_For_
_Ye Captain Scarthe, Command: H.M. Royal Cuirassiers_,
_Bulstrode Park, Shire of Buckingham_.
"This is not for me, Garth. It is addressed to--"
"I know all that, Master Henry; though I didn't last night when I got
the thing. I heerd o' their coomin' up the road this mornin', but--"
"But how came you by the despatch?"
"How coomed I by it?"
"Yes, who gave it to you?"
"Well--Master Henry--I got it--a gentleman I met last night--he--he gin
it me."
"Last night you say? At what hour?"
"Well, it was lateish--considerably lateish i' the night."
"Was it before, or after--?"
"I met you, Master Henry? That be what ye would be askin'? Well, it
war a--leetlish bit arter."
Gregory hung his head, looking rather sheepish, as he made the
stammering acknowledgment. He evidently dreaded further
cross-questioning.
"What sort of gentleman was he?" inquired the cavalier, with an air of
interest, that had something else for its cause than the backslidings of
the footpad.
"He was wonderful fine dressed, an' rode a smartish sort o' beast--he
did. 'Ceptin' that ere black o' yours Master Henry, I han't seed a
better hoss for some time to coom. As for the gent hisself, he sayed he
war jest what ye ha' been a callin' me--a King's cooreer."
"And so you took this from the King's courier?"
"Oh! Master Hen--"
"I am sure he did not _give_ it to you?"
"Well, Master Henry, it's no use my telling you a lie 'bout it. I
acknowledge I _tuk_ the letter from him."
"And something else, no doubt. Come, Garth! no beating about the bush.
Tell the whole truth!"
"Good lor! Master; must I tell ye all?"
"You must; or you and I never exchange words again."
"Lor--O Lord! I'll tell you, then everything that happened atween us.
Ye see, Master Henry," continued he, disposing himself for a full
confession, "you see, the gent had such fine things about him--as a
king's cooreer oughter have, I suppose--a watch an' chain, and fine
clothes, an' a goold pencil, an' a thing he called a locket, to say
nothin' o'--"
"I don't want the inventory, Garth," interrupted the cavalier. "I want
to know what _you_ did to him. You stripped him of all these fine
things, I suppose?"
"Well, Master Henry, since I must tell ye the truth o't, I woant deny
but I tuk some on 'em from him. He didn't need 'em, nigh as much as
myself--that hedn't got nothin' in the world, but them old duds as ye
seed stuck up on sticks. I eased him o' his trumpery; that I confess
to."
"What more did you do to him?"
This question was asked in a tone of stern demand.
"Nothing more--I declare it, Master Henry--only--to make sure against
his follerin' o' me--I tied him, hand and foot; and left 'im in the old
hut by the roadside--whar there would be less danger o' his catchin'
cold i' the night air."
"How considerate of you! Ah, Gregory Garth! Gregory Garth! All this
after what you promised me, and so emphatically too!"
"I swar, Master Henry, I han't broke my promise to ye. I swar it!"
"Haven't broken your promise! Wretch! you only make matters worse by
such a declaration. Didn't you say just now, that it was after parting
with me, you met this messenger?"
"That's true; but you forgot, Master Henry, I promised to you _that
night_ should be my last upon the road: an' it has been, an' will be."
"What mean you by this equivocation?"
"'Twar jest _eleven_, when you an' yer young friend rode off. Thear war
still an hour o' the night to the good; and, as ill-luck would have it,
jest then the feller kim ridin' up, glitterin' all over in spangles an'
satin, like a pigeon, as kep' sayin' `Come an' pluck me!' What cud I
do? He wanted pluckin', and I hadn't the heart to refuse him. I did
it; but I swar to ye Master Henry--an' I swar it, as I hope for mercy
hereafter--that I had him stripped _afore it struck twelve_. I heard
the bells o' Peters Chaffont a ringin' that hour, jest as I was ridin'
away from the ruin."
"_Riding_ away! You took his horse then?"
"Sure, Master Henry, you wouldn't a had me to walk, with a beest
standin' ready, saddled on the road afore me? He couldn't a been no use
howsomedever to the cooreer: as he warn't a' goin' any furrer that
night. Beside ye see, I had all them clothes to carry. I couldn't
leave _them_ behind: not knowin' as they mightn't some day betray me--
after I had turned honest."
"Garth! Garth! I doubt that day will never come. I fear you are
incorrigible."
"Master Henry!" cried the ex-footpad, in a tone in which serious
sincerity was strangely blended with the ludicrous. "Did you iver know
o' me to break a promise? Did ye iver in yer life?"
"Well, in truth," answered the cavalier, responding to the earnest
appeal which his old servitor had addressed to him, "in the _letter_ I
do not remember that I ever have. But in the _spirit_--alas!
Gregory,--"
"Oh! Master; doan't reproach me no more. I can't abear it from you! I
made that promise the t'other night, an' ye'll see if I don't keep it.
Ah! I'll keep it if I shud starve. I will by--"
And the ex-footpad uttering an emphatic phrase, as if more fixedly to
clinch his determination, struck his right hand forcibly against his
ribs--his huge chest giving out a hollow sound--as though it had
received the blow of a trip-hammer.
"Gregory Garth," said the cavalier speaking in a serious tone, "if you
would have me believe in the sincerity of your conversion, you must
answer me one question, and answer it without evasion. I do not ask it
either out of idle curiosity, or with any wish to use the answer,
whatever it be, to your prejudice. You know me, Gregory; and you will
not deceive me?"
"Trust me for that, Master Henry--niver, niver! Ask your question.
Whatsomever it be, I'll gie ye a true answer."
"Answer it, only if ye can say, Yes. If your answer must be in the
negative, I don't want to hear it. Your silence will be sufficient."
"Put it, Master Henry; put it: I aint afeerd." The cavalier bent
forward, and whispered the interrogatory:--
"Is your hand clear of--_murder_?" "O Lord!" exclaimed the footpad,
starting back with some show of horror, and a glance half reproachful.
"O lor, Master Henry! Could you a suspeecioned me o' such a thing?
Murder--no--no--never! I can swar to ye, I never thort o' doin' such a
thing; and my hands are clear o' blood as them o' the infant in its
kreddle. I've been wicked enough 'ithout that. I've robbed as ye
know--war a' goin' to rob yourself an' yer friend--"
"Stay, Garth! what would you have done, had I not recognised you?"
"Run, Master Henry! run like the old Nick! I'd a tuk to my heels the
next minnit, after I see'd ye war in earnest; and if yer pistol hadn't a
put a stop to me, I'd a left my comrades to yer mercy. Oh! Master
Henry; there aint many travellers as would have behaved like you. It be
the first time I ever had to do more than threeten, an' bluster a bit;
an' that war all I intended wi' you an' yer friend."
"Enough, Gregory!" said the cavalier, apparently satisfied that his old
henchman had never shed innocent blood.
"And now," continued he, "I hope you will never have even _threatening_
to reproach yourself with in the future--at least so far as travellers
are concerned. Perhaps ere long I may find you adversaries more worthy
of your redoubtable pike. Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable here,
till the morning. When my attendant returns from the stable, he will
see to getting you some supper, and a better bed than you've just been
roused from."
