"Let him have it!" said Scarthe, seeing that the proposal could not well
be declined.
"He's welcome to it!" said the cornet, who instantly commenced
unbuckling.
There were hands enough to assist Henry Holtspur in putting on the
defensive harness; and, in a few minutes' time, he was encased in the
steel accoutrements of the cornet--cuirass and gorget, pauldrons,
cuisses, and braces--all of which fortunately fitted, as if they had
been made for him.
The helmet still remained in the hand of one of the attendants--who made
a motion towards placing it upon Holtspur's head.
"No!" said the latter, pushing it away. "I prefer wearing my beaver."
Then pointing to the trophy set above its brim, he added, "It carries
that which will sufficiently protect my head. An English maiden has
been insulted, and under the glove of an English maiden shall the insult
be rebuked."
"Don't be so confident in the virtue of your pretty trophy," rejoined
Scarthe with a sarcastic sneer. "Ere long I shall take that glove from
your hat, and stick it on the crest of my helmet. No doubt I shall then
have come by it more honestly than you have done."
"Time enough to talk of wearing, when you have won it," quietly retorted
the cavalier. "Though, by my troth," added he, returning sneer for
sneer, "you should strive hard to obtain it; you stand in need of a
trophy to neutralise the loss of your spurs left behind you in the ford
of Newburn."
The "ford of Newburn" was Scarthe's especial fiend. He was one of that
five thousand horsemen, who under Conway had ignominiously retreated
from the Tyne--spreading such a panic throughout the whole English army,
as to carry it without stop or stay far into the heart of Yorkshire.
Once before had Holtspur flung the disgraceful souvenir in his teeth;
and now to be a second time reproached with it, before a crowd of his
countrymen, before his own followers--many of whom had by this time
entered within the camp--but above all, in presence of that more
distinguished circle of proud and resplendent spectators, standing
within earshot, on the moat above--that was the direst insult to which
he had ever been subjected. As his antagonist repeated the taunting
allusion, his brow already dark, grew visibly darker; while his thin
lips whitened, as if the blood had altogether forsaken them.
"Base demagogue!" cried he, hissing the words through his clenched
teeth, "your false tongue shall be soon silenced. On the escutcheon of
Captain Scarthe there is no stain, save the blood of his enemies, and
the enemies of his king. Yours shall be mingled with the rest."
"Come!" cried Holtspur, with an impatient wave of his weapon. "I stand
not here for a contest of tongues; in which no doubt the accomplished
courtier Scarthe would prove my superior. Our swords are drawn! Are
you ready, sir?"
"No," responded Scarthe.
"No?" interrogated his antagonist with a look of surprise. "What--"
"Captain Scarthe is a cuirassier. He fights not a-foot."
"You are the challenged party!" put in Stubbs, "You have the right of
choice, captain."
"Our combat then shall be on horseback."
"Thanks for the favour, gentlemen!" responded Holtspur, with a pleased
look, "My own wish exactly; though I had scarce hoped to obtain it. You
have said the word--we fight on horseback."
"My horse!" shouted Scarthe, turning to one of his troopers. "Bring him
up; and let the ground he cleared of this rabble."
There was no necessity for the order last issued. As soon as it had
become known, that the combat was to be fought on horseback, the people
scattered on all sides--rushing towards the crest of the moat, and there
taking their stand--most of them delighted at the prospect of witnessing
a spectacle, which, even in those chivalrous times, was of uncommon
occurrence.
Volume One, Chapter XIX.
From the commanding eminence, on which were clustered the "quality
folks," the preparations had been watched with a vivid interest, and
with emotions varying in kind.
"Splendid!" exclaimed Dorothy Dayrell, as the sword-blades were seen
clashing together. "Beats the morris dancers all to bits! Just what I
like! One of those little interludes not mentioned in the programme of
the entertainment. Surely we're going to see a fight?"
Lora Lovelace trembled, as she listened to these speeches.
"Oh, Dorothy Dayrell!" said she, turning upon the latter an upbraiding
look, "'Tis too serious for jesting. You do not mean it?"
"But I do mean it, Mistress Lovelace. I'm not jesting. Not a bit of
it. I'm quite in earnest, I assure you."
"Surely you would not wish to see blood spilled?"
"And why not? What care I, so long as it isn't my own blood; or that of
one of my friends. Ha! ha! ha! What are either of these fellows to
you, or me? I know neither. If they're angry with each other, let them
fight it out. Foh-poh! They may _kill_ one another, for aught I care."
"Wicked woman!" thought Lora, without making rejoinder.
Marion Wade overheard the unfeeling utterances; but she was too much
occupied with what was passing on the plain below, to give heed to them.
That incipient suspicion, though still unsatisfied, was not troubling
her now. It had given place to a feeling of apprehension, for the
safety of him who had been its object.
"My God!" she murmured in soliloquy, her hands clasped over her bosom--
the slender white fingers desperately entwining each other. "If he
should be killed! Walter! dear Walter!" she cried, earnestly appealing
to her brother, "Go down, and stop it! Tell him--tell them they must
not fight. O father, _you_ will not permit it?"
"Perhaps I may not be able to hinder them," said Walter, springing out
from among the circle of his acquaintances. "But I shall go down. You
will not object, father? Mr Holtspur is alone, and may stand in need
of a friend."
