"Oh! 'twould be a happy day, if Holtspur should be here!"
Volume One, Chapter V.
Autumn was still in the sky; but it had passed its mid time, and the
beechen forests of Bucks were enrobed in their livery of yellow green.
The cuckoo had forsaken the copse; and the swallows were making
rendezvous on the spire of the village church. The ringdove sate silent
in the dell; and the wood-quests were gathering into groups. The
pheasant ventured with her young brood beyond the cover-edge; the
partridge carried her chicks across the stubble; and finch, sparrow, and
linnet were forming their respective families into full-fledged
cohorts--in preparation for those dark, chill days, when they should
need such companionship to cheer them.
In truth, it is a right fair land, this same shire of Bucks--lovely in
its spring-tide, fair in its summer bloom, and fairer still in its
October. You may travel far, without beholding a spot more bewitching
than the land of the beechen "weed;" and embosomed within the undulating
arms of the Chilterns is many a spot worthy of wider renown. The
mountain you meet not; the lake is rare; but the softly-swelling hill,
and deep romantic dale, are ever before and around you; and the eye of
traveller, or tourist, is continually attracted to scenes of sylvan
beauty, upon which it long delights to linger.
So thought a youthful stripling, astride a stout steed, as, emerging
from the town-end of Uxbridge, he rode over the old bridge crossing the
Colne.
The sun was just sinking behind the Chiltern hills, whose forest-clad
spurs stretched down into the plain--as if to meet and welcome him.
It was a fair landscape that unfolded itself before his eyes. Upon the
ridge of Red Hill the rays of the descending sun slanted among the
leaves of the beeches, heightening their yellow sere to the hue of gold.
Here and there the wild cherry tree, of more radiant foliage, the green
oak, and the darker green of the holly, mottled the slope; while on
either flank, lying low among the hills, the valleys of Alderbourne and
Chalfont were gradually becoming shrouded under the purple shadows of
the twilight.
Right and left meandered the Colne, through meadows of emerald verdure--
its broad unrippled surface reflecting the sapphire sky; while on its
banks appeared herds of sleek kine, slowly lounging along the grassy
sward, or standing motionless in the stream--as if placed there to give
the last touch to a scene typical of tranquillity and contentment.
It was a scene worthy of Watteau or Cuyp--a picture calculated to create
a quiet joy even in the breast of a stranger. So might have thought
Walter Wade, who, after long absence from this his native shire, now,
gazing on its wood-embowered hills and valleys recognised the _mise en
scene_ of his boyhood's home!
The young traveller felt such a happiness. On cresting the high
causeway of the old bridge--which brought the Chilterns full before his
view--he reined up his horse in the middle of the road; while at the
same time an ejaculation escaped from his lips, indicative of the
pleasure which the sight afforded.
"Dear old Chilterns!" he exclaimed. "Friends you seem, with arms
outstretched to receive me! How bright and fresh you look to one coming
from that sooty London! What a pity I did not start an hour earlier--so
that I might have enjoyed this fine sunset from the summit of Red Hill!
No matter. There will be moonlight anon; and that will do just as well.
Sunlight or moonlight, give me a ride through the beechen woods of
Bucks. Charming at all hours!"
"I 'faith, I wonder," continued he, becoming more reflective in his
soliloquy, "how any one can fancy a city life! I'm sure, I've been well
enough placed to enjoy it. The queen has been very kind--very kind
indeed. She has twice kissed me. And the king, too, has complimented
me on my service--only at parting he was very angry with me. I don't
know why. _I_ did nothing to anger him.
"I wonder why I'm summoned home? Father don't say in his letter; but I
suppose he'll tell me when I arrive there. No matter. I'm only too
glad to get back to dear old Bulstrode. I hope that inveterate
deer-stealer, Dick Dancey, hasn't killed off all our deer. I mean to go
in for some grand stalking this winter--that do I."
"Let me see! Three years--no; it will be three come Christmas--since I
took service at Court. I shouldn't be surprised if cousin Lora is grown
a big girl by this, and sister Marion too? Ah! Marion was big enough
when I left. Lora won't be as tall as she. No: she wasn't the make for
that Lora would be what the queen calls _petite_. For all that, I dare
say she's got to be a grown woman. She was just my own age; and I think
I may say, that I'm now a man. Heigho! how time passes!"
And, as if the reflection had suggested the necessity of making as much
of the time as possible, the young horseman gave the whip to his steed;
shot out from between the parapet walls of the bridge; and passed on at
a canter.
Though Walter Wade had pronounced himself a man--somewhat modestly it
must be admitted--the statement was scarcely correct; and the error must
be attributed to a very common and pardonable weakness of boyhood,
ambitious of entering upon manhood.
He was still only a stripling--a youth of nineteen--though well grown
for his age; and in point of size might have passed muster among men. A
slight moustache already appeared upon his upper lip. It was
light-coloured, like his hair--neither of which was red, but of that
Saxon "yellow" so often associated with eyes of blue, and which, when
met with in woman, presents the fairest type of female beauty.
The Greeks--themselves a dark people, above all others skilled in
feminine charms--have acknowledged this truth; though, by that
acknowledgment, ignoring the claims of their own race.
To the spume of the sea was the Cyprian goddess indebted for the
whiteness of her skin--to the blue sky for the colour of her eyes--to
the golden sun for the hue of her hair. Among the classic ancients, the
dark-haired Venus elicited but little admiration.
And not very different is the _partiality_ of the moderns. The belle of
the ball-room is invariably a _blonde_; and even the _nymphe du pave_,
who trails golden pennants from under the rim of her coquettish hat,
looks scornfully askance at the darker tresses of her sister in sin!
It is odd that blue eyes do not admire blue eyes--that light-coloured
tresses do not wish to be interwoven with those of a like hue. Is there
an instinct of approximation between extremes? Do contrasts possess an
innate desire for contiguity? If so, it would explain the _penchant_ of
the dark Athenians for the fair-skinned Cytherea.
There are fair-haired youths whom man may admire, and woman love.
Walter Wade was such an one.
A forehead of fine expanse, crested with curling hair--a nose
sufficiently aquiline to exhibit the true aristocratic breed--a chin
prominent--lips typical of contempt for aught that was mean. Such were
his features.
Gazing upon his face, you might not pronounce it handsome. For a man,
it might appear too feminine. But if you were at all skilled in Saxon
physiognomy, on seeing such a face, and knowing that the owner of it had
a sister, you might safely set _her_ down as a being of incomparable
beauty.
It was not necessary to have overheard his soliloquy, to tell that he
who made it was the scion of some distinguished house. The good steed
he bestrode, caparisoned in costly fashion; the rich costume he wore;
his sharply chiselled features, and aristocratic bearing--all betokened
the _filius nobilis_.
He was, in effect, the son of Sir Marmaduke Wade, of Bulstrode Park; who
could point to an ancestry older than the Conquest; and whose Saxon
sires--along with the Bulstrodes, the Hampdens, and the Penns--had so
doughtily defended their beechen woods and broad fields against the
Norman invader, that the great Conqueror was pleased to compound with
them for a continuance of their tenure. It was a family with whom kings
had never been favourites. It had figured among the barons, who had
forced the tyrant John to set his signature to the celebrated Charter of
English liberty; and elsewhere have its representatives been found in
the front rank of the champions of Freedom.
It may be wondered why young Walter Wade had been in the service of the
Court--as declared in his soliloquy. That, however, is easily
explained. An ambitious mother, of queenly inclinings--an uncle in high
office near the throne--these will account for the son of Sir Marmaduke
having stood as a page in the Presence.
But the mother's influence was now at an end. She was no more. And
that of her brother--the uncle--was not strong enough to prevent Sir
Marmaduke recalling his son from a Court--whose immorality had become
the theme of every tongue; and whose contamination the fond father but
too justly dreaded.
This was why the stripling was on his return to the paternal mansion;
and why the king had shown displeasure at parting with him. It was a
bold act on the part of the knight; and it might need all the influence
of his official brother-in-law, to avert from him the vengeance of
Charles--that most contemptible of tyrants.
It was not upon these things that Walter Wade was reflecting, as he rode
onward. A pleasanter theme was the subject of his thoughts--his cousin
Lora.
It was love's young dream--by some deemed the sweetest in life; is,
perhaps, the most evanescent.
With Walter, it had not been so very fleeting. Starting at sixteen, it
was now nearly three years old. It had stood the test of a long
absence, and under circumstances most unfavourable to love's endurance:
amid smiling maids of honour, and dames of high degree. Yes; Walter's
heart had nobly repelled the blandishments of more than one belle; and
this too in a Court famed for its _fair_.
