in his worst moments--there were lines indicative of honesty. As he
sate by the roadside--that roadside near which he had so often
_skulked_--with the moon shining full upon his face, these lines
gradually became more distinctly defined; until the criminal cast
completely disappeared from his features, leaving only in its place an
expression of profound melancholy. But for the _mise en scene_, and the
_dramatis personae_ surrounding him, any one passing at the moment might
have mistaken him for an honest man, suffering from some grave and
recent misfortune.
But as no one passed, he was left free to indulge, both in his sorrow
and his silence.
At length the latter came to an end. The voice of the penitent
footpad--no longer in the stern accents of menace and command, but in
soft subdued tones--once more interrupted the stillness of the night.
"Oh lor--oh lor!" muttered he, "who'd a believed I shud ha' holden my
pike to the breast o' young master Henry? Niver a thought had I to use
it. Only bluster to make 'em yield up; but he'll think as how I
intended it all the same. Oh lor--oh lor! he'll niver forgi' me! Well,
it can't a' be holp now; an' here go to keep the promise I've made him.
No more touchin' o' purses, or riflin' o' fine ladies on this road.
That game be all over."
For a moment the dark shadow upon his brow appeared to partake slightly
of chagrin--as if there still lingered some regret, for the promise he
had made, and the step he was about to take. The strife between
conscience and cupidity seemed not yet definitively decided.
There was another interval of silence, and then came the decision. It
was in favour of virtue. Conscience had triumphed.
"I'll keep my word to him," cried he, springing to his feet, as if to
give emphasis to the resolve. "I'll keep it, if I shud starve."
"Disband!" he continued, addressing himself to the silent circle, and
speaking in a tone of mock command. "Disband! ye beggars! Your
captain, Greg'ry Garth, han't no longer any need o' your sarvices. Dang
it meeats!" added he, still preserving his tone of mock seriousness, "I
be sorry to part wi' ye. Ye've been as true as steel to me; an' ne'er a
angry word as iver passed atween us. Well, it can't be holp, boys--that
it can't. The best o' friends must part, some time or other; but afore
we sepperates, I'm a-goin' to purvide for one an' all on ye. I've got a
friend over theer in Uxbridge, who keeps a biggish trade goin' on--they
call it panprokin'. It's a money-making business. I dare say he can
find places for o' ye. Ye be sure o' doin' well wi' him. Ye'll be in
good company, wi' plenty o' goold and jeweltry all round ye. Don't be
afeerd o' what'll happen to ye. I'll take duppleickets for yer
security; so that in case o' my needin' ye again--"
At this crisis the fantastic valedictory of the retiring robber was
brought to a sudden termination, by his hearing a sound--similar to
those for which his ear had been but too well-trained to listen. It was
the footfall of a horse, denoting the approach of a horseman--a
traveller. It was neither of those who had just passed over the Heath:
since it came from the direction opposite to that in which they had
gone--up the road from Redhill.
There was but one horseman--as the hoof-stroke indicated. From the same
index it could be told, that he was coming on at a slow pace--a walk in
fact--as if ignorant of the road, or afraid of proceeding at a rapid
rate along a path, which was far from being a smooth one.
On hearing the hoof-stroke, Gregory Garth instinctively, as instantly,
desisted from his farcical apostrophe; and, without offering the
slightest apology to his well-behaved auditors, turned his face away
from them, and stood listening.
"A single horseman?" muttered he to himself, "Crawlin' along at snail
pace? A farmer maybe, who's tuk a drap too much at the Saracen's Head,
an' 's failed asleep in his saddle? Now I think o't, it be market day
in that thear town o' Uxbridge."
The instincts of the footpad--which had for the moment yielded before
the moral shock of the humiliating encounter with his old master--began
to resume dominion over him.
"Wonder," continued he, in a muttered tone, "Wonder if the chaw-bacon
ha' got any cash about him? Or have he been, and drunk it all at the
inn? Pish! what do it matter whether he have or no? Ha'nt I gone an'
promised Master Henry 'twould be my last night? Dang it! I must keep
my word.
"Stay!" he continued, after reflecting a moment, "I sayed that it shud
be my last _night_? That's 'zactly what you sayed, an' nothin' else,
Greg'ry Garth! It wouldn't be breakin' no promise if I--
"The night be yooung yet! 'Taint much after eleven o' the clock? I've
just heard Chaffont bells strikin' _eleven_. A night arn't over till
_twelve_. That's the `law o' the land.'
"What's the use o' talkin'? Things can't be wuss wi' me than they is
arready. I've stole the sheep; an' if I'm to swing for't, I moat as
well goo in for the hul flock. After all, Master Henry ha'nt promised
to _keep_ me; an' I may starve for my honest intentions. I ha'nt enough
silver left to kiver a spittle with; an' as for these rags, they arn't
goin' to fetch me a fortune. Dash it! I'll stop chaw-bacon, an' see
whether he ha'nt been a sellin' his beests.
"Keep yeer places, lads!" continued he, turning once more to his
dummies, and addressing them as if he really believed them to be "lads."
"Keep yeer places; and behave jest the same, as if nuthin' 'd been sayed
about our separatin'!"
Concluding his speech with this cautionary peroration, the footpad
glided back under the shadow of the hovel; and silently placed himself
in a position to pounce upon the unwary wayfarer, whose ill-luck was
conducting him to the crossing of Jarret's Heath at that late hour of
the night.
Volume One, Chapter XII.
The robber had not long to wait for his victim. The necessary
preparations for receiving the latter occupied some time--enough for the
slow-paced traveller to get forward upon the ground; which he succeeded
in doing, just as Gregory Garth had secured himself an ambush, within
the shadow of the hovel. There stood he, in the attitude of a hound in
leash, straining upon the spring.
When the horseman, emerging from under the arcade of the trees, rode out
into the open ground, and the moonlight fell upon him and his horse, the
footpad was slightly taken by surprise. Instead of a farmer, fuddled
with cheap tipple obtained at the "Saracen's Head," Garth saw before him
an elegant cavalier, mounted upon a smoking but handsome steed, and
dressed in a full suit of shining satin!
Though surprised, Gregory was neither dismayed, nor disconcerted. On
the contrary, he was all the better satisfied at seeing--in the place of
a drunken clod-hopper, perchance with an empty wallet--a gentleman whose
appearance gave every promise of a plethoric purse; and one also, whose
aspect declared to the practised eye of the footpad, that compelling him
to part with it, would be an achievement neither difficult nor
dangerous.
Without losing an instant, after making this observation, the robber
rushed out from under the shadow of the hut; and, just as he had hailed
the two horsemen half-an-hour before, did he salute the satin-clad
cavalier.
Very different however was the response which he now received in return
to the stereotyped demand, "Stand and deliver!" Such travellers as the
black horseman were rare upon the road; and he of the smoking steed, and
satin vestments, instead of drawing a pistol from his holsters, or a
sword from its sheath, threw up both hands in token of surrender; and,
in a trembling voice, piteously appealed for mercy.
"Hang it, Master!" cried Garth, still keeping his pike pointed at the
breast of the frightened traveller. "Doant be so skeeart! They woant
hurt ye, man. Nee'r a one o' 'em's goin' to lay a finger on ye--that
be, if ye doant make a fool o' yerself by showin' resistance. Keep yeer
ground, boys! The gentleman han't no intention to gie trouble."
"No--I assure you, no!" eagerly ejaculated the traveller. "I mean no
harm to anybody. Believe me, friends! I don't, indeed. You're welcome
to what money I've got. It isn't much: I'm only a poor messenger of the
king."
"A messenger of the king!" echoed the captain of the robbers, showing a
new interest in the announcement.
"And, if I may ask the question," proceeded he, drawing nearer to the
traveller, and rudely clutching hold of his bridle-rein, "Whither be ye
bound, good Master?"
"O sir," replied the trembling courtier, "I am glad I've met with some
one who, perhaps, can tell me the way. I am the bearer of a message
from his gracious Majesty to Captain Scarthe, of the King's Cuirassiers;
who is, or should be, by this time, quartered with Sir Marmaduke Wade,
of Bulstrode Park--somewhere in this part of the county of Buckingham."
"Ho, ho!" muttered Gregory Garth, speaking to himself, "message from his
Majesty to Captain Scarthe!--Sir Marmaduke Wade! Bulstrode Park! What
the ole Nick be all this about?"
"You know Sir Marmaduke Wade, do you not, good friend?"