"Oh! Master Henry!" cried Garth, seeing that Holtspur was about to
retire. "Doant go! please doant, till you've read what's inside that
ere dokyment. It consarns weighty matters, Master Henry; an' I'm sure
it must be you among others as is spoken o' in it."
"Concerns me, you think? Is my name mentioned in it?"
"No, not your name; but thar's some orders about somebody; and from what
I know o' ye myself, I had a suspeecion, as soon as I read it,--it mout
be you."
"Gregory," said the cavalier, drawing nearer to his old servant, and
speaking in a tone that betrayed some anxiety as to the effect of his
words, "What you know of me, and mine, keep to yourself. Not a word to
any one of my past history, as you expect secrecy for your own. Here my
real name is not known. That I go by just now is assumed for a time,
and a purpose. Soon I shall not care who knows the other; but not yet,
Gregory, not yet. Remember that!"
"I will, Master Henry."
"I shall read this despatch, then," continued the cavalier, "since you
say that it contains something that may interest me; and, especially,
since I do not commit the indiscretion of breaking it open. Ha! ha!
Your imprudence, worthy Garth, will save my conscience the reproach of
that."
With a smile playing upon his countenance, the cavalier spread out the
despatch; and, holding it down to the light of the blazing logs, soon
made himself master of its contents.
Volume One, Chapter XXIII.
The purport of the King's missive to Scarthe did not appear to take
Henry Holtspur much by surprise. His bearing betokened, that part of
what it contained was known to him already; and the other part he might
have been expecting. Enough, however, appeared, in his manner, to
convince Gregory Garth, that he had given no offence to his old master
in having stripped the courier of his despatch.
Whilst Holtspur was still pouring over the paper, the Indian youth
entered; and after standing a moment or two in solemn silence--as if to
see whether he was required for any particular purpose--he took a lamp
from the table. Having alighted it at the blaze of the fire, he again
withdrew. He departed as silently as he had entered; leaving Gregory
Garth gaping in true Saxon astonishment, and wondering what part of the
world had given birth to this wordless foreigner!
The cavalier after reading the despatch folded it up; and deposited it
under the breast of his doublet, as something to be carefully kept.
Then turning to the ex-footpad, and pointing significantly to some
viands that appeared upon the shelf, he strode out into the corridor,
and took his way towards the library--into which Oriole, with the lamp,
had already preceded him.
This was a large room, plainly and somewhat scantily furnished. An
oaken table stood in the centre, with some chairs of like construction,
set scatteringly around the sides. Against the walls were suspended a
number of paintings--their subjects scarce distinguishable under an
envelope of long neglected dust. Here and there stood bookcases, their
shelves close-packed with huge antique tomes, equally the victims of
long neglect. Other objects, lying negligently around, appeared to have
seen more recent service. There were arms, accoutrements, riding gear,
travelling valises, and such like paraphernalia--placed _sans facon_ on
chairs, tables, or the floor, and giving evidence that the house was
tenanted by one who contemplated only a temporary sojourn.
There was no one in the room as the cavalier entered it. The Indian,
after depositing his lamp on the table, had gone out again; and was now
seen standing on the stoup of the front entrance--silent and
statue-like, as at the moment of his master's return.
"So, so," muttered the cavalier, seating himself by the table, and once
more perusing the despatch. "Scarthe sent down to recruit! And for
what purpose? Not for a new campaign against the Scots? I think his
Majesty has had enough of that enemy. There's another may soon claim
his attention--nearer home. Perhaps he is growing suspicious; and this
may explain his instructions to the cuirassier captain. Well, let him
obey them, if he can. As to recruiting, I fancy I've been before him in
that work. He'll not add many files to his troop in this county--if
peasants' promises are worth relying upon. Hampden's persecution and
popularity have secured Buckinghamshire for the good cause,--the
yeomanry to a man; and as for the peasantry, I have got _them_ into the
right way of thinking. The gentry, one after another, come round to us.
This day has decided Sir Marmaduke Wade; converting him from a passive
spectator to an active partisan--conspirator, if the name rings better.
Ah! Sir Marmaduke! henceforth I shall love you, almost as much as I
love your daughter. No, no, no! That is a love which passes all
comparison; for which I would sacrifice everything upon earth--ay, _even
the cause_!
"No one hears me: I am speaking to my own heart. It is idle to attempt
deluding it. I may disguise my love from the world, but not from
myself--no, nor from _her_. She must know it ere this? She must have
read it in my looks and actions? Not an hour passes that she is not in
my mind,--not a minute. Even in my dreams do I behold her image--as
palpably before me, as if she were present--that glorious image of
feminine grace, crowned with red roses and yellow gold!
"Can it be an illusion? Could it have been _all accident_? Have these
encounters been fortuitous--on my side only designed? And the last and
dearest of all,--when was suffered to fall to the ground that snow-white
souvenir, I have pinned so proudly to my beaver--tell me, ye spirits who
preside over the destinies of Love--say that I am not the victim of a
fancy false, as it would be fatal to my happiness!
"I saw her--I spoke to her--I dared not ask herself. Though yearning
for the truth--as the soul yearns for a knowledge of _hereafter_--I
dared not trust myself to demand it. I dreaded the answer, as one
building castles in the air, may dread the tempest that in an instant
may destroy them.
"O God! I feel, that if this structure be destroyed--this last love of
my life--I shall perish amid the ruins!"
The cavalier paused, a deep sigh causing his bosom to heave upward--as
if in terror at the contemplation of such a contingency.
After a moment he resumed the thread of his reflections.
"She must have seen her glove so conspicuously placed? She could not
fail to recognise it? She could not mistake the motive of my wearing
it? If, after all, _her_ act was not intentional--if the gauntlet was
really _lost_--then am _I_ lost. I shall pass in her eyes as an
impertinent--a presumptive trickster. Instead of her love I shall be
the object of her contempt--not pitied, but scorned! Even Scarthe,
despite his defeat, will be thought worthier than I!
"I am mad to think of her! More than mad to hope she should think of
me! Worse than wicked to wish it. Even if she _should_ love me, how
can it end? _Only in her undoing_! Heaven keep me from the crime!
"As Heaven is my judge, I have endeavoured to avoid it. I have tried
_not_ to love her; at times wished she should not love me. This was at
first; but alas! no longer can I resist the sweet fascination. My heart
has leaped beyond my control; and both soul and body must now obey its
inclinings. Without the love of Marion Wade, I care not how soon my
life may come to an end--not much either in what way--an ignominious
gallows, or an honoured grave.
"Sir Marmaduke I must speak to in person. Even a letter might not now
reach him. 'Tis monstrous this act of his _Gracious Majesty_!" The
cavalier pronounced the last words with a scornful emphasis.
