The White Gauntlet

by Mayne Reid

Had he been an eye-witness to her behaviour—throughout that eventful day on which the conspirator had made his escape—he might have found it more difficult to reconcile himself to this pleasant belief. Her sad countenance, as, looking from the lattice, she once more beheld her lover in the power of his enemies—once more in vile bonds—might have proved, to the most uninterested observer, the existence of a care which love alone could create. Could he have seen her during the interval which transpired—between the time when the prisoner was borne off towards his perilous prison, and the return of the mounted messenger who told of his escape—he might have been convinced of an anxiety, which love alone can feel.

With what unspeakable joy had Marion listened to this last announcement! Perhaps it repaid her for the moments of misery, she had been silently enduring.

Deep as had been the chagrin, consequent on that event, Scarthe had found some consolation in the thought, that, henceforth, he should have the field to himself. He would take care that his rival should not again cross the threshold of Sir Marmaduke’s mansion, nor in any way obtain access to his daughter’s presence till he had settled the question of his own acceptance, or rejection.

During all this while, Sir Marmaduke and his people in their behaviour towards their uninvited guests, appeared civil enough.

Though one closely acquainted with the relationship—or narrowly scrutinising the intercourse between them—could not have failed to perceive that this civility was less free, than forced.

That it was so—or rather that a friendship existed even in appearance—needs but little explanation.

Sir Marmaduke’s conduct was ruled by something more than a vague apprehension of danger. The arrest of his fellow-conspirator was significant; and it was not difficult to draw from that circumstance a host of uncomfortable conclusions.

The course he was pursuing towards Scarthe, was not only opposed to his inclinations, but exceedingly irksome to him. There were times when he was almost tempted to throw off the mask; and brave the worst that might come of it. But prudence suggested endurance—backed by the belief that, ere long, things might take a more favourable turn.

The king had been compelled to issue a writ—not for the election of a new parliament, but for the re-assembling of the old one. In that centred the hopes and expectations of the party, of which Sir Marmaduke was now a declared member.

Marion’s politeness to Scarthe was equally dashed with distrust. It had no other foundation than her affection for her father. She loved the latter, with even more than filial fondness: for she was old enough, and possessed of sufficient intelligence, to understand the intrinsic nobility of his character. She was not without apprehension, that some danger overshadowed him; though she knew not exactly what. Sir Marmaduke had not made known to her the secret, that would have explained it. He had forborne doing so, under the fear of causing her unnecessary anxiety; and had simply requested her, to treat the unwelcome intruders with a fair show of respect.