"Go, my son!" said Sir Marmaduke, pleased at the spirit his son was
displaying. "It matters not who, or what, he be. He is our guest, and
has been your protector. If they are determined on fighting, see that
he be shown fair play."
"Never fear, father!" rejoined Walter, hurrying down the slope. "And if
that drunken cornet dare to interfere," continued he, half speaking to
himself--"I'll give _him_ a taste of _my_ temper, very different from
what he had last night."
As he gave utterance to this threat, the ex-courtier passed through the
crowd, followed by several other gentlemen; who, from different motives,
were also hastening towards the scene of contention.
"Come, Mistress Marion Wade!" whispered Dorothy, in a significant way.
"It is not your wont to be thus tender-hearted. What is it to us,
whether they fight or no? It isn't _your_ quarrel. This elegant
cavalier, who seems to set everybody beside themselves, is not _your_
champion, is he? If any one has reason to be interested in his fate, by
my trow, I should say it was the Maid Marian--_alias_ Bet Dancey. And
_certes_, she does seem to take interest in him. See! What's she doing
now, the modest creature? By my word, I believe the wench is about to
throw herself upon his breast, and embrace him!"
These words entered the ears of Marion Wade with stinging effect.
Suddenly turning she looked down upon the sea of faces, that had
thickened, and was swerving around the two men; who were expected soon
to become engaged in deadly strife. Many of the cuirassiers had arrived
upon the ground, and their steel armour now glittered conspicuously
among the more sombre vestments of the civilian spectators.
Marion took no note of these; nor of aught else, save the half score
figures that occupied the centre of the ring. Scarthe and his cornet,
Henry Holtspur, Robin Hood, Little John, and the Friar were there; and
there, too, was Maid Marian! What was _she_ doing in the midst of the
men? She had thrown herself in front of the cavalier--between him and
his adversary. Her hands were upraised--one of them actually resting
upon Holtspur's shoulder! She appeared to be speaking in earnest
appeal--as if dissuading him from the combat!
"In what way could the daughter of Dick Dancey be interested in the
actions of Henry Holtspur?"
The question came quickly before the mind of Marion Wade, though it rose
not to her lips.
"Bravo!" cried Dorothy Dayrell, as she saw that the cavalier was being
equipped. "It's going to go on! A combat in full armour! Won't that
be fine? It reminds one of the good old times of the troubadours!"
"O Dorothy!" said Lora, "to be merry at such a moment!"
"Hush!" commanded Marion, frantically grasping the jester by the arm,
and looking angrily into her eye. "Another word, Mistress Dayrell--
another trifling speech--and you and I shall cease to be friends."
"Indeed!" scornfully retorted the latter. "What a misfortune that would
be for me!"
Marion made no rejoinder. It was at this moment that Scarthe had flung
out his taunt, about the glove in the hat of his antagonist.
Maid Marian heard the speech, and saw the action.
"Whose glove?" muttered she, as a pang passed through her heart.
Marion Wade heard the speech, and saw the action.
"My glove!" muttered she, as a thrill of sweet joy vibrated through her
bosom.
The triumphant emotion was but short-lived. It was soon supplanted by a
feeling of anxious apprehension, that reached its climax, as the two
cavaliers, each bestriding his own steed, spurred their horses towards
the centre of the camp--the arena of the intended combat.
With the exception of that made by the horsemen, as they rode trampling
over the turf, not a movement could be observed within or around the
enclosure of the camp. The dark circle of human forms, that girdled the
ground, were as motionless, as if they had been turned into stones; and
equally silent--men and women, youths and maidens, all alike absorbed in
one common thought--all voicelessly gazing.
The chirrup of a grasshopper could have been heard throughout the
encampment.
This silence had only commenced, as the combatants came forth upon the
ground, in readiness to enter upon action. While engaged in
preparation, the merits of both had been loudly and freely discussed;
and bets had been made, as if the camp were a cockpit, and the cavaliers
a main of game birds about to be unleashed at each other.
The popular feeling was not all on one side, though the "black horseman"
was decidedly the favourite. There was an instinct on the part of the
spectators that he was the _people's friend_, and, in those tyrannous
times, the phrase had an important signification.
But the crowd was composed of various elements; and there was more than
a minority who, despite the daily evidence of royal outrages and wrongs,
still tenaciously clung to that, the meanest sentiment that can find
home in the human heart--loyalty. I mean _loyalty to a throne_.
In the captain of cuirassiers they saw the representative of that thing
they had been accustomed to worship and obey--that mysterious entity,
which they had been taught to believe was as necessary to their
existence as the bread which they ate, or the beer they drank--a thing
ludicrously styled "heaven-descended"--deriving its authority from God
himself--_a king_!
Notwithstanding the insult he had put upon them, there were numbers
present ready to shout--
"Huzza for the cuirassier captain!"
Notwithstanding his championship of their cause, there were numbers upon
the ground ready to vociferate--
"Down with the black horseman!"
All exhibitions of this sort, however, had now ceased; and, in the midst
of a profound silence, the mounted champions, having ridden clear of the
crowd, advanced towards each other with glances reciprocally expressive
of death and determination.
Volume One, Chapter XX.
It was a terrible sight for the soft eye of woman to look upon. The
timid Lora Lovelace would not stay; but ran off towards the house,
followed by many others. Dorothy Dayrell called after them, jeering at
their cowardice!