"Monstrous, as on the King's part, stupidly foolish. It cannot fail to
effect good service for our side; and I should rejoice were it any other
than Sir Marmaduke. But, to think of this man, in his house--Richard
Scarthe--the wily courtier--the notorious profligate--under the same
roof with Marion Wade--in the same room--seated by the same table--in
her presence at all hours, by night as by day--wielding that dangerous
power that springs from an attitude of authority. O Heavens!"
The painful thoughts which this train of reasoning produced, caused the
cavalier to start to his feet, and rapidly pace the room--in hope of
allaying his agitation.
"Will Sir Marmaduke remain at Bulstrode?" he continued, after a time.
"He cannot help himself? To go elsewhere would only bring down upon him
the wrath of this queen-ridden tyrant--perhaps subject him to some still
more severe infliction? But will he keep his family there--exposed
among the swaggering soldiery--perhaps to be insulted--perhaps--?
"Surely he will send them away--somewhere, anywhere until a better time?
Thank Heaven, there is hope of a better! I shall see Sir Marmaduke
to-morrow. I promised him I should. With _her_, too, shall I seek an
interview; although it may end in giving me chagrin--even if it should
be the last."
Having muttered this somewhat reckless resolve, the cavalier once more
threw himself into a chair; and with his elbows resting upon the table,
and the palms of his hands crossed over his forehead, he seemed to give
way to some profound and painful reflection.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Whatever it was, he was not allowed long to indulge in it. The entrance
of Oriole would scarce have aroused him from his reverie--for the
mocassined foot of the Indian made no sound upon the floor--but at the
same instant a noise of another kind was heard within the apartment--the
grinding of a horse's hoof on the gravel scattered outside the entrance
door.
Oriole, after entering, had stopped in an attitude that told he had
something to communicate.
"What is it, Oriole? Another visitor?"
The Indian nodded in the affirmative.
"On horseback? I need not ask: I hear the tread of his horse. A
stranger?"
With the same pantomime, as he had used when interrogated before, the
Indian made reply--adding also, by a repetition of his former signs,
that the visitor had come from a distance.
"Show him in here; see to his horse, and find stabling for him. The
gentleman may perhaps make stay for the night."
Without any other acknowledgment that he understood the instructions,
than by proceeding to obey them, the taciturn attendant turned on his
heel, and glided out of the apartment.
The arrival of a guest at that, or any other hour, caused but little
surprise to the host of Stone Dean. There was nothing unusual in the
circumstance. On the contrary, more than a moiety of his visitors were
accustomed to make their calls after midnight--not unfrequently taking
their departure before morning. Hence the "perhaps" in the orders given
to Oriole.
"Who can he be?" was Holtspur's self-interrogation, as his attendant
passed out of the room. "I expected no one to-night."
The grave sonorous voice, at this moment interrogating the Indian,
furnished no clue to the speaker's identity. Holtspur did not recognise
it.
There was no reply on the part of Oriole; but his silent gesticulation
must have proved sufficient: for, shortly after, the tread of a heavy
boot, accompanied by a slight tinkling of rowelled spurs, sounded within
the hall. In another moment a tall dark man made his appearance in the
doorway; and without waiting further invitation, or even taking off his
hat, stepped resolutely into the room.
The individual, thus freely presenting himself, was a man of peculiar--
almost rude--aspect. He was dressed in a suit of coarse brown cloth, a
felt hat without any feather, and strong trusset boots--the heels of
which were furnished with iron spurs, exceedingly rusty. Instead of
lace, he wore a band of plain linen of the narrowest cut; which, with
the closely-trimmed hair above it, betokened an affectation of the
Puritan costume, whatever may have been the religious proclivities of
the wearer.
Notwithstanding the commonness of his attire, there was nothing, either
in his countenance or demeanour, that proclaimed him a mere messenger,
or servant. On the contrary, the slight salute which he vouchsafed to
the cavalier, the non-removal of his hat, and the air of cool confidence
which he continued to preserve, after entering the room, bespoke a man,
who, whatever his rank in life, was not accustomed to cringe in the
presence of the proudest.
The face was rather serious than sour. The hair was dark--the skin
slightly cadaverous--though the features were not disagreeable to look
upon. Though far from cheerful in their expression, they were
interesting from a certain cast denoting calmness and courage; traits of
character further confirmed by the determined glance of a penetrating
coal-black eye.
"By the dust upon your doublet, Master," said Holtspur, after returning
the salutation of his visitor, "you have left some miles of road behind
you, since setting foot in the stirrup?"
"Twenty-five."
"That is just the distance to London. Thence, I presume?"
"From London."
"May I ask your errand?"
"I come from _John_," replied the stranger, laying a significant
emphasis on the name.
"You have a message for me?"
"I have."
There was a pause--Holtspur remaining silent--as if awaiting the
delivery of the message.
"Before declaring my errand," pursued the stranger, "I want a word, to
make sure you are he for whom it is intended."
"The John who sent you, is the same who nobly resisted payment of the
_ship money_."
"Enough!" assented the messenger, taking a despatch from under the
breast of his doublet, and, without farther hesitancy, handing it to his
host.
There was no superscription upon the folded paper; but, as the cavalier
broke it open under the light of the lamp, at the head of the page could
be seen something that resembled an address--written in hieroglyphics.
The body of the despatch was in plain English, and as follows:
"_A cuirassier captain--Scarthe by name--has gone down with the skeleton
of a troop to your neighbourhood. It is believed he has a commission to
recruit. He is to be quartered on Sir Marmaduke Wade; but you will know
all this before our messenger reaches you. It is well. Sir Marmaduke
will surely hold out no longer? Make some excuse to see him, and
ascertain how this_ benevolence _acts. Do all you can, without
compromising yourself to make the recruiting unpopular. Call the
friends together at the old rendezvous on the night of the 20th. Pym,
and Martin, and I will be down, and perhaps young Harry Vane. If you
could get Sir Marmaduke to attend, it would be a point. See that your
invitations are conveyed with due secrecy, and by trusty hands. I give
you but little time. Act with caution: for this cuirassier captain, who
is a courtier of some note, is doubtless entrusted with other
commissions, besides that of raising recruits. Keep your eye upon him;
and keep his as much as may be off yourself. My Messenger returns here
at once. Feed his horse, and despatch him. You may trust the man. He
has suffered in the cause: as you may convince yourself by glancing
under the brim of his beaver. Don't be offended if he insist on wearing
it in your presence. It's a way he has. He will himself tell you his
name, which for certain reasons may not be written here. The good work
goes bravely on_."
So ended the despatch.
There was no name appended. None was needed; for although the
handwriting was not that of the great patriot, Henry Holtspur well knew
that the dictation was his. It was not the first communication of a
similar kind that had passed between him and Hampden.
The first thing which he did, after reading the despatch, was to cast a
stealthy glance at the individual who had been its bearer; and directed
towards that portion immediately under his hat.
Holtspur could observe nothing there--at least nothing to explain the
ambiguous allusion in the letter of his correspondent. One
circumstance, however, was singular. On both sides, the brim of the
beaver was drawn down, and fastened in this fashion by a strap of
leather passing under the chin: as if the wearer had caught cold in his
ears, and wished to protect them from the night air.