That kiss, somewhat coyly granted by his cousin, "deep in a forest
dell," where they had wandered in search of wild flowers--that soft
pressure of Lora's little hand--those thrilling words, "Dear Walter,"
that on the same occasion had fallen from Lora's pretty lips--all were
remembered, as if they had been incidents of yesterday.
Did _she_ remember them with equal interest? This was the thought upon
which Walter Wade had been dwelling, ever since parting from the portals
of Whitehall Palace.
During his two years of absence, he had not been left altogether
uninformed of what was passing at Bulstrode. Though in those days
letters were written at long intervals--and then only on matters of
grand importance--Walter had kept up a correspondence with Marion; with
whom epistles had been exchanged regularly once a month. He dared not
write to Lora--nor even _about_ her. He knew what he said to his sister
would be communicated to his little mistress; and he feared to show
himself too solicitous. Every word in his letters, relating to his
cousin, had been carefully studied--as to the impression it might
produce--for in this sort of strategy, young love is as cunning as that
of older hearts. At times the boy courtier even affected indifference
about his cousin's affairs; and more than once there was danger of a
quarrel--or at least a coolness. This was more especially the case,
when his sister--ignorant of the pain she was producing--spoke of Lora's
great beauty, and the havoc it was making among the hearts of the county
beaux.
Perhaps had Marion passed these pretty compliments upon herself, she
would have said nothing beyond what was true: for although Walter's
cousin was beautiful and a belle, his sister was at that time the
acknowledged "belle of the shire."
Volume One, Chapter VI.
For the first half-mile after crossing the Colne, the thoughts of the
young courtier had been given exclusively to his cousin. He recalled
the old time--that scene in the silent dell--the kiss among the wild
flowers--that proved her partiality for him. He remembered all these
occurrences with a strong confidence in Lora's loyalty.
His fanciful reflections were suddenly, and somewhat rudely,
interrupted.
On arriving at an inn that stood by the roadside, a spectacle was
presented to his eyes which turned his thoughts into a different
channel.
In a wide open space in front of the hostelry was a troop of horsemen.
By their armour and equipments, Walter knew them to be _cuirassiers_, in
the service of the king.
There were about fifty in the troop; and from the movements of the men,
and the condition of their horses--still smoking from the march--it was
evident they had come to a halt only a few minutes before.
The troopers had dismounted. Some of them were still occupied with
their horses, helping them to provender; while others, who had already
performed this duty, were seated under a huge old elm tree--joyously, as
well as noisily, regaling themselves with such cheer as the hostelry
afforded.
A glance at these roisterers told the young cavalier who and what they
were:--a troop of the returned army from the north, that had been
lately, and somewhat clandestinely, brought southward by the king.
This corps had originally been recruited in the Low Countries, and among
them were several foreigners. Indeed, the smaller number were
Englishmen; while there were many countenances of the true Gallic type,
and a still larger proportion of those famed hirelings--who figured so
largely in the wars of the time--the _Walloons_.
Amid the clamour of voices, with which the ears of the young courtier
were assailed, he could hear French and Flemish commingled with his
native tongue; while the oaths peculiar to all three nations, thickly
interlarding the conversation, told him that he was in the presence of a
remnant of that army that "swore so terribly in Flanders."
A crowd of the neighbouring rustics had collected around the inn; and
stood with mouths agape, and countenances expressing unlimited
astonishment at the sayings and doings of the strange steel-clad
cavaliers who had dismounted in their midst.
To Walter Wade there was nothing either new or surprising in the
spectacle. He had seen the like in London; and often of late. He had
been expecting such a sight--partly from having heard, in passing
through Uxbridge, that a troop of horse was before him; and partly from
having observed their tracks along the dusty road upon which he had been
travelling.
He did not know why they were going down into Buckinghamshire; but that
was the king's business, not his. In all likelihood they were on their
way to Oxford, or some garrison town in the west; and were making their
night halt at the inn.
Giving but a moment's thought to some such conjecture, the young
courtier was about riding past--without taking notice of the coarse
jests flung towards him by the rough troopers under the tree--when a
voice of very different intonation, issuing from the door of the
hostelry, commanded him to halt.
Almost simultaneous with the command, two cavaliers stepped forth out of
the inn; and one of them, having advanced a few paces towards him,
repeated the command.
Partly taken by surprise at this rude summons--and partly believing it
to proceed from some old Court acquaintance--Walter drew bridle, and
stopped.
It was easy to tell that the two men, who had so brusquely brought
themselves under his notice, were the officers in command of the troop.
Their silken doublets--only partially concealed by the steel armour--
their elegant Spanish leather boots, with lace ruffles at the tops; the
gold spun upon their heels; the white ostrich plumes waving above their
helmets; and the richly-chased scabbards of their swords--all indicated
rank and authority. This was further made manifest, by the tone of
command in which they had spoken, and their bearing in presence of the
troopers.
The latter, on seeing them come forth from the house, desisted from
their jargon; and, though they continued to pass their beer cans, it was
in a constrained and respectful silence.
The two officers wore their helmets; but the visors of both were open;
and Walter could see their faces distinctly.
He now perceived that neither of them was known to him; though one of
them he thought he had seen before, a few days before--only for a
moment, and in conference with the queen!
This was the older of the two, and evidently the senior in rank--the
captain of the troop. He was a man of thirty, or thereabouts; with a
face of dark complexion, and not unhandsome; but with that rakish
expression that drink, and the indulgence of evil passions, will imprint
upon the noblest features. His had once been of the noblest--and still
were they such that a gentleman need not have been ashamed of--had it
not been for a cast half-cynical, half-sinister, that could be detected
in his eyes, sadly detracting from a face otherwise well favoured.
Altogether it was a countenance of that changing kind, that, smiling,
might captivate the heart, but scowling could inspire it with fear.
The younger man--who from the insignia on his shoulder was a _cornet_--
presented a very different type of physiognomy. Though still only a
youth, his countenance was repulsive in the extreme. There was no need
to scan it closely, to arrive at this conclusion. In that reddish round
face, shaded by a scant thatch of straight hay-coloured hair, you beheld
at a glance a kindred compound of the stupid, the vulgar, and the
brutal.
Walter Wade had never looked on that countenance before. It inspired
him with no wish to cultivate the acquaintance of its owner. If left to
his own inclinations, the young courtier would not have desired ever to
look upon it again.
"Your wish?" demanded he, rising proudly up in his stirrups, and
confronting the officer who had addressed him. "You have summoned me to
stop--your wish?"
"No offence, I hope, young gallant?" replied the cuirassier captain.
"None meant, I assure you. By the sweat upon your horse--not a
bad-looking brute, by the way. A good nag. Isn't he, Stubbs?"
"If sound," laconically rejoined the cornet.
"Oh! sound enough, no doubt, you incorrigible jockey! Well, youngster;
as I was saying, the sweat upon your horse proves that you have ridden
fast and far. Both you and he stand in need of refreshment. We called
to you, merely to offer the hospitality of the inn."
"Thanks for your kindness," replied Walter, in a tone that sufficiently
expressed his true appreciation of the offer; "but I must decline
availing myself of it. _I_ am not in need of any refreshment; and as
for my horse, a short five miles will bring him to a stable, where he
will be well cared for."
"Oh! you are near the end of your journey, then?"
"By riding five miles further I shall reach it."
"A visit to some country acquaintance, where you can enjoy the balmy
atmosphere of the beech forests--have new-laid eggs every morning for
breakfast, and new-pulled turnips along with your bacon for dinner, eh?"
The choler of the high-bred youth had been gradually mounting upward,
and might soon have found vent in angry words. But Walter Wade was one
of those happy spirits who enjoy a joke--even at their own expense--and,
perceiving that his new acquaintances meant no further mischief, than
the indulgence in a little idle _badinage_, he repressed his incipient
spleen; and replied in the same jocular and satirical strain.
After a sharp passage of words--in which the young courtier was far from
being worsted--he was on the point of riding onward; when the captain of
the cuirassiers again proffered the hospitality of the inn--by inviting
him to partake of a cup of burnt sack, which the landlord had just
brought forth from the house.
The offer was made with an air of studied politeness; and Walter, not
caring to appear churlish, accepted it.
He was about raising the goblet to his lips, when his entertainers
called for a toast.
"What would you?" asked the young courtier.
"Anything, my gallant! Whatever is uppermost in your mind. Your
mistress, I presume?"