Marion remained. She could not drag herself from the approaching
spectacle, though dreading to behold it. She stood under the dark
shadow of a tree; but its darkness could not conceal the wild look of
apprehension, with which she regarded the two mailed horsemen moving
from opposite sides of the camp, and frowningly approaching one another.
Out rang the clear notes of the cavalry bugle, sounding the "charge."
The horses themselves understood the signal, and needed no spurring to
prompt their advance.
Both appeared to know the purpose for which they had been brought forth.
At the first note, they sprang towards one another--snorting mutual
defiance--as if they, like their riders, were closing in mortal combat!
It was altogether a duello with swords. The sword, at that time, was
the only weapon of the cuirassier cavalry, excepting their pistols; but
by mutual agreement these last were not to be used.
With blades bare, the duellists dashed in full gallop towards each
other, Scarthe crying out: "_For the King_;" while Holtspur, with equal
energy raised the antagonistic cry: "_For the People_!"
At their first meeting, no wound was given or received. As the steeds
swept past each other, the ring of steel could be heard--sword-blades
glinting against cuirass and corslet--but neither of the combatants
appeared to have obtained any advantage.
Both wheeled almost at the same instant; and again advanced to the
charge.
This time the horses came into collision. That of the cuirassier was
seen to stagger at the shock; but although, during the momentary
suspension of the gallop, the sword-blades of the combatants were busy
in mutual cut and thrust, they separated as before, apparently without
injury on either side.
The collision, however, had roused the ire both of horses and riders;
and, as they met for the third time, the spectators could note in the
eyes of the latter the earnest anger of deadly strife.
Again rushed the horses together in a charging gallop, and met with a
terrific crash--both weapons and defensive armour colliding at the same
instant. The steed of the cuirassier recoiled from the impetus of his
more powerful adversary. The black horse swept on unscathed; but as he
passed to the rear, the hat of Holtspur was lifted upon the breeze; and
fell behind him upon the grass.
Trifling as was the incident, it looked ominous. It was the first that
had the appearance of a triumph; and elicited a cheer from the partisans
of the cuirassier captain.
It had scarce reached its climax, ere it was drowned by the more
sonorous counter-cheer that hailed the performance of the black
horseman.
Having wheeled his horse with the rapidity of thought, he rode back;
and, spitting his beaver upon the point of his sword, he raised it up
from the ground, and once more set it firmly upon his head!
All this was accomplished, before his antagonist could turn to attack
him; and the _sang froid_ exhibited in the act, along with the graceful
equitation, completely restored the confidence of his supporters.
The fourth encounter was final--the last in which the combatants met
face to face.
They closed at full gallop; thrust at each other; and then passed on as
before.
But Holtspur had now discovered the point in which he was superior to
his adversary; and determined to take advantage of it.
The steeds had scarce cleared one another, when that of the cavalier was
seen suddenly to stop--reined backward, until his tail lay spread upon
the grass. Then turning upon his hind hoofs, as on a pivot, he sprang
out in full gallop after the horse of the cuirassier.
The black horseman, waving his sword in the air, gave out a shout of
triumph--such as he had erst often uttered in the ears of Indian
foemen--while the horse himself, as if conscious of the advantage thus
gained, sent forth a shrill neigh, that resembled the scream of a
jaguar.
With a glance over his shoulder, Scarthe perceived the approaching
danger. By attempting to turn, he would expose himself sideways to the
thrust of his adversary's sword.
There was no chance to turn just then. He must make distance to obtain
an opportunity. His only hope lay in the fleetness of his steed; and,
trusting to this, he sank the spurs deeply, and galloped on.
This new and unexpected manoeuvre had all the appearance of a retreat;
and the camp rang with cries of:--"Coward!" "He is conquered!"
"Huzza for the black horseman!"
For a moment Marion Wade forgot her fears. For a moment proud pleasant
thoughts swept through her breast. Her bosom rose and fell under the
influence of triumphant emotions. Was he not a hero--a conqueror--
worthy of that heart she had wholly given him?
She watched every spring of the two steeds. She longed to see the
pursuer overtake the pursued. She was not cruel; but she wished it to
be over: for the suspense was terrible to endure.
Marion was not to be tortured much longer. The climax was close at
hand.
On starting on that tail-on-end chase, the cuirassier Captain had full
confidence in his steed. He was a true Arab, possessing all the
strength and swiftness of his race.
But one of the same race was after him, stronger and swifter than he.
Like an arrow from its bow the steed of the cuirassier shot across the
sward. Like another arrow, but one sent with stronger nerve, swept the
sable charger in pursuit. Across the camp--out through the cleared
causeway--over the open pasture of the park--galloped the two horsemen,
as if riding a race. But their blazing armour, outstretched shining
blades, angry looks and earnest attitudes--all told of a different
intent.
Scarthe had been for some time endeavouring to gain distance, in order
to have an opportunity of turning face to his antagonist. With the
latter clinging closely behind him, he knew the manoeuvre to be
dangerous, if not impossible--without subjecting himself to the thrust
of Holtspur's sword. He soon began to perceive another danger--that of
being overtaken.
The spectators had discontinued their shouts; and once more a profound
silence reigned throughout the camp. It was like the silence that
precedes some expected catastrophe--some crisis inevitable.
From the beginning his pursuer had kept constantly gaining upon him.
