"By Heaven!" exclaimed the cavalier, suddenly interrupting the train of
his conjectures; "there's no time to be lost! I must from here, and at
once. Garth!"
"Master Henry?"
"Saddle my horse, on the instant! Oriole!"
The Indian stood before him.
"Are my pistols loaded?"
Oriole made sign in the affirmative--pointing to the pistols that lay on
the oaken mantelshelf.
"Enough! I may need them ere long. Place them in the holsters."
"And now, Oriole," continued his master, after a reflective pause, and
regarding his attendant with some sadness; "I am going upon a journey.
I may be absent for some time. You cannot accompany me. You must stay
here--till I either return, or send for you."
The Indian listened, his countenance clouding over with an expression of
disquietude.
"Don't be downhearted, my brave!" pursued Holtspur. "We shall not be
separated for long--no longer than I can help."
Oriole asked by a gesture why he was to be left behind; adding in a
pantomime equally intelligible to Holtspur, that he was ready to follow
him to the death--to die for him.
"I know all that, faithful boy," responded his patron and protector;
"right well do I know it: since you've given proof of it once before.
But your prowess, that might avail me in the pathless coverts of your
native forest, and against enemies of your own colour, would be of
little service here. The foe I have now to fear is not a naked savage
with club and tomahawk; but a king with sword and sceptre. Ah! my brave
Oriole, your single arm would be idle to shield me, where a whole host
are to be my adversaries. Come, faithful friend! I lose time--too much
have I lost already. Quick with my valise. Pack and strap it to the
croup. Put these papers into it. The rest may remain as they are.
Quick, good Oriole! Hubert should be saddled by this time. Garth, what
is it?"
Garth stood in the doorway--breathless, ghastly pale.
"Ho! what's that? I need not ask. Too well do I understand those
sounds!"
"Lor', O lor'! Master Henry! The house be surrounded wi' horsemen.
They be the kewreseers from Bulstrode."
"Ha! Scarthe has been quick and cunning! I'm too late, I fear!"
Saying this, the cavalier snatched up his pistols--at the same time
grasping his sword--as if with the intention of making an attempt to
defend himself.
The ex-footpad also armed himself with his terrible pike--which chanced
to be standing in the hall; while Oriole's weapon was a tomahawk,
habitually worn about his person.
Drawing his blade from its scabbard, Holtspur rushed towards the front
entrance--close followed by Garth and the Indian.
On reaching the door, which was still standing open, the conspirator saw
at a glance, that resistance would be worse than idle: since it could
only end in the sacrifice of his own life, and perhaps the lives of his
faithful followers.
In front of the house was ranged a row of steel-clad cuirassiers--each
with his arquebus ready to deliver its fire; while the trampling of
hoofs, the clanking of armour, and the voices of men resounding from the
rear of the dwelling, told that the circumvallation was complete.
"Who are you? What is your business?" demanded Holtspur of one, who
from his attitude and gestures appeared to act as the leader--but whose
face was hidden behind the closed visor of his helmet.
The demand was mechanical--a mere matter of form. He who made it knew--
without the necessity of asking--to whom he was addressing himself, as
well as the business that had brought him there.
He had not encountered that cavalier in the field of fight--and
conquered him too--without leaving a _souvenir_ by which he could be
recognised.
But it needed not the wounded arm--still carried in its sling--to enable
Henry Holtspur to recognise Richard Scarthe, his adversary in the
equestrian duel. Without such evidence both horse and rider might have
been identified.
"I came not here to answer idle questions," replied Scarthe, with a
laugh that rang ironically through the bars of his umbril. "Your first,
I presume, needs no answer; and though I shall be over-courteous in
replying to your second, you are welcome to the response you have
challenged. My business, then, is to arrest a traitor!"
"A traitor! Who?"
"Henry Holtspur--a traitor to his king."
"Coward!" cried Holtspur, returning scorn for scorn; "this is the thanks
I receive for sparing your paltry life. From your extensive _entourage_
of steel-clad hirelings, it is evident you fear a second chastisement at
my hands. Why did you not bring a whole regiment with you? Ha! ha!
ha!"
"You are pleased to be facetious," said Scarthe, whose triumphant
position facilitated the restraining of his temper. "In the end, Master
Holtspur, you may find it not such matter for mirth. Let them be merry
who win. Laughter comes with but ill grace from the lips of those who
are about to lose; _nay, have already lost_."
"Already lost!" interrupted Holtspur, driven to the interrogatory, by
the tone of significant insinuation in which the other had spoken.
"Not your liberty: though that also you have already lost. Not your
head: that you may lose by-and-bye; but something which, if you be a
true cavalier, should be dear to you as either."
"What?" mechanically inquired Holtspur, moved to the interrogatory, less
by the ambiguous speech than by the sight of an object which, at that
moment, flashed before his angry eye. "What?"
"Your _mistress_!" was the taunting reply. "Don't fancy, my pretty
picker-up of stray gloves, that you are the only one who receives such
sweet favours. The fair lady of the golden hair, and white gauntlets,
may have taken a fancy to dispose of a pair; and where two are thus
delicately dispensed, the last given is the one most prized by me!"
As Scarthe said this, he raised his hand triumphantly towards the peak
of his helmet; where a glove of white doeskin was seen conspicuously
set--its tapering fingers turned forward, as if pointing in derision at
him who possessed its fellow!
Scarthe's gesture was superfluous. The eye of his adversary had been
already fixed upon the indicated object; and the frown, that suddenly
overspread his face, betrayed a strange commingling of emotions--
surprise, incredulity, anger, with something more than its share of
incipient jealousy.
Rushed into Holtspur's mind at that moment, the recollection of the
_tete-a-tete_, he had witnessed after parting with Marion Wade--her
promenade up the long avenue, side by side with Scarthe--that short but
bitter moment, when she had appeared _complaisante_.
