The White Gauntlet Part 29

On a small table that stood in a shadowed corner of the apartment, a glove was lying--as if carelessly thrown there. It was a lady's glove-- with gauntlet attached, embroidered with gold wire, and bordered with lace. It appeared the very counterpart of that at the moment occupying his thoughts--the glove that had the day before decorated the hat of Henry Holtspur!

"By heaven, 'tis the _same_!" he exclaimed, the colour forsaking his cheeks as he stood gazing upon it. "No--not the same," he continued, taking up the glove, and scrutinising it with care. "Not the same; but its mate--its fellow! The resemblance is exact; the lace, the embroidery, the design--all. I cannot be mistaken!"

And as he repeated this last phrase, he struck his heel fiercely upon the floor.

"There's a mystery!" he continued, after the first painful pulsations of his heart had pa.s.sed; "Not known to Sir Marmaduke until yesterday! Not known to Sir Marmaduke's daughter! And yet wearing her gauntlet conspicuously in the crown of his hat! Was it hers? Is _this_ hers?

May it not belong to the other--the niece? No--no--though small enough, 'tis too large for her tiny claw. 'Tis the glove of Marion!"

For some seconds Scarthe stood twirling the piece of doeskin between his fingers, and examining it on all sides. A feeling far stronger than mere curiosity prompted him to this minute inspection, as would be divined by the dark shadows rapidly chasing each other over his pallid brow.

His looks betrayed both anguish and anger, as he emphatically repeated the phrase--"Forestalled, by heaven!"

"Stay there!" he continued, thrusting the glove under the breast of his doublet. "Stay there, thou devilish tell-tale--close to the bosom thou hast filled with bitter thoughts. Trifle as thou seemest, I may yet find thee of serious service."

And with a countenance in which bitter chagrin was blended with dark determination, he continued to pace excitedly over the floor of the apartment.

END OF VOLUME ONE.

Volume Two, Chapter I.

The warm golden light of an autumn sun was struggling through the half-closed curtains of a window, in the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade.

It was still early in the afternoon; and the window in question, opening from an upper storey, and facing westward, commanded one of the finest views of the park of Bulstrode. The sunbeams slanting through the parted tapestry lit up an apartment, which by its light luxurious style of furniture, and costly decoration, proclaimed itself to be a boudoir, or room exclusively appropriated to the use of a lady.

At that hour there was other and better evidence of such appropriation: since the lady herself was seen standing in the embayment of its window, under the arcade formed by the drooping folds of the curtains.

The sunbeams glittered upon tresses of a kindred colour--among which they seemed delighted to linger. They flashed into eyes as blue as the canopy whence they came; and the rose-coloured clouds, they had themselves created in the western sky, were not of fairer effulgence than the cheeks they appeared so fondly to kiss.

These were not in their brightest bloom. Though slightly blanched, neither were they pale. The strongest emotion could not produce absolute pallor on the cheeks of Marion Wade--where the rose never altogether gave place to the lily.

The young lady stood in the window, looking outward upon the park. With inquiring glance she swept its undulating outlines; traced the softly-rounded tops of the chestnut trees; scrutinised the curving lines of the copses; saw the spotted kine roaming slowly o'er the lea, and the deer darting swiftly across the sward; but none of these sights were the theme of her thoughts, or fixed her attention for more than a pa.s.sing moment.

There was but one object within that field of vision, upon which her eyes rested for any length of time; not constantly, but with glances straying from it only to return. This was a gate between two ma.s.sive piers of mason-work, grey and ivy-grown. It was not the princ.i.p.al entrance to the park; but one of occasional use, which opened near the western extremity of the enclosure into the main road. It was the nearest way for any one going in the direction of Stone Dean, or coming thither.

There was nothing in the architecture of those ivy-covered piers to account for the almost continuous scrutiny given to it by Mistress Marion Wade; nor yet in the old gate itself--a ma.s.s of red-coloured rusty iron. Neither was new to her. She had looked upon that entrance--which opened directly in front of her chamber window every day--almost every hour of her life. Why, then, was she now so a.s.siduously gazing upon it?