"Of course," chimed in the cornet. "His mistress, of course."
"My mistress, then!" said Walter, tasting the wine, and returning the
cup to the hand from which he had received it.
"Some pretty shepherdess of the Chilterns--some sweet wood nymph, no
doubt? Well, here's to her! And now," continued the officer, without
lowering the goblet from his lips, "since I've drunk to your mistress,
you'll not refuse the same compliment to my master--the King. You won't
object to that toast, will you?"
"By no means," replied Walter, "I drink it willingly; though the king
and I have not parted the best of friends."
"Ha! ha! ha! friends with the king! His Majesty has the honour of your
acquaintance, eh?"
"I have been nearly three years in his service."
"A courtier?"
"I have been page to the queen."
"Indeed! Perhaps you have no objection to favour us with your name?"
"Not the slightest. My name is Wade--Walter Wade."
"Son of Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?"
"I am."
"Ho! ho!" muttered the questioner, in a significant tone, and with a
thoughtful glance at the young courtier.
"I thought so," stammered the cornet, exchanging a look of intelligence
with his superior officer.
"Son to Sir Marmaduke, indeed!" continued the latter, "In that case,
Master Wade, we are likely to meet again; and perhaps you will some day
favour me with an introduction to your sweet shepherdess. Ha! ha! ha!
Now for the toast of every true Englishman--`The King!'"
Walter responded; though with no great willingness: for the tone of the
challenger, as well as his words, had produced upon him an unpleasant
impression. But the toast was one, that, at the time, it was not safe
to decline drinking; and partly on this account, and partly because the
young courtier had no particular reason for declining, he raised the
goblet once more to his lips, as he did so, repeating the Words--"to the
king."
The cornet, drinking from a cup of his own, echoed the sentiment; and
the troopers under the tree, clinking their beer measures together,
vociferated in loud acclaim:--"the king--the king!"
Volume One, Chapter VII.
After this general declaration of loyalty, there was a lull--an interval
of profound silence--such as usually succeeds the drinking of a toast.
The silence was unexpectedly broken, by a voice that had not yet mingled
in the chorus; and which was now heard in clear, firm tones, pronouncing
a phrase of very different signification:--"the people!"
A sentiment so antagonistic to the one so late issuing from the lips of
the troopers, produced among them an instantaneous commotion. The
soldiers, seated under the tree, started to their feet; while the
officers faced in the direction whence the voice had come--their eyes
angrily flashing under the umbrils of their helmets.
He, who had so daringly declared himself, was not concealed. A
horseman, of elegant appearance, had just ridden up, and halted in the
middle of the road; where the landlord--apparently without orders, and
as if accustomed to the service,--was helping him to a goblet of wine.
It was this horseman who had called out: "The People!"
In the enthusiasm of their loyalty, his arrival had either not been
observed by the troopers,--or at all events no notice had been taken of
it,--until the emphatic pronunciation fell upon their ears like the
bursting of a bomb. Then all eyes were instantly turned towards him.
As he gave utterance to the phrase, he was in the act of raising the
wine cup to his lips. Without appearing to notice the effect which his
speech had produced, he coolly quaffed off the wine; and with like _sang
froid_, returned the empty goblet to the giver.
The defiant insolence of the act had so taken the troopers by surprise,
that they stood in their places--just as they had started up--silent,
and apparently stupefied. Even the officers, after hurrying forward,
remained speechless for several seconds--as if under the influence of an
angry amazement. The only sounds for a while heard were the voices of
the spectators--tapsters, stable-helpers, and other idlers--who had
clustered in front of the inn--and who now formed an assemblage, as
large as the troop itself. Despite the presence of the armed
representatives of royalty, the sentiment of these was unmistakeably the
same, as that to which the strange horseman had given voice; and they
were emphatically complimenting _themselves_, when they clinked their
pewter pots, and in chorus, proclaimed: "The People!"
Most of them, but the moment before, and with equal enthusiasm, had
drunk "the King;" but in this sudden change of sentiment they only
resembled most politicians of modern times, who have been dignified with
the name of "Statesmen!"
But even among these tapsters and stable-helpers, there were some who
had refrained from being forced into a lip loyalty; and who echoed the
second sentiment with a fervent spirit, and a full knowledge of its
everlasting antagonism to the first.
When the ultimate syllable of this sacred phrase had died upon the ear
of the assembled crowd, it was succeeded by a silence ominous and
expectant. Two individuals commanded the attention of all--the captain
of the cuirassiers, and the horseman who had halted upon the road: the
toaster of the "king," and the proposer of the "people."
The soldier should speak first. It was to him that the challenge--if
such he chose to consider it--had been flung forth.
Had it been a rustic who had uttered it--one of the assembled crowd--
even a freehold farmer of puritanic pretensions--the cuirassier captain
would have answered him on the instant, perhaps with steel added to the
persuasion of his tongue. But a cavalier, of broad bands, and gold
spurs buckled over Spanish leather boots--astride a noble steed--with a
long rapier hanging handy anent his hip--was an individual not to be
ridden over in such haste, and one, whose "argument" called for
consideration.
"Zounds, sir!" cried the captain of the cuirassiers, stepping a pace or
two forward, "from what Bedlam have you broken loose? Me thinks you've
been tasting too freely of the Saint Giles's tap; and 'tis that which
makes your speech smell so rankly. Come, fellow! Uncover your head,
and tune your tongue to a different strain. You go not hence, till
you've purged your traitorous throat by drinking the toast of every true
and loyal gentleman of England--`The King.'"
"Fellow, indeed!" exclaimed the cavalier, looking scornfully askance at
him who had dictated the insulting proposition. "A fellow!" he
continued, in a calm but satirical tone, "not in the habit of drinking
toasts with strangers. Yours is not to his liking, any more than your
fashion. If he had the fancy to drink to England's king, it would not
be in the company of those who have disgraced England's fame--at the
ford of Newburn."
Gathering up his reins as he spoke, and giving utterance to a taunting
laugh, the strange horseman pressed the spur against the sides of his
splendid steed, and started off at a swinging gallop along the road.
It was only when that laugh rang in his ears, that the cuirassier
captain became roused to the full frenzy of rage; and, with eyes on
fire, and brow black as midnight, he rushed forward, sword in hand, in a
frantic attempt to strike down the insulter.
"Disloyal knave!" cried he, lungeing out to the full length of his arm,
"thou shalt drink the king's health in thine own blood! Ha! stop him!"
he continued, as the horseman glided beyond his reach--"My pistols!"
"Ho, there!" shouted he to his followers. "Your carbines! Fire upon
him! Where are your weapons, you careless vagabonds? To horse, and
follow!"
"An ye take my advice, masters," put in the landlord of the inn--a
sturdy tapster of independent speech--"ye'll stay wheer ye are. An ye
doan't, ye'll be havin' yeer ride for nothin'. Ye mawt as well gie
chase to a wild goose. He'll be two mile frae this, 'fore you can git
astride o' your nags."
"What, varlet!" cried the cuirassier captain, turning furiously upon the
speaker--"you presume--"
"Only, great coronel, to gie ye a bit o' sound advice. Ye ma' folla it
or no' an' ye pleeze; but if ye folla him ye won't catch him--not this
night, I trow, though theer _be_ a full moon to light ye on his track."
The air of imperturbable coolness, with which the Saxon Boniface made
rejoinder, instead of increasing the fury of the officer, seemed rather
to have the effect of tranquillising him.
"You know him, then?" demanded he in an altered tone.
"Well, e-e's! a leetlish bit only. He be one o' my customers, and have
his drink occasional as he passes by here. I know his horse a bit
better mayhap. That be a anymal worth the knowin'. I've seed him clear
that geeat--it be six-feet-high--moren once, wee've seed him do it.
Ha'nt we, lads?"
"That we have, Master Jarvis," replied several of the bystanders, to
whom the appeal had been made.
"E-ees, indeed, great coronel," continued the landlord, once more
addressing his speech to the captain of cuirassiers, "an' if yer fellows
want to folla him, they maun be up to ridin' cross country a bit, or
else--"
"His name!" eagerly interrupted the officer, "You know where the knave
lives?"
"Not exactly--neyther one nor t'other," was the equivocal reply. "As
for his name, we only knows him 'bout here as the _Black Horseman_, an'
that he belong som'ere among the hills up the Jarret's Heath way--beyond
the great park o' Bulstrode."
"Oh! he lives near Bulstrode, does he?"
"Somer bot theer, I dar say."
"_I_ know where he lives," interposed one of the rustics who stood by.