If he wronged her in thought, he did not do so in speech. His jealousy
kept silence; his anger alone found utterance.
"False trickster!" he cried, "'tis an impudent deception. She never
gave you that glove. Thou hast found it--stolen it, more likely; and,
by Heaven! I shall take it from thee, and restore it to its slandered
owner--even here, in spite of your myrmidons! Yield it up, Richard
Scarthe! or on the point of my sword--"
The threat was left unfinished, or rather unheard: for, simultaneous
with its utterance, came the action--Holtspur raising his naked blade,
and rushing upon his adversary.
"Seize him!" cried the latter, reining his horse backward to escape the
thrust. "Seize the rebel! Slay him, if he resist!"
At the command, half-a-dozen of the cuirassiers spurred their steeds
forward to the spot. Some stretched forth their hands to lay hold upon
Holtspur, while others aimed at striking him down with the butts of
their carbines.
Garth and the Indian had sallied forth to defend their master; who, had
it not been for this, would perhaps have made a more prolonged
resistance. But the sight of his two faithful followers--thus
unnecessarily risking their lives--caused him suddenly to change his mad
design; and, without offering further resistance, he surrendered himself
into the hands of the soldiers who had surrounded him.
"Fast bind the rebel!" cried Scarthe, endeavouring to conceal his
chagrin, at having shown fear, by pouring forth a volley of loyal
speeches.
"Relieve him of his worthless weapon! Tie him hand and foot--neck and
crop! He is mad, and therefore dangerous. Ha! ha! ha! Tight, you
knaves! Tight as a hangman's neck-tie!"
The order was obeyed quickly--if not to the letter; and in a few seconds
Henry Holtspur stood bound, in the midst of his jeering enemies.
"Bring forth his horse!" cried Scarthe, in mocking tones. "The _black
horseman_! ha! ha! ha! Let him have one last ride on his favourite
charger. After that, he shall ride at the King's expense. Ha! ha! ha!"
The black steed, already saddled by Garth, was soon brought round, and
led towards the captive. There was something significant in the neigh,
to which Hubert gave utterance as he approached the spot--something
mournful: as if he suspected, or knew, that his master was in a position
of peril.
As he was conducted nearer, and at length placed side by side with the
prisoner, he bent his neck round till his muzzle touched Holtspur's
cheek; while his low, tremulous whimpering proved, as plainly as words
could have expressed it, that he comprehended all.
The cuirassier captain had watched the odd and affecting incident.
Instead of exciting his sympathy, it only intensified his chagrin. The
presence of that steed reminded him, more forcibly than ever, of his own
humiliating defeat--of which the animal had been more than a little the
cause. Scarthe hated the horse almost as much as his master!
"Now, brave sir!" shouted he, endeavouring, in a derisive strain, to
drown the unpleasant memories which the sight of Hubert had summoned up.
"Such a distinguished individual must not ride bareheaded along the
king's highway. Ho there! Bring out his beaver, and set it upon his
crown jauntily--jauntily!"
Three or four of the cuirassiers, who had dismounted, were proceeding to
obey this last order--and had already mounted the steps leading up to
the entrance--when an ejaculation from their commander caused them to
turn back.
"Never mind, my lads!" he cried, as if having changed his intention.
"Back to your horses! Never mind the hat: I shall go for it myself."
The final words of this injunction were rather muttered, than spoken
aloud. It was not intended they should be heard. They appeared to be
the involuntary expression of some secret purpose, which had suddenly
suggested itself to the mind of the speaker.
After giving utterance to them, the cuirassier captain leaped silently
out of his saddle; and, mounting the stone steps, entered the door of
the dwelling.
He traversed the entrance-hall with searching glances, and continued on
along the corridor--until he stood opposite the door of an apartment.
It was the library late occupied by the conspirators. He knew its
situation; and surmised that he would there find what he was seeking
for.
He was not mistaken. On entering he saw the desired object--the hat of
Holtspur, hanging upon the antlers of a stag that were fixed in a
conspicuous position against the wall.
He clutched at the hat, and jerked it down--with as much eagerness, as
if he feared that something might intervene to prevent him.
It needed no close scrutiny to discover the white gauntlet, still in its
place beside the _panache_ of ostrich feathers. On the next instant,
the hat, though permitted to retain its plume, was despoiled of the
doeskin.
With a bitter smile passing over his pale features, did Scarthe scan the
two gloves once more brought together. Finger by finger, and stitch by
stitch did he compare them--holding them side by side, and up to the
window's light. His smile degenerated into a frown, as, on the
completion of the analysis, he became convinced--beyond the possibility
of a doubt--that the glove taken from the hat of Henry Holtspur, and
that now figuring on his own helmet, were _fellows, and formed a pair_.
Right and left were they--the latter being the true love-token!
He had entertained a hope, though but a very slight one, that he might
still be mistaken. He could indulge it no longer. The gauntlet, worn
in the hat of the black horseman, must have once graced the fair fingers
of Marion Wade.
"_Has_ she given it to him? Need I ask the question? She must have
done so, beyond a doubt. May the fiend fire my soul, if I do not find
an opportunity to make her rue the gift!"
Such was the unamiable menace with which Scarthe completed the
comparison of the gloves.
That, just taken from the hat of Holtspur, was now transferred to the
breast of his doublet. Quick and secret was the transfer: as if he
deemed it desirable that the act should not be observed.
"Go!" he commanded, addressing himself to one of the troopers who
attended him, "go into the garden--if there be such a thing about this
wretched place. If not, take to the fields; and procure me some
flowers. Red ones--no matter what sort, so that they be of a bright red
colour. Bring them hither, and be quick about it!"
The soldier--accustomed to obey orders without questioning--hurried out
to execute the singular command.
"You," continued Scarthe, speaking to the other trooper, who had entered
with him, "you set about collecting those papers. Secure that valise.
