Volume 3 Chapter 13 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
Of all who enjoyed the sports of the hawking party, no one left it with a heavier heart than Marion Wade. The shadows of night descending over the lake—as the company took their departure from its shores—might well symbolise the shadow that had fallen upon her heart. Throughout the afternoon, it had been a hard struggle with her to conceal her chagrin from curious eyes; to appear joyous, amid so many happy faces; to wear pretended smiles, while those around were laughing gaily.
All this, however, her strength of character had enabled her to accomplish; though it was like removing a load from off her breast, when the falling shades of twilight summoned the party to a separation.
That night no sleep for Marion Wade—not enough to give her a moment’s relief from the thoughts that tortured her. Her pillow was pressed, but with a pale and sleepless cheek; and often, during the night, had she risen from her couch, and paced the floor of her apartment, like one under the influence of a delirious dream.
The bosom that has been betrayed can alone understand the nature of her sufferings. Perhaps only a woman’s heart can fully appreciate the pain she was enduring? Hers had received into its inmost recesses—into the very citadel itself—the image of the heroic Holtspur. It was still there; but all around it was rankling as with poison.
The arrow had entered. Its distilled venom permeated the bosom it had pierced. There was no balsam to subdue the pain—no hope to afford the slightest solace—only regret for the past, and despair for the future.
Until that day Marion Wade had never known what it was to be truly unhappy. Her pangs of jealousy hitherto experienced, had been slight, compared with those which were now wringing her breast. Even her apprehensions for the fate of her lover had been endurable: since hope for his safety had never wholly forsaken her. During the interval that had lapsed since his escape, she had not been altogether unhappy. Her heart had been fortified by hope; and still farther supported by the remembrance of that last sweet interview. So long as Holtspur lived, and loved her, she felt that she could be happy—even under those circumstances hypothetically foreshadowed in his parting speeches.
There were times when she pondered on their mysterious import; when she wondered what they could have meant—and not without a sense of dissatisfaction.
But she had not allowed this to intrude itself either often or long. Her love was too loyal, too trusting, to be shaken by suspicions. She remembered how unjust had been those formerly indulged in; and, influenced by this memory, she had resolved never again to give way to doubt, without some certain sign—such as the return of the love-token, as arranged between them. She might have had cause to wonder, why she had not heard from him—if only a word to ensure her of his safety. But she was not chagrined by his silence. The risk of communicating with her might account for it. Under an hypocritical pretence of duty—of obedience to orders he dared not depart from—the cuirassier captain permitted nothing—not even an epistle—to enter the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, without being first submitted to his own scrutiny.
Since the hour of his escape, the only intimation she had had of her lost lover—almost the first time she had heard his name pronounced—was when coupled with those two words, that were now filling her with woe—“His wife!”
Marion had heard no more. She had stayed for no farther torture from those scandal-loving lips. She had heard that her lover—the man to whom she had surrendered the reins of her heart—was the husband of another! That was knowledge enough for one hour of wretchedness—ay, for a whole lifetime of sadness and chagrin.
Though in the midst of that gay assemblage, she had not essayed to seek an explanation; she was now desirous of having it. So long as the slightest remnant of either hope or doubt remains within the mind of one who suspected an unrequited passion, that mind cannot feel satisfaction. It will seek the truth—although the search may conduct to eternal ruin.
So determined the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade, during the mid hours of that sleepless night; and, long before the great bell of Bulstrode summoned its retainers to their daily toil, the young mistress of this lordly mansion might have been seen—closely wrapped in cloak and hood—issuing forth from one of its portals; and, under the grey light of dawn, with quick but stealthy step, making her way over the dew-bespangled pastures of its park.
The gate through which she had often passed outward into the high road—often, of late, with a heart trembling in sweet anticipation—was the one towards which she directed her steps.
How different was now her prospect—how dissimilar her purpose! She went not forth to meet one, who, though still undeclared, she instinctively believed to be her lover—loyal and true. Her errand was no more of this joyous nature, but the sad reverse. It was to make inquiries as to that lover’s loyalty, or seek confirmation of his falsehood!
Who could give the wished-for information? From whom were the inquiries to be made?
She could think of no one save Holtspur himself; and the white paper—clutched in a hand almost as white—concealed under her cloak, gave a clue to her design. It was an epistle that had been penned by the light of the midnight lamp, and sealed under a flood of scorching tears. There was no direction upon it—only the name Henry Holtspur. She knew not his address. She was taking it to a place where she had hopes of seeing some one, who might be able to forward it to its destination.
The path she was following pointed to this place. It was the road leading to Stone Dean. It was not the first time she had thought of thus communicating with her absent lover. She had forborne, partly through fear of being betrayed by those to whom her letter might be entrusted—partly by the feminine reflection, that he, not she, should be the first to write—and partly by the hope, deferred from day to day, that he would write. These hindrances she regarded no longer. An epistle was now addressed to him—far different from that hitherto intended. It was no longer a letter of love, but one filled with reproaches and regrets.