"It be a queery sort o' a place--a old red brick house; an' Stone Dean
be the name o't. It lie in the middle o' the woods 'tween Beckenfield
an' the two Chaffonts. I can take ye theer, master officer, if ye be a
wantin' to go."
"Jem Biggs!" said the landlord, sidling up to the last speaker, and
whispering the words in his ear, "thee be a meddlin' 'ficious beggar.
If thee go on such a errand, don't never again show thy ugly mug in my
tap room."
"Enough!" impatiently exclaimed the officer; "I dare say we shall easily
find the fellow. Dismount, men," continued he, turning to some of the
troopers, who had sprung into their saddles. "Return your horses to
their stalls. We may as well stay here for the night," he added in a
whisper, to his cornet; "it's no use going after him till the morning.
As the old prattler says, we might have our ride for nothing. Besides,
there's that little appointment in Uxbridge. By the angel Gabriel!
I'll find the knave if I should have to scour every corner of the
county. More wine, landlord!--burnt sack!--and beer for these thirsty
vagabonds! We'll drink the king once more, with three times three. Ha!
where's our courtier? Gone too?"
"He's just ridden off, captain," answered one of the troopers, still
seated in his saddle. "Shall I gallop after, and bring him back?"
"No," replied the officer, after a moment's consideration. "Let the
stripling go his way. I know where _he's_ to be found; and shall do
myself the honour of dining with him to-morrow. The wine! Come! fill
your cans, you right royal rascals, and drink--_The King_!"
"_The King! Hurraw_!"
Volume One, Chapter VIII.
Desirous of escaping from the disagreeable companionship--into which he
had been so unceremoniously, as well as unwillingly, drawn--the young
courtier had taken advantage of the confusion, and trotted quietly away.
On rounding a corner--beyond which the road was not visible from the
inn--he put spurs to his horse, and urged the animal into a gallop.
Though he had given no offence, he was not without apprehension, that he
might be followed, and summoned back: for the brace of bullies, from
whom he had just parted, appeared quite capable of committing further
outrage. He knew that, in the name of the king, excesses were of
every-day occurrence. The Monarch's minions had become accustomed to
insult the people with impunity. The soldiers in particular bore
themselves offensively--more especially those hungry troopers, who,
returning unpaid from the Northern campaign, were thrown idle upon the
country. The disgrace they had fairly earned--by fleeing before the
Scots, from the ford of Newburn--had deprived them of the sympathies of
their own countrymen: as a natural consequence provoking towards the
latter a sort of swaggering and reckless hostility.
The incident which had occurred, and in which he had been an involuntary
actor, inspired Walter Wade with some emotions that were new to him:
and, as he slackened his pace, after a sharp canter, he fell into a
train of reflections very different from those hitherto engaging his
thoughts.
He was still too young to have entered into the politics of the time.
He knew that there was trouble between the king and his people; but,
breathing only the atmosphere of the "Presence," he could have no other
belief, than that the right was on the side of royalty.
He knew that the king, after an interregnum of eleven years, had
summoned a Parliament, to settle the differences between himself and his
subjects. He knew this, from having been officially present at its
opening. He knew, moreover, that this Parliament, after sitting only a
few days, had been summarily dismissed: for he had been also present at
its prorogation.
What should the young courtier care for such incidents as these--however
significant they might be to the patriot, or politician?
To do him justice, however, Walter Wade, young as he was, was not
altogether indifferent to what was passing. The spirit of his
ancestry--that love of liberty, that had displayed itself at Runnymede--
was not absent from his bosom. It was there; though hitherto held in
check by the circumstances surrounding him. He had witnessed the
punishments of the pillory--by summary sentence of Star Chamber and High
Commission Court; he had been present at fearful spectacles, of
ear-croppings and other mutilations; and, although among companions, who
beheld such scenes with indifference--or often regarded them as sources
of amusement--more than once had he been profoundly affected by them.
Stripling though he was, more than once had he reflected upon such royal
wrongs. Circumstances, however, had placed him among the ranks of
those, to whom the smiles of a tyrant were sweet; and he was still too
young and unreflecting, to give other than a passing thought to the
theme of Liberty.
That the enemies of the king suffered justly, was the belief that was
breathed around him. He heard the statement on all sides, and from
pretty lips--from the lips of a queen! How could he question its truth?
His encounter with the cuirassiers had produced an impression upon him,
calculated to shake his political sentiments--almost to change them.
"A scandal!" muttered he to himself. "That these military bullies
should be allowed to act as they please! I wonder the king permits it.
Perhaps it may be true what `wicked Pym,' as the queen calls him--said
in the Parliament House:--that his Majesty encourages their
insubordination. Ah! if I had thought so, I should have joined that
brave fellow, who drank just now to _the people_. By-the-bye, who can
_he_ be? He's gone up the road--as if he lived our way. A splendid
rider, and a horse worthy of him. I never saw either before. If he be
of Bulstrode neighbourhood, he must have come into it since my time.
Perhaps a traveller only? And yet his horse looked fresh, as if he had
just stepped out of the stable. He could not have ridden him farther
than from Uxbridge?
"I thought those fellows were preparing to pursue him," continued he,
glancing back over his shoulder. "They must have given up the idea:
else I should hear them behind me. If they come on, I shall slip aside
among the trees, and let them pass. I don't want any more converse with
such companions as Captain Scarthe--that's what his cornet called him, I
think; nor yet with Master Cornet Stubbs himself. Stubbs indeed!
Surely, there must be something in names?"
On finishing this series of reflections, the young courtier drew bridle,
and halted for the purpose of listening.
He could hear voices behind--at the inn--a chorus of rough voices in
loud vociferation. It was the "hip hurrah," of the troopers responding
to the toast of "_the king_" There were no other sounds--at least none
to indicate that the pursuit was being continued.
"Good! they are not following him. Prudent on their part, I should say.
If he has kept on, as he started he will be miles off by this."
"There's no chance of my overtaking him!" continued he, once more
heading his horse to the road. "My faith! I wish I could. Now that I
remember the circumstance, I've heard there are robbers on this route.
Sister wrote me about them, not long since. They stopped a lady's
coach, and plundered it; though they did no hurt to the lady beyond
stripping her of her jewels--even to the rings in her ears! Only one of
them--the captain I suppose--came near the coach. The others stood by,
but said not a word. How very funny of the fellows to act so! Well, if
it be my ill-fortune to encounter robbers, I hope it may also be my good
fortune to find them equally well-mannered. I don't mind giving them
all I've got,--it's not much--if they'll only let me pass on, unmolested
like the lady. I'faith, I've been a fool to leave London so late: and
that unlucky adventure at the inn has made it later. It's quite right.
There's a beautiful moon, to be sure; but what of that, in this lonely
place? It would only help to give light to the rascals; and enable them
all the more easily to strip me of my trappings."
Notwithstanding his apparent indifference to an encounter with robbers,
which these reflections might indicate, the young traveller was not
without some apprehension. At the time, the roads of England were
infested with highwaymen, and footpads. Robberies were incidents of
daily occurrence--even on the very skirts of the metropolis; and on the
highways, and byeways, the demand for your purse was almost as common as
the modern solicitation for alms.
In general, the "gentlemen of the road" were not sanguinary in their
disposition. Some were even courteous. In truth, many of them were men
who, by the tyrannous exactions of the Sovereign, had been beggared in
fortune, and forced to adopt this illegal mode of replenishing their
exchequers. They were not all ruffians by instinct. Still there were
some of them, with whom "Stand and deliver!" meant "Death if you do
not!"
It was not without a feeling of nervousness, that Walter Wade scanned
the long slope of road extending towards the crest of Red Hill--at the
bottom of which he had now arrived. It was on this very hill--as stated
in the correspondence of his sister--that the coach had been stopped,
and the lady rifled of her rings.
The road running up the steep acclivity was of no great width--nothing
resembling the broad macadamised "turnpike" of modern times. It was a
mere track, just wide enough for wheels--bordered by a beechen forest,
through which the path wound upward; the trees standing close along each
side, and in some places forming arcades over it.
The young traveller once more reined up, and listened. The voices from
the inn no longer reached his ear--not even in distant murmuring. He
would have preferred hearing them. He almost wished that the pursuit
had been continued. Little as he might have relished the companionship
of Captain Scarthe, or Cornet Stubbs, it would have been preferable to
falling into that of a party of highwaymen or footpads.