It appears to need no further packing. See that it be taken to
Bulstrode. Search every room in the house; and bring out any arms or
papers you may light upon. You know your work. Do it briskly!"
With like alacrity the second attendant hastened to perform the part
allotted to him; and Scarthe was for the moment left to himself.
"I should be more hungry," muttered he, "after these documents, I see
scattered about, were I in need of them. No doubt there's many a
traitor's name inscribed on their pages: and enough besides to
compromise half the squires in the county. More than one, I warrant me,
through this silent testimony, would become entitled to a cheap lodging
in that grand tenement eastward of Cheap. It's a sort of thing I don't
much relish; though now I'm into it, I may as well make a wholesale
sweep of these conspiring churls. As for Holtspur and Sir Marmy, I need
no written evidence of their guilt. My own oral testimony, conjoined
with that of my worthy sub, will be sufficient to deprive one--or both,
if need be--of their heads. So--to the devil with the documents!"
As he said this, he turned scornfully away from the table on which the
papers were strewed.
"Stay!" he exclaimed--the instant after facing round again, with a look
that betokened some sudden change in his views; "Not so fast, Richard
Scarthe! Not so fast! Who knows that among this forest of treasonous
scribbling, I may not find some flower of epistolary correspondence--a
_billet-doux_. Ha! if there should be one from _her_! Strange, I did
not think of it before. If--if--if--"
In the earnestness, with which he proceeded to toss over the litter of
letters and other documents, his hypothetical thought, whatever it was,
remained unspoken.
For several minutes he busied himself among the papers--opening scores
of epistles--in the expectation of finding one in a feminine hand, and
bearing the signature: "Marion Wade."
He was disappointed. No such name was to be found among the
correspondents of Henry Holtspur. They were all of the masculine
gender--all, or nearly all, politicians and conspirators!
Scarthe was about discontinuing his search--for he had opened everything
in the shape of a letter--when a document of imposing aspect attracted
his attention. It bore the royal signet upon its envelope.
"By the eyes of Argus!" cried he, as his own fell upon the well-known
seal; "What see I? A letter from the King! What can his majesty have
to communicate to this faithful subject, I wonder? Zounds! 'tis
addressed to myself!"
"_For ye Captain Scarthe_,
"_Command: H.M. Royal Cuirassiers_,
"_Bulstrode Park_,
"_Shire of Buckingham_."
"The intercepted despatch! Here's a discovery! Henry Holtspur a
footpad! In league with one, at all events--else how should he have
become possessed of this? So--so! Not a traitor's, but a felon's death
shall he die! The gibbet instead of the block! Ha! Mistress Marion
Wade! you will repent the gift of your pretty glove, when you learn that
you have bestowed it on a thief! By Saint Sulpiece! 'twill be a comical
_eclaircissement_!"
"Ho, fellow! You've got the flowers?"
"I have, captain. They be the best I can find. There a'nt nothing but
weeds about the old place, an' withered at that."
"So much the better: I want them a trifle withered. These will do--
colour, shape--just the thing. Here I arrange them in a little bunch,
and tie it to this hat. Fix them, as if the clasp confined them in
their place. Be smart, my man; and make a neat thing of it!" The
trooper plied his fingers with all the plastic ingenuity in his power;
and, in a few seconds of time, a somewhat ragged bouquet was arranged,
and adjusted on the beaver belonging to the black horseman--in the same
place late occupied by the white gauntlet.
"Now!" said Scarthe, making a stride in the direction of the door, "Take
out this hat. Place it on the head of the prisoner; and hark ye,
corporal; you needn't let _him_ see the transformation that has been
made, nor need you show it conspicuously to any one else. You
understand me?"
The trooper having replied to these confidential commands with a nod and
a knowing look, hurried off to execute them.
Stubbs, in charge of the guards outside, had already mounted Holtspur on
horseback; where, with hands fast bound, and, for additional security,
tied to the croup of the saddle,--his ankles also lashed to the stirrup
leathers, and a steel-clad cuirassier, with drawn sword on each side of
him--he looked like a captive left without the slightest chance of
escape.
Even thus ignominiously pinioned, no air of the felon had he. His head,
though bare, was not bowed; but carried proudly erect, without swagger,
and with that air of tranquil indifference which distinguishes the true
cavalier, even in captivity. His rough, and somewhat vagabond captors,
could not help admiring that heroic courage--of which, but a few days
before, they had witnessed such splendid proof.
"What a pity," whispered one, "what a pity he's not on our side! He'd
make a noble officer of cavalry!"
"Help Master Holtspur to his hat!" tauntingly commanded Scarthe, as he
clambered upon his own steed. "The wind must not be permitted to toss
those waving locks too rudely. How becoming they will be upon the
block! Ha! ha! ha!"
As commanded, his hat was placed upon the prisoner's head.
The "forward," brayed out by the bugle, drowned the satirical laugh of
their leader, while the troopers, in files of two--with Scarthe at their
head, Stubbs in the rear, and Holtspur near the centre--moved slowly
across the lawn, leaving the mansion of Stone Dean without a master!
Volume Two, Chapter XIV.
On perceiving that his presence could no longer be of any service to his
patron, and might be detrimental to himself, Gregory Garth had betaken
his body to a place of concealment--one of the garrets of Stone Dean--
where, through a dormer window, he had been witness to all that
transpired outside.
As the last of Scarthe's troopers passed out through the gateway of
Stone Dean, the ex-footpad came down from his hiding-place, and
reappeared in front of the house.
Guided by a similar instinct, the Indian had also made himself
invisible; and now reappearing at the same time, the two stood face to
face; but without the ability to exchange either word or idea.
Gregory could not understand the pantomimic language of the Indian;
while the latter knew not a word of English--the cavalier always
conversing with him in his native tongue.