"Well, Master Silk-and-Satin," scornfully drawled the footpad, "without
havin' the pleasure o' knowin' you, or the honour o' bein' your good
friend eyther, I think as how I mout say, that I does know somethin' o'
that very gentleman, Sir Marmaduke Wade; though it be news to me that
theer be such a individable as Captain Scarthe, either in the county o'
Bucks, or in the kingdom o' England--to say nothin' o' a troop o' King's
Kewrasseers being quartered at Bulstrode Park. All o' that there be
Greek to Greg'ry Garth."
"Good friend! I assure you it's nothing but the truth. Captain Scarthe
and his troop have certainly arrived at Bulstrode Park by this time; and
if you will only conduct me thither--"
"Bah! that arn't my bizness. Conduct yerself. Bulstrode Park aint a
step from here. As to Captain Scarthe, or the King's Kewrasseers, I
shud n't know eyther one nor t'other from a side o' sole leather. If
ye've got e'er a message, ye can hand it over to me, an' along wi' it
whatever loose cash ye be carryin' on your fine-clad carcass. Fork
out!"
"Oh! sir; to my money you're welcome--my watch also and the chain. But
as you love our good king, let me ride on upon the errand, on which he
has despatched me!"
"Maybe I _don't_ love `our good King,' so much as ye think for, ye
spangled flunkey! Come! out wi' all ye've got, or these fellows'll
strip ye to the skin. Ne'er mind, boys! Keep yer ground; he an't
a-goin' to be troublesome."
"No, no, good friends. I promise you I shall not. I yield up
everything. Here's my purse. For your sakes I'm sorry there's not more
in it. Here's my watch. I had it a present from our most gracious
Queen. You see, sir, it's very valuable?"
The footpad eagerly clutched at the timepiece; and, holding it between
his great horny fingers, examined it under the light of the moon.
"It must be valleyable," said he, turning it over and over. "It appears
to be kivered all over wi' preecious stones. A present from the Queen,
ye say?"
"I had it from her majesty's own hands."
"Dang her for a French--. This be the way she spends our English money.
She be a bigger robber than Greg'ry Garth--that she be--and ye can tell
her I sayed so, the next time you ha' the chance o' palaverin' to her.
Go on! Emp'y your pockets o' everything."
"I've only this penknife; these tablets, and pencil--that's all, I
assure you."
"What's that glitterin' thing," asked the footpad, pointing to something
the courtier appeared anxious to conceal, "as hangs about yer neck?
Let's have a squint at it?"
"That, sir,--that is a--a--a locket."
"A locket; what be that?"
"Well, it's--it's--"
"It be wonderful like a bit o' a watch. What be inside o' it?"
"Nothing."
"Nothin'. Then, what do you carry it for?"
"Oh, there is something inside; nothing of value, however; it's only a
lock of hair."
"Only hair. A love-lock, I s'pose? Well, that arn't o' much valley
sure enough--leastwise to me it arn't--and yer may keep the hair. But
I'll trouble you for the case. It look like it mout pawn for somethin'.
Quick, off wi' it!"
The terrified courtier instantly complied with the demand--in his fright
not even taking advantage of the permission granted him to preserve the
precious love token; but delivering both lock and locket into the
outstretched fingers of the footpad.
"O sir," said he, in a supplicating tone, "that is everything--
everything!"
"No it arn't," gruffly returned the robber, "you've got a niceish
doublet thear--satin spick-span--trunks to match; boots an' spurs o' the
first quality; a tidyish hat and feathers; an' a sharpish toad-sticker
by yer side. I doant partickler want any o' these things for myself;
but I've got a relation that I'd like to make 'em a present to. So,
strip!"
"What, sir! would you send me naked on my errand? You forget that I'm
the bearer of a message from the king?"
"No, daang me if I do; and daang the king, too! That ere's potery for
ye. I've heerd ye be fond o' it at Court. I like prose better; and my
prose be, dismount an' strip."
Notwithstanding the tone of raillery in which the footpad was pleased to
express himself, the unfortunate courtier saw that he was all the while
in serious earnest, and that there would be danger in resisting his
demands.
Spite of his reluctance therefore, he was compelled to slide down from
his saddle, and disrobe himself in the middle of the road.
Not until he stood stark naked, did the relentless robber suffer him to
desist--leaving to him little else than his shirt and stockings!
"O sir! you will not mount me thus?" said the wretched man, appealing
with upheld hands to the footpad. "Surely you will not send me in this
guise--the bearer of a royal message? What a figure I should cut on
horseback, without my boots--without my hat or doublet--without--"
"Stash yer palaver!" cried Garth, who was busied making the cast-off
clothes into a bundle. "Who said ye war goin' to cut a figger
a-horseback? Whar's yer horse, I sh'd like to know?"
The courtier gave a doubting nod towards the steed.
"Oh!" responded the footpad, coolly continuing his task, "moat a been
your horse ten minutes agone. He be myen now. I've been a-foot long
enough, while you an' yours ha' been ridin'. It be my time to mount for
a bit. That's only fair turn an' turn, ar'nt it?"
The dismounted messenger made no reply. Though surprise and terror had
by this time well-nigh deprived him of his senses, he had enough left to
admonish him, that all remonstrance would be idle. He said nothing,
therefore; but stood with shivering frame and teeth chattering like
castanets: for it chanced to be one of those chill autumnal nights, when
the cold is felt almost as sensibly as in December.
The footpad took no further notice of him, until he had completed the
binding of the bundle. Then straightening himself up, face to face with
his victim, he surveyed him from head to foot with a half-quizzical,
half serious look.
The latter at length predominated--as if some suspicious thought had
come uppermost in his mind.
"Cowardly as ye be, ye king's minion," said he, addressing the trembling
messenger in a tone of scornful bitterness, "thear mout be cunnin' an'
mischief in ye. I'll take care that ye doant go furder this night.
Come along into the house here! Ye woant object to that--seein' as
ye're so starved-like outside. Come along!"
And without waiting for either the assent or refusal of the individual
thus solicited, the robber seized him by the wrist; and half led, half
dragged, him over the threshold of the hovel.
Once inside the ruin, he proceeded to bind his unresisting victim with
cords, which he had taken in along with him. He had plenty of light for
his purpose: for a portion of the roof had fallen in, and the moonlight
shone brightly upon the thatch-strewn floor.
Expert in the handling of ropes, his task was soon performed; and in a
few minutes the King's messenger stood with his arms bound behind his
back, and his ankles lashed as tightly together, as if he had been a
dangerous felon!
"Now," said the robber, after securing the last loop, apparently to his
satisfaction, "you woant come loose till somebody lets ye; and that arnt
goin' to be me. I ha'nt no wish to be cruel to ye--tho' ye are a king's
flunkey--an' as ye'll be easier lyin' down than stannin' up, I'll put
you in that position."
As he said this, he let go his hold, and permitted the unfortunate man
to fall heavily upon the floor.
"Lie thear, Master Messenger, till somebody lifts ye. _I'll_ see to the
deliverin' o' yer message. Good-night!"
And with a mocking laugh Gregory Garth strode back over the threshold--
leaving the astounded traveller to reflections that were neither very
lucid nor very pleasant.
After passing out of the hut, the footpad hastened to take his departure
from the spot.
He led the steed of the messenger out into the middle of the road, and
tied the bridle he had made to the cantle of the saddle. He then glided
up to the near side of the horse; and caught hold of the withers--as if
about to mount.
Something, however, caused him to hesitate; and an interval elapsed,
without his making any effort to get into the saddle.
"Daangit, old partners!" cried he, at length--addressing himself to his
band of dummies, whom he had been for sometime neglecting--"'twon't do
for us to part this fashion. If Greg'ry Garth are promoted to be a
_highwayman_, he arn't goin' to look down on his pals o' the _path_.
No! Ye shall go long wi' me, one an' all. Though the hul o' ye put
thegither arnt worth this shinin' ticker I've got in my fob, for all
that I can make better use o' ye, than leavin' ye here to scare the
crows o' Jarret's Heath. Come along, my boys! I'se boun', this stout
charger from the royal mews be able to carry the hul on us, an' not
think it much o' a looad neyther. I'll find room for all o' ye--some on
the crupper, and the rest on the withers. Come along then!"
Without waiting for any reply to his proposal, he glided around the edge
of the opening: and, rapidly dismantling the dummies one after the
other, he returned towards the horse with their ravished vestments.