The fore hoofs of the sable charger now appeared at every bound to
overlap the hind heels of his own horse. Should the chase continue but
a minute longer, he must certainly be overtaken; for the blade of the
cavalier was gleaming scarce ten feet behind his back. The climax was
near.
"Surrender, or yield up your life!" demanded Holtspur in a determined
voice.
"Never!" was the equally determined reply. "Richard Scarthe never
surrenders--least of all to--"
"Your blood on your own head, then!" cried the black horseman, at the
same instant urging his horse to a final burst of speed.
The latter gave a long leap forward, bringing him side by side with the
steed of the cuirassier. At the same instant Holtspur's sword was seen
thrust horizontally outwards.
A cry went up from the crowd, who expected next moment to see the
cuirassier captain impaled upon that shining blade. The cuirass of the
time consisted only of the breast-plate; and the back of the wearer was
left unprotected.
Undoubtedly in another instant Scarthe would have received his death
wound, but for an accident that saved him. As Holtspur's horse leaped
forward the hind heels of the other struck against his off fore leg
causing him slightly to swerve, and thus changing the direction of the
sword-thrust. It saved the life of Scarthe, though not his limbs: for
the blade of his antagonist entering his right arm, just under the
shoulder, passed clear through--striking against the steel rear-brace in
front, and sending his own sword shivering into the air.
The cuirassier captain, dismounted by the shock, in another instant lay
sprawling upon the grass; while his horse, with trailing bridle,
continued his onward gallop, wildly neighing as he went.
"Cry quarter, or die!" shouted the cavalier, flinging himself from his
saddle, and with his left hand grasping the cuirassier by the gorget,
while in his right he held the threatening blade. "Cry quarter, or
die!"
"Hold!" exclaimed Scarthe. "Hold!" he repeated, with the addition of a
bitter oath. "This time the chance has been yours. I take quarter."
"Enough," said Holtspur, as he restored his sword to its sheath. Then
turning his back upon his vanquished antagonist, he walked silently
away.
The spectators descended from their elevated position; and, clustering
around the conqueror, vociferated their cheers and congratulations. A
girl in a crimson cloak ran up, and kneeling in front, presented him
with a bunch of flowers. It was the insulted maiden, who thus
gracefully acknowledged her gratitude.
There were two pairs of eyes that witnessed this last episode, with an
expression that spoke of pain: the blue eyes of Marion Wade, and the
green ones of Will Walford--the representative of England's outlaw. The
original Robin could never have been more jealous of the original Maid
Marian.
Marion Wade witnessed the presentation of the flowers, and their
reception. She saw that the gift was acknowledged by a bow and a
smile--both apparently gracious. It never occurred to her to ask
herself the question: whether the recipient, under the circumstances,
could have acted otherwise?
She stayed not to witness more; but, with brain distraught, and bosom
filled with fell fancies, she glided across the glacis of the old
encampment, and in hurried steps sought the sacred shelter of her
father's roof.
Though _hors de combat_, Scarthe was not fatally hurt. He had received
only the one thrust--which, passing through his right arm, had disabled
him for the time; but was not likely to do him any permanent injury.
He was worse damaged in spirit than in person; and the purple gloom that
overshadowed his countenance, told his followers, and others who had
gathered around him, that no expression either of sympathy, or
congratulation, would be welcome.
In silence, therefore, assistance was extended to him, and in silence
was it received.
As soon as the braces had been stripped from his wounded arm, and the
semi-surgeon of his troop having stemmed its bleeding, had placed it in
a sling, he forsook the spot where he had fallen; and walked direct
towards the place occupied by Sir Marmaduke and his friends.
The ladies had already taken their departure--the sanguinary incident
having robbed them of all zest for the enjoyment of any further sports.
The knight had remained upon the ground--chiefly for the purpose of
discovering the object of Captain Scarthe's presence in his park.
He was determined no longer to remain in ignorance as to the cause of
the intrusion; and was about starting out to question the intruder
himself, when the approach of the latter admonished him to keep his
place.
From Scarthe's looks, as he came forward, it was evident that an
_eclaircissement_ was at hand.
Sir Marmaduke remained silent--leaving the stranger to commence the
colloquy, which was now inevitable.
As soon as Scarthe had got within speaking distance, he demanded, in an
authoritative tone, whether Sir Marmaduke Wade was present upon the
ground.
The interrogatory was addressed to the rustics standing upon the sward
below.
They, perceiving that Sir Marmaduke had himself heard it, kept silence--
not knowing whether their host might desire an affirmative answer to be
given.
The tone of impertinence prevented Sir Marmaduke from replying; and the
interrogatory was repeated.
Sir Marmaduke could no longer preserve silence.
"He _is_ present," said he, without qualifying his answer by any title,
or salutation. "_I_ am Sir Marmaduke Wade."
"I am glad of it, good sir. I want to speak a word with you. Shall it
be private? I perceive you are in company."
"I can hold no private conversation with strangers," replied the knight,
drawing himself proudly up. "Whatever you have to say, sir, may be
spoken aloud."
"As you wish, Sir Marmaduke," acquiesced Scarthe, in a tone of mock
courtesy. "But if, to my misfortune, you and I have been hitherto
strangers to each other, I live in hope that this unpleasant condition
of things will soon come to an end; and that henceforth we shall be
better acquainted."
"What mean you, sir? Why are you here?"
"I am here, Sir Marmaduke, to claim the hospitality of your house. By
the way, a very handsome park, and apparently a commodious mansion.