He bent forward to catch any sound that might come from the road before
him. He could hear none--at least, none of a character to make him
uneasy. The soft monotone of the goatsucker fell upon his ear, mingled
with the sharper note of the partridge, calling her young across the
stubble. He heard, also, the distant barking of the watch-dog, and the
sheep-bell tinkling in the fold; but these sounds, though characteristic
of tranquil country life--and sweet to his ear, so long hindered from
hearing them--were not inconsistent with the presence either of footpad
or highwayman; who, lurking concealed among the trees, need not
interrupt their utterance.
Walter Wade was far from being of a timid disposition; but no youth of
eighteen could be accused of cowardice, simply because he did not desire
an encounter with robbers.
It did not, therefore, prove poltroonery on his part, when, proceeding
along the road, his heart beat slightly with apprehension,--no more,
when on perceiving the figure of a horseman dimly outlined under the
shadow of the trees, he suddenly came to a halt, and hesitated to
advance.
The horseman was about a score of paces from where he had stopped--
moving neither one way nor the other, but motionless in the middle of
the road.
"A highwayman!" thought Walter, undecided whether to advance, or ride
back.
"But no, it can scarce be that? A robber would not take stand so
conspicuously. He would be more likely to conceal himself behind the
trees--at least until--"
While thus conjecturing, a voice fell upon his ear, which he at once
recognised as the same he had late heard so emphatically pronouncing
"_The People_!"
Reassured, the young traveller determined to advance. A man of such
mien, as he who bestrode the black steed--and actuated by such a
sentiment, as that he had so boldly announced--could scarcely be a
disreputable person--much less a highwayman? Walter did not wrong him
by the suspicion.
"If I mistake not," said the stranger, after the preliminary hail, "you
are the young gentleman I saw, a short while ago, in rather scurvy
company?"
"You are not mistaken: I am."
"Come on, then! If you are my only pursuer, I fancy I shall incur no
danger, in permitting you to overtake me? Come on, young sir! Perhaps
on these roads it may be safer for both of us, if we ride in company?"
Thus frankly solicited, the young courtier hesitated no longer; but,
pricking his horse with the spur, rode briskly forward.
Together the horsemen continued the ascent of the hill.
Half way up, the road swerved towards the south-west. For a short
distance the track was clear of trees, so that the moonlight fell full
upon it. Here the two travellers, for the first time, obtained a
distinct view of one another.
The stranger--who still retained his _incognito_--merely glanced towards
his companion; and, seemingly satisfied with a slight inspection,
allowed his eyes to wander elsewhere.
Perhaps during his halt before the hostelry, he had made a more
elaborate examination of the young courtier.
Walter, on the other hand, had at the Inn caught only a glimpse of the
black horseman. Now, though out of courtesy, looking furtively and
askaunce, he proceeded to examine him more minutely.
The personal appearance of the latter was striking enough to court
examination. Walter Wade was impressed with it--even to admiration.
He saw beside him, not a youth like himself, but a man in the full prime
and vigour of manhood--perhaps over thirty years of age. He saw a
figure of medium size, and perfect shape--its members knitted together,
with a terseness that indicated true strength. He saw shoulders of
elegant _tuornure_; a breast of swelling prominence; a full round
throat, with jaws that by their breadth proclaimed firmness and
decision. He saw dark brown hair, curling around a countenance, that in
youth might have appeared under a fairer complexion, but was now
slightly bronzed, as if stained with the tan of travel. He saw eyes of
dark hazel hue--in the moonlight shining softly and mildly as those of a
dove. But Walter knew that those same eyes could flash like an eagle's:
for he had seen them so fired, on first beholding them.
In short the young courtier saw by his side a man that reminded him of a
hero of Middle Age romance--one about whom he had been lately reading;
and whose character had made a deep impression upon his youthful fancy.
The dress of the cavalier was in perfect keeping with his fine figure
and face. It was simple, although of costly material. Cloak, doublet,
and trunks were of silk velvet of dark maroon colour. The boots were of
the finest Spanish leather, and his hat a beaver--the brim in clasp
coquettishly turned up, with a jewelled front holding a black ostrich
feather that swept backward to his shoulder. A scarlet sash of China
crape, looped around the waist--an embroidered shoulder-belt crossing
the breast, from which dangled a rapier in richly-chased sheath;
buff-coloured gloves, with gauntlets attached; cuffs of white lawn
covering the sleeves of his doublet; and broad collar of the same
extending almost to his shoulders. Fancy all these articles of costly
fabric, fitted in the fashion of the time to a faultless manly figure,
and you have a portrait of the cavalier whose appearance had won the
admiration of Walter Wade.
The horse was in keeping with the rider--a steed of large size and
perfect proportions--such as an ancient paladin might have chosen to
carry him upon a crusade. He was of the true colour--a deep pure black,
all except his muzzle where the velvet-like epidermis was tinged with
yellowish red, presenting the hue of umber. Had his tail been suffered
to droop, its tip would have touched the ground; but even while going
into a walk it swung diagonally outward, oscillating at each step. When
in the gallop, it floated upon the air spread and horizontal.
The spotted skin of a South American jaguar, with housings of scarlet
cloth, caparisoned the saddle; over the pommel of which hung a pair of
holsters, screened by the thick glossy fur of the North American beaver.
The bit was a powerful mameluke--about that time introduced from the
Spanish peninsula--which, clanking between the teeth of the horse,
constantly kept his mouth in a state of foam.
This beautiful steed had a name. Walter had heard it pronounced. As
the young courtier rode up, the horse was standing--his muzzle almost in
contact with the road--and pawing the dust with impatience. The short
gallop had roused his fiery spirit. To tranquillise it, his rider was
caressing him--as he drew his gloved hand over the smooth skin of the
neck, talking to him, as if he had been a comrade, and repeating his
name. It was "Hubert."
After exchanging salutations, the two horse men rode side by side for
some moments, without vouchsafing further speech. It was the silence
consequent upon such an informal introduction. The rider of the black
steed was the first to break it.
"You are Walter Wade--son to Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?" said he,
less by way of interrogative, than as a means of commencing the
conversation.
"I am," answered the young courtier, showing some surprise. "How learnt
you my name, sir?"
"From your own lips."
"From my own lips! When, may I ask?" inquired Walter, with a fresh
scrutiny of the stranger's countenance. "I don't remember having had
the honour of meeting you before."
"Only within the last half-hour. You forget, young sir, having given
your name in my hearing?"
"Oh! true--you overheard then--you were present--?"
"I rode up just as you were declaring your identity. The son of Sir
Marmaduke Wade has no need to conceal his name. It is one to be proud
of."
"In my father's name I thank you. You know him, sir?"
"Only by sight and--_reputation_," answered the stranger, musingly.
"You are in the service of the Court?" he continued, after a pause.
"No longer now. I took leave of it this very morning."
"Resigned?"
"It was my father's wish I should return home."
"Indeed! And for what reason? Pardon my freedom in asking the
question."
"Oh!" replied the young courtier, with an air of _naivete_, "I should
make you free to the reason, if I only knew it myself. But in truth,
sir, I am ignorant of it. I only know that my father has written to the
king, asking permission for me to return home; that the king has granted
it--though, I have reason to think, with an ill grace: since his Majesty
appeared angry with me at parting; or, perhaps, I should say, angry with
my father."
The intelligence thus communicated by the _ci-devant_ courtier, instead
of eliciting any expression of regret from his companion, seemed rather
to gratify him.
"So far good!" muttered he to himself. "Safe upon our side. This, will
secure him."
Walter partially overheard the soliloquised phrases, but without
comprehending their import.
"Your father," continued the stranger, "is likely to have good reasons
for what he has done. No doubt, Master Walter, he has acted for your
best interests; though it may be rather unpleasant for you, to exchange
the gay pleasures of a royal palace for a quiet life in the country."
"On the contrary," replied the youth, "it is just what I was desiring.
I am fond of hawking and hunting; not in the grand ceremonious fashion
we've been accustomed to at Court--with a crowd of squalling women to
fright away the game--but by myself on the quiet, among the hills here,
or with a friend or two to take part. That's the sport for me!"
"Indeed!" said the strange horseman, smiling as he spoke. "These are
heterodox sentiments for a courtier? It's rather odd to hear one of
your calling speak disparagingly of the sex, and especially the ladies
of the Court. The maids of honour are very interesting, are they not?
I have understood that our French queen affects being surrounded by
beauties. She has a long train of them, it is said?"
"Painted dolls!" scornfully rejoined the ex-courtier, "tricked in French
fashions. Give me a genuine English girl--above all one who keeps to
the country, and's got some colour. And some conscience besides; for,
by my troth, sir, there's not much of either about the Court--except
what's artificial!"