It is true that neither had much to say to the other. Both had
witnessed the capture of their common patron and master. Oriole only
knew that he was in the hands of enemies; while Garth more clearly
comprehended the character of these enemies, and their motive for making
him a prisoner.
Now that he _was_ a prisoner, the first and simultaneous thought of both
was--whether there was any chance of effecting his escape.
With the American this was an instinct; while perhaps with any other
Englishman, than one of Garth's kidney, the idea would scarce have been
entertained.
But the ex-footpad, in the course of his professional career, had found
his way out of too many prisons, to regard the accomplishment of such a
feat as either impossible or improbable, and he at once set about
reflecting upon what steps should be taken for the rescue, and release
of Henry Holtspur.
Garth was sadly in need of a second head to join counsel with his own.
That of the Indian, however good it might be, was absolutely of no use
to him: since there was no way of getting at the ideas it contained.
"The unfort'nate creetur!" exclaimed he, after several vain attempts at
a mutual understanding of signs; "he an't no good to me--not half so
much as my own old dummies: for they wur o' some sarvice. Well, I maun
try an' manage 'ithout him."
Indeed Gregory, whether wishing it or not, was soon reduced to this
alternative: for the Indian, convinced that he could not make himself
intelligible, desisted from the attempt. Following out another of his
natural instincts, he parted from the ex-footpad, and glided off upon
the track of the troopers--perhaps with some vague idea of being more
serviceable to his master if once by his side again.
"The dummy's faithful to him as a hound," muttered Gregory, seeing the
Indian depart; "same as my ole clo' pals war to me. Sir Henry ha' did
'im a sarvice some time, I dar say--as he does everybody whenever he
can. Now, what's to be done for _him_?"
The footpad stood for some minutes in a reflecting attitude.
"They've ta'en him up to Bulstrode, whar they're quartered. No doubt
about that. They won't keep him there a longish time. They mean no
common prison to hold _him_. Newgate, or the Tower--one o' the two are
sure o' bein' his lodging afore the morrow night?
"What chance o' a rescue on the road? Ne'er a much, I fear. Dang seize
it! my dummies wouldn't do for that sort o' thing. There'll go a whole
troop o' these kewreseers along wi' him? No doubt o't.
"I wonder if they'll take him up the day? Maybe they woant; an' if they
doant, theer mout be a chance i' the night. I wish I had some one to
help me with a good think.
"Hanged if I kin believe ole Dancey to be a treetur. 'Tan't possible,
after what he ha' sayed to me, no later than yesterday mornin'. No,
'tan't possible. He ha' know'd nothin' 'bout this bizness; and it be
all the doin's o' that devil's get o' a Walford.
"I'll go see Dancey. I'll find out whether he had a hand in't or no.
If no, then he'll do summat to help me; and maybe that daughter o'
his'll do summat? Sartin _she will_. If my eyes don't cheat me, the
girl's mad after Sir Henry--mad as a she hare in March time.
"I'll go to Dancey's this very minnit. I've another errand in that same
direction; an' I kin kill two birds with the one stooan. Cuss the
whey-faced loon Walford! If I doant larrup him, as long as I can find a
hard spot inside his ugly skin. Augh!"
And winding up his soliloquy with the aspirated exclamation, he
re-entered the house--as if to prepare for his proposed visit to the
cottage of Dancey.
Although he had promised himself to start on the instant, it was a good
half hour before he took his departure from Stone Dean. The larder lay
temptingly open--as also the wine-cellar; and although the captors of
Henry Holtspur had foraged freely upon both, the short time allowed them
for ransacking had prevented their making a clear sweep of the shelves.
The ex-footpad, therefore, found sufficient food left to furnish him
with a tolerable breakfast, and wine enough to wash it down.
In addition to the time spent in appeasing his appetite, there was
another affair that occupied some twenty minutes longer. In his
master's bedroom--and other apartments that had not been entered by the
cuirassiers--there by a number of valuable articles of a portable kind.
These, that might also be said to be now ownerless, were of course no
longer safe--even within the house. Any thief might enter, and carry
them away under his cloak.
The man, who made this reflection, was not one to leave such chattels
unsecured; and procuring a large bag, he thrust into it, silver cups,
and candlesticks, with several other costly articles of _luxe_, dress,
and armour--one upon top of the other--until the sack was filled to the
mouth. Hoisting it on his shoulders, he marched out of the house; and,
after carrying the spoil to some distance among the shrubbery, he
selected for it a place of concealment.
As this was an act in which the _ci-devant_ footpad was an adept, he
bestowed the property in such a manner, that the sharpest eye might have
passed within six feet without perceiving it.
It is not justice to Gregory to say that he was _stealing_ this
treasure. He was merely secreting it, against the return of its owner.
But it would be equally untrue to assert, that, while hiding the bag
among the bushes, his mind did not give way to some vague speculation as
to the chances of a _reversion_.
Perhaps it occurred to him that in the event of Holtspur never returning
to Stone Dean,--or never being again seen by him, Garth--the contents of
that sack would be some compensation for the loss of his beloved master.
Certainly some such thought flitted vaguely through his brain at the
moment; though it could not have taken the shape of a wish: for in the
very next instant he took his departure from Stone Dean--eagerly bent on
an errand, which, if successful, would annihilate all hope of that
vaguely contemplated reversion.
As may be surmised from his soliloquised speeches, his route lay direct
to the dwelling of Dick Dancey; and in due time he arrived within sight
of this humble abode.
Before coming out into the slight clearing that surrounded it, he
observed some one staggering off upon the opposite side. He only caught
a glimpse of this person--who in the next instant disappeared among the
trees--but in that glimpse Garth identified the individual. It was the
woodman Walford--who, from the way he was tracking it, appeared to be in
a state of intoxication.
Garth comprehending the cause, came easily to this conclusion: and
making no further pause--except to ascertain that the woodman was
continuing his serpentine promenade--passed on towards the cottage.