Room enough for all my people, I should think? It would scarce be
courtesy between us, if eating, drinking, and sleeping under the same
roof, we should remain strangers to one another?"
"Eating, drinking, and sleeping under the the same roof! You are merry,
sir!"
"With the prospect of such pleasant quarters, could you expect me to be
otherwise, Sir Marmaduke?"
"After the lesson you have just received," replied the knight, returning
irony for irony, "one might expect to find you in a more serious frame
of spirit."
"Captain Scarthe can show too many scars to trouble himself about such a
trifle as that you allude to. But we are wasting time, Sir Marmaduke.
I am hungry: so are my troopers; and thirsty. We feel inclined to eat
and drink."
"You are welcome to do both one and the other. You will find an inn
three miles farther up the road."
"Nearer than that," rejoined Scarthe, with an insulting laugh, "that's
_our_ inn."
And as he said this, he pointed to the mansion of Sir Marmaduke,
standing proud and conspicuous on the crest of the opposite hill.
"Come, sir!" said the knight, losing patience, "speak no longer in
enigmas. Declare openly, and at once, what you are driving at!"
"I am only too desirous to oblige you, Sir Marmaduke. Standing in need
of refreshments as I do, I can assure you I have no wish to
procrastinate this unseemly interview. Cornet Stubbs!" he continued,
turning to his subaltern; "if I'm not mistaken, you carry a piece of
royal parchment in your pocket. Please draw it forth; and do this
worthy gentleman the favour to make him acquainted with its contents."
The cornet, who had re-encased himself in his suit of steel, inserted
his fingers under the breast-piece of his cuirass; and presently
produced a folded parchment, upon which a large red seal was
conspicuous. Unfolding it, he read aloud:--
"_The King to Sir Marmaduke Wade_.
"_His Majesty hearing by good report, of ye loyalty of Sir Marmaduke
Wade, of Bulstrode Park, in ye shire of Buckingham, doth hereby entrust
to him ye keep and maintenance of ye Captain Scarthe and his troop of
horse till such time as his Majesty may need ye same for ye service of
his kingdom; and, furthermore, his Majestie do recommend ye said Captain
Scarthe to ye hospitality of Sir Marmaduke as a worthy and gallant
officer and gentleman, who has done good service to his country and
king_.
"_Given under ye great seal of his Majestie, at Whitehall Palace, this
15th day of October, Anno Domini, 1640_.
"Carolus Rex."
Volume One, Chapter XXI.
The traveller, journeying among the Chiltern Hills, will often find
himself on the summit of a ridge, that sweeping round upon itself,
encloses a deep basin-like valley, of circular shape.
Many of these natural concavities are of considerable size--having a
superficial extent of several hundreds of acres. Often a farm homestead
may be seen nestling within their sheltered limits; and not unfrequently
a noble mansion, surrounded by green pastures--these again bordered by a
belt of forest trees, cresting the summit of the surrounding ridge,--the
whole appearing like some landscape picture, set in a circular frame.
Such a picture was presented in the valley of Stone Dean: a fair mansion
in the centre of a smiling park, with a rustic framework of beechen
forest, coping the hills that encircled it.
The day was when the park and mansion of Stone Dean may have been kept
in better repair. At the period of which we write, about both was
visible an air of neglect--like a painting that has hung unheeded
against the wall, till tarnished by dust and time.
Both dwelling and outbuildings exhibited evidence of decay, and but
little sign of occupation. But for the smoke rising out of one of its
tottering chimneys--and this not always to be seen--one viewing the
house from the ridge above, would have come to the conclusion that it
was uninhabited. The shrubbery had become transformed into a thicket;
the pastures, overgrown with gorse, genista, and bramble, more resembled
a waste than a park enclosure; while the horned cattle wandering over
them, appeared as wild as the deer browsing by their side; and, when
startled by the step of the intruder, were equally alert in seeking the
concealment of the surrounding forest.
Neither domesticated quadruped, nor bird appeared about the walls or
within the enclosures; where a human voice was rarely heard to interrupt
the shrill screech of the jay from the bordering woods, the clear piping
of the blackbird amid the neglected shrubbery, and the monotonous cawing
of the rooks upon the tops of the tall elm trees, that, holding hundreds
of their nests, darkly overshadowed the dwelling.
In truth, Stone Dean had been a long time untenanted, except by one of
those peculiar creatures termed "caretakers;" a grey-headed old veteran,
who appeared less an occupant than a fixture of the place. He, his
dog--old like himself--and a cat equally venerable, had for many years
been the sole denizens of the "Dean."
No one in the neighbourhood knew exactly to whom the estate belonged.
Even its last occupier had been only a tenant at will; and the real
owner was supposed to reside somewhere abroad--in the plantations of
Virginia, it was believed.
There were not many who troubled their heads by conjectures upon the
subject: for Stone Dean lay so much out of the line of the ordinary
roads of the county, that but few persons ever found occasion to pass
near it. Few could say they had ever been in sight of it. There were
people living within five miles of the place that did not even know of
its existence; and others who had once known, and forgotten it.
Of late, however, the "Old house of Stone Dean" had become a subject of
some interest; and at the fairs, and other village gatherings, its name
was often pronounced. This arose from the circumstance: that a new
tenant had displaced the old fixture of a caretaker--the latter
disappearing from the place as quietly and inexplicably as he had
occupied it!
