The White Gauntlet Part 30

Followed by the light-hearted Lora, she descended to the dining hall, where the two officers were already awaiting their presence.

A dinner-party under such circ.u.mstances as that which a.s.sembled around the table of Sir Marmaduke Wade--small in numbers though it was--could not be otherwise than coldly formal.

The host himself was polite to his uninvited guests--studiously so; but not all his habitual practice of courtly manners could conceal a certain embarra.s.sment, that now and then exhibited itself in incidents of a trivial character.

On his part the cuira.s.sier captain used every effort to thaw the ice that surrounded him. He lost no opportunity of expressing his regret: at being the recipient of such a peculiar hospitality; nor was he at all backward in censuring his royal master for making him so.

But for an occasional distrustful glance visible under the s.h.a.ggy eyebrows of the knight--visible only at intervals, and to one closely watching him--it might have been supposed that Sir Marmaduke was warming to the words of his wily guest. That glance, however, told of a distrust, not to be removed by the softest and most courteous of speeches.

Marion adhered to her promise, and spoke only in monosyllables; though her fine open countenance expressed neither distrust nor dislike. The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was too proud to appear otherwise than indifferent. If she felt contempt, there was no evidence of it--neither in the curling of her lip, nor the cast of her eye.

Equally in vain did Scarthe scrutinise her countenance for a sign of admiration. His most gallant speeches were received with an air of frigid indifference--his wittiest sallies elicited only such smiles as courtesy could not refuse.

If Marion at any time showed sign of emotion, it was when her glance was turned towards the window: apparently in quest of some object that _should_ be visible outside. Then her bosom might be seen swelling with a suppressed sigh--as if her thoughts were dwelling on one who was absent.

Slight as were these manifestations, they did not escape the observation of the experienced Scarthe. He saw, and half interpreted, their meaning--his brow blackening under bitter fancies thus conjured up.

Though seated with his back to the window, more than once he turned half round: to see if there was any one in sight.

When the wine had been pa.s.sed several times, making him less cautious, his glances of admiration became bolder, his speeches less courteous, and reserved.

The cornet talked little. It was enough for him to endorse the sentiments of his superior officer by an occasional monosyllable.

Though silent, Stubbs was not altogether satisfied with what was pa.s.sing. The by-play between Walter and Lora, who were seated together, was far from pleasing to him. He had not been many minutes at the table, before discovering that the cousins had an amiable inclination towards each other; which carried him to the conclusion, that, in the son of Sir Marmaduke he would find a formidable rival.

Even on the blank page of his stolid countenance soon became discernible the lines that indicate jealousy; while in his white skewbald eyes could be detected a glance not a whit more amiable, than that which flashed more determinedly from the dark orbs of the cuira.s.sier captain.

The dinner pa.s.sed without any unpleasant _contretemps_. The party separated after a reasonable time--Sir Marmaduke excusing himself upon some matter of business--the ladies having already made their curtsey to their stranger guests.

Walter, rather from politeness than any inclination, remained a while longer in the company of the two officers; but, as the companions.h.i.+p was kept up under a certain feeling of restraint, he was only too well pleased to join them in toasting _The king_!--which, like our modern lay of royalty, was regarded as the _finale_ to every species of entertainment.

Walter strayed off in search of his sister and cousin--most likely only the latter; while the officers, not yet invited into the sanctuary of the family circle, retired to their room--to talk over the incidents of the dinner, or plot some scheme for securing the indulgence of those amorous inclinations, with which both were now thoroughly imbued.

Volume Two, Chapter II.

Marion Wade was alone--as before, standing in her window under the arcade of parted tapestry--as before, with eyes bent on the iron gate and ivy-wreathed portals that supported it.

Everything was as before: the spotted kine lounging slowly over the lea; the fallow deer browsing upon the sward; and the birds singing their sweet songs, or winging their way from copse to copse.

The sun only had changed position. Lower down in the sky, he was sinking still lower--softly and slowly, upon a couch of purple coloured clouds. The crests of the Chilterns were tinted with a roseate hue; and the summit of the Beacon-hill appeared in a blaze, as when by night its red fires had been wont to give warning of the approach of a hostile fleet by the channels of the Severn.

Brilliant and lovely as was the sunset, Marion Wade saw it not; or, if seeing, it was with an eye that stayed not to admire.

That little s.p.a.ce of rust-coloured iron and grey stonework--just visible under the hanging branches of the trees--had an attraction for her far outstripping the gaudy changes of the sunset.

Thus ran her reflections:--"Walter said he would come--perhaps not before evening. 'Tis a visit to papa--only him! What can be its purpose? Maybe something relating to the trouble that has fallen upon us? Us said he is against the king, and for the people. 'Twas on that account Dorothy Dayrell spoke slightingly of him. For that shall not I.