He had made a correct guess as to Walford's condition: for at that
moment the woodman was perhaps as drunk as he had ever been in is life.
How he came to get into this state will be made clear, by giving in
brief detail some incidents that had transpired since his departure from
Stone Dean--in which he and his coadjutor Dancey had been the chief
actors.
It was still only the earliest dawn of morning when the brace of
worthies, returning home after their night's stable work, entered under
the shadows of Wapsey's Wood; but there was light enough to show that
the steps of neither were as steady as they should have been. Both kept
repeatedly stumbling against the trees; and once Walford went head
foremost into a pool of muddy water--from which he emerged with his foul
complexion still fouler in appearance.
The rain, which had rendered the path slippery, might have accounted for
this unsteadiness in the steps of the two foresters. But there was also
observable in their speech an obliquity, which could not have been
caused by the rain, but was clearly the consequence of exposure to a
more potent fluid.
Dancey conversed glibly and gleefully--interlarding his speech with an
occasional spell of chuckling laughter. He had come away perfectly
satisfied with the proceedings of the night; the proceeds of which--a
fistful of silver--he repeatedly pulled out of his pocket, and held up
to the dim light--tossing it about to assure himself that it was the
real coin of the realm that chinked between his fingers.
Walford's palm seemed not to have been so liberally "greased;" but for
all that he was also in high spirits. Something besides his perquisites
had put him in a good humour with himself; though he did not impart the
secret of this something to his companion. It was not altogether the
contents of the stone jar which he had abstracted from the cellars of
Stone Dean; though it might have been this that was causing him to talk
so thickly, and stumble so frequently upon the path.
There was a stimulant to his joy more exciting than the spirit he had
imbibed out of the bottle. It was the prospect of proximate ruin to the
man, whose bread he had been just eating, and whose beer he had been
drinking.
It was by no means clear to him how this ruin would be brought about.
His new patron had not given him so much as a hint of the use he
intended making of that night's work. But, dull as was the brain of the
brute Walford, he knew that something would follow likely to rid him of
his rival; and this, too, without any further risk, or exertion, on his
part. Both the danger and the trouble of avenging himself--for he felt
vengeful towards Holtspur--were not only taken out of his hands, but he
was also promised a handsome reward for his easy and willing service.
This was the real cause of his secret glee: at the moment heightened by
the repeated potations in which he had been indulging.
On arriving at the cottage of his companion, it was not to be expected
that Walford, in this state of feeling, would pass without looking in.
Nor was Dancey in the mind to let him pass: for it so chanced that the
jar of _Hollands_, which the younger woodman had abstracted from the
cellars of Stone Dean, was carried under the skirt of his doublet, and
Dancey knew that it was not yet empty.
The challenge of the old deer-stealer, to enter his cottage and finish
the gin, was readily responded to by his _confrere_; and both,
staggering inside the hut, flung themselves into a couple of
rush-bottomed chairs. Walford, uncorking the "grey beard," placed it
upon the table; and, tin cups having been procured, the two woodmen
continued the carouse, which their homeward scramble had interrupted.
It had now got to be daylight; and the beautiful Betsey, who had been
astir long before sunrise, was summoned to attend upon them.
Neither cared for eating. The larder of Stone Dean had spoiled the
appetites of both; while its cellar had only sharpened their craving for
drink.
At first Walford scarce regarded the chill reception extended to him by
the daughter of his host. He was too much elated at the prospect--of
being soon disembarrassed of his dreaded rival--to pay attention to the
frowns of his mistress. At that moment he believed himself in a fair
way of becoming master of the situation.
By little and little, however, his jealous misgivings began to rise into
the ascendant--mastering even the potent spirit of the juniper.
A movement which Bet had made towards the door--where she stood looking
wistfully out, as if expecting some one--forcibly arrested Walford's
attention; and, notwithstanding the presumed restraint of her father's
presence, he broke out in a strain of resentful recrimination.
"Da-ang thee!" he exclaimed, angrily blurting out the phrase, "Thee be
a' stannin' in that door for no good. I wonder thee allows it, Dick
Dancey?"
"Eh! lad--hic-hic-ough!--what is't, Wull? Say Bets'! what ha' ye--
hic-hic-ough--eh?"
"She be danged! An' thee be a old fool, Dick--to let her go on so wi'
that fellow."
"Eh, Wull? Wha' fella--who ye meean, lad?--hic-cuff!"
"_She_ know who I mean--she know well enough, wi' all her innocent
looks. Ha! He'll make a--of her, if he han't did it a'ready."
"Father! will you listen to this language?" cried Bet, turning in from
the door, and appealing to her natural protector against the vile term
which her drunken suitor had applied to her. "It isn't the first time
he has called me by that name. Oh, father! don't let him say it again!"
"Your father 'll find out some day that it be only the truth," muttered
Walford doggedly.
"Troos!" repeated Dancey, with a maudlin stare, "Troos--what is't,
lad?--what is't, Betsey, gurl?"
"He called me a --," answered the girl, reluctantly repeating the
opprobrious epithet.
"He did! called you a --, Betsey? If he called ye th'-th'-that, I'll
sm-a-a-ash him into faggots!"
As the woodman uttered this characteristic threat, he attempted to raise
himself into an upright attitude--apparently with the intention of
carrying it into execution.
The attempt proved a failure; for, after half-regaining his legs, the
intoxicated deer-stealer sank back into his chair--the "rungs" of which
bent and cracked under his ponderous weight, as if about to part company
with each other.
"Ee-s!" tauntingly continued the accuser, gaining confidence by the
helplessness of Old Dick--otherwise dreaded by him. "Thee deserves to
be called it! Thee be all I say--a--"
"You hear him, father? He has said it again!"
"Said what--what, Bets, gurl?"