Her soliloquy will furnish the explanation.

"He promised he would come to-day. He told Walter so before leaving the camp--the scene of his conquest over one who appears to hate him--far more over one who _loves him_ No. The last triumph came not then. Long before was it obtained. Ah me! it must be love, or why should I so long to see him?"

"Dear cousin, how is this? Not dressed for dinner? 'Tis within five minutes of the hour!"

It was the pretty Lora Lovelace who, tripping into the room, asked these questions--Lora fresh from her toilette, and radiant with smiles.

There was no heaviness on _her_ heart--no shadow on her countenance.

Walter and she had spent the morning together; and, whatever may have pa.s.sed between them, it had left behind no trace of a cloud.

"I do not intend dressing," rejoined Marion. "I shall dine as you see me."

"What, Marion! and these strange gentlemen to be at the table!"

"A fig for the strange gentlemen! It's just for that I won't dress.

Nay, had my father not made a special request of it, I should not go to the table at all. I'm rather surprised, cousin, at your taking such pains to be agreeable to guests thus forced upon us. For which of the two are you setting your snare, little Lora--the conceited captain, or his stupid subaltern?"

"Oh!" said Lora, with a reproachful pouting of her pretty lips; "you do me wrong, Marion. I have not taken pains on their account. There are to be others at the table besides the strangers."

"Who?" demanded Marion.

"Who--why,"--stammered Lora, slightly blus.h.i.+ng as she made answer, "why, of course there is uncle Sir Marmaduke."

"That all?"

"And--and--Cousin Walter as well."

"Ha! ha! Lora; it's an original idea of yours, to be dressing with such studied care for father and Walter. Well, here goes to get ready. I don't intend to make any farther sacrifice to the rigour of fas.h.i.+on than just pull off these sleeves, dip my fingers into a basin of water, and tuck up my tresses a little."

"O Marion!"

"Not a pin, nor ribbon, except what's necessary to hold up my troublesome horse-load of hair. I've a good mind to cut it short.

Sooth! I feel like pulling some of it out through sheer vexation!"

"Vexation--with what?"

"What--what--why being bored with these bl.u.s.tering fellows--especially when one wants to be alone."

"But, cousin; these gentlemen cannot help their being here. They have to obey the commands of the king. They are behaving very civilly?

Walter has told me so. Besides, uncle has enjoined upon us to treat them with courtesy."

"Aha! they'll have scant courtesy from me. All they'll get will be a _yes_ and a _no_; and that not very civilly, unless they deserve it."

"But if they deserve it?"

"If they do--"

"Walter says they have offered profuse apologies, and regrets."

"For what?"

"For the necessity they are under of becoming uncle's guests."

"I don't believe so--no, not a bit. Look at their rude behaviour at the very beginning--kissing that bold girl Bet Dancey, in the presence of a thousand spectators! Ha! well punished was captain Scarthe for his presumption. He feel regret! I don't believe it, Lora. That man's a hypocrite. There's falsehood written in his face, along with a large quant.i.ty of conceit; and as for the cornet--the only thing discernible in his countenance is--stupidity."

As Marion p.r.o.nounced the last word, she had completed her toilette--all that she had promised or intended to make. She was one who needed not to take much trouble before the mirror. Dressed or in _deshabille_ she was the same--ever beautiful. Nature had made her in its fairest mould, and Art could not alter the design.

Her preparations for the dinner table consisted simply in replacing her morning boddice by one without sleeves--which displayed her snow-white arms nearly to the shoulders. Having adjusted this, she inserted one hand under her wavy golden hair; and, adroitly turning its profuse tresses round her wrist, she rolled them into a spiral coil, which by means of a pair of large hair pins she confined at the back of her head.

Then, dipping her hands into a basin of water, she shook off the crystal drops from the tips of her roseate fingers; wiped them on a white napkin; flung the towel upon the table; and cried "Come on!"