sex.”
“Nay, nay; I speak only sentiments such as anyone may conceive. You and Dorothy Dayrell are just the two to illustrate them. While everybody calls her the belle of the county, everybody thinks you to be so. Indeed cousin! you are truly beautiful—so beautiful, that even the peasant children of the parish gaze upon you with wonder and delight!”
“Fulsome flatterer!”
“In troth! ’tis true; and that’s why Dorothy Dayrell dislikes you. She wants to be everything; and knows that you take her laurels from her. On the day of the fête, she did everything in her power to captivate the man, whom she pretended to disparage!”
“Holtspur?”
“Yes: I saw her. She used all her arts to attract his attention. Ah, Marion! he had only eyes for you. And now that he is gone, she’s set herself to attract Captain Scarthe. My word! won’t she try to-day? Sweet coz! I don’t want you to act the hypocrite; but can’t you—yes you can—flirt a little with Scarthe—just to give her a chagrin? Oh! I should so like to see that girl suffer what she deserves,—a chapter of humiliation!”
“Foolish child! you know I cannot do that? It is not according to my inclination—and just now less than ever in my life.”
“Only for an hour—to punish her!”
“How should you like to be so punished yourself? Suppose some one, to-day, were to flirt with Walter; or he with some one?”
“Then I’d flirt with Stubbs!”
“Incorrigible coquette! I think you like Walter; but only that: Ah, Lora! you know not what it is to love!”
“Don’t I though—”
“Mistress Marion?” cried a groom, showing his face at the door of the chamber, “Sir Marm’duke be mounted. They’re only waitin’ for you, and Miss Lora!”
The man, after delivering his message, retired.
“Lora!” whispered Marion, as they issued forth from the room; “not a word of what you know—not to anyone! Promise me that; and I may give you the satisfaction you have asked for.”
During the conversation between the cousins, the two men, who were the chief subjects of it, were engaged in a dialogue of a somewhat kindred character. Scarthe’s sitting apartment was the scene; though neither of the speakers was seated. Both were on their feet; and in costume for the saddle—not military—but merely booted and spurred, with certain equipments covering their dresses, that betokened an intention of going forth upon the sport of falconry.
A splendid jer-falcon—perched upon the back of a chair, and wearing his hood—gave further evidence of this intention; while their gloves drawn on, and their beavers held in hand, told that, like the two ladies, they were only awaiting a summons to sally forth.
Scarthe, following a favourite habit, was pacing the floor; while the cornet stood watching him with attention: as if he had asked counsel from his superior, and was waiting to receive it.
“And so, my gay cornet;” said Scarthe, addressing the subaltern in his usual bantering way, “you’re determined to try her again?”
“Yes, by Ged!—that is if you approve of it.”
“Oh! as to my approval, it don’t need that. It’s not a military matter. You may propose to every woman in the county for aught I care; twenty times to each, if you think fit.”
“But I want your advice, captain. Suppose she should refuse me a second time?”
“Why that would be awkward—especially as you’re sleeping under the same roof, and eating at the same table with her. The more awkward, since you say you’ve had a refusal already.”
“It wasn’t a regular offer. Besides I was too quick with it. There’s been a good deal since, that gives me hope. She’ll think better of it now—if I don’t mistake her.”
“You are not quite sure of her, then?”
“Well—not exactly.”
“Don’t you think you had better postpone your proposal, till you’re more certain of its being favourably received?”
“But there’s a way to make certain. It’s about that, I want you to advise me.”
“Let me hear your ‘way’?”
“Well; you see, captain, though the girl’s only the niece of Sir Marmaduke, she loves him quite as much as his own daughter does. I don’t think she cares about that stripling—farther than as a cousin. What’s between them is just like sister and brother: since she’s got no brother of her own. They’ve been brought up together—that’s all.”
“I can’t help admiring your perspicuity, Cornet Stubbs.”
Perspicuity was just that quality with which the cornet was not gifted; else he could hardly have failed to notice the tone of irony, in which the compliment was uttered.
“Oh! I ain’t afraid of him at all events!”
“What then are you afraid of? Is there any other rival, you think, she’s likely to prefer to you? May be young Dayrell; or that rather good-looking son of Sir Roger Hammersley? Either of them, eh?”
“No—nor any one else.”
“In that case, why are you in doubt? You think the girl likes you?”
“Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don’t. She appears to change every day. But I’ve reason to believe, she likes me now; or did yesterday.”
“How do you know that? Has she told you so?”
“No—not in words; but I think so from her way. I hinted to her, that I intended to have a private talk with her upon an important matter, when we should be out on this hawking party. She appeared delighted at the idea—did, by Ged! Besides; she was in tip-top spirits all the evening after; and several times spoke of the pleasure she expected from to-morrow’s sport—that is to-day. Now, what could that mean, unless—”
“Unless the pleasure she anticipated from your proposing to her. But if her liking be only on alternate days—as you say—and she was so fond of you yesterday, she might be in the contrary mood to-day? For that reason I’d advise you to suspend proceedings till to-morrow.”
“But, captain; you forget that I’ve got a way that will insure her consent—whether it be to-day or to-morrow.”
“Disclose it, my sagacious cornet.”
“If I should only give her a hint—”
“Of what?”
“You know how Sir Marmaduke is in your power.”
“I do.”
“Well; if I only were to slip in a word about her uncle being in danger; not only of his liberty but his life—”
“Stubbs!” cried the cuirassier captain, springing forward fiercely, and shaking his clenched fist before the face of his subaltern; “if you slip in a word about that—or dare to whisper the slightest hint of such a thing—your own life will be in greater danger, than that of Sir Marmaduke Wade. I’ve commanded you already to keep your tongue to yourself on that theme; and now, more emphatically do I repeat the command.”
“Oh! captain,” stammered out the terrified Stubbs, in an apologetic whine; “if you don’t approve, of course I won’t say a word about it. I won’t, by Ged!”
“No; you had better not. Win the consent of your sweetheart, after your own way; but don’t try to take advantage of a power, that does not appertain to you. A contingency may arise, for disclosing that secret; but it is for me, not you, to judge of the crisis.”
The further protestations of the scared cornet were cut short by the entrance of a messenger; who came to announce that the party, about to proceed on the hawking excursion, was ready to start, and only waited the company of Captain Scarthe and Cornet Stubbs.
Five minutes later, a cavalcade of splendid appearance might have been seen passing through Bulstrode Park, towards one of the side gates that opened out to the eastward.
It consisted of Sir Marmaduke Wade, his son, daughter and niece—the two officers, his guests—with a large following of grooms, falconers, and other attendants; a number of them on horseback, with hawks perched upon their shoulders; a still larger number afoot—conducting the retrievers, others chiens de chasse, employed in the venerie of the time.
On clearing the enclosure of the park, the gay procession turned in a southerly direction—towards the beautiful lake of Fulmere; which, fed by the Alder “burn,” lay embosomed between two parallel spurs of the beech-embowered Chilterns.