Hanging the "old clo'" across both croup and withers--and there
attaching them by strings--he at length climbed into the saddle lately
occupied by the king's messenger, and rode gleefully away.
Just as he cleared the crossing of the roads, the clock of Chalfont
Saint Peter's tolled the hour of midnight.
"Exact twelve!" exclaimed he, in a tone of congratulation. "Well! 'twur
a close shave; but I've kep' my word to Master Henry! If I had broke
that, I could niver a looked him in the face again. Ha! Hear them old
church bells! How sweet they sound on the air o' the night! They mind
me o' the time, when I wur innocent child. Ring on! ring on! ye bells
o' Peter's Chaffont! Ring on, an' tell the world that _Greg'ry Garth is
biddin' good-bye to the road_!"
Volume One, Chapter XIII.
Were the Chiltern Hills stripped of the timber, to this day screening a
considerable portion of their surface, they would present a striking
resemblance to those portions of the great North American Steppe, known
in trapper-parlance as "rolling prairies." With equal truthfulness
might they be likened to the Ocean, after a great storm, when the waves
no longer carry their foaming crests, and the undulations of the swell
have, to a certain extent, lost their parallelism. If you can fancy the
liquid element then suddenly transformed into solid earth, you will have
a good idea of the "shape" of the Chilterns.
From time immemorial have these hills enjoyed a peculiar reputation. In
the forward march of England's agriculture, it was long ere their
sterile soil tempted the touch of the plough; and even at this hour vast
tracts of their surface lie unreclaimed--in "commons" covered with
heath, furze, or forests of beechwood.
At various periods of our history, their fame has not been of the
fairest. Their wild woods, while giving shelter to the noble stag, and
other creatures of the chase, also served as a choice retreat for the
outlaw and the robber; and in past times, it became necessary to appoint
a "steward or warden," with a body of armed attendants, to give
safe-conduct to the traveller, passing through their limits. Hence the
origin of that noted office--now happily a sinecure; though, unhappily,
not the only sinecure of like obsolete utility in this grievously taxed
land.
Near the eastern verge of the Chiltern country, is situated the noble
park of Bulstrode. It is one of the most ancient inclosures in
England--older than the invasion of the Norman; perhaps as old as the
evacuation of the Roman. In the former epoch it was the scene of
strife--as the remains of a Saxon encampment lying within its limits--
with a singular legend attached--will testify.
Extending over an area of a thousand acres, there is scarce a rood of
Bulstrode Park that could be called level ground--the camp enclosure,
already mentioned, forming the single exception. The surface exhibits a
series of smooth rounded hills, and undulating ridges, separated from
each other by deep valley-like ravines--the concavities of the latter so
resembling the convexities of the former, as to suggest the idea that
the hills have been scooped out of the valleys, and placed in an
inverted position beside them. The park itself offers a fair specimen
of the scenery of the Chilterns--the ocean swell suddenly brought to a
stand, the waves, and the "troughs" between, having lost their
parallelism. The valleys traverse in different directions, here running
into each other; there shallowing upward, or ending abruptly in deep
romantic dells, thickly copsed with hawthorn, holly, or hazel--the
favourite haunts of the nightingale. The ridges join each other in a
similar fashion; or rise into isolated hills, so smoothly coped as to
seem artificial. Belts of shrubbery and clumps of gigantic trees--elm,
oak, beech, and chestnut--mottle the slopes, or crown their summits;
while the spaces between exhibit a sward of that vivid verdure--only to
be seen in the pastures and parks of England. Such was Bulstrode Park
in the seventeenth century; such with but slight change, is it at the
present day--a worthy residence for the noblest family in the land.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is the morning of the fete arranged by Sir Marmaduke Wade--to
celebrate the anniversary of his son's birthday, and at the same time to
commemorate his return to the paternal mansion.
The red aurora of an autumnal morning has given promise of a brilliant
day; and as if to keep that promise, a golden sun, already some degrees
above the horizon, is gradually mounting into a canopy of cloudless
blue.
His beams striking obliquely through the foliage of the forest, fall
with a subdued light upon the earth; but in the more open undulations of
the park they have already kissed the dew from the grass; and the
verdant turf seems to invite the footstep--like some vast carpet spread
over the arena of the expected sports.
It is evident that the invitation of Sir Marmaduke had been extensively
circulated, and accepted. On every road and path tending in the
direction of his residence, and from a distance of many miles, groups of
rustics in their gayest holiday dresses, have been seen from an early
hour in the morning, proceeding towards the scene of the fete--old and
young, fair and dark, comely and common-looking, all equally joyous and
gleeful.
Within the lines of the old Saxon encampment a large company has
assembled. There are thousands in all--some roaming over the ground,
some seated under shady trees on the summit of the turf-grown moat.
Here and there may be seen large numbers forming a "ring"--the
spectators of some sport that is progressing in their midst.
Of sports there are many kinds carried on at the same time. Here is
played the game of "balloon:" a huge leathern ball, inflated with hot
air, and bandied about amidst a circle of players--the game being to
keep the ball passing from one to the other.
There you may see another party engaged in a game of "bowls,"
fashionable as the favourite of Royalty; and further on, a crowd
clustered around a contest of "single-stick," where two stout fellows
are cudgelling one another, as if determined upon a mutual cracking of
skulls--a feat, however, not so easy of accomplishment.
Not far off you may behold the gentler sport of "kiss in the ring,"
where blue-eyed Saxon girls are pursued by their rustic beaux, and
easily overtaken.
At other places you may witness a wrestling match, a game of foot-ball,
or quoits, with "pitching the stone," racing, leaping, and vaulting.
At a short distance off, and outside the encampment, may be seen an _al
fresco_ kitchen, on an extensive scale; where the servants of Sir
Marmaduke are engaged in roasting immense _barons_ of beef, and huge
hogs cleft lengthwise. An hour or two later, and this spot will be the
roost attractive of all.
Not alone does the peasant world appear in the park of Sir Marmaduke
Wade. Cavaliers picturesquely attired, in the splendid costumes of the
time, along with high-born dames, are seen standing in groups over the
ground. Some are spectators of the sports, though not a few of both
sexes occasionally take part in them. The _fete champetre_ is a
fashionable mode of amusement where rank is, for the time, surrendered
to the desire for simple enjoyment; and it is not altogether _outre_ for
the mistress of the mansion to mingle with her maidens in the "out-door
dance," nor the squire to take a hand at "single-stick," or "bowls,"
with his rustic retainer.
Even Royalty, in those days was accustomed to such condescension!
Such was the gay spectacle exhibited in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade,
to celebrate the anniversary of that happy day that had given him a son
and heir.
Volume One, Chapter XIV.
The bells of Uxbridge were tolling the hour of noon. Scarthe's
Cuirassiers were still by the roadside inn, though in full armour, and
each trooper standing by the side of his horse, ready to take saddle.
It was a late hour to begin their march; but they had been detained.
The freshly rasped hoofs of the horses might declare the cause of the
detention. The forges of Uxbridge had been called into requisition, for
the shoeing of the troop.
There was no special need for haste. They had not far to go; and the
duty upon which they were bent, could be entered into at any hour. At
twelve they were all ready for the _route_.
"To horse!" was uttered in the usual abrupt tone of command; and at the
same instant, the two officers were seen issuing from the doorway of the
inn.
The clattering of steel, as the cuirassiers sprang to their saddles,
could be heard on the calm air of the autumn noon, to the distance of a
mile. The shopkeepers of Uxbridge heard it; and were only too glad when
told its interpretation. All night long Scarthe's royal swashbucklers
had been swaggering through the streets, disturbing the tranquillity of
their town, and leaving many a score unsettled.
No wonder they rejoiced, when that clinking of sabres, and clashing of
_cuisses_, declared the departure of Captain Scarthe and his following
from the hostelry of the Saracen's Head.
Their men having mounted, the two officers betook themselves to their
saddles, though with less alertness. The cornet seemed to have a
difficulty in finding his stirrup; and, after he had succeeded in
getting into his seat, it appeared an open question whether he should be
able to keep it. Stubbs was intoxicated.
His superior officer was affected in a similar fashion, though to a less
degree. At all events he did not show his tipsiness so palpably. He
was able to mount into the saddle, without the hand of a helper; and
when there, could hold himself upright. Habit may have given him this
superiority over his comrade: for Scarthe was an old soldier, and Stubbs
was not.