The oddness of the style did not remain long a puzzle. He who had
adopted it noticed the furtive scrutiny of the cavalier, and answered it
with a grim smile.
"You perceive that I wear my hat rather slouchingly--not to say
ill-manneredly," said he. "It has been my fashion of late. Why I've
taken to it would be explained by my uncovering; but perhaps it would
save trouble, if I tell you my name. I am William Prynne."
"Prynne!" exclaimed the cavalier, starting forward and eagerly grasping
the Puritan by the hand. "I am proud to see you under my poor roof; and
such hospitality as I can show--"
"Henry Holtspur need not declare these sentiments to William Prynne,"
said the earless Puritan, interrupting the complimentary speech. "The
friend of the oppressed is well-known to all who have suffered; and I am
of that number. I thank you for a hospitality which I can partake of
for but a few minutes. Then I must bid you adieu, and be gone. The
work of the Lord must not tarry. The harvest is fast ripening; and it
behoves the reapers to get their sickles in readiness."
The cavalier was too much alive to the necessity of the times, to spend
a moment in idle speech. Directing the messenger's horse to be fed--a
duty which the ex-footpad took upon himself to perform--he ordered
Oriole to place a repast before his visitor.
To this the hungry Puritan, notwithstanding his haste, proceeded to do
ample justice; while Holtspur, throwing open his desk, hurriedly indited
an answer to the letter of his correspondent.
Like the despatch, it was neither directed nor signed by any name, that
could compromise either the writer or him for whom it was intended. The
greatest danger would be to him who was to be entrusted with its
delivery. But the staunch partisan of religious liberty recked little
of the risk. The great cause, glowing in his zealous heart, rendered
him insensible to petty fears; and, after finishing his hurried meal, he
once more betook himself to the saddle; shook the hand of his host with
cold yet fraternal grasp; bade adieu to Stone Dean; and rode swiftly and
silently away.
Volume One, Chapter XXIV.
Before the hoof-strokes of the Puritan's horse had ceased grinding on
the gravelled path, Holtspur summoned the ex-footpad into his presence.
During the interval that had elapsed, the latter had not been idling his
opportunity: as was indicated by the condition of the haunch of cold
venison of which he had been invited to partake; and which was the same
set before the traveller who had just taken his departure. A huge
_crevasse_, scooped crosswise out of the joint, told incontestably that
Garth had supped to his satisfaction; while a tankard of strong ale,
which accompanied the missing meat, had set his spirits in a very
satisfactory state.
As he had previously obtained sufficient sleep--to compensate for his
loss of that necessary restorative on the preceding night--he was now
ready for anything--according to his own declaration "anything, from
pitch and toss up to manslaughter!"
It was fortunate he was in this prime condition: since his services--
though not for any sanguinary purpose--were just then needed.
"Garth!" began the cavalier, as his old retainer entered the room, "I
hinted to you, that a good cause might stand in need of you soon. It
needs you _now_."
"I'm ready, Master Henry, to do your bidding an' though I never cut
throat in my life, if _you_ say the word--"
"Shame--shame! Gregory! Don't, my good fellow allow your thoughts to
run into such frightful extremes. Time enough to talk of throat-cutting
when,"--here the cavalier paused in his speech; "never mind when," he
continued--"I want you just now for a purpose altogether pacific."
"Oh, anything ye like, Master Henry. I'm ready to turn Puritan, an' go
a preechin', if you're in the mind to make a `missioner' o' me. I had a
word or two with that theer 'un, whiles ye war a writin' him out his
answer; an' he gied me a consid'rable insight into theer way o'
translatin' the Scripter. I reckon it be the right way; though 'taint
accordin' to old Master Laud an' his Romish clargy."
"Come, Garth!" said the cavalier, speaking impatiently; "the service for
which I want you has nothing to do with religious matters. I'm in need
of a messenger--one who knows the county--more especially the residences
of a number of the gentry, to whom I have occasion to send letters. How
long have you been living in Buckinghamshire?"
"Well, Master Henry, I've been in an' about old Bucks a tidyish time--
off an' on I reckon for the better part o' the last ten year--indeed,
iver since I left the old place, you know--but I han't niver been over a
entire year in one partikler place at a time, d'ye see. My constitution
ha' been rather delicate at times, an' needed change o' air."
"You know the topography of the county, I suppose?"
"I doan't understand what ye mean by that ere topografy. It be a
biggish sort o' a word. If you mean the _roads_, I knows _them_, putty
nigh as well as the man that made 'em--specially them as runs atween
here an' Oxford."
"Good! That's the very direction in which I stand in need of a trusty
messenger. I have others I can send towards the north and south, but
none who know anything of the Oxford side. You will do. If you are
familiar with the roads in that direction, then you must also be
acquainted with most of the residences near them--I mean those of the
gentry."
"Oh! ye-e-s," assented Gregory, in a thoughtful drawl. "I've heerd
speak o' most on 'em; an' I dar say most o' 'em's heerd speak o' me."
"Could you deliver letters to H--L--, to Sir K. F--, to young M--, son
of Lord S., to R--M--, of Cheveley Park, and to Master G. C., a
magistrate of the borough of High Wycombe?"
The cavalier, in putting this question, gave the names in full.
"Well," replied the ex-footpad, "I dare say I kud deliver letters to all
the gents you've made mention o'--that be in the order as you've named
'em. But if I war to begin whar you've left off, then I shud be
obligated to leave off, just whar I hed begun."
"What! I don't understand you, Gregory."
"Why, it be simple enough, Master Henry. War I to carry a letter to
that old pot-guts Justice o' High Wycombe, 'taint likely I shud bring
back the answer,--much less get leave to go on to the tothers, as you've
named."
"How's that, Garth?"
"Kase ye see Old Wyk an' hae _had a leetlish bit o' a quarrel_--oncest
on a time; an' if he war to see me agin, he might remember that ere
diff'rence atween us, an' _jug_ me. I'll take yer letters to the
tothers; an' him last o' all, if ye insist on't; but if ye do, Master
Henry, I won't promise to bring back any answers."
"Never mind _him_, then," said the cavalier, appearing to give up the
idea of communicating with the Wycombe Justice. "You can safely visit
_all_ the others, I suppose?"
Gregory nodded assent.
"You must start at once. Ah! I did not think of it; you will stand in
need of a horse?"
"No, I woant," replied the footpad, with a significant smile, "I've got
one."
"Oh! the horse you--"
The cavalier hesitated to finish the speech that had risen to his
tongue.
"Why, ye-e-s," drawled the ex-footpad, "it's a anymal as has done the
King sarvice; an' I doant see why it shudn't now be employed in the
sarvice o' the People. If I be allowed to ha' my guess, Master Henry, I
shud say, that's the errand on which ye be sendin' me."
"It is," assented the cavalier, with emphasis.
"I am glad o' 't," exclaimed Garth, in a tone that betrayed a certain
degree of enthusiasm. "Write yer letters, Master Henry; I'll take 'em
whar they're directed--even if one o' 'em be to _the jailer_ o'
_Newgate_!"