"That I'm a--"
And Betsey once more repeated the offensive word, this time pronouncing
it with fuller emphasis.
The second appeal called forth a more energetic response. This time
Dancey's attempt to get upon his feet was more successful.
Balancing himself against the back of his great arm-chair, he cried
out:--
"Wull Walford! Thee be a villain! How dar' thee call my daughter--a--
a--hic-cock? Goo out o' my house this minute; or if thee doant--
hic-coo--if thee doant, I'll split thy skull like a withy! Get thee
goo-oo-oone!"
"I'll do jest that!" answered Walford, sulkily rising from his chair,
and scowling resentfully both on father and daughter. "I ha' got a
house o' my own to go to; an' dang me, if I doant take along wi' me what
be my own!"
Saying this, he whipped the stone jar from the table, stuck the cork
into it; and placing it once more under his skirt, strode out of the
deer-stealer's dwelling.
"Da-ang thee, Dick Dancey!" he shouted back, after stepping over the
threshold. "Thee be-est an old fool--that's what thee be! An' as for
thee," he added, turning fiercely towards Bet, "maybe thee hast seen thy
fine fancy--for the last time. Hoora! _I've did that this night, 'll
put iron bars atween thee an' him_. Dang thee, thou--"
And once more repeating the insulting epithet, the vile brute broke
through the flimsy fence, and went reeling away into the woods. It was
at this moment that his receding figure came under the eyes of Gregory
Garth, just then approaching the cottage from the opposite direction.
"What be that he say 'bout iron bars?" inquired Dancey, slightly sobered
by the unpleasant incident. "Who be he threatening, gurl?"
"I can't say, father," replied Bet, telling a white lie. "I think he
don't know himself what he says. He is the worse for drink."
"That he be, ha! ha!--E-es--hic-coo--he must be full o't--that
hol-hol-lands he had up there at the old house--hic-coo! that ha' done
'im up. The lad han't got much o' a head for drink. He be easy, to get
over-c-c-come. Ha! ha! ha! I b'lieve Betsy, gurl, I've been a drinkin'
m'self? Never mind! Be all right after I ha' a wink i' the old
arm-ch-ch-air. So here goo-go-es!"
With this wind-up, the deer-stealer let himself down into the great
beechwood chair--as easily as his unmanageable limbs would allow him--
and, in less than ten seconds' time, his snoring proved that he was
asleep.
Volume Two, Chapter XV.
The parting speech of her resentful lover had not fallen upon the ears
of Bet Dancey without producing an effect.
It was not the opprobrious epithet concluding it that had caused the red
to forsake her cheeks--leaving them, with her lips, blanched and
bloodless. It was not the vilifying phrase, but the hint that preceded
it, which caused her to start to her feet, and stand for some time
gasping with suspended breath.
"_Maybe thee hast seen thy fine fancy for the last time. Ha! I've did
that this night 'll put iron bars atween thee and him_."
Such were Walford's exact words.
Between her and whom? Holtspur? Who else? Who but Holtspur was in
_her_ mind? And who but he could be in the mind of Walford?
She knew that Walford was fiercely jealous of the black horseman. Glad
would she have been for the latter to have given him cause. Alas! she
alone had exhibited the signs that had conducted Walford to this
jealousy.
Iron bars--a prison--for him--the man who in her own wild way she almost
adored!
What did it mean? Was it in prospect, this threatened prison for
Holtspur? Or might it mean that he was already incarcerated?
The latter could scarce be--else something relating to it would have
escaped from the lips either of her father or his guest, during their
babble over the bottle of Hollands?
They had been at Stone Dean throughout the whole night. The girl knew
it, and knew how they had been employed; knew also something of the
character of the company convened there--enough to convince her that it
was some sort of a secret assemblage, dangerous to be held under the
light of day.
The unlettered, but intelligent maiden, knew, moreover, that the
cavalier was a man of peculiar inclinings--that is, one who was
suspected of not being loyal to the king. She had heard all this in
whispers, and from the lips of her father--who was accustomed to make no
secret of his own disloyalty.
Bet regarded not the republican leanings of the man she admired.
Perhaps on this account she admired him all the more? Not because they
were in consonance with the professions of her own father; but from the
courage required to avow such sentiments in such times; and courage was
just the virtue to challenge the admiration of this bold-hearted beauty.
If there was aught to interfere with her approval of Holtspur's
political proclivities, it was a vague sense of his being in danger from
holding them. This, from time to time, had rendered her uneasy on his
account.
The words of Walford had changed this uneasiness into a positive
anxiety.
True, he appeared to have uttered them in spite; but not the less likely
was his conditional threat to have a foundation in some fact about
transpiring, or that had already transpired.
"There _is_ danger," muttered the maiden, as Walford went off. "Master
Holtspur must be warned of it--if I have to go myself. I _shall_ go,"
she added, as she saw her father sink helplessly into his chair, "and
this very instant."
She whipped her hooded cloak from its peg, flung it loosely over her
shoulders; and, casting another glance towards the sleeper in the chair,
was about to set forth on her half-spoken errand; when, just at that
moment, the lurcher gave out his note of alarm.
The intoxicated deer-stealer heard the bark; stirred slightly on his
seat; muttered some incoherent syllables; and wandered off into a fresh
maze of drunken dreaming.
"If it should be Will coming back?" said Bet, moving on tiptoe towards
the door; "I wouldn't be a bit surprised."
"Thank the stars, it's not! Some one from the direction of Stone Dean!
Oh! if it should be--"
An exclamation of disappointment interrupted the speech, as a tall,
motley-clad figure, a dark-skinned face, and black bushy whiskers
presented themselves a short distance off, under the branches of the
trees.
"It's that new friend of father's--_his_ friend, too," muttered the
girl. "I heard them say he was at the Dean last night. Perhaps _he_
can tell? Maybe he comes--"
"Morrow, my gurl!" saluted Gregory Garth, interrupting Bet's
speculations as to the object of his visit. "Niceish weather. Old bird
back to his roost yet?"
