Iden.--But thou wilt brave me in these saucy terms. Cade.--
Brave thee I ay, by the best blood that ever was broached,
and beard thee too.--SHAKSPEARE.
“You see, my lord,” said Mr. Glumford to Lord Ulswater, as they rode
slowly on, “that as long as those rebellious scoundrels are indulged in
their spoutings and meetings, and that sort of thing, that--that there
will be no bearing them.”
“Very judiciously remarked, sir,” replied Lord Ulswater. “I wish all
gentlemen of birth and consideration viewed the question in the same
calm, dispassionate, and profound light that you do. Would to Heaven
it were left to me to clear the country of those mutinous and dangerous
rascals: I would make speedy and sure work of it.”
“I am certain you would, my lord; I am certain you would. It is a
thousand pities that pompous fellow Mordaunt interfered yesterday, with
his moderation, and policy, and all that sort of thing; so foolish,
you know, my lord,--mere theory and romance, and that sort of thing: we
should have had it all our own way, if he had not.”
Lord Ulswater played with his riding-whip, but did not reply. Mr.
Glumford continued,--
“Pray, my lord, did your lordship see what an ugly ill-dressed set
of dogs those meetingers were; that Wolfe, above all? Oh, he’s a
horrid-looking fellow. By the by, he left the town this very morning; I
saw him take leave of his friends in the street just before I set out.
He is going to some other meeting,--on foot too. Only think of the folly
of talking about the policy and prudence and humanity, and that sort
of thing, of sparing such a pitiful poor fellow as that; can’t afford a
chaise, or a stage-coach even, my lord,--positively can’t.”
“You see the matter exactly in its true light, Mr. Glumford,” said his
lordship, patting his fine horse, which was somewhat impatient of the
slow pace of its companion.
“A very beautiful animal of your lordship,” said Mr. Glumford, spurring
his own horse,--a heavy, dull quadruped with an obstinate ill-set tail,
a low shoulder, and a Roman nose. “I am very partial to horses myself,
and love a fine horse as well as anybody.” Lord Ulswater cast a glance
at his companion’s steed, and seeing nothing in its qualities to justify
this assertion of attachment to fine horses was silent: Lord Ulswater
never flattered even his mistress, much less Mr. Glumford.
“I will tell you, my lord,” continued Mr. Glumford, “what a bargain
this horse was;” and the squire proceeded, much to Lord Ulswater’s
discontent, to retail the history of his craft in making the said
bargain.
The riders were now entering a part of the road, a little more than two
miles from Westborough Park, in which the features of the neighbouring
country took a bolder and ruder aspect than they had hitherto worn. On
one side of the road, the view opened upon a descent of considerable
depth, and the dull sun looked drearily over a valley in which large
fallow fields, a distant and solitary spire, and a few stunted and
withering trees formed the chief characteristics. On the other side of
the road a narrow footpath was separated from the highway by occasional
posts; and on this path Lord Ulswater (how the minute and daily
occurrences of life show the grand pervading principles of character!)
was, at the time we refer to, riding, in preference to the established
thoroughfare for equestrian and aurigal travellers. The side of this
path farthest from the road was bordered by a steep declivity of stony
and gravelly earth, which almost deserved the dignified appellation of
a precipice; and it was with no small exertion of dexterous horsemanship
that Lord Ulswater kept his spirited and susceptible steed upon the
narrow and somewhat perilous path, in spite of its frequent starts at
the rugged descent below.
“I think, my lord, if I may venture to say so,” said Mr. Glumford,
having just finished the narration of his bargain, “that it would be
better for you to take the high road just at present; for the descent
from the footpath is steep and abrupt, and deuced crumbling! so that if
your lordship’s horse shied or took a wrong step, it might be attended
with unpleasant consequences,--a fall, or that sort of thing.”
“You are very good, sir,” said Lord Ulswater, who, like most proud
people, conceived advice an insult; “but I imagine myself capable of
guiding my horse, at least upon a road so excellent as this.”
“Certainly, my lord, certainly; I beg your pardon; but--bless me, who is
that tall fellow in black, talking to himself yonder, my lord? The turn
of the road hides him from you just at present; but I see him well.
Ha! ha! what gestures he uses! I dare say he is one of the petitioners,
and--yes, my lord, by Jupiter, it is Wolfe himself! You had better
(excuse me, my lord) come down from the footpath: it is not wide enough
for two people; and Wolfe, I dare say, a d--d rascal, would not get out
of the way for the devil himself! He’s a nasty, black, fierce-looking
fellow; I would not for something meet him in a dark night, or that sort
of thing!”
“I do not exactly understand, Mr. Glumford,” returned Lord Ulswater,
with a supercilious glance at that gentleman, “what peculiarities of
temper you are pleased to impute to me, or from what you deduce the
supposition that I shall move out of my way for a person like Mr. Woolt,
or Wolfe, or whatever be his name.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord, I am sure,” answered Glumford: “of course
your lordship knows best, and if the rogue is impertinent, why, I’m
a magistrate, and will commit him; though, to be sure,” continued our
righteous Daniel, in a lower key, “he has a right to walk upon the
footpath without being ridden over, or that sort of thing.”