The cavalier, gratified by this ebullition, turned smilingly to the
table, and commenced preparing the epistles.
In less than an hour the ex-footpad was transformed into a postman; and,
mounted upon the stolen steed of the King's courier, was making his way
along the main road that runs between the city of London and the city of
Colleges.
At his departure the Indian attendant was called into the room.
"Oriole!" asked the cavalier. "Do you think you can find the way to the
cottage of Dick Dancey--the woodman who comes here so frequently? You
have been over to his wigwam, haven't you?"
The Indian made a sign of assent.
"You know the way, then? The moon is still shining. I think you will
have no difficulty in finding the place--although there's not a very
clear path to it."
Oriole's only rejoinder to this was a slight scornful curling of the
lip, as much as to say, "Does the pale-face fancy that I am like one of
his own race--a fool to lose my way in a forest?"
"All right, my red-skin!" continued the cavalier, in a jocular strain,
"I see you can find the road to Dancey's. But I want you to go beyond.
In the same direction, only half a mile farther on, there is another hut
inhabited by another woodman. You have seen him here also--the young
man with the hay-coloured hair, and white eyebrows?"
Oriole signified that he had seen the individual; though a certain
expression--just discernible in the Indian's eye--betokened repugnance
to the person so described.
"Very well," continued the cavalier, without appearing to notice the
expression. "I want both Dancey and the light-haired man to come to
me--so soon as you can summon them. Go to Dancey's first; and, if you
think you cannot find the other, Dancey will go along with you. Tell
both to come prepared for a journey of two days. What a pity you can't
talk, my poor fellow! But no matter for that: Dancey will understand
your signs."
The Indian, as if he either did not hear, or heeded not, this expression
of sympathy, turned towards the door; and without either sign or
ceremony made his spectral-like departure.
"The night of the 29th," soliloquised Henry Holtspur, as he sate once
more pen in hand before his writing-table. "Not much time have they
given me. Dick and his prospective son-in-law must start at once.
By-the-way, I don't know whether it's safe to trust this Walford--though
the old deer-stalker believes in him. I'm always suspicions of white
eyebrows. I've noticed something in his grey green eyes I don't like;
and this very day--after I had espoused the quarrel of his sweetheart
too--I saw him looking at me with glances not altogether grateful!
Jealous, perhaps, of the girl having given me those flowers? Ah! if he
only knew how little her token was cared for, alongside that other
token--if he knew how I myself was suffering--perhaps 'twould cure him
of his spleen?
"After all he's but a brutal fellow--far from worthy of being the
favourite of this bold forest bird, Bet Dancey. I'faith she's a
hen-hawk, that deserves an eagle for her mate; and I might have given
this rough rustic cause to be uncomfortable, but that his black beauty
is eclipsed under the glare of that dazzling sunbeam. Ah! Marion!
Marion! in thy presence--or absence either--all other faces seem
ill-favoured. Charming, or ugly, to my eyes all are alike!
"Come!" continued the cavalier, as the train of his reflections was
interrupted by some thought prompting him to the necessity of action.
"I must get these letters ready against the arrival of my messengers.
There are a dozen, and I'm but an indifferent scribe. Luckily, as
they're only `notes of invitation,' a word to each will be sufficient."
Saying this, he drew his chair nearer to the table; and proceeded to pen
the epistles.
He did not desist from his task, until some ten or twelve letters--
sealed and addressed to various individuals, all gentlemen of the
county--lay on the table before him.
"These, I think, are all," muttered he, as he ran his eye over the
addresses. "Along with those, whom Garth has gone to summon, a goodly
array they will make--all true friends to the cause of England's
liberty!"
This soliloquy was succeeded by the entrance of the Indian--whose dark
form came stealing like a shadow under the light of the lamp.
By a pantomimic gesture, his master was told--that the two men, he had
gone to fetch, had arrived along with him, and were waiting orders
outside.
"Send them in here," commanded the cavalier. "One at a time. First,
Dancey; the other, after Dancey has gone out."
Oriole instantly vanished; and soon after the tread of a heavily-shod
foot was heard in the hall, outside.
There was a single knock, followed by the spoken permission to "Come
in."
The door opened; and the noted deer-stealer stepped into the apartment.
He was a man of immense body and large limbs, somewhat loosely put
together; but from sheer size seemingly endowed with herculean strength.
About his face there was nothing to indicate any evil disposition. On
the contrary, it had a cheerful honest look; which rather contradicted
the character implied by the appellation of _deer-stealer_. As with his
representative of modern days--the poacher--perhaps the stealing of a
deer as the snaring of a pheasant, could scarce have been looked upon in
the light of a positive theft. At all events, Dick Dancey, who was
notorious in this line, was otherwise well regarded by those who had
dealings with him.
He was no ordinary man--either in physical or mental conformation; and
his huge muscular form, crowned by a capacious head--in which glanced a
pair of dark brown eyes keen as an eagle's--gave him an imposing, if not
a fearful, aspect. He was dressed in a doublet of faded cotton
velveteen, with trunks of coarser material reaching down to mid thigh.
From the bottoms of these to the tops of his heavy cow-skin boots, his
limbs were protected by thick woollen hose; while on his head appeared a
full-crowned cap made out of the skin of a spotted dog, the long hair
ruffing out around the rim.
The accoutrements of this formidable forester were of the simplest. A
skin wallet, suspended by a belt passing over his shoulders, hung by his
right side; while as if to balance it, a heavy hanger--half-sword,
half-knife--dangled against his left hip. A large knotted stick,
carried in hand, completed his equipment for the journey--of the nature
of which he seemed to have had some previous acquaintance.
"Dancey!" said the cavalier, as soon as the deer-stealer was fairly
inside the room, "I want you upon a matter of business. You are an
accomplished traveller, I know. Have you any objection to play
errand-boy for a couple of days?"
"To carry any message for you, sir," rejoined the woodman, with a
grotesque effort at a bow, "I'd esteem an honour, 'specially after what
happened this day, sir; or I moat say yesterday--seein' it be now near
the morrow mornin'. My daughter, sir--I can answer for Bet--she's a
good-hearted gurl, sir, though may be a little too forrard, or that
sort; but she be wonderful obleeged, sir, to you, sir."
"Poh-poh, Dancey; I am not deserving of your daughter's thanks. What I
did in her behalf was only a duty; which I should equally have felt
bound to perform for the humblest individual on the ground. Indeed your
beautiful daughter did not seem to stand in need of my interference.
She had already found a sufficiently chivalric champion in bold Robin
Hood--"
"Ah! sir," interrupted the deer-stealer, bending down towards his
patron, and speaking in a tone of serious confidence, "That's just where
the trouble be. She han't thanked _him_; and the poor fellow's beside
hisself, because she won't make more o' him. I do all I can to get her
take on to him; for I believe Wull Walford to be a worthy lad: an' he
mean well for my gurl. But 'taren't no use, sir, ne'er a bit on't. As
the sayin' be, one man may take a horse to the water, but forty can't
make the anymal drink, if he an't a mind to."
