The White Gauntlet

by Mayne Reid

A small table stood within reach of his hand, on which was a decanter containing wine, and a silver goblet. He had thrice filled the latter and thrice drained its contents, to the last drop. But the intoxicating fluid, even thus liberally imbibed, had failed to give solace to the chagrin with which his spirit was affected.

It was now the third day of his residence under the roof of Sir Marmaduke Wade; and he had made scarce any progress in the programme he had sketched out—of ingratiating himself with the knight and his family.

On the part of these a rigorous etiquette continued to be kept up; and it appeared probable that, beyond what necessity demanded of them, only the slightest intercourse might ever occur between them and their uninvited guests.

Of these circumstances, however, the soldier made not much account. He might expect in time to smooth over the unpleasant occurrences that had inaugurated his introduction. He knew himself to have a tongue that could wheedle with the devil; and with this he hoped, at no distant day, to remove the hostile impression, and establish an intimacy—if not altogether friendly—that would at least give him the opportunities he desired. Indeed, he even flattered himself that he had already made some progress in this direction; and it was not that was causing the extreme acerbity of spirit, he now strove to soothe with copious libations from the wine cup.

His chagrin sprang from a different cause. What at first was only a suspicion, had now become almost a certainty: that he was forestalled in the affections of a beautiful woman, whom he already loved with an indescribable ardour; forestalled, and by the very man who, in her eyes, had so horribly humiliated him!

Notwithstanding this belief he had not abandoned hope. Richard Scarthe was a courtier, of too much confidence in his own prowess, to yield easily to despair. He had succeeded oft before in the estrangement of hearts, already prepossessed; and why should he not again?

As the wine mounted to his brain, his mind began to contend against the conviction with which his late act of espionage had so unhappily supplied him. The evidence of the glove was, after all, inconclusive. The one he had picked up was no doubt the glove of Marion Wade; but what reason was there for believing that it was its fellow he had seen in the hat of Henry Holtspur? A glove of white doeskin leather was a fashion of the time—so, too, the gold and lace ornaments upon the gauntlet. The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was not the only lady who wore white gloves. Why should it be hers?

Every reason had he to arrive at the contrary conclusion. He had ascertained that his antagonist was a stranger to the family; introduced to Marion scarce an hour before the combat: and not speaking to her afterwards.

Thus in his own mind would Scarthe have disposed of the circumstance of the two gloves, deeming it an accidental coincidence.

But then there was the interview in the park—that interview of which he had been a witness. Could it have been accidental? Or for some other purpose than that of a love meeting?