The equestrians were now very near Wolfe, who, turning hastily round,
perceived, and immediately recognized Lord Ulswater. “Ah-ha!” muttered
he to himself, “here comes the insolent thirster for blood, grudging us
seemingly even the meagre comfort of the path which his horse’s hoofs
are breaking up; yet, thank Heaven,” added the republican, looking with
a stern satisfaction at the narrowness of the footing, “he cannot very
well pass me, and the free lion does not move out of his way for such
pampered kine as those to which this creature belongs.”
Actuated by this thought, Wolfe almost insensibly moved entirely into
the middle of the path, so that with the posts on one side, and the
abrupt and undefended precipice, if we may so call it, on the other,
it was quite impossible for any horseman to pass the republican, unless
over his body.
Lord Ulswater marked the motion, and did not want penetration to
perceive the cause. Glad of an opportunity to wreak some portion of
his irritation against a member of a body so offensive to his mind, and
which had the day before obtained a sort of triumph over his exertions
against them, and rendered obstinate in his intention by the pique he
had felt at Glumford’s caution, Lord Ulswater, tightening his rein
and humming with apparent indifference a popular tune, continued his
progress till he was within a foot of the republican. Then, checking his
horse for a moment, he called, in a tone of quiet arrogance, to Wolfe to
withdraw himself on one side till he had passed.
The fierce blood of the republican, which the least breath of oppression
sufficed to kindle, and which yet boiled with the remembrance of Lord
Ulswater’s threat to him two nights before, was on fire at this command.
He stopped short, and turning half round, stood erect in the strength
and power of his singularly tall and not ungraceful form. “Poor and
proud fool,” said he, with a voice of the most biting scorn, and fixing
an eye eloquent of ire and menaced danger upon the calmly contemptuous
countenance of the patrician, “poor and proud fool, do you think that
your privileges have already reached so pleasant a pitch that you may
ride over men like dust? Off, fool! the basest peasant in England,
degraded as he is, would resist while he ridiculed your arrogance.”
Without deigning any reply, Lord Ulswater spurred his horse; the
spirited animal bounded forward almost on the very person of the
obstructer of the path; with uncommon agility Wolfe drew aside from the
danger, seized with a powerful grasp the bridle, and abruptly arresting
the horse backed it fearfully towards the descent. Enraged beyond all
presence of mind, the fated nobleman, raising his whip, struck violently
at the republican. The latter, as he felt the blow, uttered a single
shout of such ferocity that it curdled the timorous blood of Glumford,
and with a giant and iron hand he backed the horse several paces down
the precipice. The treacherous earth crumbled beneath the weight, and
Lord Ulswater spurring his steed violently at the same instant that
Wolfe so sharply and strongly curbed it, the affrighted animal reared
violently, forced the rein from Wolfe, stood erect for a moment of
horror to the spectator, and then, as its footing and balance alike
failed, it fell backward, and rolled over and over its unfortunate and
helpless rider.
“Good heavens!” cried Glumford, who had sat quietly upon his dozing
horse, watching the result of the dispute, “what have you done? you have
killed his lordship,--positively killed him,--and his horse, too, I dare
say. You shall be hanged for this, sir, as sure as I am a magistrate,
and that sort of thing.”
Unheeding this denunciation, Wolfe had made to the spot where rider and
horse lay blent together at the foot of the descent; and assisting the
latter to rise, bent down to examine the real effect of his violence.
“Methinks,” said he, as he looked upon the hueless but still defying
features of the horseman, “methinks I have seen that face years
before,--but where? Perhaps my dreams have foretold me this.”
Lord Ulswater was utterly senseless; and as Wolfe raised him, he saw
that the right side of the head was covered with blood, and that one arm
seemed crushed and broken. Meanwhile a carriage had appeared, was hailed
by Glumford, stopped; and on being informed of the circumstance and
the rank of the sufferer, the traveller, a single gentleman, descended,
assisted to raise the unhappy nobleman, placed him in the carriage, and,
obeying Glumford’s instructions, proceeded slowly to Westborough Park.
“But the ruffian, the rebel, the murderer?” said Mr. Glumford, both
querulously and inquiringly, looking towards Wolfe, who, without having
attempted to assist his victim, stood aloof, with arms folded, and an
expression of sated ferocity upon his speaking features.
“Oh! as to him,” quoth the traveller, stepping into his carriage, in
order to support the mangled man, “you, sir, and my valet can bring him
along with you, or take him to the next town, or do, in short, with him
just as you please, only be sure he does not escape; drive on, post-boy,
very gently.” And poor Mr. Glumford found the muscular form of the stern
Wolfe consigned to the sole care of himself and a very diminutive man in
pea-green silk stockings, who, however excellently well he might perform
the office of valet, was certainly by no means calculated in physical
powers for the detention of a criminal.
Wolfe saved the pair a world of trouble and anxiety.
“Sir,” said he, gravely, turning to Glumford, “you beheld the affray,
and whatever its consequences will do me the common justice of
witnessing as to the fact of the first aggressor. It will, however, be
satisfactory to both of us to seize the earliest opportunity of putting
the matter upon a legal footing, and I shall therefore return to W----,
to which town you will doubtless accompany me.”
“With all my heart!” cried Mr. Glumford, feeling as if a mountain of
responsibility were taken from his breast. “And I wish to Heaven you may
be transported instead of hanged.”