The carouse of the preceding night had commenced at the roadside inn--
early in the evening.
The incident that had there occurred--not of the most comforting nature,
either to Scarthe or his subaltern--had stimulated them to continue at
their cups--only transferring the scene to the inns of Uxbridge. A
stray cavalier or two, picked up in the town, had furnished them with
the right sort of associates for a midnight frolic; and it was not till
the blue light of morn was breaking over the meadows of the Colne, that
the wearied roisterers staggered across the old bridge, and returned to
their temporary quarters at the roadside inn.
While the horses of the troop were in the hands of the farriers, the two
officers had passed an hour or two, tossing upon a brace of the best
beds the inn afforded; and it was close upon twelve at noon when Scarthe
awoke, and called for a cup of burnt sack to steady his nerves--
quivering after the night's carouse.
A slight breakfast sufficed for both captain and cornet. This
despatched, they had ordered the troop to horse, and were about to
continue their march.
"Comrades!" cried Scarthe, addressing himself to his followers, as soon
as he felt fairly fixed in the saddle. "We've been spending the night
in a nest of rebels. This Uxbridge is a town of traitors--Quakers,
Dissenters and Puritans--alike disloyal knaves."
"They are by Gec-gec-ged!" hiccuped Stubbs, trying to keep himself
upright on his horse.
"They are; you speak true, captain--they're all you say," chorussed
several of the troopers, who had come away without settling their
scores.
"Then let them go to the devil;" muttered Scarthe, becoming alike
regardless of Uxbridge and its interests. "Let's look to what's before
us. No--not that. First what's behind us. No pretty girls in the inn
here. Ah! that's a pity. Never mind the women, so long as there's
wine. Hillo, Old Boniface! Once more set your taps a-flowing. What
will you drink, vagabonds? Beer?"
"Ay, ay--anything you like, noble captain."
"Beer, Boniface; and for me more sack. What say you, Stubbs?"
"Sack, sa-a-ck!" stammered the cornet. "Burnt sa-a-ck. Nothing like
it, by Ge-ged!"
"Who pays?" inquired the landlord, evidently under some apprehension as
to the probability of this ultimate order being for cash.
"Pays, knave!" shouted Scarthe, pulling a gold piece from his doublet,
and shieing it in the landlord's face. "Do you take the king's
cuirassiers for highway robbers? The wine--the wine! Quick with it, or
I'll draw your corks with the point of my sword."
With the numerous staff, which an inn in those times could afford to
maintain, both the beer and the more generous beverage were soon within
reach of the lips of those intended to partake of them. The national
drink was brought first; but out of deference to their officers, the men
refrained partaking of it, till the sack was poured into the cups.
Scarthe seized the goblet presented to him and raising it aloft, called
out:--
"The King!"
"The King, by Ge-ged," seconded Stubbs.
"The King--the King!" vociferated the half hundred voices of their
followers--the bystanders echoing the phrase only in faint murmuring.
"Goblets to the ground!" commanded the captain--at the same time tossing
his own into the middle of the road.
The action was imitated by every man in the troop--each throwing away
his empty vessel, till the pavement was thickly strewn with pots of
shining pewter.
"Foorward--ma-r-ch!" cried Scarthe, giving the spur to his charger; and
with a mad captain at their head, and a maudlin cornet in the rear, the
cuirassiers filed out from the inn; and took the road in the direction
of Red Hill.
Despite the wine within him, the captain of the cuirassiers, was at that
moment, in a frame of mind, anything but contented. One of his reasons
for having drunk so deeply, was to drown the recollection--yet rankling
in his bosom--of the insult he fancied himself to have suffered on the
preceding night, and which he further fancied to have lowered him in the
estimation of his followers. Indeed, he knew this to be the case; for
as he rode onward at the head of his troop, his whole thoughts were
given to the _black horseman_, and the mode by which he might revenge
himself on that mysterious individual.
Scarthe was on the way to country quarters--near which he had been told,
the black horseman had his home--and he comforted himself with the
thought, that should these prove dull, he would find amusement, in the
accomplishment of some scheme, by which his vengeance might be
satisfied.
Could his eye at that moment have penetrated the screen of foliage
rising above the crest of Red Hill, he might have seen behind it, the
man he meant to injure--mounted on that sable steed from which he
derived his _sobriquet_. He might have seen him suddenly wheel back
from the bushes, and gallop off in the direction in which he and his
cuirassiers were marching--towards Bulstrode Park--the residence of Sir
Marmaduke Wade.
Though Scarthe saw not this, his midday march was not performed without
his meeting with an incident--one worth recording, even for its
singularity; though it was otherwise of significant interest to the
cuirassier captain.
In front of a dilapidated hovel upon Jarret's Heath, both he and his
troop were brought to a sudden stand, on hearing a strange noise which
appeared to proceed from the ruin. It was a groan--or rather a series
of groans--now and then varied by a sharp scream.
On entering the hut, the cause of this singular _fracas_ was at once
discovered: a man lying upon the floor--stripped to his shirt, and bound
hand and foot! This semi-nude individual informed them, that he had
just awakened from a horrid dream; which he now feared was no dream, but
a reality! He proclaimed himself a courier of the King, bound to
Bulstrode Park, with a despatch for Captain Scarthe! But the despatch
was lost, with everything else he had borne upon his body--even to the
horse that had borne _him_!
After the full explanation had been given, Scarthe's chagrin at the
failure of the King's message, was counterbalanced by the amusement
caused by the misadventure of the messenger; and, after remounting the
unfortunate man, and sending him whence he had come, he continued his
march, making the wild waste of Jarret's Heath ring with a loud and long
continued cachinnation.
Volume One, Chapter XV.
The great clock in the tower of Bulstrode mansion, was tolling the hour
of noon. The sports were in full progress--both actors and spectators
at the maximum of enjoyment.
Here and there a knot of sturdy yeomen might be seen, standing close
together--so that their conversation might not be overheard--discussing
among themselves some late edict of royalty; and generally in tones of
condemnation.
The arbitrary exactions, of which one and all of them had of late been
victims, the tyrannous modes of taxation--hitherto unheard of in
England--_ship_, _coat_, and _conduct_ money--forced loans under the
farcical title of _benevolences_; and, above all, the billeting of
profligate soldiers in private houses--on individuals, who by some
slight act or speech had given offence to the king, or some of his
satellites--these were the topics of the time.
Conjoined with these grievances were discussed the kindred impositions
and persecutions of that iniquitous council, the Court of High
Commission, which for cruel zeal rivalled even the Inquisition--and the
infamous Star Chamber, that numbered its victims by thousands.
These truculent tools of tyranny had been for ten years in the full
performance of their flagitious work; but, instead of crushing out the
spirit of a brave people--which was their real aim and end--they had
only been preparing it for a more determined and effective resistance.
The trial of Hampden--the favourite of Buckinghamshire--for his daring
refusal to pay the arbitrary impost of "ship money," had met with the
approbation of all honest men; while the judges, who condemned him, were
denounced on all sides as worse than "unjust."
To its eternal glory be it told, nowhere was this noble spirit more
eminently displayed than in the shire of Bucks--nowhere, in those days,
was the word _liberty_ so often, or so emphatically, pronounced. Shall
I say, alas! the change?
True, it was yet spoken only in whispers--low, but earnest--like thunder
heard far off over the distant horizon--heard only in low mutterings,
but ready, at any moment, to play its red lightnings athwart the sky of
despotism.
Such mutterings might have been heard in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade.
In the midst of that joyous gathering, signs and sounds of a serious
import might have been detected--intermingling with scenes of the most
light-hearted hilarity.
It may be wondered why those sentiments of freedom were not more openly
declared. But that is easy of explanation. If among the assemblage who
assisted at the birthday celebration, there were enemies to Court and
King, there were also many who were not friends to the cause of the
People. In the crowd which occupied the old camp, there was a liberal
sprinkling of spies and informers--with eyes sharply set to see, and
ears to catch, every word that might be tainted with treason. No man
knew how soon he might be made the victim of a denunciation--how soon he
might stand in the awe-inspiring presence of the "Chamber."
No wonder that men expressed their sentiments with caution.
Among the gentlemen present there was a similar difference of opinion
upon political matters--even among members of the same family! But such
topics of discussion were studiously avoided, as unbecoming the
occasion; and no one, carelessly contemplating the faces of the fair
dames and gay cavaliers grouped laughingly together, could have
suspected the presence of any sentiment that sprang not from the most
contented concordance.