About the new comer, and his domestic _menage_, there was an air of
peculiarity approaching the mysterious. Such of the peasants, as had
found pretext for visiting the house, reported that there was but one
servant in the establishment--a young man, with a copper-coloured skin,
and long straight black hair, who answered to the name of "Oriole;" and
who appeared to be of the race of American Indians--a party of whom from
the Transatlantic Plantations had about that time paid a visit to
England.
It was further known that Oriole either could not speak English, or
would not. At all events, the visitors to Stone Dean had not been able
to elicit from the servant any great amount of information respecting
the master.
The master himself, however, was not long resident in the county of
Bucks before he became well enough known to his neighbours. He was in
the habit of meeting them at their markets and merry-makings; of
entering into free converse with them on many subjects--more especially
on matters appertaining to their political welfare; and seemed to lose
no opportunity of giving them instructive hints in regard to their
_rights_, as well as _wrongs_.
Such sentiments were neither new, nor uncongenial, to the dwellers
amongst the Chilterns. They had long been cherished in their hearts;
but the dread of the Star chamber hindered them from rising to their
lips. The man, therefore, who had the courage to give speech to them
could not fail to be popular among the worthy yeomanry of Bucks; and
such, in reality, had become the occupant of Stone Dean, in a few short
weeks after taking up his residence in their county.
This individual possessed other claims to popular favour. He was a
gentleman--nobly born and highly bred. His appearance and behaviour
proclaimed these points beyond cavil; and in such matters the instinct
of the rustic is rarely incorrect. Furthermore, the stranger was a
person of elegant appearance; perhaps not regularly handsome, but with
that air of _savoir faire_, and bold bearing, sure to attract
admiration. Plainly, but richly dressed; a splendid horseman, and
riding a splendid horse withal; frank and affable, not as if
condescending--for at this the instinct of the rustic revolts--but
distinguished by that simple unselfish spirit, which characterises the
true gentleman, how could Henry Holtspur fail to be popular?
Such was the cavalier, who had conquered the arm of Captain Scarthe, and
the heart of Marion Wade.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was the night of that same day, on which the _fete_ had been held in
the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade. The unexpected arrival of the
cuirassiers--with the exciting circumstances that succeeded--had brought
the sports to an early termination.
After incidents of so tragical a character, it was not likely that any
one should care to continue the tame diversion of quoits, or balloon.
Even single-stick and wrestling appeared insipid--succeeding to that
strife, that had well-nigh proved deadly.
Long before night, the old camp had become cleared of its crowd. Though
groups lingered later in the park, it was not in pursuance of sport, but
out of curiosity, and to converse about what was passing at the
mansion--whither the cuirassier captain and his troopers had transported
themselves, after reading that ironical appeal to the hospitality of its
owner.
Among the earliest who had left the ground was the conqueror in the
equestrian combat. He could not have gone direct home; or he must have
again ridden abroad: since at a late hour of the night--his horse
dappled with sweat and foam--he was seen turning out of the king's
highway, into the bridle-road already described, as running over the
ridges in the direction of Stone Dean.
As the woods extended nearly the whole of the way, he rode in shadow--
though a bright moon was beaming in the heavens above. He rode in
silence too. But the subject of his thoughts may be easily conjectured.
Treading a track oft hallowed by her presence, what but Marion Wade
could he be thinking of?
More unerringly might his sentiments be divined, when, on reaching the
open glade, he stopped under the spreading beech, raised his beaver from
his head, and gazed for some seconds upon the white glove, glistening
beneath its _panache_ of black plumes.
As he did so, his features exhibited a mingled expression--half
fondness, half fear--as if his mind was wavering between confidence and
doubt. It was an expression difficult to read; and no one ignorant of
the circumstances of his life--perhaps no one but himself--could have
given it the true interpretation.
Henry Holtspur had more than one thought to sadden his spirit; but the
one which most troubled him then was, that she, who had given the
glove--for he fondly clung to the belief that it had been a gift--that
she had ceased to think either of it or of him. It was now six days
since that token had been received; and, excepting at the _fete_, he had
not met her again. She came no more outside the enclosure of the park--
no more was the track of her palfrey impressed upon the forest path.
Why had she discontinued those lonely rides--those wanderings in the
wood, that had led to such sweet encounters?
For days past, and every hour of the day, had Holtspur been asking
himself this question; but as yet it remained unanswered.
Little did young Walter Wade suspect the profound though well--concealed
pleasure with which his fellow traveller had heard, and accepted his
proffered hospitality. The promised introduction on the morrow would
surely enable the lover to obtain some explanation--if only a word to
resolve the doubt that had begun to torture him?
That morrow had arrived. The introduction had been given. The
interview had ended; ill-starred he might deem it: since the conduct of
Marion remained inexplicable as ever. Her speeches during the brief
dialogue held between them had appeared even cold. With more pain than
pleasure did Holtspur now recall them.
Man of the world as he was--far from being unskilled in woman's heart,
or the way of winning it--he should have reasoned differently. Perhaps
had the object of this new passion been an ordinary woman, he might have
done so. Many had been his conquests; maidens of many climes, and of
many shades of complexion--dark and fair, brunette and blonde--all
beautiful; but none so brilliantly beautiful as that blue-eyed
golden-haired Saxon girl, who had now made conquest of _his_ heart, and
held even his reason in captivity.