"I think, friend Dancey," quietly rejoined the cavalier, "you'll do well
to leave your daughter free to follow her own inclinations--especially
in a matter of the kind you speak of. Perhaps her instincts of what's
best for her, in that regard, may be more trustworthy than yours."
"Ah! sir," sighed the fond parent of the beautiful Betsey, "If I'd leave
her free to foller her own ways, she'd go clear to the devil--_she
would_. Not that she's a bad sort, my Bet aren't. No--no--she be a
good-hearted gurl, as I've already sayed; but she's too forrard, sir--
too forrard, and proud enough to have inclinings for them as be far
above her. That's why she looks down upon Wull: because ye see, sir, he
be only a poor woodman; tho' that's as much as I be myself."
The cavalier might have suspected the beautiful Betsey of having other
reasons for disliking "Wull Walford;" but it was not the time to talk
upon such a theme; and, without further parley he changed the
conversation to the business for which he had summoned the old woodman
into his presence.
"Here are six letters I want you to deliver," said he, taking that
number from the table.
"You perceive," he added, holding them up to the light of the lamp,
"that I have numbered the letters--in the order in which you will arrive
at the houses where you are to deliver them--so that there may be no
mistake. I need not add, Dancey, that each is to be _delivered with
your own hand, or else not at all_."
"I understand what you mean, sir. I don't part wi' ere a one o' 'em,
'cept to the party hisself. You can trust Dick Dancey for that."
"I know it, Dick; and that's why I'm giving you all this trouble. I
only wish you could have taken these others; but it's impossible.
They're for a different section of the county; and must go by another
hand."
"Wull Walford's wi' me, sir. Ye sent for him too, didn't ye?"
"I did. You say he can be trusted, Dancey?"
"Oh sir! there's no fear o' him. He han't no love for eyther Church, or
King. He has been in the stocks once too often for that."
"Ha! ha!" laughed the cavalier, "that is but slight recommendation of
his trustworthiness. It don't matter, however. He shall not know much
of the nature of his errand; and, therefore there will be no great
danger in his carrying the letters."
Dancey saw that he was expected to take the road at once; and, without
further parley, he started off on his distant round of delivery: before
leaving the house, however, having fortified himself against the raw air
of the night, by a stoup of strong ale--with which Oriole had been
directed to supply him.
Will Walford--who among the _dramatis personae_ of the morris dance had
performed the _role_ of Robin Hood--next presented himself to receive
his chapter of instructions.
This worthy had doffed his tunic of Kendal green, and now figured in his
proper costume--a jerkin of grey homespun russet, with wide petticoat
breeches reaching to mid thigh. The green woollen stockings, in which
he had personated the outlaw, still appeared upon his legs--with a pair
of heavy hobnailed buskins on his feet. On his head was the
high-crowned hat worn at the _fete_, with a portion of the plume of
cock's feathers still sticking behind its band of scarlet coloured tape.
Altogether the costume of the woodman was not inelegant; and the wearer
affected a certain air of rustic dandyism, which showed him conceited of
his personal appearance.
He had but slight reason for this vanity, however. At the _fete_ he had
proved himself but a poor representative of the chivalrous outlaw of
Sherwood-Forest; and, now that he stood partially plucked of his
borrowed feathers, he looked altogether unlike the man, whom the
beautiful Bet Dancey would have chosen for her champion.
It was a countenance, though naturally of an evil aspect, more sullen
than sinister; while the glance of a watery otter-like eye, along with a
certain expression of cowardice, betrayed insincerity.
Will Walford was evidently a man not to be trusted--very far. He
appeared like one who, to gratify a passion, would turn traitor upon a
partisan.
It was just such a suspicion of his character that hindered Henry
Holtspur from revealing to him the secret contained within those
half-dozen letters--which he now entrusted to him for delivery, after
giving him the names of the gentlemen for whom they were intended.
With a promise to perform the duty--apparently sincere--the woodman
walked out of the room; but, as he turned off into the shadowy hall, a
glance flung back over his shoulder betrayed some feeling towards his
patron, anything but friendly.
Still more surly was the look cast upon the young Indian, as the
latter--apparently with an unwilling grace--presented him with the
parting cup.
There was no word spoken, no health drunk--neither of master, nor man.
The ale vessel was emptied in sullen silence; and then thanklessly
tossed back into the hands from which it had been received.
A gruff "good-night," and Will Walford, striding off through the
corridor, was soon lost to view.
Oriole turned back into the room occupied by his master; and, stopping
near the door, stood waiting, for the latter to look round. On his
doing so, the Indian elevated his right arm; and holding it
horizontally, with the back of his hand upwards, he described a wide
curve in an outward direction from his body.
"Good, you say? Who is good?"
The Indian made a motion, to signify that he had not completed his
pantomime.
"Ah! you've something to add? Go on!"
The hand was again carried out from the body in a waving direction; but
this time with the thumb turned upwards.
"No," said the cavalier, translating the sign, "_not good_, you mean to
say? He who has just gone off?"
Oriole nodded assent--at the same time placing his fore and middle
fingers, joined together, over his mouth; and then separating them as he
carried them away from his lips:--thus signifying, that the words of the
woodman would proceed in two directions: otherwise, that he was _double
tongued_.
"A liar--a deceiver, you think, Oriole? I have some suspicion of it
myself. Do not be afraid; I shall not trust him too far. But come! my
faithful red-skin; you must be tired sitting up? Close the door, to
keep out the rats and robbers; and get to your bed. I hope we shall
have no more visitors to trouble us, till we've both had a good night's
rest. Go sleep, my lad."
So saying, the cavalier lifted up the lamp; stepped forth from the
library; and betook himself to his own sleeping apartment.
Volume One, Chapter XXV.
On the bold brow of one of the central hills of Bulstrode Park, stood
the dwelling--a palatial structure of red brick, with facings of white
stone--the latter transported over the sea from the quarries of Caen.
The style of architecture was that known as "Norman"--with thick massive
walls, having the circular Roman arch over the doors and windows.
In front was a space appropriated to the purposes of parterre and
shrubbery; while to the rearward extended the stables and other
offices--enclosing an extensive courtyard between them and the dwelling.
In rear of the outbuildings was the garden--approached through the
courtyard by a strong iron wicket; while encircling all--grounds,
garden, and houses--was a deep battlemented moat, which imparted to the
mansion somewhat of the character of a fortified castle.
On the morning after the fete in Bulstrode Park, the courtyard of the
dwelling presented an unusual spectacle. A stranger, entering through
the great arched gateway, might have mistaken the square enclosure
inside for the yard of a barrack. Horses were standing in rows around
the walls--their heads tied up to hooks that had been freshly driven
into the mason-work; while men in topped boots, wide hanging hose, and
grogram shirts--with sleeves rolled up to the elbows--were engaged in
grooming them.
Leathern buckets, containing water, stood by the heels of the horses--
where the pavement appeared splashed and wet.
