“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?