"Bravo!" exclaimed the stranger, "a Court satirist, rather than a
courtier. Well! I'm glad to hear my own sentiments so eloquently
expressed. Give me also the genuine English girl who breathes only the
pure air of the country!"
"That's the style for me!" echoed Walter in the warmth of youthful
enthusiasm.
"Well! there are many such to be met with among these Chiltern Hills.
No doubt, Master Wade, you know some; and perhaps you have one in
particular before your mind's eye at this very moment? Ha! ha! ha!"
The colour came to Walter's cheeks as he stammered out a reply, which
only partially repudiated the insinuation.
"Your pardon!" cried the cavalier, suddenly checking his laughter. "I
don't wish to confess you. I have no right to do so. I have given you
reason to think me unmannerly."
"Oh! not at all," said Walter, himself too free of speech to be offended
by that quality in another.
"Perhaps you will excuse the curiosity of a stranger," continued the
black horseman. "I have been only a short time resident in this part of
the country; and one is naturally curious to know something of one's
neighbours. If you promise not to be offended, I shall make bold to ask
you another question."
"I shall not be offended at any question one gentleman may ask of
another. You are a gentleman, sir?"
"I have been brought up as one; and, though I have parted with, or
rather been deprived of, the fortune that attaches to such a title, I
hope I have not forfeited the character. The question I am about to
put, may appear rather trivial after so elaborate an introduction. I
merely wished to ask, whether you are the only member of your father's
family?"
"Oh! dear no," frankly responded the youth; "I have a sister--sister
Marion."
"Grown up, like yourself?"
"She should be by this. She wasn't quite grown, when I saw her last;
but that will be three years come Christmas. She's older than I; and,
i'faith I shouldn't wonder if she be taller too. I've heard say she's a
great, big girl--nearly the head taller than Lora."
"Lora?"
"Lora Lovelace--my cousin, sir."
"'Tis his sister--'tis Marion. I thought as much. Marion Wade! A
noble name. It has a bold clarion sound--in keeping with the character
of her who bears it. Marion! Now know I the name of her who for weeks
I have been worshipping! Who for weeks--"
"My cousin," continued the candid young courtier, interrupting the
silent reflections of his travelling companion, "is also a member of my
father's family. She has been staying at Bulstrode Park now for many
years; and will remain, I suppose, until--"
The heir of Bulstrode hesitated--as if not very certain of the time at
which the stay of his cousin was to terminate.
"Until," interrogated the cavalier, with a significant smile, "until
when?"
"Really, sir," said Walter, speaking rather confusedly, "I can't say how
long our cousin may choose to remain with us. When she comes to be of
age, I dare say, her guardian will claim her. Papa is _not_ her
guardian."
"Ah! Master Walter Wade, I'd lay a wager, that before Mistress Lora
Lovelace be of age, she'll choose her own guardian--one who will not
object to her staying at Bulstrode for the remainder of her life. Ha!
ha! ha!"
Instead of feeling indignant, the cousin of Lora Lovelace joined in the
laugh. There was something in the insinuation that soothed and
gratified him.
Conversing in this jocular vein, the two travellers reached the summit
of the sloping declivity; and, continuing onward, entered upon a wild
tract of country known as _Jarret's Heath_.
Volume One, Chapter IX.
Jarret's Heath--now Gerrard's Cross Common--was at the time of which we
write, a tract of considerable extent--occupying an elevated _plateau_
of the Chiltern Hills, and one of the largest. Commencing at the brow
of Red Hill, it extended westward for a distance of many miles--flanked
right and left by the romantic valleys of Chalfont and Fulmere.
At that time only the adjoining valleys showed signs of habitation. In
the former stood the noble mansion of Chalfont House, with its
synonymous village; while on the other side, quaintly embowered amid
ancient trees, was the manorial residence of Fulmere. About two miles
farther to the westward, where the plateau is broken by a series of
rounded indications, stood the magnificent mansion of Temple Bulstrode,
the residence of Sir Marmaduke Wade.
The elevated plain, lying between the above-named lordships, bore scarce
a trace of human occupancy. It's name, Jarret's Heath, would indicate
the condition of its culture. It was a waste--upon which the plough had
never broken ground--thickly covered with high gorse and heather. Here
and there appeared straggling groves and copses, composed chiefly of
black and white birch trees, interspersed with juniper and holly; while
on each side towards the valleys, it was flanked by a dense forest of
the indigenous beech.
Lengthwise through this waste trended the King's highway--the London and
Oxford road--beyond it impinging upon the Park of Bulstrode, and running
alongside the latter towards the town of Beaconsfield.
In the traverse of Jarret's Heath the main road was intersected by two
others--one passing from the manor house of Fulmere to the village of
Chalfont Saint Peter's: the other forming the communication between
Chalfont and the country towards Stoke and Windsor. These were but
bridle or _packhorse_ paths, tracked out irregularly among the trees,
and meandering through the gorse wherever it grew thinnest. That
running from Stoke to Chalfont was the most frequented; and an old inn--
the _Packhorse_--standing upon the Chalfont side of the waste, betokened
traffic and travel. There was not much of either; and the hostelry bore
only a questionable character.
Such as it was, however, it was the only sign of habitation upon
Jarret's Heath--if we except the remains of a rude hovel, standing by
the side of the London road, just at the point where going westward from
Red Hill, it debouched upon the waste.
This hovel had been long untenanted. Part of the roof had fallen in: it
was a ruin. An open space in front, through which ran the road, might
once have been a garden; but it was now overgrown with gorse, and other
indigenous shrubbery--only distinguishable from the surrounding thicket
by its scantier growth.
It was a singular spot to have been selected as a residence: since it
stood more than a mile from any other habitation--the nearest being the
suspected hostelry of the Packhorse. Perhaps it was this very
remoteness from companionship that had influenced its original owner in
the choice of a site for his dwelling.
Whether or no, it had been at best but a miserable tenement. Even with
smoke issuing out of its clay chimney, it would have looked cheerless.
But in ruins, with its roof falling piecemeal upon the floor, tall weeds
standing close by its walls, gorse overgrowing its garden, and black
birches clustering thickly around, it presented an aspect of wild and
gloomy desolation: the very spot where one might expect to be robbed, or
even murdered.
Conversing as we have described them, the two travellers had arrived
near the edge of the opening in which stood this ruined hut. The moon
was still shining brightly; and through the break in the brushwood,
formed by the cleared causeway of the road, they could distinguish--
though still at the distance of a mile or more--the tops of the
magnificent trees, oaks, elms, and chestnuts, that crowned the
undulating ridges of Bulstrode Park. They could even see a portion of
the noble mansion of Norman architecture, gleaming red and white under
the silvery sheen of the moonlight.
In ten minutes more Walter Wade would be at home.
It was a pleasant anticipation for the young courtier to indulge in.
Home so near, after such a long protracted absence--home, that promised
the sweet interchange of natural affection, and--something more.
The cavalier--whose journey extended farther up the road--was about
congratulating his companion on the delightful prospect; when a rustling
noise, heard to the right of the path suddenly stopped their
conversation. At the same instant a harsh voice, sounded in their ears,
pronouncing the significant summons:--"stand and deliver!"
The two travellers had already ridden into the open ground, in front of
the ruined hut, out of which the voice appeared to proceed. But they
had no time to speculate as to whence it came: for on the instant of its
utterance, a man was seen rushing forward into the middle of the road,
and placing himself in a position to intercept their advance.
His threatening attitude, combined with the mode in which he manipulated
a long-handled pike--the point of which he held close to the heads of
their horses--left no doubt upon the minds of the travellers that to
stop them was his determination.
Before either could make reply to his challenge, it was repronounced in
the same loud tone, and with a fresh gesture of menace--in which the
pike played an important part.
"Stand and deliver?" interrogated the cavalier, slowly repeating the
stereotyped phrase. "That's your wish, is it, my worthy fellow?"
"It is!" growled the challenger, "an' be quickish, if ye've any consarn
for yer skins."
"Well," continued the cavalier, preserving the most perfect _sang
froid_, "you can't say but that we've been quick enough in obeying your
first command? You see we have both come to a stand _instanter_? As
for your second, it requires consideration. Before _delivering_, we
must know the why, and the wherefore--above all, to whom we are to
unburthen ourselves. You won't object, to obliging us with your name--
as also your reason for making such a modest request?"
"Curse your palaver?" vociferated the man, with an impatient flourish of
the pike. "There be no names given on the road, nor reasons neyther.