There was one countenance an exception to this general look of
contentment--one individual in that brilliant throng that had as yet
taken no pleasure in the sports. It was Marion Wade.
She, whose smile was esteemed a blessing wherever it fell, seemed
herself unblessed.
Her bosom was a chaos of aching unrest. There was wanting in that
concourse one whose presence could have given it peace.
Ever since entering the enclosure of the camp, had the eye of Marion
Wade been wandering over the heads of the assembled spectators; over the
fosse, and toward the gates of the park--where some late guests still
continued to straggle in.
Evidently was she searching for that she failed to find: for her glance,
after each sweeping tour of inquiry, fell back upon the faces around
her, with an ill-concealed expression of disappointment.
When the last of the company appeared to have arrived, the expression
deepened to chagrin.
Her reflections, had they been uttered aloud, would have given a clue to
the discontent betraying itself on her countenance.
"He comes not--he wills not to come! Was there nothing in those looks?
I've been mad to do as I have done! And what will he think of me? What
_can_ he? He took up my glove--perhaps a mere freak of curiosity, or
caprice--only to fling it down again in disdain? Now I know he cares
not to come--else would he have been here. Walter promised to introduce
him--to _me_--to _me_! Oh! there was no lure in that. He knows he
might have introduced himself. Have I not invited him? Oh! the
humiliation!"
Despite her painful reflections, the lady tried to look gay. But the
effort was unsuccessful. Among those standing near there were some, who
did not fail to notice her wan brow and wandering glance; dames envious
of her distinction--gallants, who for one smile from her proud, pretty
lips, would have instantly sacrificed their long _love-locks_, and
plucked from their hats those trivial tokens, they had sworn so
hypocritically to wear.
There was only one, however, who could guess at the cause; and that one
could only _guess_ at it. Her cousin alone had any suspicion, that the
heart of Marion was wandering, as well as her eyes. A knowledge of this
fact would have created surprise--almost wonder--in the circle that
surrounded her. Marion Wade was a full-grown woman; had been so for
more than a year. She had been wooed by many--by some worshipped almost
to idolatry. Wealth and title, youth and manhood, lands and lordships,
had been laid at her feet; and all alike rejected--not with the proud
flourish of the triumphant flirt, but with the tranquil dignity of a
true woman, who can only be _wed_ after being _won_.
Among the many aspirants to her hand, there was not one who could tell
the tale of conquest. More than once had that tale been whispered; but
the world would not believe it. It would have been a proud feat for the
man who could achieve it--too proud to remain unproclaimed.
And yet it had been achieved, though the world knew it not. She alone
suspected it, whose opportunities had been far beyond those of the
world. Her cousin, Lora Lovelace, had not failed to feel surprise at
those lonely rides--lonely from choice--since her own companionship had
been repeatedly declined. Neither had she failed to observe, how Marion
had chafed and fretted, at the command of Sir Marmaduke, requiring their
discontinuance. There were other circumstances besides: the lost glove,
and the bleeding wrist--the fevered sleep at night, and the dreamy
reveries by day. How could Lora shut her eyes to signs so significant?
Lora was herself in love, and could interpret them. No wonder that she
should suspect that her cousin was in a like dilemma; no wonder she
should feel sure that Marion's heart had been given away; though when,
and to whom, she was still ignorant, as any stranger within the limits
of the camp.
"Marion!" said she, drawing near to her cousin, and whispering so as not
to be overheard, "you are not happy to-day?"
"You silly child! what makes you think so?"
"How can I help it? In your looks--"
"What of my looks, Lora?"
"Dear Marion, don't mind me. It's because I dread that others may
notice them. There's Winifred Wayland has been watching you; and, more
still, that wicked Dorothy Dayrell. She has been keeping her eyes on
you like a cat upon a mouse. Cousin! do try to look different, and
don't give them something to talk about: for you know that's just what
Dorothy Dayrell would desire."
"Look different! How do I look, pray?"
"Ah! I needn't tell you how? _You know how you feel_; and from that
you may tell how you look."
"Ho! sage counsellor, you must explain. What is it in my appearance
that has struck you? Tell me, chit!"
"You want me to be candid, Marion?"
"I do--I do!"
The answer was given with an eagerness, that left Lora no wish to
withhold her explanation.
"Marion," said she, placing her lips close to the ear of her who was
alone intended to hear it, "_you are in love_?"
"Nonsense, Lora. What puts such a thought into your silly little head?"
"No nonsense, Marion; I know it by your looks. I don't know who has won
you, dear cousin. I only know he's not here to-day. You've been
expecting him. He hasn't come. Now!"
"You're either a great big deceiver, or a great little conjuror, Lora.
In which of these categories am I to class you?"
"Not in the former, Marion; you know it. Oh! it needs no conjuring for
_me_ to tell that. But pray don't let it be so easy for others to read
your secret, cousin! I entreat you--."
"You are welcome to your suspicions," said Marion, interrupting her.
"And now I shall relieve you from them, by making them a certainty. It
is of no use trying any longer to keep that a secret, which in time you
would be sure to discover for yourself--I suppose. _I am in love_. As
you've said, I'm in love with one who is _not_ here. Why should I feel
ashamed to tell it you? Nay, if I only thought he loved me as I do him,
I'd care little that the whole company knew it--and much less either
Winifred Wayland, or Dorothy Dayrell. Let them--"
Just then the voice of this last-mentioned personage was heard in
animated conversation--interspersed with peals of laughter, in which a
large party was joining.
It was nothing new for Dorothy to be the centre of a circle of laughing
listeners: for she was one of the wits of the time. Her talk might not
have terminated the dialogue between the cousins, but for the mention of
a name--to Marion Wade of all-absorbing interest.
Walter had just finished relating his adventure of the preceding night.
"And this wonderful cavalier," asked Dorothy, "who braved the bullying
captain, and frightened the fierce footpads--did he favour you with his
name, Master Wade?"
"Oh yes!" answered Walter, "he gave me that--Henry Holtspur."
"Henry Holtspur! Henry Holtspur!" cried several in a breath, as if the
name was not new to them, but had some peculiar signification.
"It's the cavalier who rides the black horse," explained one. "The
`_black horseman_,' the people called him. One lately come into this
neighbourhood. Lives in the old house of Stone Dean. Nobody knows
him."
"And yet everybody appears to be talking of him! Mysterious individual!
Some troubadour returned from the East?" suggested Winifred Wayland.
"Some trader from the West, more like," remarked Dorothy Dayrell, with a
sneer, "whence, I presume, he has imported his levelling sentiments, and
a savage for his servant, too, 'tis said. Did you see aught of his
Indian, Master Wade?"
"_No_," said the youth, "and very little of himself: as our ride
together was after night. But I have hopes of seeing more of him
to-day. He promised to be here."
"And is not?"
"I think not. I haven't yet encountered him. 'Tis just possible he may
be among the crowd over yonder; or somewhere through the camp. With
your permission, ladies, I shall go in search of him."
"Oh! do! do!" exclaimed half a score of sweet voices. "By all means,
Master Wade, find the gentleman. You have our permission to introduce
him. Tell him we're all dying to make his acquaintance."
Walter went off among the crowd; traversed the camp in all directions;
and came back without the object of his search.
"How cruel of him not to come!" remarked the gay Dayrell, as Walter was
seen returning alone. "If he only knew the disappointment he is
causing! We might have thought less of it, Master Walter, if you hadn't
told us he intended to be here. Now I for one shall fancy your fete
very stupid without him."
"He may still come," suggested Walter. "I think there are some other
guests who have not arrived."
"You are right, Master Wade," interposed one of the bystanders;
"yonder's somebody--a man on horseback--on the Heath, outside the
palings of the park. He appears to be going towards the gate?"
All eyes were turned in the direction indicated. A horseman was seen
upon the Heath outside, about a hundred yards distant from the
enclosure; but he was _not going towards the gate_.
"Not a bit of it," cried Dorothy Dayrell. "He's changed his mind about
that. See! He heads his horse at the palings! Going to take them? He
is in troth! High--over! There's a leap worth looking at!"
And the fair speaker clapped her pretty hands in admiration of the feat.
There was one other who beheld it with an admiration, which, though
silent, was not less enthusiastic. The joy that had shone sparkling in
the eyes of Marion Wade, as soon as the strange horseman appeared in
sight, was now heightened to an expression of proud triumph.
"Who is he?" asked half a score of voices, as the bold horseman cleared
the enclosure.