"My father, you mean?" rejoined Bet, not showing any displeasure at the
bizarre style, either of the salute, or the interrogatory.
"Why, sartin, I means him. Theer an't no other old bird as belongs to
this nest, be there? At home, eh?"
"He is. He's asleep in his chair. You see him there?"
"Well, he do appear to be somethin' o' that sort, sureish enough.
Asleep, eh? He snorts like a good un! An't he a leetlish bit more than
sleepin'?" continued the interrogator, seeing that Bet hesitated to make
reply to this last interrogatory. "Eh, gurl?"
"Well! I won't ask ye to answer the question--seein' he be thy father.
But theer sartinly be a strongish smell here. Ah! it be coomin' from
these cups, I suppose."
Garth, as he said this, lifted one of the drinking vessels from the
table; and held it up to his nose.
"That's been Hollands in that 'ere. Same in t'other," he added,
smelling the second cup. "Got the exact _bokay_--as the French say
'bout their wines--o' some o' them spirits over at the Dean. But surely
the old un don't need both cups to drink out o'. There's been another
un at it? It wan't thyself?"
"No!" replied Bet, pronouncing the denial with a slightly indignant
emphasis.
"Doant be 'fended, gurl! I war only a jokin' thee. But who war the
other jovial?"
"A friend of father's. You know him, master? Will Walford it was."
"A friend o' your father's, eh? A great friend o' yer father's, aint
he?"
"Father thinks a deal of him--more than he ought to, may be."
"Then it's not true, Mistress Betsey, that you be so sweet upon this
Wull Walford?"
"Sweet upon _him_! Who said I was?"
"Well, nobody as I knows on; but everybody say he be that way about
you."
"I can't help that; nor people's tongues, neither. If people would only
mind their own business--"
"Ah! if they would, what a happy, comfortable world we'd have o't! But
they woan't--they woant--dang seize 'em! they woant!"
After giving utterance to this somewhat old-fashioned reflection,
Gregory remained for a time in a state of moody silence--as if labouring
under some regret which the thought had called up.
"You have some business with father?" said Bet, interrogatively.
"Well--that," replied Garth, appearing to hesitate about what he was
going to say--"that depends. Sartin the old un don't look much like
doin' business just now--do he?"
"I fear not," was Bet's simple reply.
"May be, Mistress Betsey," continued Garth, giving a glance of scrutiny
into the face of the girl. "May be _you_ might do for the business I
have on hand--better, maybe, than thy father? I want--"
"What is it you want?" inquired Betsey, too impatient to wait for the
words, that were spoken by Garth with some deliberation.
"A friend. Not for myself; but for one that be in danger."
"Who--who's in danger?" asked the girl, with an eagerness of manner,
that did not escape the quick eye of him to whom the interrogatory was
addressed.
"A gentleman--a real gentleman. _You_ ought to know who I mean?"
"I ought to know! How sir?"
"You han't heerd, then, what hae' happened at Stone Dean, this mornin'?"
Bet made no answer. Her look, while proclaiming a negative, told the
presentiment with which the question had inspired her.
"You han't heerd as how Master Holtspur ha' been tuk a prisoner, and
carried away by the kewreseers o' Captain Scarthe? You han't heerd
that, eh?"
"Oh!" cried Bet, adding a somewhat more emphatic form of ejaculation.
"That then is what he meant. I might have known it. O God--it was
that!"
"Who meant? What?"
"Walford, Will Walford, oh!--the villain!"
"Thee callest him a villain. Do thy father think him one?"
"When he hears this, he will. Oh! Master Holtspur a prisoner! and to
that man who is his deadly enemy! 'Tis Will Walford's doings--I am sure
it is."
"What makes thee think that, gurl?"
"He said he had done something--this very hour--something to bring it
about."
"Did he say so to thy father?"
"No; only out of spite to me--just as he was going off. My father heard
him, but he was too--too sleepy to understand him. If he had--"
"He would ha' been angry wi' him--as thou art?"
"I'm sure he would."
"All right. I thought as much."
"A prisoner! Oh, sir! where have they taken him to? What will they do
to him? Tell me--tell me!"
"I'll tell thee, when I know myself; and that, gurl, be just the errand
ha' brought me over here. I see it be no use wakin' up the old 'un just
now. Them Hollands'll keep _him_ a prisoner, till well-nigh sundown.
I' the meanwhile, somethin' must be done 'ithout him. Maybe you can
sarve my purpose, as well, or better'n him--if thee be that way
disposed."
"What purpose? If it be anything I can do for--for--Master Holtspur!
Oh, I shall be only too glad."
"That be just what I want. Thee must know I'm a friend o' Master
Holtspur--an old retainer o' his family; and I'll lay down my life, or
a'most that, to get him out o' the clutches o' these kewreseers. I know
theer captain'll try to get him beheaded. Ah! an' he'll get it done
too; if we can't find some way o' escape for him. It's to find that, I
wants thy help, Mistress Betsey."
"Tell me how I can help thee--I am ready for anything?" responded the
girl.
As she said this, both her air and attitude betokened the truthfulness
of her words.
"There be no time to lose, then; else I mout ha' waited for yer father
to go snacks wi' us. No matter. We can take the first steps without
him. It will be for you to go up to Bulstrode--that's where they've
taken Master Henry just now; an' get inside the house. You be known
there, beant ye?"
"Oh, yes; I can go in or out when I like. They won't suspect anything
in that."
"It be more than I could do, wi' that an' a good many other houses,"
said Garth, smiling significantly, "else I mout ha' gone myself. But
you'll do better than me--better than anybody, mayhap. Find out, if ye
can, first--whether the prisoner be goin' to be taken up to London;
then, what time they're goin' to take him; then, what part o' the house
they've put him in: for he's sure to be shut up somewhere. Find out
that; an' as much more as you can; and fetch the whole story back here
to me. Maybe by the time you gets back, the old un'll be awake, an' ha'
his noddle clear enough to help us think o' something."