Yer money, or yer blood! It be no use yer tryin' to get out o' it.
Look thear! Ye see there be a dozen o' us! What's the good o'
resistin'? Ye're surrounded."
And as he said this, the robber with a sweep of his formidable weapon
indicated the circle of shrubbery--near the centre of which the scene
was being enacted.
The eyes of the two travellers involuntarily followed the pointing of
the pike.
Sure enough they _were_ surrounded. Six or seven fierce-looking men,
all apparently armed with the same sort of weapon as that in the hands
of their leader, stood at equal distances from each other around the
opening--their forms half concealed by the trees and gorse. They were
all standing perfectly motionless. Not even their weapons seemed to
stir; and not one of them had as yet spoken, or stepped forward; though
it might have been expected they would have done so--if only to
strengthen the demand made by their spokesman.
"Keep your places, comrades!" commanded the latter. "There's no need
for any o' ye to stir. These are civilish gentlemen. We don't want to
hurt them. They bean't a-goin' to resist."
"But they _be_" interrupted the cavalier, in a mocking but determined
tone, at the same time whipping a pistol from its holster--"_I am_ to
the death; and so too will the gallant youth by my side."
Walter had drawn his slender rapier--the only weapon he possessed.
"What! yield to a pack of cowardly footpads?" continued the cavalier,
cocking his pistol, as he spoke. "No--sooner--"
"Your blood on your own head then!" shouted the robber, at the same time
rushing forward, and extending his pike so that its steel point was
almost in contact with the counter of the cavalier's horse.
The moonlight shone full upon the footpad, showing a face of fierce
aspect--features of wild expression--black beard and whiskers--a thick
shock of dark hair matted and tangled--eyes bloodshot, and gleaming with
a lurid light!
It was fortunate for their owner, that the moonlight favoured the
identification of those fear-inspiring features--else that moment might
have been his last.
The cavalier had levelled his cocked pistol. His finger was upon the
trigger. In another second the shot would have been discharged; and in
all likelihood his assailant would have been lying lifeless at the feet
of his horse.
All at once, the outstretched arm was seen to drop; while at the same
instant from the horseman's lips issued an exclamation of singular
import.
"Gregory Garth!" cried he, "you a highwayman--a robber? About to rob--
to murder--"
"My old master!" gasped out the man, suddenly lowering the point of his
pike. "Be it you? Pardon! O pardon, Sir Henry! I didn't know 'twas
you."
And as the speaker gave utterance to the last words, he dashed his
weapon to the ground, and stood over it in a cowering and contrite
attitude--not daring to raise his eyes to the face of him who had
brought the affair to such an unexpected ending.
"O Master Henry!" he again cried, "will you forgive me! Brute as I am,
'twould ha' broke my heart to a hurted a hair o' your head. Curse the
crooked luck that's brought me to this!"
For some moments there was a profound silence--unbroken by any voice.
Even the companions of the robber appeared to respect the _situation_:
since not one of them moved or made remark of any kind!
Their humiliated chief was himself the first to put a period to this
interval of embarrassment.
"O Master Henry!" he exclaimed, apparently in a paroxysm of chagrin.
"Shoot me! Kill me if ye like! After what's passed, I doan't desarve
no better than to die. There's my breast! Send yer bullet through it;
an' put an end to the miserable life o' Greg'ry Garth!"
While speaking, the footpad pulled open the flap of his doublet--laying
bare before the moonlight a broad sinewy breast, thickly covered with
coarse black hair.
Advancing close to the cavalier's horse he presented his bosom, thus
exposed--as if to tempt the death he had so strangely solicited. His
words, his looks, his whole attitude, proclaimed him to be in earnest.
"Come, come, Garth!" said the cavalier in a soothing tone--at the same
time returning the pistol to its holster. "You're too good a man--at
least you _were once_--to be shot down in that off-hand fashion."
"Ah! _once_ Master Henry. May be that's true enough. But now I desarve
it."
"Spare your self-recrimination, Gregory. Your life, like my own, has
been a hard one. I know it; and can therefore look more leniently on
what has happened now. Let us be thankful it's no worse; and hope it
will be the means of bringing about a change for the better."
"It will, Master Henry; it will! I promise that."
"I'm glad to hear you say so; and doubt not but that you'll keep your
word. Meanwhile give orders to your trusty followers--by the way a
well-behaved band--not to molest us. To-morrow morning there will be
travellers along this way, upon whom I have not the slightest objection
that both you and yours should practise your peculiar avocation; and to
your heart's content. Please desire those gentlemen to keep their
distance. I don't wish them to make any nearer approach--lest I might
have the misfortune to find in their ranks some other old acquaintance,
who like yourself has fallen from the paths of virtue."
As the footpad stood listening to the request, a singular expression was
observed to steal over his fierce features--which gradually gathered
into a broad comical grin.
"Ah! Master Henry," he rejoined, "I may order 'em, to obleege ye, but
they woant obey. Yer needn't be afeerd o' 'em for all that. You may go
as near 'em as you like--_they_ an't a-goin' to molest you. You may run
your sword through and through 'em, and never a one o' 'em's goin' to
cry out he be hurt."
"Well, they seem patient fellows in all sincerity. But enough--what do
you mean, Gregory?"
"That they be nobodies, Master Henry--reg'lar nobodies. They be only
dummies--a lot o' old coats and hats, that's no doubt done good sarvice
to their wearers 'fore they fell into the hands o' Gregory Garth--ay,
and they ha' done some good sarvice since--o' a different kind, as ye
see."
"So these fellows are only scarecrows? I had my suspicions."
"Nothing more nor less, master. Harmless as I once was myself, but
since that time--you know--when the old hall was taken from you, and you
went abroad--since then I've been--"
"I don't want to hear your history, Garth," said his former Master,
interrupting him, "at least not _since then_. Let the past be of the
past, if you will only promise me to forsake your present profession for
the future. Sooner or later it will bring you to the block."
"But what am I to do?" inquired the footpad, in a tone of humble
expostulation.
"Do? Anything but what you have been doing. Get work--honest work."
"As I live, I've tried wi' all my might. Ah! Sir Henry, you've been
away from the country a tidyish time. You don't know how things be now.
To be honest be to starve. Honesty an't no longer o' any account in
England."
"Some day," said the cavalier, as he sate reflecting in his saddle.
"Some day it may be more valued--and that day not distant Gregory
Garth!" he continued, making appeal to the footpad in a more serious and
earnest tone of voice, "You have a bold heart, and a strong arm. I know
it. I have no doubt too, that despite the outlawed life you've been
leading, _your sympathies are still on the right side_. They have
reason: for you too have suffered in your way. You know what I mean?"
"I do, Sir Henry, I do," eagerly answered the man. "Ye're right. Brute
as I may be, and robber as I ha' been, I ha' my inclining in that ere.
Ah! it's it that's made me what I be!"
"Hear me then," said the cavalier bending down in his saddle, and
speaking still more confidentially. "The time is not distant--perhaps
nearer than most people think--when a stout heart and a strong arm--such
as yours, Garth,--may be usefully employed in a better occupation, than
that you've been following."
"Dy'e say so, Sir Henry?"
"I do. So take my advice. Disband these trusty followers of yours--
whose _staunchness_ ought to recommend them for better service. Make
the best market you can of their cast-off wardrobes. Retire for a time
into private life; and wait till you hear shouted those sacred words--
"God and the People!"
"Bless ye, Sir Henry!" cried the robber, rushing up, and, with a show of
rude affection, clutching the hand of his former master. "I had heard
o' your comin' to live at the old house in the forest up thear; but I
didn't expect to meet you in this way. You'll let me come an' see ye.
I promise ye that ye'll never meet me as a robber again. _This night
Gregory Garth takes his leave o' the road_."
"A good resolve!" rejoined the cavalier, warmly returning the pressure
of the outlaw's hand. "I'm glad you have made it. Good-night,
Gregory!" he continued, moving onward along the road; "Come and see me,
whenever you please. Good-night, gentlemen!" and at the words he lifted
the plumed beaver from his head, and, in a style of mock courtesy, waved
the dummies an adieu. "Good-night, worthy friends!" he laughingly
repeated, as he rode through their midst. "Don't trouble yourselves to
return my salutation. Ha! ha! ha!"
The young courtier, moving after, joined in the jocular leave-taking;
and both merrily rode away--leaving the footpad to the companionship of
his speechless "pals."
Volume One, Chapter X.
An incident so ludicrous could not fail to tickle the fancy of the young
courtier; and bring his risible faculties into full play. It produced
this effect; and to such a degree that for some minutes he could do
nothing but laugh--loud enough to have been heard to the remotest
confines of the Heath.