"It is he--the cavalier we have just been speaking of," answered Walter,
hurrying away to receive his guest, who was now coming on at an easy
gallop towards the camp.
"_The black horseman!--the black horseman_!" was the cry that rose up
from the crowd; while the rustics rushed up to the top of the moat to
give the new comer a welcome.
"_The black horseman! huzza_!" proclaimed a voice, with that peculiar
intonation that suggests a general cheer--which was given, as the
cavalier, riding into their midst, drew his steed to a stand.
"_They_ know him, at least," remarked the fair Dayrell, with a toss of
her aristocratic head. "How popular he appears to be! Can any one
explain it?"
"It's always the way with _new_ people," said a sarcastic gentleman who
stood near, "especially when they make their _debut_ a little
mysteriously. The rustic has a wonderful relish for the unknown."
Marion stood silent. Her eye sparkled with pride, on beholding the
homage paid to her own heart's hero. The sneering interrogatories of
Dorothy Dayrell she answered only in thought.
"Grand and noble!" was her reflection. "That is the secret of his
popularity. Ah! the instincts of the people rarely err in their choice.
He is true to _them_. No wonder they greet him as their God!"
For Marion, herself, a sweet triumph was in store.
The curiosity of the crowd, that had collected on the arrival of the
black horseman, was passing away. The people had returned to their
sports; or, with admiring looks, were following the famous steed to his
stand under the trees. From an instinct of delicacy, peculiar to the
country people, they had abandoned the cavalier to the companionship of
his proper host--who was now conducting him towards the promised
presentation.
They had arrived within a few paces of the spot where Marion was
standing. Her face was averted: as if she knew not who was advancing.
But her heart told her he was near. So, too, the whisperings of those
who stood around. She dared not turn towards him. She dreaded to
encounter his eye, lest it might look slightingly upon her.
That studied inattention could not continue. She looked towards him at
last. Her gaze became fixed, not upon his face, but, upon an object
which appeared conspicuous upon the brow of his beaver--_a white
gauntlet_!
Joy supreme! Words could not have spoken plainer. The token had been
taken up, and treasured. Love's challenge had been accepted!
Volume One, Chapter XVI.
A glove, a ribbon, a lock of hair, in the hat of a gentleman, was but
the common affectation of the cavalier times; and only proclaimed its
wearer the recipient of some fair lady's favour. There were many young
gallants on the ground, who bore such adornments; and therefore no one
took any notice of the token in the hat of Henry Holtspur--excepting
those for whom it had a particular interest.
There were two who felt this interest; though from different motives.
They were Marion Wade, and Lora Lovelace. Marion identified the glove
with a thrill of joy; and yet the moment after she felt fear. Why? She
feared it _might be_ identified by others. Lora saw it with surprise.
Why? Because it _was_ identified. At the first glance Lora had
recognised the gauntlet; and knew it to have belonged to her cousin.
It was just this, that the latter had been dreading. She feared not its
being recognised by any one else--not even by her father. She knew the
good knight had more important matters upon his mind, and could not have
told one of her gloves from another. But far different was it with her
cousin; who having a more intelligent discrimination in such trifles,
would be likely, just then, to exercise it.
Marion's fears were fulfilled. She perceived from Lora's looks that the
gauntlet--cruel and conspicuous tell-tale--was under her eye and in her
thoughts.
"It is yours, Marion!" whispered the latter, pointing towards the plumed
hat of the cavalier, and looking up, with an air more affirmative than
enquiring.
"Mine! what, Lora? Yonder black beaver and plumes? What have I to do
with them?"
"Ah! Marion, you mock me. Look under the plumes. What see you there?"
"Something that looks like a lady's glove. Is it one, I wonder?"
"It is, Marion."
"So it is, in troth! This strange gentleman must have a mistress, then.
Who would have thought of it?"
"It is yours, cousin."
"Mine? My glove--do you mean? You are jesting, little Lora?"
"It is you who jest, Marion. Did you not tell me that you had lost your
glove?"
"I did. I dropped it. I must have dropped it--somewhere."
"Then the gentleman must have _picked it up_?" rejoined Lora, with
significant emphasis.
"But, dear cousin; do you really think yonder gauntlet is mine?"
"O Marion, Marion! _you know it is yours_?"
Lora spoke half upbraidingly.
"How do you know you are not wronging me?" rejoined Marion, in an
evasive tone. "Let me take a good look at it. Aha! My word, Lora, I
think you are right. It does appear, as if it were my gauntlet--at
least it is very like the one I lost the other day, when out a-hawking;
and for the want of which my poor skin got so sadly scratched. It's
wonderfully like my glove!"
"Yes; so like, that it is the same."
"If so, how came it yonder?" inquired Marion, with an air of apparent
perplexity.
"Ah, how?" repeated Lora.
"He must have found it in the forest?"
"It is very impudent of him to be wearing it then."
"Very; indeed, very."
"Suppose any one should recognise it as yours? Suppose uncle should do
so?"
"There is no fear of that," interrupted Marion. "I have worn these
gloves only twice. You are the only one who has seen them on my hands.
Father does not know them. You won't tell him, Lora?"
"Why should I not?"
"Because--because--it may lead to trouble. May be this strange
gentleman has no idea to whom the glove has belonged. He has picked it
up on the road somewhere; and stuck it in his hat--out of caprice, or
conceit. I've heard many such favours are borne with no better
authority. Let him keep it, and wear it--if it so please him. I care
not--so long as he don't know whose it is. Don't you say anything about
it to any one. If father should know, or Walter--ah! Walter, young as
he is, would insist upon fighting with him; and I have no doubt that
this _black horseman_ would be a very dangerous antagonist."
"Oh! Marion," cried Lora, alarmed at the very thought of such a
contingency. "I shall not mention it--nor you. Do not for the world!
Let him keep the glove, however dishonourably he may have come to it. I
care not, dear cousin--so long as it does not compromise _you_."
"No fear of that," muttered Marion, in a confident tone, apparently
happy at having so easily escaped from a dilemma she had been dreading.
The whispered conversation of the cousins was at this moment interrupted
by the approach of Walter, conducting the cavalier into the midst of the
distinguished circle.
The youth performed his office of introducer with true courtly grace,
keeping his promise to all; and in a few seconds Henry Holtspur had
added many new names to the list of his acquaintances.
It is no easy part to play--and play gracefully--that of being
conspicuously presented; but the same courage that had distinguished the
cavalier in his encounter with Garth and his footpads, was again
exhibited in that more imposing--perhaps more dangerous--presence.
The battery of bright eyes seemed but little to embarrass him; and he
returned the salutations of the circle with that modest confidence,
which is a sure test of the true gentleman.
It was only when being presented to the last individual of the group--
strange that Marion Wade should be the last--it was only then, that
aught might have been observed beyond the ceremonious formality of an
introduction. Then, however, a close observer might have detected an
interchange of glances that expressed something more than courtesy;
though so quickly and stealthily given, as to escape the observation of
all. No one seemed to suspect that Marion Wade and Henry Holtspur had
ever met before; and yet ofttimes had they met--ofttimes looked into
each other's eyes--had done everything but speak!
How Marion had longed to listen to that voice, that now uttered in soft,
earnest tones, sounded in her ears, like some sweet music!
And yet it spoke not in the language of love. There was no opportunity
for this. They were surrounded by watchful eyes, and ears eagerly bent
to catch every word passing between them. Not a sentiment of that
tender passion, which both were eager to pour forth--not a syllable of
it could be exchanged between them.
Under such constraint, the converse of lovers is far from pleasant. It
even becomes irksome; and scarce did either regret the occurrence of an
incident, which, at that moment, engaging the attention of the crowd,
relieved them from their mutual embarrassment.
Volume One, Chapter XVII.
The incident, thus opportunely interfering, was the arrival upon the
ground of a party of _morris dancers_, who, having finished their
rehearsal outside the limits of the camp, now entered, and commenced
their performance in front of the elevated moat--upon which Sir
Marmaduke and his friends had placed themselves, in order to obtain a
better view of the spectacle.
The dancers were of both sexes--maidens and men--the former dressed in
gay bodice and kirtle; the latter in their shirt sleeves, clean washed
for the occasion--their arms and limbs banded with bright ribbons; bells
suspended from their garters; and other adornments in true _Morisco_
fashion.