Marion Wade was not the only one under her father’s roof, who at that same hour had been employing the pen. Another had been similarly occupied.
As a soldier, Scarthe was accustomed to keep early hours. It was a rare circumstance for him to be a-bed after six o’clock in the morning. In those times of political agitation, the military man often took part in state intrigues; and in this craft the cuirassier captain, under the guidance of his royal patroness, had inextricably engaged himself.
This double duty entailed upon him an extensive correspondence; to which his morning hours were chiefly devoted. Although essentially a man of pleasure, he did not surrender himself to idleness. He was too ambitious, to be inactive; and both his military and political duties were attended to with system and energy.
On the day of the hawking party, his correspondence had fallen behind; and, to clear off the arrears, he was astir at a very early hour next morning, and busy before his writing table.
His military and political despatches were not the only matters that called for the use of his pen on this particular morning. Upon the table before him lay a sealed packet, that might have contained a letter, but evidently something more—something of a different character, as indicated by its shape and size.
But there was no letter inside; and the object within the envelope might be guessed at, by the soliloquy that fell from the lips of Captain Scarthe, as he sate regarding it. It was a glove—the white gauntlet, once worn upon the hand of Marion Wade—once worn upon the hat of Henry Holtspur, and thence surreptitiously abstracted. It was once more to be restored to its original owner, in a secret and mysterious manner; and to that end had it been enclosed in a wrapping of spotless paper, and sealed with a blank seal stamp.
As yet there was no superscription upon the parcel; and he who had made it up, sate contemplating it—pen in hand—as if uncertain as to how he should address it. It was not this, however, about which he was pausing. He knew the address well enough. It was the mode of writing it—the chirography—that was occupying his thoughts.
“Ha!” he exclaimed at length, “an excellent idea! It must be like his handwriting; which in all probability, she is acquainted with. I can easily imitate it. Thank fortune I’ve got copies enough—in this traitorous correspondence.”
As he said this, he drew towards him a number of papers, consisting of letters and other documents. They were those he had taken from Stone Dean, on the morning of Holtspur’s arrest.
After regarding them for some seconds—with the attention of an expert, in the act of deciphering some difficult manuscript—he took his pen, and wrote upon the parcel the words, “Mistress Marion Wade.”
“That will be enough,” reflected he. “The address is superfluous. It would never do for it to be delivered at the house. It must be put into her hands secretly, and as if sent by a trusty messenger. There’s no reason why she should mistrust the woodman Walford. She may know him to have been in Holtspur’s service, and can scarce have heard of his defection. He’ll do. He must watch for an opportunity, when she goes out. I wonder what delays the knave. He should have been here by this time. I told him to come before daylight. Ha! speak of the fiend! That must be his shadow passing the window?”
As Scarthe said this, he hastily rose to his feet; scattered some drying sand over the wet superscription; and, taking the packet from the table, walked towards the door to meet his messenger.
It was the traitor Walford, whose shadow had been seen passing the window. His patron found him standing on the step.
He was not admitted inside the house. The business, for the execution of which he was required, had been already arranged; and a few words of instruction, spoken in a low tone, sufficed to impart to him a full comprehension of its native.
He was told that the packet then placed in his hands, was for Mistress Marion Wade; that he was to watch for an opportunity when she should be out of doors; and deliver it to her—if possible, unseen by any third party. He was instructed to assume an air of secrecy; to announce himself as a messenger from Henry Holtspur; and, after delivering a verbal message—supposed to proceed from the cavalier, but carefully concocted by Scarthe—he was to hasten out of the lady’s presence, and avoid the danger of a cross-questioning.
“Now, begone!” commanded his employer, when he had completed his chapter of instructions. “Get away from the house—if you can, without being observed. It won’t do for you to be seen here at this early hour—least of all on a visit to me. Let me know when you have succeeded; and if you do the business adroitly, I shall double this douceur.”
As Scarthe said this, he slipped a gold coin into the hand of the pseudo-messenger; and, turning upon his heel, walked back towards his apartment.
The woodman, after grinning gleefully at the gold that lay glistening in his palm, thrust the piece into his pocket; and, gliding down from the steps, commenced making a stealthy departure through the shrubbery.
He little thought how near he was to the opportunity he desired—of earning the duplicate of that douceur.
But fate, or the fiend, was propitious to him. On clearing the moated enclosure, he saw before him the form of a woman, closely wrapped in cloak and hood.
She, too, seemed hastening onward with stealthy step; but the tall, symmetrical figure, and the rich robes that enveloped it, left no doubt upon the mind of Walford as to the person who was preceding him down the sloping avenue of Bulstrode Park. It was the young mistress of the mansion—she for whom his message was intended—she who would be made wretched by its delivery.
The emissary of Scarthe neither knew, nor would have cared, for this. His only thought was to earn the promised perquisite; and, with this object in view, he followed the female figure fast flitting toward the gate of the park.