Other men, of similar appearance, might have been seen seated upon
benches, or squatted upon the coarse woollen covers of their horses--
occupying themselves with the cleaning of armour--furbishing steel
cuirasses, cuisses, and helmets, to the sheen of silver, and then
hanging them against the walls, under a sort of shed that had been
specially erected for their reception.
Under the same shelter large demi-pique dragoon saddles had been placed
in rows--astride of long trestles set up for the purpose.
Every available space upon the walls was occupied by a bridle, a pair of
spurs, pistols, or holsters, a sword with its belt, or some piece either
of offensive, or defensive, armour.
It is scarce necessary to say, that these horses and men--these saddles,
bridles, arms, and armour--were the component parts of Captain Scarthe's
troop of cuirassiers, viewed _en dishabille_.
What with the neighing of steeds that did not belong to the place, the
barking of dogs that did, and the swearing and gibbering of threescore
men in half-a-dozen distinct languages, the usually quiet courtyard of
Sir Marmaduke's mansion had been transformed into a sort of Pandemonium:
for, to say nothing of any other sounds, the conversation usually
carried on among Scarthe's cuirassiers was not unlike what might be
heard--could one only penetrate into that mythical locality.
Notwithstanding their noted ruffianism, they appeared to be behaving
better than was their wont--as if under some unusual restraint. They
were merry enough--no doubt from being installed in such comfortable
quarters--but they did not appear to exhibit any offensive attitude
towards the inmates of the mansion.
If by chance a pretty housemaid tripped across the courtyard--on some
errand to the garden, or elsewhere--she was sure of being saluted by a
volley of _jeux-d'esprit_ in French, Flemish, or English; but beyond
this, the behaviour of the troopers was no worse than that of most
soldiers similarly quartered.
Moreover, the men, instead of being permitted within the mansion, were
contenting themselves to sleep in the outhouses: as testified by the
straw beds scattered over the floors of the granary, and other
_offices_, in which they had passed the night.
This semi-courteous tolerance, on the part of Captain Scarthe's
followers towards their involuntary host--unlike the character of the
former, as it was unexpected by the latter--requires some explanation;
which the conversation between Scarthe himself and his cornet, occurring
at that very moment, will supply.
The two officers were in a large sitting-room, that had been assigned to
them in the eastern wing of the dwelling. It is scarce necessary to say
that the room was handsomely furnished: for the mansion of Sir Marmaduke
Wade, besides being one of the oldest, was also one of the grandest of
the time. The walls of the apartment specified were covered with
Cordovan leather, stamped with heraldic devices; the huge bay window was
hung with curtains of dark green velvet; while the pieces of massive
furniture exhibited sculptural carvings not only elaborate, but perhaps
of higher art than can be produced at the present time.
A massive round table in the middle of the floor was covered by a heavy
cloth of rich Damascus pattern; while the floor itself, in lieu of
Brussels or Turkey carpet, was hidden under a mattress of smooth shining
rushes, neatly woven into a variety of patterns.
Scarthe was seated, or rather reclining on a _fauteuil_ covered with
crimson velvet; while his cornet, who had just entered the room, stood
in front of him--as if in the reception, or delivery, of a message.
Neither of the officers was in armour. The steel plates had been laid
aside; or not fastened on for that day.
Scarthe himself was habited in all the fantastic frippery fashionable at
the time. A doublet of yellow satin, with trunk hose of the same--the
latter fringed at the bottoms with silk ribbons, tipped with tags of
gold. A broad Vandyke collar of point lace; cuffs to correspond; and a
scarlet sash--also weighted with golden tags--adorned the upper part of
his body; while boots of yellow Cordovan leather--with snow-white lawn
puffing out at the ample tops--completed the list of his habiliments.
Despite his pale face; despite a certain sinister cast of his
countenance--not always to be observed--Richard Scarthe was a handsome
man. The eyes of many a courtly dame had deemed him more than
interesting; and as he reclined against the back of the _fauteuil_ in an
attitude of perfect ease, he looked not the less interesting, that the
scarlet scarf passed over his right shoulder was crossed by another of
more sombre hue--acting as a _sling_, in which his right arm rested.
A wounded man--especially if the damage has been received in a duel--is
a dangerous object for the eye of a sentimental young lady to rest upon.
It might be that Captain Scarthe was acquainted with this not very
recondite truth. It might be, that some such thought had been in his
mind that very morning, while making his toilette before the mirror.
The cornet was neither so handsome as his captain, nor so daintily
dressed; and yet one, previously acquainted with Stubbs' rather slovenly
habit, could not have failed to notice, on that particular morning, that
more than ordinary pains had been taken with _his_ "make-up."
He was in a plain military suit of buff; but the collar and cuffs were
clean; and so also his plump flesh-coloured face--a condition in which
it was not always to be found.
His hay-coloured hair, too, exhibited something of a gloss--as though
the brush had been recently and repeatedly passed through it.
There was a flush on Stubbs' cheek, with a soft subdued light in his
eye, that betokened some unusual emotion in his mind--some thought more
refined than ordinarily held dominion there. In short, Stubbs had the
look of a man who had been so unfortunate, as to fall in love!
As we have said, the cornet was standing. He was silent also; as if he
had already delivered his report, and was awaiting the reply.
"I'm glad they're taking it so quietly," said the captain, in rejoinder
to whatever communication his cornet had made. "Our fellows are not
used to sleeping in stables--with a fine house standing close by. But
we're in England now, Stubbs; and it won't do to keep up the fashions of
Flanders. By so doing, we might get our good king into disgrace."
"We might, by Ged!" stiffly assented Stubbs.
"Besides," continued the captain, speaking rather to himself than to his
subaltern, "I've another reason for not letting them forage too freely,
just now. The time may come, when it will be more profitable to put the
screw on. The cat plays with the mouse, before killing it. Did the
vagabonds grumble at my order?"
"Not a bit. No, by Ged! They're too fond of you for that."
"Well, cornet; next time you go among them, you can promise them plenty
of beef and beer. They shall have full rations of both, and double ones
too. But no pickings and stealings. Tell them that the eighth
commandment must be kept; and that nothing short of hanging will satisfy
me if it be broken. They must be given to understand, that we're no
longer engaged in a campaign; though the Lord knows how soon we may be.
From what I heard, and saw, yesterday among that rabble, I shouldn't
wonder if the king sets us to cutting their throats before spring."
"Like enough," quietly assented Stubbs.
"I don't care how soon," continued the cuirassier captain, musing as he
spoke. "I shouldn't care how soon--but--that, if it come to blows,
we'll be called away from here; and after the infernal marchings and
countermarchings we've had for the last six months, I feel inclined for
a little rest. I think I could enjoy the _dolce far niente_ devilish
well down here--that is, for a month or so. Nice quarters, a'nt they?"
"Are, by Ged!"
"Nice girls too--you've seen them, haven't you?"
"Just a glimpse of them through the window, as I was dressing. There
were two of them out on the terrace."
"There are only two--a daughter, and a niece. Come, cornet; declare
yourself! Which?"
"Well, the little un's the one to my taste. _She's a beauty_, by Ged!"