There were some among them wearing character dresses: one representing
the bold outlaw Robin Hood; another his trusty lieutenant, Little John;
a third the jolly Friar Tuck, and so forth.
There were several of the girls also in character costumes. "Maid
Marian," the "Queen of the May," and other popular personages of the
rural fancy, were personified.
The morris dancers soon became the centre of general attraction. The
humbler guests of Sir Marmaduke--having partaken of the cheer which he
had so liberally provided for them--had returned into the camp; and now
stood clustered around the group of Terpsichoreans, with faces
expressing the liveliest delight.
Balloons, bowls, wrestling, and single-stick were for the time forsaken:
for the morris dance was tacitly understood, and expected, to be the
chief attraction of the day.
It is true, that only peasant girls were engaged in it; but among these
was more than one remarkable for a fine figure and comely face--
qualities by no means rare in the cottage-homes of the Chilterns.
Two were especially signalised for their good looks--the representatives
of Maid Marian and the Queen of the May--the former a dark brunette of
the gipsy type--while the queen was a contrasting _blonde_, with hazel
eyes, and hair of flaxen hue.
Many a young peasant among their partners in the dance--and also in the
circle of spectators--watched the movements of these rustic belles with
interested eyes. Ay, and more than one cavalier might have been
observed casting sly glances towards Maid Marian, and the Queen of the
May.
While those were bestowing their praises upon the peasant girls, in
stereotyped phrases of gallantry, some of the stately dames standing
around might have found cause to be jealous; and some _were_ so.
Was Marion Wade among the number?
Alas! it was even so. New as the feeling was, and slight the incident
that called it forth, that fell passion had sprung up within her heart.
It was the first time it had been touched with such a sting: for it was
her first love, and too recent to have met with a reverse. A pang never
felt before, she scarce comprehended its nature. She only knew its
cause. Holtspur was standing in the front rank of spectators--close to
the ring in which the morris dancers were moving. As the beautiful Bet
Dancey--who represented Maid Marian--went whirling voluptuously through
the figures of the dance, her dark gipsy eyes, gleaming with amorous
excitement, seemed constantly turned upon him. Marion Wade could not
fail to observe the glance: for it was recklessly given. It was not
this, however, that caused that pain to spring up within her bosom. The
forest maiden might have gazed all day long upon the face of Henry
Holtspur, without exciting the jealousy of the lady--had her gaze failed
to elicit a return. But once, as the latter turned quickly towards him,
she fancied she saw the glance of the girl given back, and the
passionate thought reciprocated!
A peculiar pang, never felt before, like some poisoned dart, pierced to
the very core of her heart--almost causing her to cry out. In the
rustic belle she recognised a rival!
The pain was not the less poignant, from its being her first experience
of it. On the contrary, it was, perhaps, more so; and from that moment
Marion Wade stood, cowed and cowering, with blanched brow--her blue eye
steadily fixed upon the countenance of Henry Holtspur--watching with
keen anxiety every movement of his features.
The dark doubt that had arisen in her mind was not to be resolved in
that hour. Scarce had she entered upon her anxious surveillance when an
incident arose, causing the morris dance to be suddenly interrupted.
Amidst the shouts, laughter, and cheering that accompanied the
spectacle, only a few who had strayed outside the enclosure of the camp,
caught the first whisperings of a strange, and to them, inexplicable
sound. It appeared to proceed from some part of the road--outside the
main entrance of the camp; and resembled a continued tinkling of steel
implements, mingled with the hoof-strokes of a multitude of horses--not
going at will, but ridden with that cadenced step that betokens the
passage of a squadron of cavalry.
They who first heard it, had scarce time to make this observation--much
less to communicate their thoughts to the people inside the camp--when
another sound reached their ears--equally significant of the movement of
mounted men. It was the call of a cavalry bugle commanding the "Halt."
At the same instant the hoof-strokes ceased to be heard; and, as the
last notes of the bugle died away in the distant woods, there was an
interim of profound silence, broken only by the soft cooing of the
wood-quest, or the shriller piping of the thrush.
Equally within the camp was the silence complete. The cheers had been
checked, and the laughter subdued, at that unusual sound. The ears of
all were bent to listen for its repetition; while all eyes were turned
in the direction whence it appeared to have proceeded.
There was something ominous in the sudden interruption of the sports, by
a sound unexpected, as it was ill understood; and some faces, but the
moment before beaming with joy, assumed a serious aspect.
"Soldiers!" exclaimed several voices in the same breath; while the
crowd, forsaking the spectacle of the morris dance, rushed up to the top
of the moat, and stood listening as before.
Once more came the clear tones of the cavalry trumpet, this time
directing the "Forward"; and, before the signal had ceased to echo over
the undulations of the park, the first files of a squadron of
cuirassiers were seen passing between the massive piers of the main
entrance, and advancing along the drive that led towards the mansion.
File followed file in regular order--each horseman, as he debouched from
under the shadow of the trees, appearing to become a-blaze through the
sudden flashing of the sunbeams upon the plates of his polished armour.
As the troop, riding by two's, had half advanced into the open ground,
and still continued advancing, it presented the appearance of some
gigantic snake gliding in through the gateway--the steel armour
representing its scales, and the glittering files answering to the
vertebrae of the reptile.
When all had ridden inside, and commenced winding up the slope that
conducted to the dwelling, still more perfect was this resemblance to
some huge serpent--beautiful but dangerous--crawling slowly on to the
destruction of its victim.
"_The cuirassiers of the king_!"
There were many in the camp who needed not this announcement to make
known to them the character of the new comers. The cuirass covering the
buff doublet--the steel cap and gorget--the cuisses on the thighs--the
pauldrons protecting the shoulders--the rear and vam-braces on the
arms--all marked the mailed costume of the cuirassier; while the royal
colours, carried in front by the cornet of the troop, proclaimed them
the cuirassiers of the king.
By the side of this officer rode another, whose elegant equipments and
splendidly caparisoned horse announced him to be the officer in
command--the captain.
"The cuirassiers of the king!" What wanted they in the park of Sir
Marmaduke Wade? Or what was their business at his mansion: for thither
were they directing their march?
This question was put by more than one pair of lips; but by none less
capable of answering it than those of Sir Marmaduke himself.
The spectacle of the morris dance had been altogether abandoned. Both
actors and spectators had rushed promiscuously towards the moat--on that
side fronting to the park--and having taken stand upon its crest, were
uttering exclamations of astonishment, or exchanging interrogatories
about this new interlude not mentioned in the programme of the
entertainments.
At this moment the bugle once more brayed out the "Halt"; and, in
obedience to the signal, the cuirassiers again reined up.
As by this the head of the troop had arrived opposite to the old camp--
and was at no great distance from it--some words that passed between the
two officers, could be heard distinctly by the people standing upon the
moat.
"I say, Stubbs," called out the captain, spurring a length or two out
from the troop, and pointing towards the camp, "What are those rustics
doing up yonder? Can you guess?"
"Haven't the most distant idea," answered the individual addressed.
"They appear to be in their holiday toggery--best bibs and tuckers.
Is't a Whitsun-ale or a May-making?"
"Can't be either," rejoined Stubbs. "Isn't the season. No, by Ged!"
"By the smock of Venus! there appear to be some pretty petticoats among
them? Mayn't be such dull quarters after all."
"No, by Ged! Anything but dull, I should say."
"Ride within speaking distance; and ask them, what the devil they are
doing."
The cornet, thus commanded, clapped spurs to his horse; and, after
galloping within fifty paces of the fosse, pulled up.
"What the devil are you doing?" cried he, literally delivering the order
with which he had been entrusted.
Of course to such a rude interrogatory, neither Sir Marmaduke, nor any
of those standing around him, vouchsafed response. Some of the common
people in the crowd, however, called out--"We're merry-making. It's a
fete--a birthday celebration."
"Oh! that's it," muttered the cornet, turning and riding back to
communicate the intelligence to his superior officer.
"Let's go up, and make their acquaintance," said the latter, as Stubbs
delivered his report. "We shall reconnoitre these rustic beauties of
Bucks, giving them the advantage of their holiday habiliments. What say
you, Stubbs?"
"Agreeable," was the laconic reply of the cornet.
"_Allons_! as they say in France. We may find something up yonder worth
climbing the hill for. As they also say in France, _nous verrons_!"
Ordering the troopers to dismount, and stand by their horses--their own
being given to a brace of grooms--the two officers, in full armour as
they were, commenced ascending the slope that led to the Saxon
encampment.