"I shouldn't wonder,"--said he, recalling to mind the contents of his
sister's letter; "not a bit should I wonder, if this fellow be the same
who stopped the lady's coach. You've heard of it?"
"I have," laughingly replied the cavalier. "No doubt, Gregory Garth and
the coach-robber you speak of are one and the same individual."
"Ha! ha! ha! to think of the six attendants!--there was that number, I
believe, escorting the coach--to think of all six running away, and from
one man!"
"You forget the band? Ha! ha! ha! It is to be presumed, that Gregory
had six scarecrows rigged up for that occasion also. Truer men, by my
troth, than the cavaliers who accompanied the lady. Ha! ha! But for
the immorality of the act it's an artifice worthy of my old instructor
in the art of _venerie_. After all, I should have expected better of
the ex-forester than finding him thus transformed into a footpad. Poor
devil! who knows what may have been his trials and temptations? There
are wrongs daily done upon England's people, in the name--ay, and with
the knowledge--of England's king, that would make a criminal of the
meekest Christian; and Gregory Garth was never particularly
distinguished for the virtue of meekness. Something may have been done
to madden, and drive him to this desperate life. I shall know anon."
"One thing in his favour," suggested the young courtier, who
notwithstanding the rude introduction, appeared to be favourably
inclined towards the footpad. "He did not ill-treat the lady, though
left all alone with her. True, he stripped her of her jewellery; but
beyond that he behaved gently enough. I have just heard the sequel of
the story, as I came through Uxbridge. Ha! ha! odd as the rest of the
affair. It appears that before leaving her, he caught one of her
runaway attendants; forced him back upon the box; and, putting the whip
and reins into the varlet's hands, compelled him to continue the
journey!"
"All as you say, Master Wade. I heard the same story myself; though
little suspecting that the facetious footpad was my old henchman Gregory
Garth. That part of his performance was natural enough. The rogue had
always a dash of gallantry in his composition. I'm pleased to think
it's not all gone out of him."
"He appears very repentant after--"
"After having been within an inch of taking the life of one, who--rather
should I say of losing his own. It was a lucky turn that brought the
moonlight on that bearded visage of his: else he might now have been
lying in the middle of the road, silent as his scare-crow companions.
By my troth! I should have felt sorry to have been his executioner. I
am glad it has turned out as it has--more especially since he has
promised, if not actual repentance, at least some sort of reformation.
It may not be too late. There's good in him--or was--if his evil
courses have not caused its complete eradication. Well! I am likely to
see him soon; when I shall submit his soul to the test, and find whether
there is still in it enough of the old honesty to give hope of his
regeneration. The entrance to your father's park?"
The speaker nodded towards a sombre pile of ivy-grown mason-work--in the
centre of which could be seen a massive gate, its serried rails just
discernible under the tall chestnuts, that in double row shadowed the
avenue beyond.
The heir of Bulstrode did not need to be thus reminded. Three years of
absence had not effaced from his memory the topographic details of
scenes so much loved, so long enjoyed. Well remembered he the ways that
led towards the paternal mansion; and already, ere his fellow traveller
ceased speaking, he had pulled up opposite the oft-used entrance.
"My journey extends farther up the road," continued the cavalier,
without having made more than a momentary pause in his speech. "I am
sorry, Master Wade, to lose your agreeable company; but we must part."
"Not sir," said Walter, looking earnestly towards him, "not, I trust,
till you have given me an opportunity of thanking you for the service
you have rendered me. But for your companionship, the adventure, as
well as my day's journey, might have had a very different termination.
I should certainly have been plundered--perhaps impaled on the long pike
of your quondam servitor. Thanks to you, that I am to reach home in
safety. I hope, therefore, you will not object to my knowing the name
of one, who has done me such an essential service."
"I have but slight claim to your gratitude," replied the cavalier. "In
truth not any, Master Wade. By the merest accident have we been thrown
together as _compagnons de voyage_."
"Your modesty, sir," rejoined the young courtier--as he spoke bending
gracefully towards his companion, "claims my admiration equally with
that courage, of which I have now witnessed more than one display. But
you cannot hinder me from feeling gratitude; nor yet from expressing it.
If you deny me the privilege of knowing your name, I can at least tell
my friends, how much I am indebted to _Sir Henry the Unknown_."
"_Sir_ Henry! Ah! Garth styled me so. The old forester is fond of
bestowing titles. My father was so called; and honest Gregory, in his
luck of heraldic skill, thinks the title must be hereditary. It is not
so, however. I have not received the honour of knighthood from the
sword of sacred majesty. What's more, it's not likely I ever shall.
Ha! ha!"
The words that concluded this speech--as well as the laugh that
followed--were uttered in a tone of defiant bitterness: as if the
speaker held such royal honours in but slight estimation.
The young courtier thus baulked in obtaining the name of his protector,
remained for a moment without making rejoinder. He was thinking whether
in the matter of names he could not claim a fair exchange of
confidence--since he had freely given his own,--when the cavalier, as if
divining his thoughts, again accosted him.
"Pardon me," resumed the latter, in a tone of apology. "Pardon me,
Master Wade, for my apparent want of courtesy. You honour me by asking
my name; and, since you have treated me so frankly, I have neither the
right nor the wish to conceal it from you. It is plain Henry Holtspur--
not _Sir_ Henry, as you have just heard me designated. Furthermore,
Master Wade; if you know anything of a rather dilapidated dwelling
yclept `Stone Dean,'--situated in the heart of the forest, some three
miles from here--and think you could find your way thither, I can
promise you a welcome, a mouthful of venison, a cup of Canary to wash it
down; and--not much more, I fear. During most mornings I am at home, if
you will take your chance of riding over."
"Nay, you must visit me first," rejoined Walter, "I should ask you in
now; but for the lateness of the hour. I fear our people have retired
for the night. You will come again; and permit me to introduce you to
my father. I am sure he would like to thank you for the service you
have done me; and my sister Marion too."
A thrill of sweet secret pleasure shot through the heart of Henry
Holtspur, as he listened to the last words. Thanks from Marion! A
thought from her--even though it were but given in gratitude!
Love! love! sweet art thou in the enjoyment; but far more delicious is
the dream of thy anticipation!
Had the young courtier been closely observing, he might, at that moment,
have detected upon the countenance of Henry Holtspur, a peculiar
expression--one which he appeared endeavouring to conceal.
The brother of his mistress is the last man, to whom a lover cares to
confide the secret of his bosom. It may not be a welcome tale--even
when the fortunes are equal, the introduction _en regle_, and the
intentions honourable. But if in any of these circumstances there
chance to be informality, then becomes the brother the _bete noire_ of
the situation.
Was some thought of this kind causing Henry Holtspur a peculiar
emotion--prompting him to repress, or conceal it from the brother of
Marion Wade? On returning thanks for the promised introduction, why did
he speak with an air of embarrassment? Why upon his countenance, of
open manly character, was there an expression almost furtive?
The young courtier, without taking note of these circumstances,
continued to urge his request.
"Well--you promise to come?"
"Sometime--with pleasure."
"Nay, Master Holtspur, `sometime' is too indefinite; but, indeed, so has
been my invitation. I shall alter it. You will come to-morrow? Father
gives a _fete_ in our park. 'Tis my birthday; and the sports, I
believe, have been arranged on an extensive scale. Say, you will be one
of our guests?"
"With all my heart, Master Wade. I shall be most happy."
After exchanging a mutual good-night, the two travellers parted--Walter
entering the gate of the park--while the cavalier continued along the
highway, that ran parallel to its palings.
Volume One, Chapter XI.
After seeing the two travellers ride off, the disappointed footpad stood
listening, till the hoof-strokes of their horses died upon the distant
road.
Then, flinging himself upon a bank of earth, and, having assumed a
sitting posture--with his elbows resting upon his knees, and his bearded
chin reposing between the palms of his hands--he remained for some
moments silent as the Sphinx, and equally motionless.
His features betrayed a strange compound of expressions--not to be
interpreted by any one ignorant of his history, or of the adventure that
had just transpired. The shadow of a contrite sadness was visible upon
his brow; while in his dark grey eye could be detected a twinkle of
chagrin--as he thought of the pair of purses so unexpectedly extricated
from his grasp.
Plainly was a struggle passing within his bosom. Conscience and
cupidity had quarrelled--their first outfall for a long period of time.
The contending emotions prevented speech; and, it is superfluous to say,
his companions respected his silence.