"Ha! ha! ha! I might have known it?" cried the captain. "Well--well--
well!" he continued speaking to himself in a careless drawl. "I
believe, as I always did, that Nature has formed some souls utterly
incapable of appreciating her highest works. Now here is a man, who
actually thinks that dapper little prude more beautiful than her
queenlike cousin; a woman that to me--a man of true taste and
experience--is known to possess qualities--ah! such qualities! Ha! ha!
ha! Stubbs sees but the bodice and skirt. I can perceive something
more--never mind what--the soul that is concealed under them. He sees a
pretty lip--a sparkling eye--a neat nose--a shining tress; and he falls
over head and ears in love with one or other of these objects. To me
'tis neither lip, glance, nor tress: 'tis the _tout ensemble_--lips,
nose, eyes, cheeks, and _chevelure_--soul and body all combined!"
"By Ged! that would be perfection," cried Stubbs, who stood listening to
the enraptured soliloquy.
"So it would, cornet."
"But where will you find such? Nowhere, I should say?"
"You are blind, cornet--stone-blind, or you might have seen it this
morning."
"I admit," said the cornet, "I've seen something very near it--the
nearest it I ever saw in my life. I didn't think there was a girl in
all England as pretty as that creature. I didn't, by Ged."
"What creature?"
"The one we've been speaking of, the little one--Mistress Lora Lovelace
is her name. I had it from her maid."
"Ha! ha! ha! You're a fool, Stubbs; and it's fortunate you are so.
Fortunate for me, I mean. If you'd been gifted with either taste or
sense, we might have been rivals; and that, my killing cornet, would
have been a great misfortune for me. As it is, our roads lie in
different directions. You see something--I can't, nor can you tell
what--in Mistress Lora Lovelace. I see that in her cousin which I can,
and _do_, comprehend. I see perfection. Yes, Stubbs, this morning you
have had before your eyes not only the most beautiful woman in the shire
of Bucks, but, perhaps, the loveliest in all England. And yet you did
not know it! Never mind, worthy cornet. _Chacun a son gout_. How
lucky we don't all think alike!"
"Is, by Ged!" assented the cornet, in his characteristic fashion. "I
like the little 'un best."
"You shall have her all to yourself. And now, Stubbs, as I can't leave
my room with this wounded wing of mine, go and seek an interview with
Sir Marmaduke. Smooth over the little rudenesses of yesterday; and make
known to him, in a roundabout way--you understand--that we had a cup of
sack too much at the inn. Say something of our late campaign in
Flanders, and the free life we had been accustomed to lead while there.
Say what you like; but see that it be the thing to soften him down, and
make him our friend. I don't think the worthy knight is so disloyal,
after all. It's something about this young sprig's being recalled from
Court, that has got him into trouble with the king. Do all you can to
make him friendly to _us_. Remember! if you fail, we may get no nearer
to that brace of beauties, than looking at them through a window, as you
did this morning. It would be of no use forcing ourselves into their
company. If we attempt that, Sir Marmaduke may remove his chicks into
some other nest; and then, cornet, our quarters would be dull enough."
"I'll see Sir Marmaduke at once?" said the subaltern interrogatively.
"The sooner the better. I suppose they have breakfasted ere this.
These country people keep early hours. Try the library. No doubt
you'll find him there: he's reported to be a man of books."
"I'll go there, by Ged!"
And with this characteristic speech, the cornet hastened out of the
room.
"I must win this woman," said Scarthe, rising to his feet, and striding
across the floor with an air of resolution: "`_I must win her, if I
should lose my soul_!' Oh! beauty! beauty! the true and only enchanter
on earth. Thou canst change the tiger into a tender lamb, or transform
the lamb into a fierce tiger. What was I yesterday but a tiger? To-day
subdued--tamed to the softness of a suckling. 'Sdeath! Had I but known
that such a woman was watching--for she was there no doubt--I might have
avoided that accursed encounter. She saw it all--she must have seen it!
Struck down from my horse, defeated--'Sdeath!"
The exclamation hoarsely hissing through his teeth, with the fierce
expression that accompanied it, showed how bitterly he bore his
humiliation. It was not only the pain of his recent wound--though that
may have added to his irritation--but the sting of defeat that was
rankling in his soul--defeat under such eyes as those of Marion Wade!
"'Sdeath!" he again exclaimed, striding nervously to and fro. "Who and
what can the fellow be? Only his name could they tell me--nothing
more--Holtspur! Not known to Sir Marmaduke before yesterday! He
cannot, then, have been known to _her_? He cannot have had an
opportunity for _that_? Not yet--not yet!"
"Perhaps," he continued after a pause, his brow once more brightening,
"they have never met? She may not have witnessed the unfortunate
affair? Is it certain she was on the ground? I did not see her.
"After all the man may be married? He's old enough. But, no: the glove
in his hat--I had forgotten that. It could scarcely be his wife's! Ha!
ha! ha! what signifies? I've been a blessed Benedict myself; and yet
while so, have worn my beaver loaded with love-tokens. I wonder to whom
that glove belonged. Ha! Death and the devil!"
Scarthe had been pacing the apartment, not from side to side, but in
every direction, as his wandering thoughts carried him. As the
blasphemous exclamation escaped from his lips, he stopped suddenly--his
eyes becoming fixed upon some object before him!
On a small table that stood in a shadowed corner of the apartment, a
glove was lying--as if carelessly thrown there. It was a lady's glove--
with gauntlet attached, embroidered with gold wire, and bordered with
lace. It appeared the very counterpart of that at the moment occupying
his thoughts--the glove that had the day before decorated the hat of
Henry Holtspur!
"By heaven, 'tis the _same_!" he exclaimed, the colour forsaking his
cheeks as he stood gazing upon it. "No--not the same," he continued,
taking up the glove, and scrutinising it with care. "Not the same; but
its mate--its fellow! The resemblance is exact; the lace, the
embroidery, the design--all. I cannot be mistaken!"
And as he repeated this last phrase, he struck his heel fiercely upon
the floor.
"There's a mystery!" he continued, after the first painful pulsations of
his heart had passed; "Not known to Sir Marmaduke until yesterday! Not
known to Sir Marmaduke's daughter! And yet wearing her gauntlet
conspicuously in the crown of his hat! Was it hers? Is _this_ hers?
May it not belong to the other--the niece? No--no--though small enough,
'tis too large for her tiny claw. 'Tis the glove of Marion!"
For some seconds Scarthe stood twirling the piece of doeskin between his
fingers, and examining it on all sides. A feeling far stronger than
mere curiosity prompted him to this minute inspection, as would be
divined by the dark shadows rapidly chasing each other over his pallid
brow.
His looks betrayed both anguish and anger, as he emphatically repeated
the phrase--"Forestalled, by heaven!"
"Stay there!" he continued, thrusting the glove under the breast of his
doublet. "Stay there, thou devilish tell-tale--close to the bosom thou
hast filled with bitter thoughts. Trifle as thou seemest, I may yet
find thee of serious service."
And with a countenance in which bitter chagrin was blended with dark
determination, he continued to pace excitedly over the floor of the
apartment.
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