Volume One, Chapter XVIII.
"So, good, people!" said Scarthe, as soon as he and his companion had
entered within the enclosure, "holding holiday are you? An admirable
idea in such fine weather--with the azure sky over your heads, and the
green trees before your faces. Pray don't let us interrupt your
Arcadian enjoyment. Go on with the sports! I hope you have no
objection to our becoming spectators?"
"No! no!" cried several voices in response, "you are welcome, sirs! you
are welcome!"
Having thus spoken their permission, the people once more dispersed
themselves over the ground; while the two officers, arm in arm,
commenced strolling through the encampment--followed by a crowd of the
lower class of peasants, who continued to gratify their curiosity by
gazing upon the steel-clad strangers.
Sir Marmaduke and his friends had returned to their former stand--upon
the elevated crest of the moat, and at some distance from the causeway,
where the officers had entered. The latter saunteringly proceeded in
that direction; freely flinging their jests among the crowd who
accompanied them; and now and then exchanging phrases of no very gentle
meaning, with such of the peasant girls as chanced to stray across their
path.
The host of the fete had resolved not to offer the intruders a single
word of welcome. The rude demand made by the comet, coupled with the
coarse dialogue between the two officers--part of which he had
overheard--had determined Sir Marmaduke to take no notice of them, until
they should of themselves declare their errand.
He had ordered the morris dance to be resumed. In front of where he
stood the dancers had reformed their figures; and, with streaming
ribbons and ringing bells, were again tripping it over the turf.
"By the toes of Terpsichore, a morris dance!" exclaimed the captain of
cuirassiers, as he came near enough to recognise the costume and
measure. "An age since I have seen one!"
"Never saw one in my life," rejoined Stubbs; "except on the stage. Is
it the same?"
No doubt Stubbs spoke the truth. He had been born in the ward of Cheap,
and brought up within the sound of Bow-bells.
"Not quite the same," drawled the captain, "though something like--if I
remember aright. Let's forward, and have a squint at it."
Hastening their steps a little, the two officers soon arrived on the
edge of the circle; and without taking any notice of the "people of
quality," who were stationed upon the platform above, they commenced
flinging free jibes among the dancers.
Some of these made answer with spirit--especially Little John and the
Jolly Friar, who chanced to be fellows of a witty turn; and who in their
own rude fashion gave back to the two intruders full value for what they
received.
Bold Robin--who appeared rather a surly representative of Sherwood's
hero--bore their sallies with an indifferent grace--more especially on
perceiving that the eyes of the cuirassier captain became lit up with a
peculiar fire, while following Maid Marian through the mazes of the
dance.
But the heart of the pseudo-outlaw was destined to be further wrung. A
climax was at hand. As Marian came to the close of one of her grandest
_pas_, the movement had inadvertently brought her close to the spot
where the cuirassier captain was standing.
"Bravo! beautiful Marian!" cried the latter, bending towards her, and
clasping her rudely around the waist. "Allow a thirsty soldier to drink
nectar from those juicy lips of thine."
And without finishing the speech, or waiting for her consent--which he
knew would be refused--he protruded his lips through the visor of his
helmet, till they came in contact with those of the girl.
A blow from a clenched feminine fist, received right in his face,
neither disconcerted nor angered the daring libertine; who answered it
by a loud reckless laugh, in which he was joined by his cornet, and
chorussed by some of the less sentimental of the spectators.
There were others who did not seem inclined to treat the affair in this
jocular fashion.
Cries of "Shame!" "Pitch into him!" "Gie it him, Robin!" were heard
among the crowd; and angry faces could be seen mingled with the merry
ones.
The idol of England's peasantry needed not such stimulus to stir him to
action. Stung by jealousy, and the insult offered to his sweetheart, he
sprang forward; and, raising his crossbow--the only weapon he carried--
high overhead, he brought it down with a "thwack" upon the helmet of the
cuirassier captain, which caused the officer to stagger some paces
backward ere he could recover himself.
"Take that, dang thee!" shouted Robin, as he delivered the blow. "Take
that; an' keep thy scurvy kisses to thyself."
"Low-born peasant!" cried the cuirassier, his face turning purple as he
spoke, "if thou wert worthy a sword, I'd spit thee like a red-herring.
Keep off, churl, or I may be tempted to take thy life!"
As he uttered this conditional threat, he drew his sword; and stood with
the blade pointing towards the breast of bold Robin.
There was an interval of profound silence. It was terminated by a voice
among the crowd crying out:--"Yonder comes the man that'll punish him!"
All eyes were turned towards the elevated platform, on which stood the
"people of quality." There was a commotion among the cavaliers. One,
who had separated from the rest, was seen hurrying down the sloping side
of the moat, and making direct for the scene of the contention.
He had only a dozen steps to go; and, before either the pseudo-outlaw of
Sherwood-forest, and his mailed adversary, could change their relative
positions, he had glided in between them.
The first intimation the cuirassier had of a true antagonist, was, when
a bright sword-blade rasped against his own, striking sparks of fire
from the steel; and he beheld standing in front of him, no longer a
"low-born peasant," clad in Kendal Green, but a cavalier in laced
doublet, elegantly attired as himself, and equally as determined.
This new climax silenced the spectators, as suddenly, as if the wand of
an enchanter had turned them into stone; and it was not till after some
seconds had elapsed that murmurs of applause rose round the ring,
coupled with that popular cry, "_Huzza for the black horseman_!"
For a moment the captain of cuirassiers seemed awed into silence. Only
for a moment, and only by the suddenness of the encounter. Swaggerer as
he may have been, Scarthe was no coward; and under the circumstances
even a coward must have shown courage. Though still under the influence
of a partial intoxication, he knew that bright eyes were upon him; he
knew that high-born dames were standing within ten paces of the spot;
and, though hitherto, for reasons of his own, pretending to ignore their
presence, he knew they had been spectators of all that had passed. He
had no intention, therefore, of showing the white feather.
Perhaps it was the individual, who had thus presented himself, as much
as his sudden appearance, that held him for the moment speechless: for
in the antagonist before him, Scarthe recognised the cavalier, who in
front of the roadside inn had daringly drunk--
"To the People!"
The souvenir of this insult, added to this new defiance, furnished a
double stimulus to his resentment--which at length found expression in
words.
"You it is, disloyal knave? You!"
"Disloyal or not," calmly returned the cavalier, "I demand reparation
for the slight you have offered to this respectable assemblage. Your
free fashions may do for Flanders--where I presume you've been
practising them--but I must teach you to salute the fair maidens of
England in a different style."
"And who are you, who propose to give the lesson?"
"No _low-born peasant_, Captain Richard Scarthe! Don't fancy you can
screen yourself behind that coward's cloak. You must fight, or
apologise?"
"Apologise!" shouted the soldier, in a furious voice, "Captain Scarthe
apologise! Ha! ha! ha! Hear that Cornet Stubbs? Did you ever know
_me_ to apologise?"
"Never, by Ged!" muttered Stubbs in reply.
"As you will then," said the cavalier, placing himself in an attitude to
commence the combat.
"No, no!" cried Maid Marian, throwing herself in front of Holtspur, as
if to screen his body with her own. "You must not, sir. It is not
fair. He is in armour, and you, sir--"
"No--it arn't fair!" proclaimed several voices; while at the same
moment, a large fierce-looking man, with bushy black beard, was seen
pushing his way through the crowd towards the spot occupied by the
adversaries.
"Twoant do, Master Henry," cried the bearded man as he came up. "You
mustn't risk it that way. I know ye're game for any man on the groun',
or in England eyther; but it arn't fair. The sodger captain must peel
off them steel plates o' his; and let the fight be a fair 'un. What say
ye, meeats?"
This appeal to the bystanders was answered by cries of "Fair play! fair
play! The officer must take off his armour!"
"Certainly," said Walter Wade, at this moment coming up. "If these
gentlemen are to fight, the conditions must be equal. Of course,
Captain Scarthe, you will not object to that?"
"I desire no advantage," rejoined the cuirassier captain. "He may do as
he likes; but I shall not lay aside my armour on any account."
"Then your antagonist must arm also," suggested one of the gentlemen,
who had accompanied Walter. "The combat cannot go on, till that be
arranged."
"No! no!" chimed in several voices, "both should be armed alike."
"Perhaps this gentleman," said one, pointing to the cornet, "will have
no objection to lend his for the occasion? That would simplify matters.
It appears to be about the right size."