He gazed upon the glove with a glance at once tender and inquiring--as
if he might obtain from it an answer to that question of all-absorbing
interest:--whether, under the shadow of that sacred tree it had fallen
to the ground by accident, or whether it had been dropped by design?
His steed struck the turf with impatient hoof, as if demanding a reply.
"Ah! Hubert," muttered his rider, "much as I love you--even despite the
service you have this day done me--I should part with you, to be
assured, that I ought to esteem this spot the most hallowed upon all the
earth. But, come, old friend! that's no reason why you should be kept
any longer out of your stall. You must be tired after your tournament,
and a trot of twenty miles at its termination. I'faith, I'm fatigued
myself. Let us home, and to rest!"
So saying, the cavalier, by a slight pressure of his knees against the
side of his well-trained steed--a signal which the latter perfectly
understood--once more set Hubert in motion; who carried him silently
away from that scene of uncertain souvenirs.
Volume One, Chapter XXII.
It was late at night when Henry Holtspur passed between the ivy-mantled
piers, that supported the dilapidated wooden gate of Stone Dean Park.
The massive door of the old mansion was standing open, as he rode
forward to it. A light, faintly flickering within the hall, showed in
dim outline the wide doorway, with its rounded arch of Norman
architecture.
Midway between the jambs could be distinguished the figure of a man--
standing motionless--as if awaiting his approach.
The moon was shining upon this individual with sufficient clearness to
show: that he was a young man of medium stature, straight as a lance,
and habited in a sort of tunic, of what appeared to be dressed deerskin.
His complexion was a reddish brown--darker from the shadowing of a
shock of jet-black hair; while a pair of eyes, that glistened against
the moonlight, like two circular discs of highly-polished ebony,
exhibited no appearance of surprise at the approach of the horseman.
Something resembling a turban appeared upon the young man's head; while
his legs were wrapped in leggings of similar material to that which
composed the tunic, and his feet were also encased in a _chaussure_ of
buckskin. A belt around his waist showed a pattern of coloured
embroidery; with a short knife stuck behind it, resting diagonally over
the region of the heart.
Up to the moment that the horseman made halt in front of the doorway,
this individual had neither spoken nor moved--not even as much as a
finger; and with the moonlight full upon his face, and revealing his
dusky complexion, it would not have been difficult for a stranger to
have mistaken him for a statue of bronze--the stoop of the doorway
appearing as its pedestal, and the arch above answering to the alcove in
which it had been placed. It was only after the horseman had fairly
checked his steed to a stand, that the statue condescended to step down
from its niche!
Then, gliding forward with the stealthy tread of a cat, the Indian--for
such was this taciturn individual--caught hold of the bridle-rein, and
stood waiting for his master to dismount.
"Walk Hubert about for five minutes," said the latter, as he leaped out
of the saddle. "That ruined stable's too damp for him after the
exercise he has had. See that he's well rubbed down, and freely fed,
before you leave him."
To these directions, although delivered in his own native language, the
copper-coloured groom made no verbal response.
A slight motion of the head alone indicated that he understood, and
consented to obey them.
His master, evidently looking for no other sort of reply, passed on
towards the doorway.
"Has any one been after me, Oriole?" inquired he, pausing upon the
steps.
Oriole raised his right arm into a horizontal position, and pointed
towards the open entrance.
"Some one inside?"
The interrogatory was answered by a nod in the affirmative.
"Only one, or more?"
The Indian held up his hand with all the fingers closed except one.
"One only. Did he come a-foot, or on horseback?"
Oriole made answer, by placing the fore and middle fingers of his right
hand astride of the index finger of the left.
"A horseman!" said the cavalier, translating the sign; "'Tis late for a
visitor--especially as I did not expect any one to-night. Is he a
stranger, Oriole?"
The Indian signalled an affirmative, by spreading his fingers, and
placing them so as to cover both his eyes.
"Does he appear to have come from a distance?"
The pantomimic answer to this was the right arm extended to its full
length, with the fore finger held in a vertical position--the hand being
then drawn slowly in towards the body.
The horseman had come from a distance--a fact that the Indian had
deduced from the condition of his horse.
"As soon as you have stalled Hubert, show the stranger into my
sitting-room. Be quick about it: he may not intend to stay."
Oriole, leading off the steed, passed out of sight as silently as if
both had been the images of a dissolving view.
"I hope it is one from London," soliloquised the cavalier, as he entered
the house. "I want a messenger to the City, and cannot spare either
Dancey or Walford. Likely enough Scarthe's coming down is known there
before this; but Sir Marmaduke's accession to the cause will be news,
and good news, both to Pym and Hampden."
"I shall not wait for Oriole to show him into my room," he continued,
after a moment's reflection. "He will be in the old dining-hall, I
suppose. I shall go to him at once."
So reflecting, the cavalier entered the room where he expected to salute
his nocturnal visitor.
Finding it empty, he proceeded to explore another apartment, into which
Oriole might have ushered the stranger; and then another; and at last
the library--the apartment habitually used by himself, and where he had
desired his guest to be shown in to him.
The library was also found untenanted. No visitor was there.
The cavalier was beginning to feel surprised; when a light glimmering in
the kitchen, and a sound heard from it, led him to proceed in that
direction.
On entering this homely apartment, he beheld the individual, who had
done him the honour to await his coming home at such a late hour of the
night. A glance inside betrayed the presence of Gregory Garth.