No--never--never! She said he must be peasant born. 'Tis a false slander. He is gentle, or I know not a gentleman.

"What am I to think of yesterday--that girl and her flowers? I wish there had not been a fete. I shall never go to another!

"I was so happy when I saw my glove upon his beaver. If 'tis gone, and those flowers have replaced it, I shall not care to live longer--not a day--not an hour!"

A sudden change came over both the att.i.tude and reflections of Marion Wade.

Some one had opened the gate! It was a man--a rider--bestriding a black horse!

An instinct stronger than ordinary aided in the identification of this approaching horseman. The eyes of love need not the aid of a gla.s.s; and Marion saw him with such.

"It is he!" she repeated in full confidence, as the cavalier, emerging from the shadow of the trees commenced ascending the slope of the hill.

Marion kept her eyes bent upon the advancing horseman, in straining gaze; and thus continued until he had arrived within a hundred yards of the moat that surrounded the mansion. One might have supposed that she was still uncertain as to his ident.i.ty.

But her glance was directed neither upon his face nor form, but towards a point higher than either--towards the brow of his beaver--where something white appeared to have fixed her regard. This soon a.s.sumed the form and dimensions of a lady's gauntlet--its slender fingers tapering towards the crown of the hat, and outlined conspicuously against the darker background.

"It is the glove--_my_ glove!" said she, gasping out the words, as if the recognition had relieved her from some terrible suspense. "Yes, it is still there. O joy!"

All at once the thrill of triumph became checked, by a contrary emotion.

Something red was seen protruding from under the rim of the beaver, and close to the glove. Was it a _flower_?

The flowers given by Maid Marian were of that colour! Was it one of them?

Quick as the suspicion had arisen did it pa.s.s away. The red object sparkled in the sun. It was not a flower; but the garnet clasp that held the gauntlet in its place. Marion remembered the clasp. She had noticed it the day before.

She breathed freely again. Her heart was happier than ever. She was too happy to gaze longer on that which was giving her content. She dreaded to exhibit her blus.h.i.+ng cheek to the eyes of the man, whose presence caused it to blush; and she retired behind the curtain, to enjoy un.o.bserved a moment of delicious emotion.

Her happiness did not hinder her from once more returning to the window; but too late to see the cavalier as he pa.s.sed across the parterre. She knew, however, that he had entered the house, and was at that moment below in the library--holding with her father the promised interview.

She knew not the purpose of his visit. It could not have reference to herself. She could only conjecture its connection with the political incidents of the time; which were talked of in every house--even to dividing the sentiments of the family circle, and disturbing the tranquillity of more than one erst happy home.

She was aware that the visit of Henry Holtspur was _only to her father_.

He had come, and might go as he had come, without the chance of her exchanging speech with him; and as this thought came into her mind, she half regretted having retired from the window. By so doing, she had lost the very opportunity long desired--often wished for in vain.

Only a word or two had been spoken between them on the day before,--the stiff ceremonial phrases of introduction--after which the incident of the duel had abruptly parted them.

Now that Holtspur had been presented by a brother--and with the sanction of a father--what reason was there for reserve? Even prudery could not show excuse for keeping aloof. She should have spoken to him from the balcony. She should have welcomed him to the house. He must have seen her at the window? What reflection might he have, about her retiring-- as if to hide herself from his gaze? He would scarce consider it courtesy? He might fancy he had given her some offence--perhaps in that very act which had produced such an opposite impression--the triumphant exposure of her glove?

Perhaps he might take offence at her coy conduct, and pluck the token from its place? How could she convey to him the knowledge, of her happiness at beholding it there? How tell him that he was but too welcome to wear it?

"If I could find the other," she soliloquised in low murmuring, "I should carry it in some conspicuous place, where he might see it--on my hand--my breast--in the frontlet of my coif, as he wears its fellow in his beaver. If only for a moment, it would tell him what I wish, without words. Alas! I've lost the other. Too surely have I lost it.

Everywhere have I searched in vain. What can I have done with it? Bad omen, I fear, to miss it at such a time!"

"If he go forth as he has come," continued she, resuming her mental soliloquy, "I shall not have the opportunity to speak to him at all-- perhaps not even to exchange salutation. He will scarce ask to see _me_. He may not look back. I cannot call after him. What is to be done?"

There was a pause, as if her thoughts were silently occupied in forming some plan.

"Ha!" she exclaimed at length, pretending to look inquiringly out of the window. "Lora and Walter are wandering somewhere through the park? I shall go in search of them."

The motive thus disclosed was but a mere pretence--put forth to satisfy the natural instincts of a maiden's modesty. It ended the struggle between this, and the powerful pa.s.sion that was warring against it.