"I shall go at once," said Bet, moving in the direction of the door.
"Ay, start right off. The minutes be preecious for Master Henry. Stay!
I'll go with thee a bit. I've got another errand out this direction,
that'll just about take up my time, till ye get back. We may as well go
thegither--so far as our roads agree. Good-bye, Dick Dancey! Snore on,
old un; an' sleep it off as quick's ye can: we may want ye badly
bye-an'-bye."
And with this jocular leave-taking, the retired footpad stepped out of
the house, and followed the girl--who, eager upon the errand that had
summoned her forth, had already advanced some distance along the path.
Their routes did not correspond for any great length. At a distance of
two or three hundred yards from the cottage, the path parted into two;
one, the plainer one, running towards the rearward of Bulstrode Park;
the other--which appeared as if used by only a few individuals--trending
in the direction of Will Walford's domicile.
The daughter of Dick Dancey faced into the former; and, stepping out
nimbly, soon disappeared behind the hanging boughs of the beeches.
The ex-footpad, lingering a little to look after her, as soon as she was
out of sight, turned into the other path; which would conduct him to the
hut of the woodman.
Before going far in this new direction, he once more came to a stop,
alongside a big bush of holly, that grew near the path. Drawing a clasp
knife from his pocket, he proceeded to cut off one of its largest
branches.
Having severed the sapling from its parent stem, he continued to ply his
blade upon it, until it had assumed the shape and dimensions of a stout
cudgel. The purpose for which this weapon was designed may already have
been guessed at. If not, the mutterings which escaped from the lips of
Gregory Garth will make clear his intent.
"I don't want," said he, paring off some of the more prominent knots
with his knife. "I don't want to kill the brute outright--though he
desarve that much, an' more too. I'll gie 'im a dose, howsomever, as
'll keep 'im in-doors, an' out o' further mischief--as long as I'm
likely to stay in this sogerin' neighbourhood. He han't got much o' a
picter to spoil no how; or I'd make his ugly mug that his own mother if
he ha' one, wouldn't like to swear to it. Next time he goo to play spy,
or help others to do't eyther, he'll be apt to remember Gregory Garth.
Won't he?
"A tydish bit o' stick," he continued, holding up the piece of trimmed
holly, and surveying it with an air of satisfaction, "and if I'd let
them knots stay on, I shouldn't like to ha' answered for the skull case
o' Mister Wull Walford, thick as that be. I dare say it'll do now, and
I maun keep on to his house. Ha! theers his paltry stye, I suppose? I
hope the pig's in o' it."
Saying this, he advanced stealthily a few paces, and then stopped to
listen.
"Good!" he exclaimed, "the brute _be_ inside: I hear his gruntin'. Dang
seize it, it's a snore! They be all a-sleepin' this Wapsey's Wood!
Well, I'll wake _him_ out o' that, wi' a heigh an' a ho; and here goo to
begin it!"
On giving utterance to this threat, he started forward at a quick pace.
He was soon inside the hut, and standing over the prostrate form of the
slumbering woodchopper.
The latter was lying upon a low bed--the true truckle of the peasant's
cottage--a stout structure of beechen timber, with short legs raising it
about a foot from the floor.
The occupant of this coarse couch was upon his back, with arms and legs
extended to their full length--as if he had been spread out on purpose
to dry. But the liquid that had placed him in that attitude was not
water. It was a fluid that had been administered internally: as could
be told by the stone jar of hollands that stood upon the floor, within
reach of his hand; and which his uninvited visitor upon examination
found to be empty.
"He's stolen it from the cellar o' Stone Dean," remarked the latter,
after smelling the jar, and otherwise scrutinising it. "I know by the
sniff o' the liquor it's that same; an' I could sweer to them Dutch
bottles afore a full quorum o' justices. Poor Master Henry! He's not
only been betrayed, but robbed by this ugly rascal. Well, here goo to
gie him his reward!"
As Garth uttered the words, he seized his fresh-cut cudgel; and was
about to come down with it upon the carcase of the slumbering woodman,
when some thought suddenly stayed his hand.
"No!" he exclaimed; "I'll wake him first, and gie him a bit o' my mind.
If he ha' the feeling o' a human creeture, I'll first punish him i' the
_moral way_--as the Vicar o' Giles's Chaffont 'ud call it."
"Hee up!" he shouted aloud, poking the sleeper with the point of his
stick. "Roust thee, thou sluggart, and see what's time o' day! Twelve
by the sun, if it's an hour. Hee up, I say!"
Another poke of the stick, administered still more sharply than before,
like its predecessor, produced no effect--or only the slightest. The
inebriate rustic continued to snore; and only a low grunt declared his
consciousness of having been disturbed; though it seemed more the
mechanical action of the cudgel, that had been pushed rather forcibly
into the pit of his stomach.
"Hee up!" cried Garth, once more giving him a taste of the holly stick.
"Rouse thyself, I say! If ye don't, I'll wallop ye in your sleep.
Roust! roust!"
At each summons the poke was repeated; but with no better success than
before. The deeper gave forth a series of spasmodic grunts; but still
continued to snore on.
"But for his snorin', I'd think he wur gone dead," said Garth, desisting
from his attempts to awake him. "If not dead, however, he be dead
drunk. That's clear enough!"
"It be no use trying to bring him to his senses?" continued he, after
appearing to reflect. "And what's worse, 'twill be no use beatin' him
in that state. The unfeelin' brute as I may well call him wouldn't
_feel_ it no how. I mout as well strike my stick against that theer
bundle o' faggots. It's danged disappointin'! What be the best thing
to do wi' him?"