The ex-footpad was stretched along a large beechwood bench, in front of
the fire; which, though originally a good one, was now in a somewhat
smouldering condition--the half-burnt fagots having parted in twain, and
tumbled down on each side of the _andirons_.
There was no lamp; but from the red embers, and the blaze that
intermittently twinkled, there came light enough to enable the cavalier
to identify the form and features of his visitor.
Their owner was as sound asleep, as if in his own house, and reclining
under the coverlet of his own couch; whilst a stentorian snore,
proceeding from his spread nostrils, proclaimed a slumber from which it
would require a good shaking to arouse him.
"So Gregory Garth!" muttered the cavalier, bending over the sleeper, and
gazing with a half-quizzical expression, into the countenance of his
quondam retainer. "It's you, my worthy sir, I have the honour of
entertaining?"
A prolonged snore--such as might proceed from the nostrils of a
rhinoceros--was the only response.
"I wonder what's brought him here to-night, so soon after--. Shall I
awake him, and ask; or leave him to snore away till the morning?"
Another trumpet-like snort seemed intended to signify the assent of the
sleeper to the latter course of proceeding.
"Well," continued the cavalier, "I'm rather pleased to find him here.
It looks as if he had kept his promise, and disbanded those terrible
brigands of his. I trust he has done so. There's a spark of good in
the rascal, or used to be, though who knows whether it hasn't been
trampled out before this. Judging from the soundness of that slumber,
one can scarcely think there's anything very heavy upon his conscience.
Whatever he has done, it's to be hoped he has kept clear of--"
The cavalier hesitated to pronounce the word that had come uppermost in
his thoughts.
"Holding a ten-foot pike within twelve inches of a man's breast, is ugly
evidence against him. Who knows what might have been the result, if I
hadn't identified those features in time?"
"Shall I let him sleep on? It's rather a hard couch; though I've often
slept upon no better myself; and, I dare say, Gregory hasn't been
accustomed to the most luxurious style of living. He'll take no harm
where he is. I shall leave him till the morning."
Gregory's former master was about turning away--with the intention of
retiring to his own chamber--when something white in the hand of the
sleeper caught his eye, causing him to step nearer and examine it.
Touching up the embers with the toe of his boot, and starting a blaze,
he saw that the white object was a piece of paper, folded in the form of
a letter.
It was one of goodly dimensions, somewhat shrivelled up between the
fingers of the ex-footpad, that were clutching it with firm muscular
grasp. A large red seal was visible on the envelope which the
cavalier--on scrutinising it more closely--could perceive to bear the
impress of the Royal Arms.
"A letter from the King!" muttered he, in a tone of surprise. "To whom
is it directed, I wonder? And how comes this worthy to have been so
suddenly transformed, from a robber on the King's highway into a King's
courier?"
The first question might have been answered by reading the
superscription; but this was hidden by the broad horny palm against
which the back of the letter rested.
To obtain the solution to either mystery it would be necessary to arouse
the sleeper; and this the cavalier now determined upon doing.
"Gregory Garth!" cried he, in a loud voice, and placing his lips within
an inch of the footpad's ear, "Gregory Garth! Stand and deliver!"
The well-known summons acted upon the sleeper like an electric shock--as
when often pronounced by himself it had upon others--though perhaps with
a different significance.
Starting into an erect attitude--and nearly staggering into the fire,
before he could get upon his legs--Garth instinctively repeated the
phrase:
"Stand and deliver!"
Then, in the confusion of his half-awakened senses, he continued his
accustomed formula:--"Your money or your life! Keep your ground,
comrades! They won't resist. They're civil gents--"
"Ha! ha! ha!" interrupted the cavalier, with a shout of laughter, as he
seized his ci-devant servitor by the shoulder, and pushed him back upon
the bench. "Be quiet, Gregory; or you'll scare the rats out of the
house."
"O Lor--O Lord! Master Henry--you it be! I war a dreamin'--I arn't
awake yet--a thousand pardons, Master Henry!"
"Ha! ha! ha! Well, Gregory--Fortunately there's nothing but the rats to
listen to these dreams of yours; else you might be telling tales upon
yourself that would lead to the losing of your new commission."
"My new commission! What mean ye by that, Master Henry?"
"Why, from that which you carry in your hand," replied the cavalier,
nodding significantly towards the letter. "I take it, you've turned
King's courier?"
"Ah I now I understan' ye. Master Henry, King's cooreer 'ideed! That
'ud be a tidyish bizness for Gregory Garth. If I beant that myself
tho', I've been and met one as is. It war all 'bout this bit o' a
letter I coomed over here the night--else I'd a made my call at a more
seezonable hour."
"Is it for me?"
"Well, Master Henry, it aint 'zactly 'dressed to you, nor written to ye
neyther; but, as far as I'm able to make out the meenin' o' 't, I think
as how there be somethin' in't you oughter know about. But ye can tell
better after you ha' read it."
Gregory handed the letter to the cavalier; who now perceived, that,
although the seal was intact, the envelope had been torn open at the
edges.
"A king's despatch! And you've opened it, Gregory?"
"Ye-es, Master Henry," drawled the footpad. "It coomed somehow apart
atween my fingers. May be I've done wrong? I didn't know it war a
king's despatch. And may be if I _had_ know'd," he added in an under
tone, "I should a opened it all the same."