Quickly and silently did Marion glide upon her errand. Absorbed by its painful nature, she fancied herself unobserved. She saw not that dark form skulking but a short distance behind her, like an evil shadow, ill defined, under the dim light of the dawn—and keeping pace with her as she advanced.
Unconscious of the proximity of her suspicious follower, she passed out through the park gates, and on along the forest road—a path well known to her. Never before had she trodden it with a heavier heart. Never before had she stood under the shadow of the trysting tree—to her now sadly sacred—influenced by such painful emotion.
She paused beneath its spreading branches. She could not resist the mystic spell, which the place seemed to cast around her. There was something, even in the sadness of its souvenirs, that had a soothing effect upon her spirits, that could scarce have been more embittered.
Whether soothing, or saddening, she was permitted to indulge only a short time in silent reflection. A heavy footfall—evidently that of a man—was heard approaching along the path, and shuffling among the crisp leaves with which it was bestrewed.
The sounds grew louder and drew nearer; until he who was causing them came in sight—a rustic making his way through the wood.
Marion knew the man—the woodman Walford.
She knew him only by sight, and but slightly. She had no words for such as he—especially in an hour like that.
She moved not. Her eyes were averted. The intruder might have passed on, without receiving from her even a nod of recognition, had such been his wish.
It was only on hearing her own name pronounced, and seeing the man advance towards her, that the young lady took note of his presence.
“Mistress Wade!” muttered he, awkwardly uncovering his head, and making a bow of doubtful politeness.
“What want you with me, sir?” asked Marion, in a tone that betrayed both annoyance and astonishment.
“I’ve been follerin’ thee, mistress, all the way frae the big house. I wanted to see thee alone.”
“Alone! And for what purpose, sirrah?”
The interrogatory was uttered in a voice that betokened indignation not unmingled with alarm. No wonder. He to whom it was addressed was not the man, with whom a timid woman would elect to hold an interview, alone, and in the heart of a wood.
Was the rustic intruding himself with an evil intention?
The apprehensions, thus quickly conceived were as speedily dissipated by the woodman declaring himself to have come in the capacity of a messenger.
“I ha’ brought thee a package, Mistress Wade,” said he, drawing something from under the skirt of his doublet. “It be a small ’un, I trow; but for all that I darn’t gie it ye afore company—for I had orders not to, by him as sent me.”
“Who sent you?” hastily inquired the lady, at the same time taking the packet from the hand of the cautious carrier.
“Master Holtspur,” bluntly replied the man.
“I darn’t stay here aside ye,” continued he. “Some of them may come this way, an’ see us thegither. I’ve only to tell you that Master Holtspur be safe; an’ that it be all right atween him an his wife. They be reconciled agin. But I needn’t be tellin’ ye that: I s’pose it’s all wrote inside the package. Now, mistress, I must away, an’ get back to him as sent me. Good mornin’.”
With another grotesque attempt at polite salutation, the deliverer of the message walked hurriedly away; and was soon lost to the sight of its trembling recipient.
Marion had listened to his words without knowing their wicked design—without even suspecting that they were false. But, false or true, she did not imagine there could be a new pang conveyed in their meaning. She had already felt the sting, as she supposed,—in all its black bitterness! She did not believe that in the same quiver, there was another arrow, bearing upon its point a still more potent poison.
She felt it, as with trembling fingers she broke the seal, and tore open the envelope of that tiny parcel. To her heart’s core she felt it, as her eyes rested upon the contents. Her token returned to her—that fatal gift—the White Gauntlet! The glove dropped to the ground; and, with a suppressed scream—that sounded like the knell of a shattered heart—sank Marion Wade beside it! For some moments she lay along the grass, like some beautiful statue struck down from its pedestal.
She was not unconscious—only unnerved, and rendered powerless by a strong, quick spasm of despair.
Beyond the stifled scream, that escaped her as she fell, no sound passed from her lips. Hers was a despair that speech was incapable of relieving. There was nothing on which hope could hinge itself. The restored token told the tale in all its sad reality. A letter—a volume could not have conveyed the information more fully. Holtspur no longer loved her!
There was even a more fell reflection. He had never loved her: else how could he have changed so soon?
The paroxysm at length passed; and the prostrate form once more stood erect. Erect, but not triumphant. Sad and subdued was the spirit that animated it—almost shivered by that fearful shock.
In silent agony she turned to go homeward. She no more remembered the errand that had summoned her forth. It was no longer of any importance. The information she would have sought had met her on the way—had been communicated, with a fullness and surety that left nothing to be added. Holtspur loved her no more. With that thought in her mind, what mattered it whether he were married or no? But the words of the messenger had equally ended all doubt of this. If there might be any lingering uncertainty, as to what she had heard, there could be none as to what she saw. There lay the White Gauntlet under her eyes—down among the weeds. It lay neglected as if without an owner—no more to be regarded by Marion Wade; or only as the cause of a life-long anguish.
Slowly and sadly she retraced the forest path; slowly and sadly she re-entered the gateway of the park; slowly and sadly walked back along that avenue, once trodden by her with a bosom filled with supremest joy.